#WEP #October2023 - My #flashfiction, THE GHOST OF OPERA GARNIER

 Hello all!

It's time for October's WEP challenge, based on the Phantom of the Opera. For this #flashfiction, I have retold the classic story in fairytale form, using third person omniscient, not the 'person' I usually write in, but I felt it suited this story.

Hopefully, my retelling of the classic suits the October thrill fest.

 

The Ghost of Opéra Garnier

Opera Garnier showing its underground caverns

Credit

Once upon a time, in the beautiful heart of Paris, beneath the majestic Opéra Garnier, lay a world hidden from prying eyes. From the pinnacles of its rooftops to its underground caverns and lake, it was a realm of whispers and shadows. Here passion and despair intertwined like dark strands of haunting melodies.

This was the home of the Phantom of the Opera who had lived in a labyrinthine lair beneath the theater for as long as anyone could remember. Shrouded in mystery and illusion, his soul bore the weight of a thousand unspoken sorrows.

The Phantom had been a legend in the Parisian opera house for decades. He was a genius - a composer, master of disguise, violin virtuoso. His compositions, resembling fragments of a tortured soul, echoed through the corridors and enchanted every soul who heard them.

But the Phantom's true genius lay in his artistry of concealment. In the decades he had inhabited the cavernous spaces, he had never been seen by a single soul, his presence only known through the haunting letters and cryptic instructions he was wont to write.

He was hideously disfigured according to the rumor spread by members of the Belle Epoque society who floated through the opera house halls in search of the next exquisite rendition of their favorite operas.

But if no one had seen him, how did the rumor begin?

There was but one who knew him.

Her name was Christine Daaé, a beautiful, talented young soprano, the Phantom’s obsession. She was entranced by her mysterious benefactor, believing him to be the Angel of Music her father had promised would watch over her when she embarked on her new career. Her voice had drawn the Phantom like a moth to a flame. He tutored her in secret, taking her from chorus girl to star of the opera in a few short months.

One evening, as Christine prepared to perform her signature role as Marguerite in "Faust," a fragrant red rose lay on her dressing room table, accompanied by a note in elegant handwriting.

"My dearest Christine,

Tonight, the world shall hear your voice as never before. Tonight, you shall be the embodiment of perfection. Do not forget, my love, that you are mine, and I am yours. Let none come between us. Every note you sing, every breath you take, is a symphony of our shared passion.

Yours eternally, The Phantom"

 

 Christine's heartbeat tripled in speed. She knew the Phantom watched her every move, guiding her to greatness.

“I will honor you with a perfect performance, my Phantom,” she whispered, laying the red rose in the center of her dressing table.

She sang from the bottom of her heart; the audience hung on to her every note. The Phantom whirled around her, a presence guiding her to perfection.

Performance over, the applause was one almighty roar. Over and over she was called back to the stage to bask in the adoration of the crowd until she stood knee deep in red roses.

But the only red rose she cared about waited in her dressing room.

She rushed from the stage as soon as the curtain fell for the final encore, her heart pounding with the thrill of the night.

As she entered the dressing room, the Phantom stood before her, a shadow cloaked in darkness. Here he was, the man who haunted her dreams and shaped her destiny.

"Christine." His voice a mix of longing and desperation.

She approached him, hand outstretched, curiosity overcoming her fear. "You were there," she whispered, "with me on stage. I felt your presence. Are you indeed a ghost as they say?"

"Yes, I cannot deny it." His voice trembled. "My ghostly form allows me to always be with you, my dear Christine. Your talent is a mystical gift from me, a reflection of our love."

Christine reached out and touched the glittering silver mask. "Why do you hide your real self?"

He hesitated, then removed his mask. “If you reject me, I will leave his building, and you, forever.”

“I will never reject you, my Angel.”

The sight that met her eyes was beautiful and tragic. His skin pallid, his features distorted by a cruel twist of fate. But his eyes, pools of deep emotion, overflowed with a yearning that reached into Christine's soul.

"You see, my love, I am a monster as they claim," he murmured. “Unexplained deaths are laid at my door. They declare I am a master of secrecy and horror.”

Tears welled in Christine's eyes. She gazed into his face. Placed a hand on his caped shoulder. "Never call yourself a monster," she said. "You are a genius, a maestro of music, a man with a heart that loves deeply."

Tears ran down the Phantom’s ravaged face. “I expected rejection, but your words fill me with a glimmer of hope.” He touched her cheek, his gloved hand trembling. "Christine, I have loved you from the moment I heard your voice. Will you ever be able to love a man as grotesque as I?"

Christine pressed his hand to her heart. "I already do, my Angel. I love you for the music you have given me, for the passion you have awakened in my soul as no other has done."

The Phantom could not believe his ears. For so many years, he had hidden in the shadows, a ghost, believing himself unworthy of love, and now, Christine offered him her heart. He kissed her hand, trailed kisses up her arm, his lips cold, yet gentle against her skin.

Their love was a forbidden one that defied convention. But it was a love that transcended the boundaries of the world above and the world below.

“My Phantom, together we will face the challenges that lay ahead.”

“Yes, Christine, our love is a melody that will endure for all eternity.”

And their bittersweet melody echoed through the hallowed halls of the Opera Garnier for all time, a testament to the power of love and music.

TAGLINE: Love will find a way, despite exceptional circumstances.

For the month of December, you get to choose your own genre, story theme, whatever inspires you.

POST December 1 through to 15. 

WEP invites you to write an entry for their first Anthology, the theme, Gone! Gone! Gone!

Submissions Open! 

Close end December!

Thanks for reading,

Denise

 

#WEP August Challenge - my #flashfiction using the movie, Chocolat as the prompt.

Hello there! I'm glad you came by to read my #flashfiction based on the movie prompt - Chocolat. Those who have read my novel, Paris Dreams, will recognise the restaurant where I set the two main characters' first break up. My follow up book, still in the works, is also set in Paris, and is based on a traditional French cookery school. I've incorporated some ideas from that as well. And even the service overseas is in my new book, so I had several ideas to play with for this story. 

Please enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this.

Tastes of Love

 

The restaurant, with its silky red walls and black chandeliers, wrapped its dark arms around me, welcomed me home to Paris after a long absence. As a war correspondent in the Middle East, food, any food was a bonus eaten on the run, but I can’t recall the taste, but I recall much else I’d rather forget.

“Concentrate on the joys you’ve experienced, not the tragedies,” my therapist, Celeste, advised during  our session today.

“What do you know of tragedy?” I couldn’t help saying, raw from my latest loss.

“Pardon. You’re right of course.” She smoothed her perfect chignon, freshened her bright red lipstick then cooed to her pet birds in the covered courtyard of her luxurious apartment. “But try.”

I’m trying. 

Immersing myself in what has always brought me joy – traditional French food. Traditional French food never changes and tonight I relished that. I’ve had enough change for now. The meals at Le Chocolat (pronounced show-ko-lah, don’t you love it!) are typically French – plain, tasty, inexpensive peasant's food which is what I love best. It’s never fussy with modern twists and miniscule servings which don’t work for me. I rarely choose my restaurants by Michelin stars – I choose those with hearty, old-fashioned meals like Maman and Grand’Mere used to cook.

Waiters here are as traditional as the food. My favorite, Maurice, caught my eye, hurried to my table, pulled out my chair, flicked a crisp white napkin and placed it on my lap. “Shall I bring the mussels, Cara?” He scanned the room. “But where is your friend?”

Oh my heart. “He couldn’t make it, désolé. Mais oui to the mussels, s’il te plait, Maurice.”

I dealt with those rattly little mouthfuls of joy quickly, relishing the white wine and cream sauce, nectar of the gods. I struggled to stay in the moment, sorry Celeste; I shake my head and instead anticipate the rich onion soup, Le Chocolat's signature dish.

Maurice was already whipping away my plate and placing a huge white bowl before me. Ooh la la. What could beat the shot of sweet onion fragrance on a bitter winter's night?  Hmm. Concentrate, Cara. That soaked garlicky bread and long, stringy toasted cheese always sticks to my chin. Let’s face it; there is no elegant way to eat this dense soup, but tonight no one dabs my messy face with a napkin. But the soup; I wanted to live in the bowl, be revived by the nourishing juices, build myself up for my next assignment, Ukraine. Where will I find food over there?

Maurice offered me a free cocktail. I held the tiny, jeweled glass against the light, mesmerized by the play of diamonds and rich red liquid. I held it close to my nose, hesitated, sipped. It tasted of rose perfume, a sweet flavor that clashed with my morbid thoughts. Guilt crept over me; I try to push it away, but it refuses to leave. Why should I survive to live another day, eat another joyous meal, while my fellow correspondent, Benoit, ate his last meal then stepped onto an IB outside the restaurant? 

I will visit his parents in Montmartre after dinner which is why my stomach is taut and I’m forcing myself to enjoy every mouthful. For Benoit. Benoit. We shared so many meals at Le Chocolat and Maurice always gave us that tiny cocktail. He was performing an act of kindness, but memories turned my taste to dust.

I pushed it aside and ordered a rich red to accompany the Beef Bourguignon which Maurice has delivered to my table. The sharp aromas of tiny roasted onions, carrot, and rich, red, melt-in-your-mouth beef...my stomach danced, relaxed a little. How Benoit loved this dish and always reached across the table to finish mine! 

I lifted my fork, speared a cube of tender meat. The flavor of red wine mixed with onion and herbs revealed to me, if the mussels and onion soup hadn't already convinced me, that I was back in Paris.

It was pleasant beyond words to be drinking good wine and eating excellent food - a bottle of wine and a plate of comforting food is always good company, tonight, my only company.

Maurice saw I was immersed in my food and drink and left me to my joys and sorrows, only coming by to top up my wine at regular intervals. I saw in his doleful eyes that he’d realized Benoit wasn’t coming back, and he offered succor in the way he knew best. 

He raised his eyebrows.

I nodded. Yes, please.

Chocolat.

We always finished our meal with a platter of perfectly-created chocolat in all shapes, sizes and colors.

I reached for a dark star-shaped chocolate with golden hearts and placed it on my tongue.

“Au revoir, Benoit,” I whispered. “I hope you’re somewhere enjoying plentiful food, my love.”

TAGLINE: Food is a memory trigger extraordinaire!

~*~

WORDS: 817

FCA

BIG NEWS! A FLASH FICTION ANTHOLOGY!

Mock up cover only created on Canva

If you enjoy writing flash fiction, please go HERE to read about WEP's upcoming Anthology. If you've ever written to a WEP challenge, or do so before December '23, you are invited to submit.

If you like the idea of writing to prompts, October is our next, run by our very own thriller queen, Yolanda Renee. Please think about what you could do with the Phantom of the Opera prompt. Go HERE for ideas to get your creative juices flowing.

Thanks again for reading! I'll visit as soon as I can.

Denise

#IWSG August '23, #amwriting, #amediting

 Hello readers!

CLICK to read more IWSG posts!

The awesome co-hosts for the August 2 posting of the IWSG are Kate Larkinsdale, Diane Burton, Janet Alcorn, and Shannon Lawrence!

  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

Down to business!

Hope the month of July was a success! Thank you for those who left helpful comments on my last month's IWSG post asking for your writing schedules. Was great. 

I've been writing up a storm. How about you? So much happening - WEP challenge prepared for August 1 with Sonia Dogra, I've extended my Book Funnel sub for another year, so have been preparing book samples for a women's fiction promo which included making mock-up covers on Canva, self-editing said two novels, and sent the Fijian Princess novel to Nas Dean in Fiji. So glad. She found a few bloopers re Fijian bures. Brilliant!

Can Stock Photo of Navala Village where my two main characters sort themselves out.

 CSP is brilliant for images - you pay, but no sign ups etc.

And one reason I've written so much is I head off on a caravan trip to North Queensland, Townsville, to spend 3 weeks with family. Writing is pretty much off the agenda up there!

 

Lots of sunrises and sunsets

Lots of this!

Hopefully some of this!

So above discussion segues into this month's question -

 Have you ever written something that afterwards you felt conflicted about? If so, did you let it stay how it was, take it out, or rewrite it?

Of course. I find it excruciating to let go of my darlings. My leaning is more toward - oh I could have written that better! More pace? Did I really need that chapter? My cover could have been better...etc etc. I'm no stranger to re-writing, buying a new cover...etc, but there's only so much that is useful. When I publish my next two books, I'll have 8 books published. Then...I will go back to the beginning and pay for new covers on my vampire series and jump into promotion again. (Had a hiatus on that while hubs needed more attention). I've proved - no promo, few sales. 

So, have a great August, everyone!

And if you'd like to stretch yourself, here's a sweet idea. Join WEP for the August challenge!

Who's got the sweetest story?

Did you know that WEP is publishing an Anthology in May 2024? Now open for submissions for flash fiction of under 1,000 words. CLICK to learn more.

Another mock up cover made on Canva until we find the main genre in the submissions. Then Olga Godim will put her talents to work!

Have a great month. 

Denise

#WEP 2022 DECEMBER CHALLENGE - MY #FLASHFICTION - YOUR FACE, YOUR FACE, YOUR FACE.

 Hello there!

If you're looking for my IWSG post, for practically the first time ever, I'm missing it. Clashes with the WEP challenge and life is super busy at this time of year, anyway. See you in January.

Seeing you're here, I'd be delighted if you'd read my meet-up with the two MCs in my latest novel...and answer my question at the end.

_______________________________________________________

For the WEP challenge this month, I've edited the scene from my 'women's fiction with romantic and suspense elements' Paris Cookery School novel where my two main characters meet. It's over the limit at 1053, so sorry, but it fits the prompt perfectly, especially with reference to Roberta Flack's song. 

Something has been lost in the editing process, but hey, I might use this shorter version in my WIP. 

To pre-empt comments, I'm a member of the FB group, Ask a Book Editor, (highly recommended) and I was told the latest preference for foreign words is to italicise the first usage, thereafter don't, as italics get annoying after a while. I drink to that.

Angélique runs a cookery school. Charlie is a new student. Thus begins the romance which is the heart of the novel. 

TAGLINE: More than cooking goes on in the kitchen.

Your face, your face, your face

 

Angélique

A very dishy dish stands at my kitchen door – handsome, tall, and very English. After lugging his suitcase up five floors, his cheeks are flushed. And those eyes – I’m lost. They’re the color of the sea on a cloudy day, pale green flecked with gold. Mon Dieu. So hot.

 

His charcoal pin-striped suit is too dressy for my cookery school. Although with his glossy black hair, groomed hipster beard, and devastating smile, who am I to judge?

 

“Entrez.” I sweep my arm in a gracious lady-of-the-manor gesture. “Welcome to Le Petit Paris Kitchen Cookery School. I’m your host, Angélique Ravello. You’re Charlie Byron?”

 

His mouth is luscious and with that quirk at the edge, he’s permanently smiling. He holds out a hand. “Yes. Enchanted, I’m sure, Angélique.” His phone pings. “Pardon.” He reaches into his pocket, silences it.

 

There's that hand again.

 

His fingers are long and strong like a piano player’s. If his smile turns my legs to water, what will happen if I touch him? Sucking in a breath, I take those fingers in mine. I swear the earth moves in my hand.

 

We both laugh. Did he feel that powerful surge of electricity? Or am I going mad?

 

“Enchanté, Charlie.” Neither of us breaks the grip. His fingers tighten on mine. When did we move so close? It’s like our bodies are magnetized. Now I can fully appreciate his handsome bearded face with cheekbones to shame a supermodel. And his délicieux cologne duels with délicieux cookery smells.

 

His smile dimples his face. “Thank you, or should I say merci?”

 

Behave yourself Angélique. I break the grip. Rub sweaty hands down my thighs. “English is fine, unless you prefer—”

 

“English then.”

 

His eyes rove my face. “You look like Amélie from that fabulous film everyone watches before coming to Paris.” He slaps his head. “No doubt you get that all the time.”

 

“I do.” My heartbeat whooshes in my ears. I won’t risk my cookery school’s reputation by flirting. I’ve already disgraced myself with my over-the-top reaction to his gorgeousness.

 

He inhales rosemary lamb while he gives my kitchen a good going over with those goldy-green eyes. “Uhmah. Something smells good.”

 

And something looks good. I’m lit up inside, my veins thrum. I haven’t felt like this since I met Alexandre at lycée.

 

“Everything okay?” His head tilts to the side while I check him out with one side of my brain while the other tells me to behave.

 

I drag my eyes from his face. “Oui, oui. Parfait.” I’m trembling like a leaf shaking in the Mistral in the South of France.

 

“So, what’s the verdict on my kitchen?”

 

He frowns like it was the last question he expected. Well, my man, it was the last question I expected to utter.

 

“Hmmm.” He raises a perfectly-groomed eyebrow, no stranger to a brow bar.

 

“Well, Charlie, you’re a BBC presenter, interior designer, and builder of bespoke kitchens. How does mine rate?”

 

“Right.” He scratches his beard. “I’m surprised to find such a modern kitchen here.” He drops his leather man bag on his luggage, kicks it to the side, steps forward for a closer look.

 

At me? Or the kitchen?

 

He rubs his hands together. “This is one beautiful kitchen.”

 

“Thanks.” Not as beautiful as you. I let go of the counter and surprisingly don’t drop to the floor. “I couldn’t afford an interior designer. How did I do?” That’s me, digging for compliments. Shameless.

 

“You did great.” He quirks his lips in a cute smile. “Your expansive workspaces are state-of-the-art. Those picture windows and balcony doors let in so much natural light it’s magical. Your furniture is sympathetic to the baroque window moldings. And I appreciate what you’ve done with color.”

 

“You like the color?” My voice squeaks. My maman and I pored over a thousand paint catalogues to recreate the warmth that sharing a perfect meal brings.

 

“I do. To use a food reference, those walls are raspberry macarons dipped in custard cream.”

 

Yum. This Englishman totally gets the vibe. “Exactly. What I aimed for.”

 

“You achieved it. Those rosy walls are a perfect foil to your blue and white Moroccan floor tiles, Italian marble workbench, and top-of-the-range Lacanche cooker. Brilliant.” He’s on a roll. “You’ve achieved that lived-in, much-loved feel rarely found in London kitchens. But I must say, those cooking smells beat all …” He kisses his fingers.

 

I’d like to hug him for his generous critique, but of course I don’t. He’s from London, I’m from Paris. Nine days of rubbing shoulders and he’ll be gone.

 

I smooth my chignon to keep my hands busy. “Thanks. A welcome drink, Charlie? Champagne?”

 

“Just the ticket. Do you mind if I nose around?” His phone chirps again. He glances at the screen, frowns, silences it.

 

“Not at all.” I lift a bottle of Champagne la Maison Garnier from the ice bucket and am tempted to plunge my face into the chill. While he opens cupboard doors, checks out Grand-mère’s antique china, watches the street theatre, I fill two crystal flutes. I breathe deeply to get control of myself, join him on the balcony, hand him a frothy glass, drown in his dreamy eyes, “Salut, Charlie.”

 

“Salut, Angélique. Hmmm. Del-ic-io-us.” He watches the bubbles fizz. “Like the view.” His voice is as smooth as his silk Hermès scarf slung oh-so-casually around his neck.

 

“I’m aware of how lucky I am with what I have.” And nearly lost when Maman died.

 

“Bloody hell! Uh, excuse my French. The Eiffel Tower.” He leans forward, eyes aglow. “How cool to have people come from all over the world to share this view while they learn to cook. Epic.”

 

“I agree.” I gulp my champagne faster than I should. My head spins. Fizz tickles my nostrils. Is my frozen heart thawing like the snow which fell in Paris this winter? No matter. My new mantra – ‘be always professional.’

 

“So,” Charlie says, “who else is coming?”

 

Merde. I’d be happy to stand here for the rest of the night and breathe him in. “Three women - from Ireland, Australia and Alaska.”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

It’s a tight squeeze on my balcony and I deliberately push my hip against his. He brings back memories of happy times I’ve spent here with Alexandre.

 

But Alexandre is gone.

 

~*~~*~~*~

In my latest novel, out in 2023, drama, romance, and passion are layered, flavoured, tasted and left to simmer, not unlike the traditional French recipes scattered throughout the book.

WORD COUNT: 1050

FCA

Anyone a whiz at choosing book titles? I'm struggling with this one. Here is what I have so far ... can't move forward with the cover until I settle on one.

1. Le Petit Paris Cookery School 

2. The Taste of Love

3. A Feast of Food and Love

4. The Cookery School of Second Chances

5. The Recipe for Second Chances

5. Other?

 That's it for 2022. It's all over bar the shouting! It's been a great year for WEP with some beyond fabulous writing. Thanks to my wonderful team, and all who participated, either by posting entries, reading entries, and supporting Team WEP. And a big thank you to Nick Wilford for his judging expertise. 

Raspberry macarons with custard cream - yum! 

Can't wait to taste them again!

Denise