December WEP challenge - The End is the Beginning - another story set in Paris.

Whoa! December already! Time for holiday celebrations a'plenty. Also time for the final WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) challenge for 2017. We've already prepared all the challenges for 2018, so if you enjoy a writing challenge, go HERE to read all about it. We'd love to have you.

The December WEP challenge is The End is the Beginning. Pretty open, wouldn't you say? The blurb said: 

A flashback? A new start? A cascading change? A branching off point? An end and a beginning? Celebrate year's end with us!

Here I am, all fuelled up after my latest sojourn in Paris, so of course, my flash fiction is set in that beautiful city. It's probably more suited to Romantic Friday Writers, but, heck, what's wrong with a bit of romance? My story offers a new start, an end and a beginning,

               The City Where Love Lived and Died

It’s our wedding day. May 25, 2011. The most romantic day of my life is finally here and I’m spending it in the most romantic city in the world. Ooh la la! Can I take it all in? Everywhere I look there is beauty – Notre Dame's aged bricks and soaring buttresses being kissed by sunset – the lock-filled bridge, the Pont des Arts that joins the Left Bank and Right Bank – lovers sharing wine and baguettes, dangling their legs in the Seine and throwing bread to the ducks. 

As I walk beside the river, my candy pink dress with its French Poodle embroidery flares around my knees. Pink satin heels complement my black net stockings. I clutch the tiny posy of white roses which my darling Mitch handed to me on the steps of the town hall, known here as the mairie. Their scent envelopes me as I walk arm in arm with my beautiful man feeling oh so French.

Mitch, so handsome in his black suit, kisses the white gold and diamond ring on my finger – Could this day get any better?

‘Let’s do it!’ he says.

We walk to our chosen spot midway across the Pont des Arts. Mitch reaches into his pocket and flips the copper lock in his hands.

We gaze at the token as if it were made of solid gold. 
‘I had it engraved,’ he says.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I read the inscription – ‘Capt'nFlynn, Mastarata  25-May-2011’.

Yes, this day could get better. 'You used our special names.'

We loop the lock over the wire and click it shut. Mitch reaches for me and we kiss. I hear a passing tourist snap our photo. I giggle, wondering if they'll give it a caption: The Kiss.

‘Let’s come back every year to celebrate our wedding anniversary,’ I say.

‘I can’t think of any better way to celebrate our love,’ Mitch says. 

We kiss again to seal the deal.

☁☁☁

As I cross the bridge between the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame, I think to myself how apt it is that the skies are all smudgy, not that brilliant Parisian grey-blue of two years ago.

Nevertheless, I came here for a reason, no matter how painful. I hold my breath as I stand on the timber deck of the Pont des Arts once again and search through the multitude of love locks. It’s a wonder the bridge doesn’t collapse under this weight of metal. 

Finally, there it is - still bright and shiny in the gloom. I pick it up and rub my thumb over our pet names.

Ironic.

I attach the tiny plastic envelope to the lock handle, then I collapse onto a bench and sob for our fractured love.

Darling Mitch

I could have trusted you instead of showering you with jealousy.

I could have travelled with you instead of putting my career first.

I could have forgiven you instead of throwing you out without listening to you.

Your Dearest Polly

We were meant to be together, forever. 

 I stroll along the Seine, then order mussels in garlic cream sauce at what was our favourite restaurant in the Latin Quarter. When the attentive waiter brings the bowl of dark, half open shells, pours my wine and places the bread basket before me, I cannot eat or drink. 

It’s futile to retrace steps from the past; those steps have been obliterated with time.

                                       ☁☁☁

The 17^th Century Hotel le Relais is not at all romantic without Mitch. Climbing the winding stairs is just a leg-numbing chore. Surely they could install a lift. 

The fifth floor at last. The Romantic Room with the etched carvings on the ancient door. From the window I’ll be able to gaze at Notre Dame and watch the old lady turn golden in the sunset, watch the tourists snapping pictures, watch the thousands entering her Gothic doors, hoping to find solace as they gasp at the beauty of the rose window.

I take a deep breath and rattle around with the ancient key. 

The door opens before I find the slot. I step back in fright, clasping my chest and breathing jerky breaths.

‘Mitch! What are you doing here?’

‘Same as you, I imagine.’

‘But—’

‘I read your letter.’

‘Then you—’

He holds out our wedding album. 

I'd left it on the desk under the window. 

‘I saw this. How could I have put what we have at risk? I’m a fool.’

‘Marrying you was the happiest day of my life. That album reminds me of our special day.’

‘I’m sorry sweetheart. It wasn’t you who needed reminding, it was me. I’ll do better. What I did was despicable, but...will you take me back? I’m so sorry. I love you...I love you...’

I entwine my arms around his neck and soak his beautiful white shirt with my tears.

‘I love you Mitch. I don’t want a life without you. I've missed you so...’

His arms feel so right, around me where they belong – could this day get any better? 

It’s about to.

NOTE: The ‘love locks’, despised by most of the French population, were removed from the Pont des Arts on June 1, 2015. When I returned this visit, I was happy to see that Pont Neuf is now adorned with ‘love locks’. Obviously, the City of Love didn’t want to be known as the City Where Love Died.

WORDS: 844
FCA

Love locks on the Pont Neuf - corridors and corridors of them leading down to the Seine.
Taken by moi in September, 2017.

PLEASE click on names in my sidebar which have DL next to them for more entries.

Thanks for reading.

Happy Holidays!

Denise

The #BooktagsBlogHop - The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George. And my vampire novella is on Amazon!

Today I'm participating in Toi Thomas' #BooktagsBlogHop. Right up my alley. How about you? Not too late to tag along. The link is in my sidebar.

Here's what Toi has to say:

The purpose of this blog hop is for readers and writers to share what they are reading, have read, are writing, or have written with others. This is not about promoting free or discounted books, though some of those may be featured. This is about book lovers sharing what they love about books.  This blog hop is about the Joy of Reading and the Joy of Writing and is hosted by me, Toi Thomas, the 3rd Monday of each month.

Post No. 1 will be October 19, 2015.

To learn more, click here.

What I am reading:

First, here is my overview, then an excerpt from a favourite book I've read recently. I've read several in October, but one that stays with me is The Little Paris Bookshop. What a quirky little book about Jean Perdu who calls himself a 'literary apothecary', which translates to mean a bookseller who discerns which book/s you need/don't need to read at a given moment in your life. He lives on a beautifully-restored barge on the Seine in Paris near Notre Dame and, being a troubled soul himself, his aim is to help other troubled souls. But the person he can't cure of torment is himself. He's nursed a broken heart for twenty odd years, when the love of his life left him. When a strange turn of events pops up and he actually reads the letter his ex-lover sent him, he realises that he's been a fool--his lover was dying and was hoping he'd visit her before her death, 21 years ago. So the story gets underway when on a whim, he unhooks his barge and heads downriver to Provence, to reacquaint himself with his past. But not before bestselling author Max jumps on board. The barge trip includes many unusual adventures, a love story to France's beautiful rivers and coasts and a completely charming ending.

An extract can't do justice to what I love about this book, but I'll try. Here is an extract close to the beginning which gives you an idea of the quirkiness of the story:

'No,' Monsieur Perdu said. 'I'd rather not sell you this book.'
Gently he pried Night from the lady's hand. Of the many novels on his book barge - the vessel moored on the Seine that he had named Literary Apothecary - she had inexplicably chosen the notorious bestseller by Maximilian 'Max' Jordan, the earmuff wearer from the third floor in Rue Montagnard. (M. Perdu's apartment building). 
The customer looked at the bookseller, taken aback.
'Why not?'
'Max Jordan doesn't suit you.'
'Max Jordan doesn't suit me?'
'That's right. He's not your type.'
'My type. Okay. Excuse me, but maybe I should point out to you that I've come to your book barge for a book. Not a husband, mon cher Monsieur.'
'With all due respect, what you read is more important in the long term than the man you marry, ma chère Madame.'
She looked at him through eyes like slits.
'Give me the book, take my money, and we can both pretend it's a nice day.'
'It is a nice day, and tomorrow is the start of summer, but you're not going to get this book. Not from me. May I suggest a few others?'
'Right, and flog me some old classic you're too lazy to throw overboard where it can poison the fish?' 
'Books aren't eggs, you know. Simply because a book has aged a bit doesn't mean it's gone bad.' There was an edge to M. Perdu's voice. 'What is wrong with old? Age isn't a disease. We all grow old, even books. But are you, is anyone, worth less, or less important, because they've been around for longer?'
'It's absurd how you're twisting everything, all because you don't want me to have that stupid Night book.'
***
'Hello?' called M. Perdu. 'Can I help you?'
'I'm not looking for anything,' croaked Max Jordan.
The bestselling author stepped tentatively forward with a honeydew melon in each hand, his obligatory earmuffs riveted to his head.
'Have the three of you been standing there long, M. Jordan?'
Jordan nodded, and a blush of embarrassment spread to the roots of his dark hair.
'I arrived just as you were refusing to sell my book to that lady,' he said unhappily. 
Oh dear. That was rather bad timing.

What I am writing:
As well as reading, I've been writing/editing up a storm. At 8.10 pm Sunday night, I finally pressed Publish for my vampire novella which I told you about last week. Cutting it fine for Halloween. Wish me well. More later. My cover designer, Jennie, decided to have her baby early, so with my husband's help, I came up with this temporary cover. What do you think?  Now available on Amazon worldwide. I've included the most popular links...Of course, I'd love it if you bought it for the low price of 99c and wrote a short review, even though I understand that huge TBR list you have!

Amazon.com

Amazon.uk

Amazon.au

The WEP Halloween challenge goes live this Wednesday. Still not too late to jump onboard and share something scary that someone else created, or something you created. Submit your name and URL to your post in my sidebar.

Have a great week! 

The Bookseller, by Mark Pryor...my book review for The Cephalopod Coffeehouse.

Hi there!

I've joined another regular bloghop, The Cephalopod  Coffeehouse, a bloggers' bookclub, brainchild of the Armchair Squid. As I read so many books, I'm always looking for somewhere to review them - other than the usual suspects, Amazon, Goodreads etc. Armchair Squid's bloghop is for reviews of your best recent read.

Here is the brief:

The idea is simple: on the last Friday of each month, post about the best book you've finished over the past month while visiting other bloggers doing the same.  In this way, we'll all have the opportunity to share our thoughts with other enthusiastic readers.  Please join us:

Best! Definitely! Recently finished The Bookseller, by Mark Pryor, and was so sad to reach the end. It is the first in what is to be a series of Hugo Marston novels, so I have more to look forward to. 

Hugo Marston is the head of security at the US Embassy in Paris. One of his passions is book collecting, which leads to the main storyline of the novel.

Early in the story, Marston indulges himself by buying some first editions from his friend Max, an elderly bookstall owner, a bouquiniste, the owner of one of those green metal shops along the Seine. 

Shortly after Marston's purchase, Max is dragged from his bookstall at gunpoint. Marston tries to intercede, but Max is thrown into a boat. The police don't seem uninterested in investigating, so of course, this becomes Marston's mission.

Then other booksellers start to disappear. Working with his friend, former CIA agent, Tom Green, the team of two soon put together the pieces of a puzzle. There is a surprising answer to a quest which unearths Nazi collaborators, illegal immigrants and drugs -- why was Max a target? Or is someone just after a very valuable book? 

All the characters are well drawn, although Tom Green began to grate after awhile, but to be honest he is a great foil for Marston's slick heroism. There are plenty of red herrings in this plot, and no shortage of action to keep you turning the pages. And there's a sexy, wealthy reporter with great connections to provide the romantic element. 

Where Pryor really excels is in his depiction of Paris in winter. (Makes me all a'quiver for my next trip in December!) Pryor has written my type of book -- the setting is beautifully wrought -- a fully-fledged character. If you haven't already visited Paris, this book will have you lining up to buy your plane ticket. And if you've never seen Paris in winter, this will convince you to check her out.

I found The Bookseller an excellent escapist read -- it had it all for me -- Paris, books, history, intrigue, and a captivating main character and the requisite romance. It is an elegant debut novel for a fabulous new thriller writer -- intelligent, witty, suspenseful as all good thrillers should be. Hugo Marston is in the mould of Jack Reacher and Harry Bosch, another couple of my favourite action heroes. Marston is honourable, yet ruthless when he has to be -- a Texan in cowboy boots and a cashmere overcoat.

Can't wait for the second Hugo Marston novel.

• What's your best recent read? Share with us...

Write...Edit...Publish monthly bloghop - my flash fiction - Interrupted in Paris

Welcome to the inaugural Write...Edit...Publish regular monthly bloghop. As you visit participating bloggers, you will find all sorts of stories and other creative postings. Anyone is welcome to join us! Entries close Friday August 23. If you've missed this one and would like to join in for September...theme -- Moving On...the linky will go up early September. Would love to have you on board!

Here is my entry for VACATION...a flash fiction set in Paris...

Interrupted in Paris

Willow leaned over the parapet of the Pont Neuf bridge, ignoring the wind that snatched her long blond hair from her face. She strained for a better view of the redheaded woman in the orange hat who was yelling at one of the booksellers along the Seine.

‘Alors, not planning to jump?’ a voice asked in perfect French.

Willow hadn’t expected to be interrupted in Paris—Parisians ignored you, she’d been told.

The guy was a bit older than she was, about twenty. Would have been the perfect Gallic specimen except for his Harry Potter glasses and cowboy boots.

‘Merde, are you crazy?’ she snapped in her schoolgirl French. ‘Jumping into the Seine would be like jumping into a swimming pool.’

Harry Potter pushed his glasses higher up his nose with a leather-gloved finger and laughed out loud. She liked the sound. It was nice hearing someone laugh instead of yell.

‘Mademoiselle, it would be like diving into an ice rink. Don’t jump in head first. Such a pretty head.’ He slipped off his gloves and handed them to her.

He folded his arms, studied her while she slipped them on. ‘Well?

‘Well, what?’

 ‘Why are you standing on the Pont Neuf this freezing winter’s day, with only that, uh, flimsy thing between you and becoming an ice sculpture?’ He removed his cashmere coat as he spoke. Was this a Paris striptease?

‘Not your business.’ She backed away. ‘No, it’s okay. Keep your coat on.’

‘It’s fine. I’m wearing another underneath, see?’ He indicated a uniform jacket,  with an embroidered ‘B’ on the pocket. ‘I keep a spare for damsels in distress.’

He seemed harmless enough. Willow cracked a smile, then tossed the cashmere over her battered army-surplus jacket. Bliss!

‘Come, Mademoiselle.’ He took her hand.  ‘I’ll buy you coffee. There’s a cafe nearby that the bouquinistes use.’ Bouquinistes? Later.

She searched for the redheaded woman in the crowd, but all she saw was black coats moving through snow like extras in a movie.

☁☁☁

‘Mercy beaucoop.’

‘A plaisir, Mademoiselle. Bon appetit!’

She spooned three teaspoons of sugar into her frothy brew, gave it a quick stir then gulped down a few delicious mouthfuls. She handed back the gloves.

‘Mercy. You’re a lifesaver.’ She held out a toasty hand.  ‘Willow.’

‘Jacques.’ He looked like he was about to kiss her hand, but refrained, unfortunately.

She crammed her face full of macarons—raspberry, triple chocolate, champagne drops dusted in gold—oh, the French! Her mother would be appalled at her table manners, but it was all her mother’s fault anyway…

                                                            ☁☁☁

Her mother had run away to Paris after the last blazing row with her dad. Natch Dad didn’t believe his wife could do such a thing, but Willow knew. But why hadn’t mum taken her too? No doubt she thought Willow should finish school. As if she could concentrate! She’d flunked her exams big time—too busy planning how she would solve the mystery of her mum’s disappearance…

‘Now, what brings you to Paris?’ Jacques interrupted her thoughts—again!—picked up his gloves, slapping them against the edge of the table--schlep, schlep, schlep.

‘Mum,’ Willow said without thinking. Whoops! What if he was fully a creepster? Stranger danger alert! ‘Er, it’s school holidays.’

‘Is your maman here?’

‘Uh…I…yes. She’s on a long holiday, er, in Paris.’

‘You mean you don’t know where your maman is?’

‘She has to be here.’ Willow pointed to the door. ‘I think I saw her…I’m not sure.’

‘Oh?’

‘When you interrupted me today. I think she hangs out at the book stalls.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Willow shrugged. Why not tell him? She had a good feeling about Jacques, and she had a great creep-o-meter.

‘Her life with Dad was pretty damned horrible.  She always said she’d run away to Paris, so I’m thinking she finally did.’ Tears pricked her eyes.  ‘She just disappeared one day. I’d hate to think anything bad happened to her.’

Jacques reached across the table and held her hand.

‘Books are her life. Maybe she got a job selling them here.’

‘I doubt it. You have to stand in line for years to buy a stall.’

‘How do you know? She could be working one, right?’

‘Doubtful. My father officially manages the bouquinistes, but they’re a law unto themselves. They have their own controllers.  I work with Papa while I’m on vacation from the Sorbonne.’  He handed back the gloves. ‘Come. Do you have a photo?’

‘Of course.’

                                                                  ☁☁☁

The bitter breeze chased them along the footpath under a grey and heavy sky. Puffs of white blew from tree branches into their faces. Willow opened her mouth and let the snowflakes fizz on her tongue. Jacques wrapped his scarf around her face. She’d be loving this day except for her mum.

At the curb of the Quai Saint-Michel, they paused to watch spluttering bateau mouches surge past Notre Dame like icebreakers. Tourists waved hello, their voices like squawking seagulls.

They reached the line of green metal bookstores. Willow was momentary distracted by retro postcards, Toulouse Lautrec posters, old books.

‘Je m’excuse.’ Jacques addressed a bookseller stooped over a metal box, the hem of his ragged black coat filthy with brown slush. ‘Paul, have you seen this woman?’

The old man squinted at the photo. ‘Alors, Monsieur Hoareau.’ His lip curled. ‘She was a thief. She tricked me into selling her an uncatalogued first edition. Gave me €500. Worth €200,000 at auction I since found out.’

‘The name of the book?’ Willow and Jacques asked together.

‘The Great Gatsby.’

‘That’s her favourite book!’ Willow yelled. ‘Mum’s been collecting different editions for years. Totally annoyed my father.’ She hugged herself. ‘So…where is she now, Monsieur?’

‘Probably at the bottom of the Seine. You don’t mess with the bouquinistes and live.’

 ☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁

©DeniseCovey2013

I would like a Critique Partner who writes romantic fiction.

WORD COUNT: 976

FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME

I hope you enjoyed my story for the VACATION prompt. Click on the names in WEP's linky in my top right hand side sidebar to read more entries.