The Writer – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant always rise early
Sometimes he likes to be lazy instead
He scratches his tummy
And thinks it is yummy
If someone brings him his breakfast in bed

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Please follow the link to let the sunshine into your Sunday morning with this sensational selection of stories from celebrated scribes.
But please first read AnElephant’s cloudy catastrophe.

Copyright Al Forbes

The Writer

It is a small town on the Cote d’Azur, less than ten thousand people, but the summer visitors inflate this number, incredibly, to close to forty thousand.
He arrives in June, start of season, and frequents a small café where the regulars are all locals.
They assume he is a vacationer like the others, then, after some weeks, ask why he is still there.
He tells them he is there to stay, he is a writer, it suits him.
He writes continuously, sitting alone at a table.
His grasp of the language is limited, but he is polite and friendly, so the French are, as always, polite and friendly in return.
So he is accepted, even embraced, into this small world.
He is seen occasionally around town, at the beach or library, in a different café or a restaurant.
But this is his haunt.
After the end of the season there are only locals there.
He is by now part of the furniture, still writing, still smiling, still communicating in simple French, still baffled sometimes by the thick Provencal accents.
Early one morning, as the sun rises over the Mediterranean, the police swoop, arresting 27 members of the ‘Marseille Mafia’ here and in several similar towns along the coast.
He packs and leaves, his job done.