Words for Wednesday -- Fodspor

So sorry everybody, this is a repost of the old one. Every time I opened and closed blog editor, this post was given a new name. I copied the comments into the bottom of this post.

  The prompts for this Wednesday are, as all January, given to us by Hilary Melton-Butcher. The prompts and a lot of other information about this challenge can be read over at Elephant's Child's blog.

The general idea is to make us write and read what others wrote, and cheer along the other participants.

  This is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true, therefore: Please, remember to follow their links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.  

  Surprisingly I continue my story from here.
You can read all of the story (as much as there is) via the tab Fodspor on top of this page.
Some time has passed, but not more than a few weeks.  Once again I took up the additional challenge of using the words in the order they were given.

     The prompts are:
Brick
Folly
Carapace
Hessian
Snowdrop
Grizzly
    And/or
Illustrator
Violet
Ailment
Twigs
Eureka
Dinkum

Paul the painter felt that he was just another brick in the wall in the academy. So many had already been studying here, painted, gone home and never left a mark. It was folly to think it would be any different for him. He shut the carapace on his feelings of loneliness and futility and pulled the covers snugly around him, the hessian tapestry of the wall in the room was dusty, itchy and smelly.
But the teaching on painting of snowdrops wax excellent, he could learn so much from the grizzly teacher - tomorrow was another day.

Anders the monk-to-be looked at the front page of the book on Latin language, he was reading in disgust. The illustrator clearly had not read the book. The house was not supposed to be violet. To make things worse, the man on the cover was grey bearded, and looked like he suffered from seven different ailments. Not to speak of the twigs ... Eureka! Anders thought to himself. I'll go and ask Paul to make dust jackets for my books next time I am allowed into town. He's a dinkum painter. Anders smiled at the word; one of his co-novices was an Australian, speaking a funny English and an atrocious German. Well, they all had to speak Latin soon. Better keep on studying.


And slow me just discovered that there is a good-natured competition going on at Elephant's Child's blog, using all  two times six word in a sentence or two. I had to give it a try.

First set:
Snowdrops and carapaces is pure folly in a Hessian garden according to the grizzly brick layer.

Second set:
Eureka, said the illustrator, the violet twigs will offset the name of these ailments; Dinkum?

COMMENTS
messymimi 20. January 2022 kl. 01.36
It sounds like a beautiful friendship and partnership is about to form.

River 20. January 2022 kl. 03.03
This is really nice, Paul gets to be an illustrator of book covers :)

Elephant's Child 20. January 2022 kl. 04.50
This is lovely. Anders supporting Paul is a truly lovely touch.

Charlotte(MotherOwl) 21. January 2022 kl. 09.29
Thank you all. I have, and have had for several years (decades even) the outline of this story in my head. It yearns to be written.

lissa 21. January 2022 kl. 17.34
Dinkum is a great word - you used this and the other words well.
Have a lovely day.

Words for Wednesday -- October 27

  All of October - and for the last time today - Elephant's Child is supplying us with prompts. What we do to them is up to us, poem, story, shopping list, ignore ... the grand idea is to make us write. 
  Go to Elephant's Child's place to read some good stories. This is a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true, therefore: Please, remember to go back, read other peoples' stories there or follow their links back. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction.

Today's prompts are sayings actually almost cliches:
He had a chip on his shoulder.
Best thing since sliced bread.
With a cherry on top.
She wants to have her cake and eat it too.
Everything but the kitchen sink.
Bringing home the bacon.

I did not use all of them, and I used some other ones to give a sneak peek of what transpires on the journey:

During their conversation in the train compartment, Paul discovered that the chip he had had on his shoulder ever since he began school had disappeared. The scolarship had cleaned the slate, and meeting Anders in the train was the cherry on top. Now they were both on their way to be bringing home the bacon and they wanted to go all the way.  What Paul still did not know is that you cannot have your cake and eat it.

Words for Wednesday -- October 20

All of October Elephant's Child is supplying us with prompts every Wednesday. What we do to them is up to us, poem, story, shopping list, ignore ... the grand idea is to make us write. 
  Go to Elephant's Child's place to read some good stories. This is a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true, therefore: Please, remember to go back, read other peoples' stories there or follow their links back. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction.

Today we had a photo and these words:

Horizon
Tired
Coincidence
Splashed
Holiday
Understand

  Today I'm adding another bit to the story from last Wednesday. We once again meet Paul, the bohemian painter. And Anders, from the Danisch chapters.
  I've been writing on this story on and off for at least 20 years. I hope to get a bit more done with this Autumn/Winter's prompts, when they do not allow me to finish Susan's story.
 The first two parts -- in Danish only -- can be found here and here.

  I have now translated them and placed all four pieces of this story in a sub-page called "Fodspor (Footsteps)" accessible via the eponymous tab Fodspor on top of this page.
  Once again I took up the additional challenge of using the words in the order they were given. Unfortunately splashed got left out, and I cannot find a way to add it.


     Paul easily found his seat on the train to Germany, smokers and then a middle berth, just as he had requested when he bought the ticket.
    He sat down at the window and lit his pipe. When the big watch outside said two minutes to departure, he was still alone in the compartment. Paul was glad to have the whole place to himself; it had been right to leave on a Tuesday. Just as the departure whistle sounded, the door opened and a young man with short blond hair and a small beard dropped a bag on the seat opposite him and said a brief "Hello!" and immediately went back out into the corridor.

    Anders had been running the last bit of the way to the train. It was a nice surprise that so many of his friends and the old Father Augustine had been there to say goodbye to him, but they had been so late that there had only been time for a short, warm goodbye before he received Father Augustine's blessing, and all the good wishes of the others and ran the rest of the way to the train.
    He stood in the corridor, gazing absent-mindedly at the greying horizon until the train had passed Valby and he had caught his breath again. He was slightly annoyed. He had expected to have the compartment to himself on such a weekday evening, he was tired, and had been hoping for a good night's sleep in a deserted train. Now he was going to have to share the compartment with that long-haired artist type who would probably play guitar all night. Anders went into the compartment, put his bag in the net and with a sigh let himself down on the seat opposite the long-haired man.
 
    Anders sat for a while, looking around the compartment at the pictures in the small frames on either side of the mirror opposite, and smiled quietly to himself when he saw that one of them depicted the square in Bussenville.
    Paul was actually half asleep, but the return of the other man had brought him so much back to reality that he now sat studying Anders through half-closed eyes. He followed the other's gaze, and when he saw the smile on the other's face, he was suddenly back to his school days in Bussenville.
    "But you're Anders, aren't you?" he exclaimed, "what on earth are you doing here on a Tuesday night?"
    "Yes, my name is Anders," replied the latter, "but who are you?"
    "I'm Paul. Don't you recognize me?" Paul asked, puzzled, as he brushed his hair away from his face with both hands.
    "Yes, now I can see and recognize you, Paul. What a coincidence. Are you on your way home from a long weekend party in the capital, or what?" Anders asked "I remember your partying habits from school, and ..." Anders' diatribe petered out.
    "No, I'm actually on my way to southern Germany. To a little town called Burgdorf.
    "On a holiday?"  Anders asked, surprise making his voice shrill.
    "No, I'm going there to develop my painting skills. I won a scholarship." He told Anders in few words about the painting from the snowy day.
    "I'm also on my way to Burgdorf," Anders said with joy in his voice. "I'm going to enter the novitiate there!"
    "WHAT?" Paul exclaimed, "Have you become a saint..."
    "No, of course not, but I found out that ..."
    "Tickets, please!" a voice sounded from the corridor, and a burly ticket inspector poked his head through the door. He looked at the tickets and found everything as it should be. "I understand that you already know one another," he added. "Should I keep your tickets and passports until tomorrow? That'll save you being woken up at the border and after the larger stations all the way to Munich."
    "Yes please." Anders and Paul replied in unison.

Words for Wednesday -- October 13

All of October Elephant's Child is supplying us with prompts every Wednesday. What we do to them is up to us, poem, story, shopping list, ignore ... the grand idea is to make us write. 
  Go to Elephant's Child's place to read some good stories. This is a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true, therefore: Please, remember to go back, read other peoples' stories there or follow their links back. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction.

Machine
Telephone
Fiction
Delightfully
Trap
Skulduggery
     And/Or
Groaned
Umbrella
Fertile
Corner
Deft
Selection

Today I'm re-visiting an old main person of mine, Paul, from a story,, I've been writing on and off for at least 20 years. The first two parts -- in Danish only -- can be found here and here. If you try reading them via an online translating tool I would recommend DeepL. It is SO much better than "Giggle Translate".
  Once again I took up the additional challenge of using the words in the order they were given.

The answering machine went on, as he did not pick up the telephone when it was ringing. Paul just stood there listening. It felt like a piece of fiction, he had won a prize for the painting he had submitted. Delightfully surprised he scribbled the number and went outside to calm down a bit before calling the committee. He was still afraid it was a trap, some of his friends pulling his leg. On the other hand this would probably cross the border from pranks to skulduggery. Hesitantly he picked up the phone, and groaned as he looked to the slip of paper in his hand. Drops of water from the umbrella in the corridor, still wet after yesterday's showers, had made the number illegible.
His fertile mind invented ways and means of making the scribble legible: Ironing, lemon juice ... then from a corner of his mind rationality spoke: "Just listen to the answering machine once again!" With a deft move he made the tape rewind to the beginning, and found a new slip of paper and waterfast ink in his selection of writing materials.

Fodspor på ruden - 1. kapitel 2. del (16. november)

Sorry, nothing in English today either, I continue the story from yesterday.
If you need a laugh, try running it through Google translate. I truly did not realise that I described Anders' room as: "dark, safe and loose". And this one is precious; "He rode to church through the early twenties in the sparse light of the new day.". Wonder how the drifts of snow gets turned into the early twenties? I sure do. 
On a seriouser note. If you try, notice that mass and fair translates into the same word in Danish. Anders is not visiting a fair in mid-winter, but a mass 😇.

Anders' verden
    Det var den første søndag i advent. Klokken var kvart over ni, og vække uret ringede, Anders daskede arrigt til det og stod op. Der var mørkt, trygt og lunt i hans lille kammer oppe under taget. Der havde han boet til leje de sidste seks år for en billig penge hos en fjern tante, som han ikke så for meget til. Han så ud af tagvinduet og så hvordan sneen væltede ned. En kort stund stod han og stirrede ud over søerne, han så hvordan træerne svajede i blæsten. Så gik han ud på det lillebitte badeværelse og vaskede sig i lunt vand. Hvilken luksus sådan en snevejrsmorgen. Efter at have klædt sig på i sit varmeste tøj, tog han sine cykellygter og sko i hånden og listede stille ned ad køkkentrappen, der var ikke nogen grund til at irritere tanten.
    Udenfor var vejret koldt og blæsende, det var et slemt vejr at cykle ud i, men Anders nød vejrets vildskab. Han cyklede til kirke gennem snemasserne i den nye dags sparsomme lys. Solen stod sent op, og snevejrsskyerne gjorde deres til, at det ikke blev lyst så hurtigt. Snevejret tog af medens han cyklede, men kulden blev ikke mindre. Den kolde frostluft løb som tørt isvand ned over hans bryst og rensede hans hoved for de sidste rester af søvn. Anders var som sædvanligt i god tid. Inde i våbenhuset rystede han frakken for sne, tog hatten af og trådte ind i den stille, endnu lidt dunkle kirke. Han knælede ned på sin sædvanlige plads i højre side af kirken og forberedte sig stille på messen. Pater Augustin kom ind i soutane og tændte lysene på alteret. Lidt senere blev også det elektriske lys tændt. Klokken ringede og pater Augustin og den unge ministrant kom ind. Midt under messen holdt sneen op, og solen kom frem: da ministranten trådte frem for at tilryge menigheden kunne man se røgelsen stå i skyer om ham og langsomt drive ned over bænke raderne.
    "Domine, non sum dignus ... Herre, jeg er ikke værdig..." bad Anders sammen med de andre, og gik så frem til kommunionen. Han knælede, og modtog Herrens legeme af præstens hænder.
    Anders gik stille ned på sin plads igen, hvor han knælede længe efter kommunionen og bad for sine afdøde forældre, sin bror, sine søstre og de venner, der stod ham nær.
    Anders stod stille i kirke døren, blændet af den skarpe sol, og nød at lugte den rene klare luft. Sådan et vejr var røgelse skabt til. Den frostklare, snefyldte luft duftede friskere og renere end ingenting, og den søde, varmt krydrede røgelsesduft var en himmelsk kontrast. Anders følte sig varm og veltilpas i sin lune vinterfrakke, han nød sneen og kulden, for han vidste at dette var hans sidste danske vinter i lang tid, måske for altid.
    I går havde han været til skrifte hos pater Augustin og nu var han fyldt af lykke og klar til at bryde alle bånd bag sig. Og på onsdag tog han til Marialy på retræte i en eller to måneder, og derefter ville han rejse til Sydtyskland som novice i et kloster der. Efter messen sagde han "Farvel og god søndag" til alle sine venner og pater Augustin, der var hans gamle sogne præst. Kun hans søskende, enkelte af hans venner og præsten vidste, at han rejste.
    Hjemme igen pakkede han sin taske med de ting han fra nu af ejede i denne verden. Tandbørste, skiftetøj, en tysk ordbog, Bibelen og et breviar i fire bind. I lommen havde han sit pas, lidt penge og sin rosenkrans. Han havde betalt for værelset måneden ud og i morgen ville en flyttebil afhente de par papkasser han havde fyldt med ting og sager. De skulle sælges og han ville give pengene til pater Augustin. Han gav altid så meget til dem, der manglede. Hans søskende havde fået det, de havde bedt om, kun et billede af forældrene havde de ikke fået ham til at give fra sig. Siden han som femtenårig var blevet katolik havde han ikke haft så meget med sin familie at gøre. Hans søskende kunne ikke forstå det, og hans forældre var døde i et biluheld, da Anders, der var den yngste af fire søskende, var seksten år.

Fodspor på ruden 1. kapitel (15. november)

Sorry, nothing in English today. This is the first half chapter of a short story, I began writing a long time ago.


Pauls verden
Paul vågnede fordi han frøs. Da han i går havde læst vejr­meldingen i avisen på biblioteket, havde han godt nok læst at de lovede sne. Han havde forestillet sig noget blidt dryssende og ikke dette her, hvor himmel og jord nærmest stod i ét. Og hvor var det mørkt! Paul troede at klokken kun var otte eller højest halv ni, men da han kiggede på sit ur var klokken lidt over ti. Han rystede sit lange, krøllede hår væk fra øjnene. Hvor så der ud, vinflasker og tekopper i en forvirring, og i nogle af flaskerne var der stoppet stearinlys. Askebægrene havde han heldigvis sanset at tømme, før han tumlede i seng. Han stod op, rystende af kulde. Han kunne se sin egen ånde i luften; havehusets tynde vægge ydede ikke den store beskyttelse mod kulden. Han hældte petroleum på ovnen; den var efter kulden at dømme løbet tør, lige efter han var faldet i søvn. Han kravlede ned under dynen og følte modløsheden brede sig i ham. Først måtte han rydde op, og lyset var på grund af snebygerne så grumset at han sikkert ikke ville kunne male i dag. Bare hans mor ikke kom, hun nød vist ligefrem at komme på uan­meldte besøg og skælde ud på Paul for hans rodede lejlighed og ditto liv. Og på tirsdag skulle han aflevere sin opgave hvis han ikke ville smides ud af skolen. Paul havde fået varme i kroppen igen og faldt i søvn.

Da han vågnede igen et par timer senere, skinnede solen, og lyset var lige som han havde forestillet sig det. Han lod flasker være flasker og greb sit malergrej og løb ud i haven. Der satte han sig på en gammel, frønnet træstub og malede. Det var sådan en smuk, forfalden, gammel have. Husets ejer var en lille, ældre dame - sådan som man forestillede sig en gammeldags bedstemor med knold i nakken, hvidt hår, mørke, lange kjoler, og lysende klare blå øjne. Paul havde allerede flere gange brugt hende som motiv. Til gengæld beskar han træerne og slog græsset om sommeren. Han beskar træerne som han lystede, det var ikke altid hverken fagligt korrekt eller hensigtsmæssigt, men altid smukt.

Paul havde straks forelsket sig både i damen og den gamle have, da han for fire år siden kom til København. Med glæde i hjertet havde han forladt barndommens lille landsby og taget fat på studierne på kunstakademiet med stor entusiasme. Hans far var død ganske kort tid efter; han havde hele sit liv været en jævn bondemand og de sidste år af hans liv var blevet over­skygget af vrede og sorg over knægtens fikse ideer, som han slet ikke forstod. Efter faderens død var hans mor flyttet ind til en søster i Lyngby, hun var bitter på Paul og mente at han var skyld i faderens død. Han havde arvet en hel den penge, og hans medstuderende, der ikke havde hans evner og ærlighed havde vidst at nasse sig ind hos ham. Det var efter­hånden ved at gå op for Paul at verden og menneskene ikke var så jævne og ligefremme som hans naboer i den lille by. Hun kom af og til forbi for at udøse sin galde over Pauls syndige hoved.