#WEPff - My #ff for the October challenge - Night in the Montmartre Cemetery

 Hi everyone!

Here is my ghostly story for the WEP/IWSG writing together October challenge. I hope you enjoy the read. The stories this month will all contain some scary elements. I hope I achieve this in mine. Whatever, I had a hoot revisiting Paris in my mind while writing it.

Night in the Montmartre Cemetery

Ciassia had seen a ghost. A ghost wearing black. Lurching behind her, rasping, grunting, reaching out his filthy hand, trying to snatch her as she hurried along the streets of Pigalle, Paris’s red light district.

Putting distance between them, gasping for breath, she slipped into an alley behind Moulin Rouge, as quiet as a crypt. The air was dark and thick, like a black cape had floated from the night sky and covered the earth. A beacon of light from the Eiffel Tower swept in arcs across the gloom – a sea of fog swirling like a fleeting ghost. Each time the flash passed overhead, the blanched fog and mist took on a shivering pallor, giving life to the unliving.

As crazy as it seemed, she was running from a ghost.

Creeping along the alley, touching the walls, she tried to ignore the shivers shooting up her spine.

What else might be lurking in the gloom? She pulled her red shawl tight around her shoulders. Fear gave her feet wings as she hurried through the darkness to the next corner where street lights shot a hole into the misty light.

She huddled under the streetlight, listening to the night sounds, but could hear nothing over the rasp of her jagged breathing and the blood rush pounding in her ears.

She sensed a movement behind her. 

She must leave the comfort of the light.

Reluctantly, she stepped into the darkness again. She ran, fast, faster, through the fog. One foot in front of the other, fighting the urge to run back to the crowds exiting the nightclubs of Pigalle. She fought the urge to run to her hotel and safety. To where she’d left her cell phone and purse on the night stand.

In front of her loomed an ancient stone wall wrapped in weeping moss. Montmartre cemetery. How did she end up here?

She’d seen the stone garden from a distance. In the daylight. A forest of small crypts adorned with stained glass and magnificent sculptures. The resting place of many famous bones including her idol, Simone de Beauvoir. Would hers be added to the pile? Would she sleep for eternity beside Simone?

No. Please God. No. No. No.

She huddled amongst the stone ghosts rising from the ground like resurrected souls, the darkness only broken by the beacon flashes from the tower bathing the dead faces in ghostly light, sharpening their features, sending shadows shuddering around her feet.

How could she see her pursuer in the crowded forest of stone?

Running steps. Clamping a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream, she veered off the main path. Knelt behind a large crypt with a high brick wall behind. ‘Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir’ read the headstone. Long dead. They could not reach beyond the grave to save her.

She heard a screech. A cat. A black cat. Leaping over the crypts. She forced herself to keep still. The cat sounds faded, but she stayed crouched, her heart hammering so loud she was afraid the man in black would hear it.

Such a creepy, creepy place.

She couldn’t spend the night with dead people. She had to get back to her hotel at the top of the hill. She had to get back to safety.

Gathering what was left of her courage, she stood, her eyes beacons trying to cut through the darkness.

Is he here?

Then out of nowhere she saw … not a him ...  a her.

A white dress ghoulishly radiant.

‘Are you an angel?’ she whispered. Stupid question. This vision could be nothing else. She was one of the stone angels come to life.

The angel stood in front of her, arms outstretched, beckoning her. Then she pointed a finger the way Ciassia had come.

Is she warning me?

Telling me to turn around?

Fat tears ran down Ciassia’s face. ‘Please help me,’ she said through trembling lips. ‘A man chased me through the street in Pigalle and has followed me here.’

The Eiffel Tower beacon flashed again. It passed. The angel was gone.

Another figure emerged from the fog, arms outstretched. No angel. The man in black. As black as Poe’s raven.

She screamed, turned and ran. Down the hill. Toward the exit.

Stumbling over a crooked gravestone that jutted from the earth, she hit the ground on her knees. The pain was excruciating, but she jumped up again.

Poe’s raven was so close she could smell his fetid smell, like a pit of snakes. Mouldy. Rotten.

Her boots reached out in front of her. Into nothing.

She was falling. Falling. Falling.

The ground had opened up and swallowed her whole.

She bounced off dirt walls and hit hard stone ground, the breath knocked out of her.

The hole was pitch black.

She screamed, clawing the dirt walls, her fingernails tearing, her fingertips bleeding.

A grave.

She was in a grave.

She screamed and screamed. Clawed and clawed.

Then. Footsteps.

Overhead.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Out of the sky, dirt poured down upon her.

Filled her mouth.

Filled her eyes

Filled her hair.

Filled her.

‘Who’s there?’ she croaked, spitting dirt, trying to keep the terror from her voice.

The beacon flashed overhead revealing a tall, dark figure, arms outstretched, his cape giving the appearance of raven’s wings.

‘Help me. For the love of God. Where is your humanity?’

He grunted and tossed more dirt.

‘I lost my humanity many centuries ago, little girl.’ His voice was raspy and hollow, like he hadn’t used it for centuries.

Large clods. Then stones. Battering her.

‘Soon you will join me.’

He was a fleeting ghost.

He was burying her alive.

She screamed and screamed. Then a huge rock hit her temple, knocking her to the ground.

‘Soon your life will begin,’ the hollow voice rasped, growing faint as her consciousness fled.

 She heard his laugh. An eerie sound. Like a raven calling.

WORDS - 985
FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE.

To read more entries please click on names in my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) beside their name or go to the WEP site. 

You have until October 19th to post if you have some scary fiction or non-fiction to add to the list. It's easy to SUBMIT your name to the list.

#IWSG post - Tripping along the publication path.

Hello all!

Time for the #IWSG again!

August has been an especially busy month for me, what with organizing the merging of WEP with the IWSG for the purpose of joint writing challenges. 

The inaugural August challenge is half over. We've had the sign ups on August 1, the posts on August 15, the winners announcement on August 26. The next post at WEP is the Guest Post. As well as winning an Amazon Gift Card, the winner, Tanya Miranda has been asked and agreed to write a guest post which is always a surprise treat.

If you'd like to keep in touch with what WEP/IWSG Writing Together challenges are up to, you can visit our site and subscribe to our email. If you have problems with that, email me and I'll add you manually.

On October 1, the new Halloween month challenge will go live and it's time to go through the process again.

It was great to see so many new writers join us in August. We hope even more of you will see the beauty of writing flash fiction, nonfiction and poetry to a prompt. Or taking the opportunity to get eyes on an extract of your WIP. Or just meeting a lovely, supportive bunch of writers to form new networks.

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the September 5 posting of the IWSG are Toi Thomas, T. Powell Coltrin, M.J. Fifield, and Tara Tyler!

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

Now, to the month's question - 

September 5 question for the IWSG- What publishing path are you considering/did you take, and why?

I went through the process of doing all the work myself and self-publishing with Amazon years ago just to see how it worked. It wasn't that hard, but it's not what I have planned for the future.

I'm no expert, but I'm following experts and have shared in previous  posts how I plan to publish when I'm ready...under a pen name which will be no secret. I don't want to bore you by talking about myself - my least favorite topic - but for the interests of adhering to the IWSG question, here's my pre-planned publication process. You'll note it is self-publishing. I have a contemporary novel with Avon books, but may end up self-pubbing that too. I am going to:

1. Write several books for what is called 'fast launch'. Having 1 book out there doesn't do you any favors. You need to grow a backlist quick smart (which is hard for a slow, perfectionist writer) which is why I'm writing several before I hit PUBLISH, probably using my friends at Draft2Digital.

2. Buy the best covers I can afford. As I'm writing a paranormal romance series, (I'm up to Book Three) I need to arrange for all the covers to be  made by the same artist so they look same-ish and stunning, of course. I have sketched them out...woo hoo.

3. Even though I'm a savvy editor myself, I work with 2 close critique partners mainly for plotting and structure which I suck at and have a great beta reader who's more like an editor but a fraction of the price. I'm the Grammar Police, Punctuation Police, Spelling Police, Sentence-structure Police  and the Thought Police (sorry, doing 1984 with my students) in one package, but still believe in hiring good editors. 

So, all these things cost money. Hopefully, down the track I'll see some return for the years of lackadaisical laptop joy - gosh I love alliteration don't I?

How about you, best-selling authors? I'd be interested in hearing your comments. Maybe you think I have rocks in my head. Maybe...who knows? We all make our own path in the end.

Have a great month, everyone!

If you like the challenge of a juicy horror, ghost, edgy, paranormal whatever story, or can find a way to write a 'normal' story or poem for this prompt, join WEP/IWSG Writing Together for the October challenge:

You're most welcome!

Denise 

When this goes live, I'm up in Northern Queensland visiting family. I will return the visit when I can. 

#WEP #flashfiction, my story, LOVE SUCKS. Vamps in Paris.

Hello all!

How's your April going? I hope those participating in the A-Z Challenge are having a ball. I've enjoyed reading many of your stories, but this coming week it's all about WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) for me. The prompt is Road Less Traveled and it's a mixture of prose and some sort of poetry.

Maybe it's because I'm working furiously on my paranormal romance trilogy at the mo', but my mind flew straight to a funky little flash I wrote for Romantic Friday Writers (400 words) in 2015. The characters have haunted me, LOL, so I dragged them out of their coffins, dusted them off, and let them tell a little more of their story. They will probably find themselves on a page or two in a flash fiction book I intend to write one day!

I'm early with my post, but a few have begun to post so I'm anxious to get my little ole story on the page. Hope you enjoy...

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Top left: Drac-Kulah, Top right: Dracula

Bottom left: Ruby Black, aka Snow White, Bottom right: Doc Marten.

 When you’ve lived for as long as moi, you crave change. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta find another way, another road. I’m done with sleeping all day in a room with velvet drapes drawn, hiding from you-know-what, microwaving blood when the street food lets me down. 

What’s a vamp to do all century? 

I know what you’re thinking:

Go haunt the streets, you sicko,

Suck the tourists dry.

Drink a few homeless. 

Who’s gonna miss ‘em?

Who's gonna cry?

Been there, done that. I need to shake things up a bit. I need another path. One less traveled.

As the sun dropped down from that oh-so-sicko-blue sky, I exited the hotel and sashayed down Montmartre’s glitter strip, feeling ever-so-hipster-ish.

Black cap sideways,

Baggy black trousers,

Black T-shirt under my

black shiny coat.

Hiding my black heart.

You get that I dig black, right?

Love Montmartre. My current Parisian area of interest. Well, current, doh. It’s been my favorite for a coupla hundred years. Is about the only suburb not razed by that sicko Baron Haussman. I like old things. Love Montmartre.

Tourists gawking,

Homeless hawking,

Blackboard artist chalking:

"ETERNITY".

We’re on the same page, honey-childe.

Then suddenly, next door to that garish pretending-to-be-old reinvented mill, Moulin Rouge,

I see it: ‘A VENDRE’ – (‘FOR SALE’) if you haven’t mastered the fourteenth-most-popular language in the world. 

But I digress. What happened next? Hang with me. Or not. 

My synapses zapped.

My planets aligned.

A contract to sign.

Oh, happy day! Time for a moonwalk! Slip. Slide. Slap.

I’ve accumulated a tidy sum over the centuries, you know, so I can easily afford Parisian real estate. Compound interest compounds I read somewhere. No business degrees 400 years ago.

So before you could say,

‘More blood.

I’ll take it to go.

Make it quick, you know?’

The business belonged to moi. If you don’t know what moi means, pfft. Work on your language skills or get outta here.

The little bar was perfect -- vamp chic –

Blood-red carpet,

Black walls, (or they will be)

Red bar counter,

Black halls.

Suited my little black er, heart. 

The pictures clinched the deal –

Horror-movie posters

Murder and mayhem

on every wall.

Go me.

Buying this joint means I’ll no longer have to prowl the mean streets. The gendarmes can move on. Fight real crime. But now I got me my own gloomy little hidey-hole. 

Let ‘em come to me.

Bar flies are tasteee

Full of good ole whiskee

au go go.

‘Ya not going to run this place by yaself, are ya?’

I jumped from dreaming of bar flies and admiring my Dracula poster which was so like looking in the mirror – Just kidding!

Black cloak,

Super handsome face,

Super handsome long locks

I’m ace!

Not that dude.

But like, wow! This chicka! Will you look at her! Just promenaded down my 15th Century wonkedy-wonkedy stairs! Right into my Venus fly trap.

Flowing black tresses,

Lush curves poured

into little black dress,

Black fishnet stockings. 

Oh so shocking!

‘You offering your services, er, miss?’ I licked my lips. Tried not to look too obvious.

 “Ya, moi, who else? Ya blind or somethin’? I thought those black glasses ya wearin’ were, ya know, to hide ya red eyes.’

 This chicka was something else. If only she knew. Something more serious than the old chanvre (look it up!) going on here. 

‘You look, like, twelve years of old. Shoot me some ID.’ I sunk into my oversized red leather chair.

 She whipped out the plastic.  ‘Looks can be deceivin’, busta. Ya look, like, nineteen, but ya might have baggy eyes behind those shades.’ 

 She winked at me, cheeky minx. I took them off so she could admire my handsomeness.

 I flipped the ID back at her, watched it twirl in its arc and land in her white little dewdrop hand. Fake as, who cared? 

 I licked my lips, again. Gotta stop that. I ran my tongue around my teeth, getting ready for the big suck. I want this girl-child. She’s def on the menu tonight.

 ‘What d’ya think, Monsieur Slim Shady? I bin workin’ bars for many a yaah. Know sum tricks, I do.’

 ‘It’s not that kind of bar. It’ll be a clean operation. And speak English or French or something. You’re a cross between American Western and Eliza Dolittle.’

 ‘Forgit the pop culture, Pop. A clean operation?’

 ‘Drinks, tapas, music…’

 ‘Rap? Classical? Country? What do French people like?’

 ‘Never mind. Too long a story for now. What’s your name?’ I clasped her black-gloved hand. ‘I’m Drac Kulah.’

 ‘Really? A dark character.’ 

 ‘Really.’ I hope she digged the deep, dark tone.

 ‘Well I’m Ruby Black, but I go by—’

 ‘Let me think. Snow White?’

 ‘Right on Drac. Hilaarrious. Aren’t we a pair!’

 ‘You’re hired. No funny business or you’ll be out on your pretty butt.’

 ‘My butt’s pretty? I don't think ya s'posed ta say that anymore.’ She twirled.

Black lacy dress flowing

like waves

around her thighs.

A tantalizing glimpse of

shapely snow-white leg and

a flash of lacy black knickers.

But her Doc Marten’s are kickers.

‘That’s not all I got.’ She sidled up and grabbed me around the neck, her gloved fingers tugging my black 'do.

 Who needs to go hunting? This tasty morsel’s mine. Right here. Right now. A gift from er, the gods. An entrée before the main.

Woo hoo to me.

Boo hoo for her.

Taking her in my steely arms, I aimed my sharp little popping-down fangs at her jugular, then…wow! Where’s her throbbing pulse! Where’s my drink?

‘Ha, I knew ya were the Real Slim Shady, you dark, evil, blood-suckin’ sicko.’

 I knew the minute she walked in, but you probably think I’m lying. As if a vamp would lie. I’ve learned a thing or two in 400 years. I know everything. I’ve read all the literature on the planet. Just wanted to see how this new road played out. Like that Robert Frost guy said in a poem I read on the internet, "two roads diverged". Then whammo!

WORDS: 994
FCA

Hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. This is a WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) post for the April WEP challenge, Road Less Traveled. After leaving a comment please click on other participants in my right-hand sidebar with a DL (Direct Link) after the name. This means they've published. Or travel over to WEP and sign up there.

#IWSG post - Why I write what I write.

Hi everyone!

It's our favorite time of the month again. Thanks to Alex J Cavanaugh, we have the IWSG, ably assisted by an awesome team of writers/bloggers and monthly helpers. This month, helping are Stephen Tremp, Pat Garcia, Angela Wooldridge, Victoria Marie Lees, and Madeline Mora-Summonte! Try to visit each if you can.

I'm so pleased you rushed over to read my post, but it'd be really lovely once you finish if you'd CLICK on the badge and read some more entries.

February 7 question - What do you love about the genre you write in most often?

I belong to several Facebook writers' groups, and a thread was begun on one recently around whether you should write what you like because you love it, or whether you should write what's hot, what sells, what the market wants.

Okay, we could get on our writer professional high horses and say, what??? Surely all writers write what they want, but, according to this group who like to make a ****load of money from the pen, they study the market, study their own books, to see what's selling and what isn't. There's all sorts of detailed ruminations about choices which made my eyes water and my brain shut down, but I see their point.

F Scott Fitzgerald famously wrote commercially to make enough money to keep he and his wife, the famous Zelda, living the high life, but always, whether in a villa in the South of France or an apartment in Paris, he was working on the novels he wanted to write. We remember him for The Great Gatsby and This Side of Paradise and other greats; we don't remember him for his commercial work for newspapers and magazines, but he totally had a right to make enough to eat and drink and party hard. How else could he have written The Great Gatsby where Jay Gatsby is supposedly him?

So, why do I, Denise Covey, write what I write?

Most people who know me know I love Paris but not so much that I love Italy, too.

I adore reading novels (and travel articles and non fiction books and coffee table books and old documents and old postcards and drink coasters and placemats) set in Paris, so as I'm such a fan, I've either written, or partially written, two novels set in that fair city along with a ton of short stories. It's a joy and gives me an excuse to go back often to check the details.

Hey, that's how I knew that the love locks that were removed from the Pont des Arts had

been moved to Pont Neuf, the next bridge. Paris without love locks? Pfft. Read my short story here which showcases the locks. That's great work if you can get it. And who knows, I might actually sell a book or two set in Paris one day.

So look out for An American in Paris (still with Avon) and Le Petite Paris Cookery School under construction. Both I adore.

And I also adore Italy, which always speaks to my dark side while Paris speaks more to my frivolous side, or something. I imagine all sorts of weird stuff happening in those dark Italian forests and mountains. Which is why I write Paranormal Romance. Starting with a short story I began in 2010!!! I actually self-published my first completed paranormal novella in, ahem, what was it? 2015 I think. I let it sink without trace, always planning to rewrite it to the MARKET. Which I'm now doing. It's now a 27,000 word novella under critique with my awesome 'critters' after having been edited by a pro.

The cover will have shades of this quick mock up...

With apologies to my cover artist who is reading this post. 

So look out for Vampire Obsession (which first appeared as Under the Tuscan Sun) coming to a kindle near you! I'm really going to finish it within the next 2 years, LOL. Actually, I've set myself an April deadline.

So, that is a little about why I write what I write. Then there's the travel articles and short stories that occasionally put some money into my bank account. That's commercial, right.

Look, I don't know if I got off topic, but we're all good at skim reading, so I hope you saw something in this post. It'd be pretty hard for a writer to write completely to the market. You've got to have something to feed the soul.

• How about you? What do you think about writing commercially?
• Why do you write what you write? Do tell....

Thanks for coming by. I do appreciate your time. I'll be over to say hello as soon as I can.

And you can't help noticing that WEP has their new challenge up. See the sign up in my sidebar? Please sign up and let us read your stories. If you go to the site, you'll see we have a new look for a new year!