#FMF challenge, April 6th 2019, Offer

It’s Friday again. Write for five minutes flat on a word prompt.
If you would like to know more, or join go here


OFFER

The sky is offering rain today and the promise of a wet week-End in the Dordogne, where we are off to with my husband and my son who needs to get away from his cramming for exams. I have nothing to offer than a calm and loving environment and some sound methodological advice on how to revise his philosophy lessons.
Saturday and Sunday will offer a quiet time of writing , watching movies and tv series downloaded onto my iPad. Reading my Barkskins book where I am really behind. Weeding around the windows, stoking the fire...maybe playing tennis if there is a breach in the clouds. All without access to the internet, what a bliss ! But with a swollen cheek, gift from my dentist spree of Thursday (see my Post #AtoZ, letter D, April 4th).

⌗AtoZ challenge, April 5th 2019, letter E

Here is my contribution to the A to Z Challenge of April 2019.
This is the first time I am participating in this challenge, so we'll see if I have the stamina to complete the whole month !
I am also, very ambitiously, writing for the April NaNoWrite ! So the challenge is twofold !!

Hang on to your horse and enjoy the ride. And good luck to all my fellow participants.

if you would like to know more go here

Echo

I used to read a story to my second daughter Emma, and then to my son Paul. It was about a young beaver who lives on an island in the middle of a lake. He is very lonely, so he talks to himself and sings. One day, he hears a voice answering him. He is very excited that he has found a new friend. He swims to the shore and goes around the lake, calling along the way. Everytime he calls out, his new friend answers him, so he continues, to catch up with him, but he never does.

While he is going round the lake, he meets an old beaver. He explains that he is lonely and has found a friend in the caller : now here is looking for him. He asks the old beaver if he has seen anyone. Then the old-timer, having understood, explains to the young beaver about the echo and that his new friend does not exist. Our hero is very disappointed and sad. But the old beaver says that it doesn't matter because he's not alone anymore, he has made a new friend, him.

If you would like to know more about the book, go here

That's all for today, a bit behind on other work and especially replying to all your comments and visiting the Master List !

See you tomorrow.

©susanbauryrouchard

Thank you for reading. If you would like to share your thoughts, please comment below
and I will be sure to reply. Have a nice 'E' day. 'Rain, rain, go away, come around another day....' and it did, sunny today here in Toulouse, but a cool easterly breeze. While writing I'm listening to Jimmy Buffet.
If you'd like to listen to him, go here

⌗IWSG, April 3rd 2019

It's the Insecure Writers Support Group day. Every first Wednesday of the month. Post your answer to the question of the month. Share with other insecure writers, comment on their posts, and spread the word.

If you would like to join the IWSG,
go here

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say. 

This month's wonderful co-hosts are J.H. Moncrieff, Natalie Aguirre, Patsy Collins and Chemist Ken!

And this month's question: If you could use a wish to help you write just ONE scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? (examples: fight scene / first kiss scene / death scene / chase scene / first chapter / middle chapter / end chapter, etc.)

My answer :

As last month, I will say that I do not have the experience in novel writing to fully address the question. However, here is my response : an extract from the third chapter of my novel in progress. (see my post from last month, IWSG March 6th)

New York, March 1988.

Mathilda is looking over the Western entrance to the park. She can distinguish a few early joggers rising from the lake towards the grey slick boulders. It rained heavily last night and the sky drips mist, leaves glistening in the rays of a shy sun. Double croce and 3 by 4 rhythm. Transcript analysis. How boring ! Mathilda is studying history of music. She is writing her thesis on the origins and birth of Jazz. At Easter break, she's travelling down South to collect material and get her out of her books.

             Mathilda slams the folder shut and pushes back her chair, her hair. She grabs her brown swede jacket and clatters down the stairs, stuffing her keys in her jeans. Rushing across the Avenue, she's honked by a yellow cab, Once in the park she strolls down yhe macadam path, over the bridge  to the esplanade. The beat reaches her and she stumbles on the group in a curve  behind a bush. Three tall, stunning-looking Africans are slapping intent, toes tapping the leather of their sandalled soles, on goat-skinned drums. Tuffs of animal hair crown the rims. Tam ' em ti tum.

                "Hi,"  the one in an ochre tunic and matching slacks lifts his eyes and smiles at her.
                "Salut !" He greets her. Deep warmth glows from his face.

                  Their conversation weaves a line between their chants and Mathilda's smiles. The tallest African looks at her through eons, his eyes twinkling wisdom as if he knows what she is thinking better than herself.



And then I was stuck for a long time. And I know why. I'm not very good with dialogue ! It's bad enough in a novel, it's even worse in a short story. So whatever entity is up there, the muse of dialogue, come and visit me sometime !

©SusanBauryRouchard

Thank you for reading. If you would like to share your thoughts, please comment below
and I will be sure to reply. Have a nice IWSG day.
Finally rain, here in Toulouse, a nice spring patter and even some sunshine, now at noon.

⌗AtoZ Challenge, April 4th 2019, letter D

Here is my contribution to the A to Z Challenge of April 2019.
This is the first time I am participating in this challenge, so we'll see if I have the stamina to complete the whole month !
I am also, very ambitiously, writing for the April NaNoWrite ! So the challenge is twofold !!

Hang on to your horse and enjoy the ride. And good luck to all my fellow participants.

if you would like to learn more about the A to Z Challenge

go here

I've just come back from the Dentist, this morning. 

An hour and a half on the chair. Molar extraction. 

Local anethetic, an enormous needle stabbing my gums repeatedly, again, and again because I can still feel everything ! Gums slit. Tooth dug out then yanked at, pull and pull and finally stripped from the jaw. Ouch !

Then the clearing begins. I have an enormous infection between the roots and the nasal cavity, that's why the tooth had to come out, to reach the infected area. Scrap, scrap, drill, drill..still some goo to clean away. Blood fills my mouth, I breath deeply and try and stay in my meditation, painlessly yet highly conscious of everything that's going on. Emma, my middle daughter would have fainted by now. She swoons if she pricks her finger, poor, sweet little princess that she has always been.

Ok , the infection is dealt with. I 'time out' with my two forefingers. I'm allowed to spit my blood into the enamel basin . I don't want to swallow infected blood !

So, now the nasal cavity needs to be repaired, eaten half away as it is. Scrapping again, to free some of the remaining bone tissue. Then, out of my mouth, that I can rest and massage, mixing my bone tissue with artificial bone so it will regenerate itself more efficiently. the brand new mixture is spread onto the roof of the tooth's ghost. Then a synthetic membrane is added to patch it all up. Now come the nails. Hammered in. They will serve to screw on the new tooth. Pound, pound, pound, knocking my brain loose.

Everything is in place. Some disinfectant and a plaster to avoid any new germs from seting up their camp . And the stitching begins. Needle and thread, in and out, in and out, in and out, six times. Oh, no, not enough. Two more should do the job. Hurry ! The anaesthetic is wearing off, I can feel the gum again, the needle, the prick, the thread running through. My jaw is aching, my lips parched, stretched, I won't be able to shut my mouth again.

Finished. I can rinse and swallow, drink at last. Surgical gown and bonnet off. A pad of ice, held to my cheek while I pay, yes PAY ! My tongue feels the gaping hole, my lips still numb, my eyes watering. The throbbing is starting.

Recommendations : anti-biotics and analgesics, ice pack day and night. It will swell, it will bruise : black, blue, green, yellow over three weeks. 'I'll see you in two, to take out the stitches and check that it hasn't re-infected'. Then 4 months of healing before screwing in a new tooth.

What am I complaining about ! A hundred years ago, it would have been, a swig of rum, some gas and yank, yank, yank. Leaving a gaping hole and praying God...or someone, that it would heal all on its own. No replacement in sight.

Now I sit writing, eating my apple, cut up into tiny cubes, a crick in my neck and half my face done up in an ice pack legging. A real Easter Egg.

©SusanBauryRouchard

⌗AtoZ Challenge, April 3rd 2019, letter C

Here is my contribution to the A to Z Challenge of April 2019.
This is the first time I am participating in this challenge, so we'll see if I have the stamina to complete the whole month !
I am also, very ambitiously, writing for the April NaNoWrite ! So the challenge is twofold !!

Hang on to your horse and enjoy the ride. And good luck to all my fellow participants.

if you would like to learn more about the A to Z Challenge

go here

The Concert

The small chapel is set in an enclosed expanse of greenery, somewhere in Brittany. Lichen ridden gravestones stud the damp grass, the markings all but erased.

Sally and Patrick make their way towards the great oak doors, gargoyles grinning down on them.

“What a gorgeous place !” She turns towards Patrick.

“A tat chilly and wet,” he moans in response.

Splatters of mud ooze between the paving stones.

“Yes, you're probably right. Oh damn, I've dirtied my shoes.”

“Well don't clean them now, you'll lose your balance and be in more of a mess,” Patrick offers a steadying hand.

         Inside the chapel, they are struck by a near rotting smell that seeps from the walls and then by the stuffiness from overhanging calefactory chandeliers burning musty.

Patrick grips his throat and clears his voice worrying that last week's chill will impinge on his singing. The choir members and Steven, the choir master, remove their coats and huddle towards the wood stove to warm their hands.

Steven sniffs the air and frowns. The exposed chests of his female singers might prove hazardous, he reflects.

“Gather round in a circle and lets warm up”, he starts.

“Breath in deeply and stretch your arms above your heads. Relax and bend your knees slightly. Now, let your head fall so that your chin touches your sternum. Slowly drop your arms and chest towards the floor. Keep breathing steadily. Swing from right to left, like a pendulum. Finally unfold your back, your spine, gently, slowly, vertebrae by vertebrae, yours arms still hanging and finish with your neck and

head....”

           A few groans, sighs and yawns later from the singers, Patrick feels a tingling in his larynx and swallows. Sally turns her head and catches his eye, darting him a concerned look. Patrick reassures her with a smile and a flick of his hair.

Hands on the keyboard, Steven sounds out a few crescendo notes.

“ Aah, Eeh, Oow, Youh.......”

      The choir responds. The piano ascends half an octave. The singers follow. The sopranos reach C major and the notes fall diminuendo. Tenors and altos join in once more, the bass, last.

“ The same with ' Yum ', please ”

     The combined heat from the radiators and sheer body warmth has settled the atmosphere's temperature into a workable, even pleasant, ambiance. Steven is appeased and begins to relax, likewise the choir members. Patrick isn't bothered by his throat. Sally wipes a spot of mud from off her heel and adjusts her décolleté.

The benches and pews are filling up rapidly: holiday makers mostly. Some are in evening dress with thick shawls for the women, light sweaters over their shirts for the men. Some are in jeans and sneakers, some are children. All are glowing in expectation: this is a sacred music concert, sung a Capella, in Southern Brittany. A Cornish choir ensemble from Penzance, from across the water: pixies and fairies.

          A bass voice rises, rumbling like a wave on pebbles. A few chords establish a carpet of rhythm. A low-key melody floats above like a ship breaking the waves. The tenor and soprano carry the tune like gulls surfing on the wind, calling and responding, swooping and catching stray notes.

Steven sways and lifts the sound, higher, and higher, with his dancing arms.

          The music flies and floats like a magic rug above the audience and then sinks into the chapel's stone columns. More vibrations mount and circle, the sound finally draping the warm air.

         Below the flying music, the audience is silent: heaven incarnate, out of space and time. There are no coughs or scraping of chairs: mesmerized. The air itself has reached another level of reality. All consciousness has coalesced into a blur and then solidifies into an universal harmony.

          The roof, the tower, the walls and columns evaporate and the sound continues to rise, up to the sky, the stars themselves become listeners.

         A wisp of air catches in the back of Patrick's throat. The harsh tickle becomes unbearable. He coughs and the music collapses. Notes like bombshells cascade to the stone slabs of the chapel. Steven is impelled to stop, Patrick is by now bent over double, groping for a handkerchief to press to his mouth. There, in the white linen, are scarlet spots of blood. Patrick's eyes lift towards Steven. From deep within them rises a pleading look of panic. Sally rushes forward and clasps his shaking body. Patrick' knees give way; his body buckles and and plummets to the floor.

           A gasp explodes from the assistance and the singers crowd around their companion.

“Someone call an ambulance,” shrieks a woman with a violet scarf and black ruffled shirt.

           Steven is already mouthing urgently into his cell. Sally whispers comfortingly over Patrick who has regained consciousness. She feels his pulse and glances up. Worry mixed with panic flash from her eyes.

           The paramedics, once arrived, place an oxygen mask on Patrick's face and his eyes open again. They find Sally's face. And he closes them again.

“Ça va aller”, the paramedic reassures Sally.

         As Sally climbs up into the ambulance, she glances back at the chapel. The gargoyles over the stone entrance grin at her once more. Steven leads the way back inside and closes the cool evening out with the thick oak doors.

Written longhand October/November 2010 (typed up and edited October 2014, April 2019)

©Susan Baury Rouchard

⌗AToZ Challenge, 2nd April, letter B

Here is my contribution to the A to Z Challenge of April 2019.
This is the first time I am participating in this challenge, so we'll see if I have the stamina to complete the whole month !
I am also, very ambitiously, writing for the April NaNoWrite ! So the challenge is twofold !!

Hang on to your horse and enjoy the ride. And good luck to all my fellow participants.

if you would like to know more about the challenge go here

Busy like a Bee


Winter has slunk away, shied by the rays

of the spring sun. The daffodils, hyacinthia,

fosythia, wild violet, tulips


are showing off their coloured robes.

The air seeps into every cranny

and chases the cobwebs away.


Like the bee dipping into every bud,

my pen is busy scratching ink

into newborn paper.


The tips of my fingers diligently strum

the keys. My nail stabs at links. My eyes

roam the wild to capture,


camera handy, that detail, that brush

of light. My voice speaks up and reaches

out to old friends,


attentive ears even after months

of silence. Busy like a bee,

I feel on top


of the world and envision peaceful

changes on the horizon, my words

on the page


paving the way. The opening of minds

the blooming of hearts.


The shared thoughts that can move mountains

and sow the seeds of bliss.


©SusanBauryRouchard



Thank you for reading. If you would like to share your thoughts, please comment below

and I will be sure to reply. Have a nice 'B' day. Finally rain, here in Toulouse, a nice spring patter.

NanoWrite, APRIL 2019. 1st day. Bartholomew

I am participating in the NaNoWrite Challenge for April 2019.

I will be writing my novel in progress, as first draft.
A twofold Bildungsroman with two main protagonists, two settings, same time frame.


If you would like to know more about the NaNoWrite Challenge go here

I am writing with Camp NaNoWrite go here



an excerpt from a possible first chapter: