Hello! Welcome to WEP 2021, the Year of Art. We begin with Klimt's THE KISS.
My entry today is taken from my to-be-published-in-2021 novel, Paris Dreams. We at WEP often share how many writers who've written a flash fiction for WEP go on to write a full-length novel.
My story grew from a flash fiction Her Final Day that I wrote for #Fridayflash before the idea of WEP was born. It grew first into a short story of 3,000 words, then kept growing until I had 104,000 words, too much. So with help from my writer friends, it's now down to 100,000 words and I'm cutting more before it goes on pre-order.
So, if you've toyed with the idea of writing for WEP, join me and many others who have turned flash fiction into a novel. And if you have a similar story, please share in comments.
For this excerpt, I cut down a 3,000 word chapter to 1,000 words, deleting, rearranging, massaging it to suit the challenge. It's the chapter which has references to Klimt so it suited the art theme.
I hope you get the context and enjoy...
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T |
oday is the day I move into Apartment
5A of rue des Martyrs Residences in Montmartre. I’ve been too busy with coursework
at the Paris Institut of Fashion to give much thought to moving day.
The
day is here. Ready or not.
Raphael
passes me a takeaway coffee and we toast each other. ‘Are you okay, Sassy?’ He
puts a hand on my shoulder and watches me, no doubt afraid I’m going to have a meltdown.
‘It’s
all good.’ I remember my exhilaration the evening I moved in and the good times
I’ve shared here with Raphael since. ‘I’m both excited and nostalgic.’
He
frowns, no doubt uneasy that he’s done the wrong thing convincing me to move. Throwing
his empty cup into the trash, he says, ‘Let’s get into it then.’ He heaves my
sewing machine from the worktable.
Tossing
my cup, I grab a box of fabric samples and lead Raphael downstairs. I race
ahead to the door, stepping aside to let Raphael stagger past and set my sewing
machine onto the dining table. Walking across the shiny retro black and white diagonal
tiles, I spy the marble fireplace with baroque trims. I put down my box. ‘Phew.
This apartment is beyond gorgeous.’
‘That’s
the reaction I wanted.’ He takes my hand. ‘Let’s do the tour.’
Everywhere
I look there’s something amazing. ‘Wow, Raphael,’ I keep repeating. I’m
staggered at how the rooms sparkle with early morning light shining through the
large floor to ceiling windows and how the French doors climb up to the ceiling
to pick out the adorable plaster cupids and the bunches of grapes dripping from
the corners of the luscious molding. ‘I love it. Oh, those black wooden
beams are fabulous against the white ceiling.’ I can’t resist rubbing my palm
over the walls. With the suede effect designed by Raphael, the walls are white
and soft as cheese. ‘These walls are a masterpiece.’
‘I knew you’d love them. Let’s go onto the
balcony.’ He walks me past the opulent chaise he’s installed near the windows,
opens the doors and with a flourish of his hand, ushers me outside.
Paris
is spread at our feet. The sun turns the terracotta rooftops golden and there’s
an even better view of the Eiffel Tower than from the attic. ‘Wow. We’ll share an
evening drink and watch the sunset.’ I rub my hand over the scrolled steel
tabletop and admire the chairs with plump black and white cushions. ‘How much
furniture did you buy? I owe you.’
‘It’s
a house-warming present. If you don’t like something, it can be returned.’
I
grip the balcony rails and try not to resent him for buying furniture without
checking with me. But his choices are perfect. Of course. He’s an artist. ‘You’ve
made great choices. It feels like home. Thanks.’ I hug him and think how much I
love Raphael and Paris. His generosity is not an act of control like my
father’s back in New York, rather an act of love. But I would have liked black and pink checked
cushion covers. Just saying.
Raphael
kisses my forehead. ‘I love doing things for you.’
‘You’ve
outdone yourself.’ Back inside, I marvel at the pièce de
resistance, the opulent Louis
X1V inspired bedroom with its luxuriant burgundy cover fringed with gold which
wouldn’t be out of place at Versailles. ‘Raphael, it’s heaven.’ I turn and
embrace him. ‘We’ll watch the Eiffel Tower twinkle from the bed.’
He
gives me a wicked smile, takes a curl of my hair and twists it around his
finger. ‘I want to see more than the Eiffel Tower twinkle.’
I
take a deep breath. ‘As much as I love my attic, this apartment is brilliant.’ I
want to run wild and whoop around this new space.
‘When
we finish bringing down your things, Sassy, I’ll hang some art.’
***
I watch him hang a huge oil on the
living room wall.
‘“The
Four Seasons of Paris”,’ he says with a sweep of his hand, ‘a Raphael Valentine
original.’
I
stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. ‘OhMyGod. It’s stunning.’ It’s a polyptych,
four gorgeous gold-edged panels. Pink flowered trees line the Champs-Elysées in spring
with us sitting on a bench facing the Eiffel Tower; the Hotel de Ville beach with
our easily recognizable figures embracing after playing volleyball represents summer;
autumn leaves fall near the Pont des Arts where we’re picnicking on a golden
rug; winter sees me wearing a long red coat walking through the snow beside the
Seine towards Raphael. I’ve yet to experience a Paris spring or winter. Winter
is coming. I hope it’s as beautiful as his painting promises. I’d better buy a
red coat.
‘You
don’t mind me choosing art for you?’ Raphael squeezes my shoulder.
My
eyes flicker from panel to panel then back again. ‘Not at all. This,’ I hold
out my hand, ‘is truly amazing.’ I wrap my arm around his waist. ‘I’m impressed
how the brush work is more Monet than Dali, but I see a glimpse of Klimt’s
“Woman in Gold” in your metallic rendition of summer.’
He
grins. ‘Maybe I’m entering my “Golden Phase.” I love the way Klimt used gold,
which is how I see you, my love, pure gold. You’ll be my Adele Bloch-Bauer 1.’
He spins me around and kisses me. He takes my hand and leads me to the chaise longue
with its red velvet and gold trim.
‘This chaise is my favorite piece of furniture. I’ve used it to pose my muses. Just kidding.’ He sits me on the chaise and I have fun reclining like a glamorous muse against the padded end, fluffing out my long blonde hair, one arm behind my head like Klimt's muse, Emilie Floge. ‘You’re my muse, Sassy. I’m inspired to paint like never before, my own woman in gold.’
Despite
my misgivings, how well we’re getting along. I’m his muse. He’s my muse.
Inspired by him, I’ll create fashion which will bring Paris to its knees.
How
many women are lucky enough to have a lover like Raphael before them on their
knees?
WORDS: 1014
FCA
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If it's too late for you to be inspired by 'The Kiss', please consider WEP in April for our next art challenge:
