The bench

The bench.


The bench.


The news at six, the weather forecast for today and tonight, cold and heavily clouded with temperatures from.... The announcer's voice didn't go any further then that. With a dull smack, the hand of Jules Andre hit the clock radio, ending this early noise on this Friday morning. A Friday morning like Jules has encountered many of them during his 82 years of age. Regularly when awakening, he sprints through his bedroom, almost hopping, neglecting the coldness of the stoned floor which he crossed barefooted. With both hands, he opened the dark grey colored curtains and wiped of the vapor of his dimmed window with his sleeve. Every time again, each day the same ritual, he stared through his window to a distant object, a city bench, covered with dew-drops, placed on the grass-verge.

During breakfast, Jules sat again facing a window with a view on the distant street. Between bites of bread and sips of coffee through, his look continuously strayed off towards the bench. A small piece of art it was, this little bench. For as long as Jules can recall it, this public piece of furniture was placed there, right across the street, in front of his house build by his grandfather at the end of the 19th century. The little bench was a real architectural gem of 19th century art, with it's bottom and back of narrow wooden laths, gracefully winded and fixed on a green iron frame and richly decorated with curlers and bows. Suitable placed on the lawn between a row of solemn beech trees, it procured satisfaction to every lonely tired walker and gave pleasure to many playing children who came along sporadic.

Each day of the week, at the same evenings hour, Jules Andre crossed the street to sit down on the right side of the bench. For a whole hour he sat there, in the sun, rain, cold and wind, musing and often sighing deeply. His mind and thoughts were wandering off then to his youth, to the time that he and his girlfriend from the village were meeting here daily, always at the same evenings hour. He still remembered her very well. An elegant and joyful girl with long blond curly hair and a sea of freckles in her face. She had a crystal clear voice and a cheerful, but sober smile which always turned Jules's head. For almost two years, they have met uninterrupted at the bench. Never has Jules confessed to the girl how much he really cherished her. Firmly he kept his passion for her hidden and she would never be aware of it because one day, she didn't turn up. Nor did she the next days. Jules never knew why his greatest love was suddenly gone. Each day again, he sat there on the bench, stubbornly hoping that the answer would show up.
The old man rose and strolled slowly but surely back to his house. The evening was already there and was accompanied by a nipping cold. We were already late in December and the first freezing cold would arrive soon.

The news at six, the weather forecast for today and tonight, it becomes colder with freezing temperatures varying from.... Jules rose buoyantly, went towards the window and admired the silent sight of a rimy bench. Broad-smiling and with great relish, he ate his breakfast, neglecting at first a dull rumbling in the street which steadily swelled. Only when the roar was so loud and right next to his house, Jules focused his attention to a big truck who held just in front of his window. It was a gaudy orange truck, with the logo of the municipality where he lived on it. He could not see exactly what the municipal workers were doing but it didn't take them very long. When the truck restarted and drove out of the street, Jules uttered an unnatural cry. He staggered, pushed down almost the chair where he was willing to sit on and stared, heavily gasping, with a savage look to the other side of the street. The little bench, his bench has disappeared and in its place.... an other, dirty brown colored and constructed from plastic. "No, nonono", said Jules, "they..., they couldn't have done this". Dispair and sadness took control over the poor old man. Salty tears dangled from his eyes and his lamenting drowned every pure thought in his head. He felt his strength flowing away and surrendered unconditionally to a deep depression.

The news at six, the weather forecast for today and tonight, it'll be freezing cold with a lots of snow and very low temperatures varying from.... For Jules, this was of none importance anymore. Broken and almost paralyzed he remained entire days in bed, staring with a through tears fed hazy look, towards the pale, white sealing. His darkened thoughts outwayed at first the dull rumbling in the street, nearing steadily. Finally the roar was so close that Jules received a shock. As fast as his old body could carry him, he rose and sprinted to the window. A big orange truck, with the logo of the municipality on it, was parked in front of his house. Two men in bulky coats started assiduously to dig out the plastic bench they've placed there last week. The brown monster was released with good skill and in return, the workers placed a bench that Jules knows, like no one else, from his memory but mostly from his heart. As lightning Jules went downstairs, put on a coat over his pajamas and ran outside, across the street. Out of breath, he sat down on the little bench and began to caress it while tears flooded from his face. All of the laths were renewed and the iron frame was repainted, like a thorough maintenance job would prescribe it. Widely smiling, Jules was sitting on the bench, like an impassive ghost, his thoughts far away from this present-day.

A dull but gentle rumbling swelled in Jules's snowy street. A black break stopped right next to the row of beech trees. Two men in black, wearing very bulky coats, got out of the car and went to the back of their vehicle. They took, with combined efforts, a dark brown coffin with copper knobs out of the trunk. They placed the coffin right next to the bench and began carefully to dislodge the motionless person from the laths of the bench. With some difficulty they placed the frozen body in the coffin and put it back into the trunk of their car.
Meanwhile a young couple was nearing, bulky duffled, holding each others hands and looking anxiously at the bench. The young man swept the snow away and both took place on the bench. They looked at each other, shortly but very sincere in the eyes and the girl uttered a cry when a small box, containing an engagement ring was offered to her. Both grave-diggers saw with great pleasure and a warm smile this exceptional scene, after which they quickly entered the warmth of their car. With solemn speed the car drove out of the street, for once not leaving behind the sad sight....of an empty bench.

Copyright© 2004 by Voyager9940
All rights reserved

Thanks for the wonderful story Voy! Good to meet your another creative side!

Dear Sunnylady, I am a better drawer and writer then a painter, I admit that myself. This was one of my earliest stories (2004) and I wasn't that good in English at that time.
The reason I placed this story here was merely to show I am an artist that likes to be complete. Not perfect, not by any means, but I like to try it all! Some of my poetry has been published already, my short stories never and neither are my books who need further finishing and finetuning still.

You are very creative and this is amazing you try new things and learn new things to enrich your life experience. At the end what matters most if we lived life happily. Art is great part of happiness. Go on and do all the wonderful things you are doing. Savor them properly and stay happy.

No one is perfect, and if someone thinks so that's a problem of that person. We all strive to be better and kinder to the world, this is all people can do to improve their world. There are many bad things around still sometimes life brings bad surprises and challenges us to see if we become worse or better persons. There is toll for big bad events in the life. No one is perfect, no one can be absolute perfect.

So, dont worry and cherish all the wonderful things you do in your life and dont think about people judging, the most important what keeps you happy and this is art. I think artists are more sensitive to the world and especially to being criticized about their art as artist show their soul and more vulnerable because of that. This is why art is so precious because not many people can dig to that depths in the soul and show it to the others. Also in this hurrying world people always cannot give enough time to truly experience art and can judge only top of the iceberg, they will be only caught by something that either in full agreement with their soul or in full disagreement and the rest in between will be just quickly judged, which is quite painful at times. This reminds neither of the sides is perfect.

Art is wonderful part of human life, that brings a lot to enrich the world. Art what makes an artist happy through the creation. Art what also makes an artist protective as reaction to some words of others, but this can be embraced to find artist's own viewer, reader, listener and stop them worrying about the others. There is no perfect Art recipe in the non-perfect world, and what we can do just strive to be better person, to be more resilient to the critiques, to understand an artist is more vulnerable and to be happy because we can Express others often cannot and to do what we trully and genuinely love, which is Art.

Your heart is in the right place Sunnylday, I welcome and cherish your warm, comforting, supporting, honest, caring, loving words.
A giant sparkle in these darkened days!

Thank you Voy. Also I wanted to add that you dont need to prove anything to anyone except to yourself. There are always people who dislikes someone is or what that someone does. Dont pay attention unless you want to.
During feedback even the critiques may give more value to the personal growth but you select if you want to accept them.
Selfish? Yes. But a living person cannot satisfy all the world around them.

Sunnylady …. if I was 20 years younger …. and spoke more then 10 words of Russian …..! :) :) :)


Bless you, precious friend!