A character’s right to reply #amwriting

I quote verbatim from a letter received from Julian (RIP).

Aladár Körösfői-Kriesch, Man in Pursuit of DeathNo, my once dear Honoré, you did not have to do it, and I don’t believe a word from you about “being sorry”. The truth, from my perspective anyway, is that you satisfied your petty jealousy, your ambition to have my beautiful wife – and, probably, others as well – play a role she would vehemently refuse in real life, and by that gratuitous murder of me, get rid of your most loyal and reliable friend. As you can see, I still have the strength to reply to your insolent article! You have no honour, Honoré, success and money have rotten your once noble spirit: you are merely after commercial success based on cheap lust.

Your stealing my Facebook page should have been a clear warning, to all of us, that you were leaving the realm of honesty and humanity, for the sake of satisfying your basest desires. Your readers will judge. I consider the lowest insult the way you have since used my wife’s friendship with an old childhood friend, to insinuate damn lies about a sexual relationship that never was. Sarah is far above such behaviour: she’s as faithful as a wife ever was, and will continue to support her husband against your assaults on history and truth. Your own miserable domestic failures cannot be an excuse for those lies.

The same applies to your treatment of my dear friend Melissa. She is, always was, an angel. I confided to you my childhood memories, and you turned them into a pathetic story of revenge and, again, cheap erotica! Shame on you. My Melissa had never anything to do with any plot, with spies, and that girl of dubious reputation you described as “Melissa of Köpenick”. The latter is, I admit, a bit of a flirt I indulged with, during my recovery in Berlin. Not only you got the facts wrong, but you invented on top of all some more pathetic  stories of your own.

But, would you say, you are a writer, and this is fiction… To hell it is not. You are playing with people’s lives, destroying their reputation, killing them without appeal. Despiccable! You wrote: “you became cumbersome, obstructive, calamitous.” This is in fact a good description of your own behaviour as an author, disrespectful to your characters, lacking any care for their feelings.

Sarah was not best pleased to hear that nonsense about me trafficking arms. I had much to explain. She’s now extremely angry with you, for good reasons. We are now talking about some form of action, as we, your characters, can use to express our profound disgust, and our refusal to cooperate. You have been warned.

Julian

Image: Aladár Körösfői-Kriesch, Man in Pursuit of Death

#FiveSentenceFiction: Spoiled (or a day in Paradise)

DSC_0346We walk along the high brick wall, the road side covered with snowdrops and daffodils, soon to see the old castle, perched on the hill, surrounded by meadows, ochre stones on blue sky.

Few trees are yet in bloom: this is the time of year when Spring is lurking, not yet triumphant, but already more than a promise.

Soon, we take the narrow lane, bordered with hedges full of busy birds, I am following you, my eyes taking in the beauty of the morning and your supple steps, your curves and the sloping hills in one exalted breath.

Among the crocuses and the primroses we sense hints of more wealth to explore, perhaps a little later, the air is still cold…

In the middle of this landscape I am thinking of all the other places in the world, unhappy, and ravaged by cruelty and greed: what made us so fortunate?

#VisDare 87: Elite

EliteThe ferns have grown around it, without knowing it is there, it must be difficult to find.

In the midst of the forest, our beloved world, where we were blessed by our human love: it is a small monument, to that that could not survive us,

Except once we changed,

Into the ghosts that now haunt those woods:

Forever inseparable, so discrete, so silent, that the most attentive walker would not notice us.

#Visdare 85: Second Sight

Second SightThis is our old room, where we used to play,

Our toys are no longer there, lost, sold, gone to alien places,

But the light is there, in the dusty morning, where we looked,

I at you, your eyes, your lips,

You at me, wondering

What you could do with this girl ~

In the magical light of our eternal summer…

#Promptbox: Une Femme Est une Femme

The AdelphiHis dreams often found him, on islands of darkness, trying to reach out, to long lost lovers, to his parents, and, to her, the elusive woman, the shimmering silhouette. Sometime, he woke up, lost, looking for some way to find, an old phone number, an address, a letter. In the paraphernalia of his sleep he found an extraordinary luxury of details, a Proustian vault of forgotten objects, of rooms once visited, of family occasions, inaccessible under the light of day.

And always, she was there, along the streets of his mind, in cities that were once real, no longer inhabited, other than by her ghost. She walked fast, alone, ignoring the shadows. He wanted to call her, to let her know. In the suburbs of his dreams other things crawled, hardly visible, indeed unseen, perhaps nested in the interstices of another universe. She was not aware, he guessed, of even his existence.

Silent, he was searching, feeling his way, blind to the dawn that would come, for her and for him.

Inspired by “The City & the City”, China Miéville.

ImageThe Adelphi by Bill Brandt, 1939

#DP Daily Prompt: Once Upon a Time

DSC_0107You came in, as coffee was brewing, the soft sound and aroma of winter mornings.

Our eyes met, and I knew, and this certainty sealed the day: for where else would I be invited to drink off the chalice of time, humble mortal in front of the Goddess.

And so it was that I learned the Path of Life.

Inspired by the WP Daily Prompt, and a chance encounter in a museum…

#DailyPrompt: Someone Else’s Island

What will you need sweet angel?

KissLet me guess, and first of all, what you never leave home  without, your faithful AK47: this will take care of imbeciles… I will add the ammos of course, nice and tidy… all carefully packed around that beautiful leather belt we bought together…

Then there is that sharp knife you love, the one that’s all grey and heavy, and the leather sheath you can fix on your o-so-lovely thigh…

The canvas rucksack you take to the mountains, and your bikini, the one you wear when you want me to go crazy…

And of course, those boots, so well worn, but so strong, waterproof and comfortable…

You’ll be all right my darling, and then, I am on my way!

 

#DailyPrompt: Oil, Meet Water

LumièreWe stopped on the path, near the canal, our preferred running lane in Faust’s metropolis, under the chestnut trees. The air was already much cooler, prelude to the cold wind that soon would blow from the plains of Poland and beyond.

“You’re getting too good for me,” I said, nearly out of breath, with the smile of a slightly puzzled male, faced with exquisite female beauty, and superior strength in one.

You smiled and blew a kiss: “Come on, I have to justify your admiration, and, besides, were we not a bischen different it would not work would it?” With the Köpenick accent, how could I ever resist you?

#FiveSentenceFiction: Envy

Morning envyThe moon appeared, a moody silvery face half masked by grey clouds, just above the trees. The young woman moved slowly through the quiet house: it was still early, perhaps before seven in the old clock time: she knew where to find her love, the writer, who must have been at work for a good two hours when she woke up.

There he was, one beloved hand resting still over the keyboard, the deep eyes reading; she did not want to disrupt his thoughts, soon enough the city sounds would bring him to the present (whenever that was, and hopefully close to her.)

He saw her reflection in the screen: “Good morning to my angel,” he said turning toward her, an unstoppable smile on his lips.

“I envy you so much,” she replied, kissing him with much tenderness, “you can so easily live in two worlds at a time…”

#FiveSentenceFiction: Falling

fallingAt their school she had a poor reputation: a girl who “went” with men, and of course, he could not care less, what he felt was her kindness, the softness of her lips, the smile he wanted to drown into…

Later, much later, he looked for her, without realising it, he was now a writer, and this masterpiece needed a hero – so he reinvented her, and, kindly, she reappeared, transformed, the lover of his youth.

Like Pygmalion, he fell again for her, and this time, she would not let go.

At first he was surprised, charmed, expecting, and called her by the name he remembered, the name of their childhood.

And now he was enslaved, fallen back in time, the prisoner of his beloved ghost.