#WEPff entry--flash fiction for Utopian Dreams--Venice's Black Cape

Greetings of the season to you! Those of you who haven't shut down for the holiday season, thank you for coming by. Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) is happening this month when we post our responses to the prompt, Utopian Dreams.

I hope you will enjoy reading my response, a flash fiction set in Venice at the time of Carnevale. 

Venice’s Black Cape

 ‘Francoise, I’m going to Carnevale. Every year I dream of the parties, the dancing, the beauty of Venice, but you refuse to accompany me. This year I’m going. Alone.'

‘Ma chérie? Your home is here in Place Vendome. Is Paris not enough for you?’

‘Paris is a dream which I’ve achieved. Venice is a dream I’ve yet to attain. My Utopia. I’ve read so much about Carnevale. I must experience it for myself.’

‘Ma chérie, I beg you, stay.’

‘Pouf! I’m going.’

‘But Anouk, I must warn you. I went one time before I met you. The men…’ He took out a handkerchief and rubbed a spot from his Ferragamo loafers.

Anouk refused to let this man in his three-piece charcoal bespoke suit, his crisp white Dior shirt, and his Louis Vuitton tie, prevent her from reaching for her dreams. 

     Darkness floated over Venice like a black cape, its edges reflecting the glint of the moon. Anouk watched from her hotel balcony as gondolas floated as in a fantasy world, dipping above the water like slick black swans. The gondolier’s serenade drifted across the water, calling her. The vaporetti hummed as they navigated the icy waters of the Grand Canal, disembodied voices of the passengers bouncing atop the waves. The baroque palaces along the canal dazzled, grand residences of past glory, now inhabited by revelers. Anouk shivered. She was part of this night. Her dream was about to unfold. 

     She dressed in her purple and silver satin gown. The fabric rustled deliciously as she flounced her skirts. Glancing into the Murano glass ornate mirror next to the door, she admired the way her long blonde hair curled past her shoulders, entwined with silver ribbons. Then, the pièce de résistance, the mask, decorated with ermine, gems and feathers to which she added a deep purple floppy hat trimmed in lace. Slipping her feet into black satin slippers, she spritzed herself with her favourite Borsalino perfume.  Opening her black lacquer fan, she swished it over her face, a face hot with excitement.

She was decadence itself. 

Anouk drifted outside into a frosty, starry world. She was ready to lose herself in Carnevale, where the power of the mask lured party goers into lurid rites of celebration. Tonight, no rules applied. 

Masked and costumed figures ran through the cobbled streets, tugging her into their band. They hurried alongside the Grand Canal, past candle-lit icing-cake palazzos dusted with snow before stepping over an arched bridge, heading deeper into mysterious caverns and back alleyways of the city. 

The happy band entered a baroque apartment, so opulent Anouk gasped. Lifelike black statues stood in homage around the pillars that edged the magnificent vestibule. The cold of the floating city melted away in the heated rooms as she danced with a succession of gloriously-dressed masked men who pressed her close to their bodies and plied her with wine from silver goblets. She was passed from caped stranger to caped stranger with a flourish and a kiss.

Back on the street, she slipped and slithered at the back of the long line, ignoring her damp dress that threatened to trip her up.

The line stopped to watch fireworks exploding above the Grand Canal. With each burst, light traced patterns across the inky sky. Then out of the foggy darkness came a man, a man who clasped her hand and drew it to his chest. While she stood uncertainly, the crowd ran off, leaving her alone with the masked stranger. He began to run, tugging her along in his wake.

Through passages and beneath arches they ran until they came upon a magnificent doorway which appeared burnished in gold. He brushed snow off their cloaks and shoes before he led her up a flight of stairs to a luxurious apartment. He hurried her through a warm sitting room where a log fire blazed. She longed to sit close to the fire and thaw her numb hands and feet. Instead, she was tugged into a huge bedroom dazzled by moonlight, its rich furnishings the colour of the Burgundy she’d been drinking all night. 

The stranger unfastened her buttons and her dress rustled to the floor. She would offer herself to the allure of Carnevale and her mysterious seducer. This was her dream. Her fantasy.

They fell naked onto the bed, bodies now warmed, hungry, fired with the lust that decadence brings. They surrendered themselves to the madness of the night. The mouth that plundered hers, tasted like the wine that had flowed all night, enhanced by sea and smoke.

Then he tensed. 

Footsteps.

Slipping and sliding on the stairs. 

The occasional curse word, ‘Merda. Merda.’

‘My Contessa comes,’ he said. ‘Go. Presto! Presto!’

He gathered her clothes from the carpet, thrust them into her arms and pushed her onto the balcony. Shivering with cold and shock, she huddled, uncertain. The lapping of the water against the pylons were slaps to her freezing face. The fog’s tendrils reached up and whirled around her misery. Fool! Fool! Is this the dream you imagined?

The Contessa’s Borsalino fragrance hung, trapped, in the freezing air. My perfume. Is that why he chose me?

‘Ah, Contessa, come, I’ve been waiting. I’m desolated we lost each other in the frenzy of the chase.’

‘I, too, my count.’

Is this a game they play on this one night of the year when there were no rules?

Tears running down her frozen cheeks, Anouk struggled down the dark stairs, gripping the ornate balustrade. She hid in the darkest corner of the carpeted foyer and dressed herself with agonising slowness. Her frozen hands fumbled with the intricate clasps and zips. What a joy it'd been to fasten them earlier tonight. Now, her joy had become terror and abandonment.

Wrenching the heavy carved door open, her ruined slippers stepped into the bewildering night.

Stepped into a nightmare. 

She was lost in Venice's black cape.

WORDS: 984
FCA

If you'd like to read more entries for the WEP challenge, click on the names on the list at the top of my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) next to their name or go to the WEP website.

Thanks for coming by.

Merry Christmas!

Happy New Year!

Denise 

Lost and Found blogfest -- my #flashfiction -- Lost in #Venice

Well didn't that come around quickly? Romantic February is here and here I am participating in the Lost and Found blogfest.

A special blogging event the result of a collaboration between Arlee Bird and Guilie Castillo-Oriard.   Joining these two romantics are Elizabeth Seckman,  Yolanda Renee,  Denise Covey  and Alex J Cavanaugh. 

This challenge asks you to tell your fictional/non-fictional story about love -- lost or found -- in the first special Valentine's blogfest for the month of February.  

Don't be left out!   If you have something that fits, sign up by adding your link to the list in my sidebar!

And here is my 'romantic' story...

Lost in Venice

The cold of the floating city melted away in the heated rooms as Anouk danced with a succession of gloriously-attired masked men who pressed her close to their bodies, their flattery blowing hot on her neck. With casual abandon they passed her onto the next caped stranger with a flourish and a kiss to her gloved hand. Inhibitions washed away by the excellent wine, she embraced the fantasy.

Leaving the warm apartment, she ran down slippery dimly-lit streets into an unknown Venice. The paths narrowed until she skated and slithered at the end of the conga line, terrified of being lost, alone in Venice.

Without warning, out of the fog came a man, a man who clasped her hand and drew it to his chest. The line wended away as she stilled, uncertain, alone in the stranger’s grip. He tugged her along in his wake, pausing to turn and watch her through slitted eyes.

She was lost in Venice, and in black eyes that glinted fire behind a lacquered mask of ebony.

He hesitated beneath a lamp that bathed them in golden light. ‘I’m Count de Rozario.’ He bowed, his first words to her as rich and smooth as a noble red wine.

‘Truly?’

‘All men are Counts at Carnevale.’

She curtsied, deliberately displaying her cleavage. ‘My count.’

‘My servant,’ he said, touching her bare shoulder with his fingers as if bestowing an honour.

He covered her flimsy cape with his thick black velvet cloak, then kissed her blonde curls which were in disarray from the snow and mist. Taking her hand, he drew her close to his side. 

‘Come. We have a little time.’

They ran through passages and beneath arches until they came upon a magnificent golden doorway. He brushed snow off their cloaks and shoes before he led her up a flight of stairs to a luxurious apartment. With urgent strides he hurried her through a warm sitting room, log fire blazing, comfortable couches empty, an aura of expectation in the atmosphere. Mesmerised by the warmth of the flames, she took a step towards them.

He snatched her at the waist and dragged her into a huge bedroom dazzled by silver moonlight, its rich furnishings the colour of the Burgundy she’d drunk throughout the night. The ornate carved bed beckoned, its lush brocade edged with silken fringes inflamed her senses.

He ripped off her cape, then her dress rustled to the floor and pooled at her feet. He dealt swiftly with her undergarments, but left her mask intact. Too late to turn back now even if she wanted to. She was an offering to Carnevale and the Count.

Pushing her backwards onto the bed, he covered her nakedness with his. Two warm bodies driven by animal lust.

As they surrendered themselves to the madness of the night, the mouth that plundered hers tasted like wine, enhanced by sea and smoke.

Their lovemaking reached its crescendo like a finely-tuned orchestra making exhilarating music. Then he broke away with a cry. All she heard was her own whimpering cries as her body begged for more.

Footsteps. On the stairs. Slipping and sliding on the varnished wood. The occasional curse, ‘Merda. Merda.’

The count was on his feet, reaching out his hand. ‘My blonde beauty. My Contessa approaches. Presto! Presto!’

He snatched her clothes from the carpet and thrust them into her arms and pushed her naked onto the balcony. Shivering with cold and shock, she huddled, horrified. 

‘Ah, Contessa, come.’ His seductive voice slid out of the bedroom and onto the balcony. ‘I’ve been waiting. How we did lose each other in the frenzy of the chase.’

‘Nevertheless, Count, I see you are ready for me.’

Self-satisfied whore. Was this a game they played on this one night of the year when there were no rules? Had the Contessa come from her own assignation in another man’s bed?

Anouk struggled down the dark outdoor stairs, slipping and sliding on the dusting of ice, gripping the over-elaborate balustrade. In the foyer, her frozen hands fumbled with intricate clasps and zips as she dressed with agonising slowness.

Wrenching the heavy carved door open, she stumbled down the steps, fog tendrils snatching at her ankles.

She stepped into the frozen wilderness, lost in Venice's black cape. 

I hope you enjoyed my romantic efforts. Please click on a name in my sidebar and continue to read entries for this blogfest.

And don't forget...you can now sign up for the WEP Valentine's blogfest! Entries posted from February 17 - 19th.

A Thousand Days in Venice - #book review for The Cephalopod Coffehouse.

I'm about to head off for my next overseas adventure in a few days, so out of time. Therefore I'm re-posting a book review I wrote for the Reading at Dawn book review blog, for one of my favourite genres - travel memoir. I have quite a collection as you can imagine. Here is just one of my favourites...

And before I get underway, I must advise you that I use Grammarly for english proofreading because I really like the idea of Grammarly as a metaphor for sentinels standing guard over my writing, slashing and burning all those typos, spelling and punctuation errors and grammar mistakes, but obviously kind enough to overlook my mixed metaphors.

A Thousand Days in Venice by Marlena de Blasi - a travel memoir

Travel memoirs are charming books that tell the often-enhanced travel stories of people just like us but who get to travel, then write about it, then travel some more...and write about it. Now that's Utopia...to me! 

Another much-loved fiction author is the effervescent Italian, Adrianna Trigiani, who has this to say - "The great Marlena de Blasi writes fairy tales for grown ups." Well, this book, and others that Marlena has since written, are my kind of fairy tale.

A Thousand Days In Venice is a charming story about love found late in life and straight away the story will resonate with many readers. Marlena is a divorced American chef who decides to leave her material possessions and America behind and travel to Venice, Italy, and lo and behold she finds love with a "blueberry-eyed Venetian." At first she thinks she is too old for romantic love and intimacy and wants to run away, but is inexplicably drawn into a romance which would seem to most, utterly impossible. 

Marlena chooses to take a risk, to follow her heart and venture out into a world of new possibilities. She leaves her well-established life in the U.S, two grown children and a beautiful home in St. Louis to begin a new life with a Venetian she calls "the stranger..." 

...which I thought was a bit strange. It bothered me how she called this man, Fernando, "The Stranger," not just when she first met him, but throughout most of the book. Maybe she thought it added to the strange allure of Venice, a city where the idea of meeting and making love to a stranger is folklore, especially during Carnavale.

Fernando, "The Stranger" is at times demanding in his wishes, which was strange since it was Marlena who was making the big changes, not him. He really wasn't the one giving up anything. He was also rather controlling in day-to-day living, just as you would expect of the stereotypical pampered adult male Mumma's boy used to getting what he wants. He imposes his wishes on her and expects her to conform, yet you can tell Marlena isn't the type who would usually be pushed around by a man. I'm glad I gritted my teeth at his at times mincing habits as he did change later as the relationship developed.

As you can imagine, this is a mammoth crossroads in Marlena's life and she turns to her best friend Misha for advice. As Marlena is struggling with her feelings about this new-found love and discussing the ramifications with Misha she receives some poignant advice:

"Now that it has presented itself to you, could you dare to imagine turning away form it for anything or anyone?" 

Misha tells of love she has once known:

"I was afraid that the sentiments would change. I was afraid of some form of betrayal and so I walked away. I betrayed it before it could betray me. And maybe I thought life inside that intensity would suffocate me. So I chose a sort of pleasant, safe compromise, an emotion less than passion and more than tolerance. Isn't that what most of us choose?"

Don't most of us more often than not choose the "safe road" in our lives?  Doing a Robert Frost and choosing 'the road less travelled' can be a scary thought and there are not many of us that have the stomach for it. I've read other memoirs of 50-somethings who run away from their life, find another country, find another man, and live either happily or confusedly ever after (check our the Australian Mary Moody's books on escaping to France. Hot. Hot. Hot.) Marlena's story was bringing up conflicting emotions for me as I both admired her for it, and felt maybe she was a little crazy for it too, especially with 'The Stranger' who I know I couldn't live with for a minute! But, ah, Venice I could live with forever!

Marlena de Blasi has a very descriptive writing style which is beautiful and lush. She takes you right into the streets of Venice. You can smell and see the foods that she describes with her chef's eye and palate and I could visualise myself walking down those same fascinating streets or sitting by the Adriatic Sea. (I've since visited Venice and followed in Marlena's footsteps but I took my own non-'stranger' with me.) There were many thoughtful and insightful paragraphs that grabbed me in this book. Marlena. de Blasi makes you ponder choices in life and imagine wonderful worlds of possibilities that might just be in reach after all. But possibly more so in Venice than anywhere else, seeing as it is one of the most fascinating and romantic cities in the world.

This was the first book of Marlena de Blasi's that I had read. I've since read all her travels through Italy - Tuscany and Umbria. Beautiful. Exciting. Being a chef, she has written at least two cookbooks on regional Italian food. 

• Would you like to be swept off your feet by an unexpected romance?
• Would you give up your home country for your new love? 
• Do you enjoy reading travel narratives? Tell me about them...

And if you'd like to share your Christmas/Holiday Traditions with the writers at Write...Edit...Publish, go here to sign up! Or you can sign up in my right-hand sidebar. All entries most welcome! 

Romantic Friday Writers - June Wedding Challenge - The Wedding at Cana

Hi friends!

Time for RomanticFridayWriter's postings for the theme - June Wedding. Surprise, surprise.  I decided to go with the non-fiction option this month, but I've also been working on reducing the word count on the wedding excerpt from my novel, Fijian Princess.

Who's travelled to Venice? If you have, you'll probably agree with me it's one of the most gob-smackingly-beautiful cities in the world, certainly one of the most unique, floating as it is on water. The High Renaissance architecture is so amazing it hurts your eyes. And what's inside these gorgeous buildings blows your mind. How about the art? The museums? Just unbelievable.

San Georgio Maggiore in Venice at dusk   

www.dfkwelsh.com 

Now the June Wedding challenge for RFW got me thinking about one of the most famous wedding feasts of all time - The Wedding at Cana.

The Wedding at Cana
Photo by me using the panorama option on my Samsung Note 11.

The large Benedictine monastery of San Georgio Maggiore in Venice was once the home to the gigantic teler (canvas), The Wedding at Cana, with an area of 70 sqm which occupied the entire top half of the back wall to illustrate the biblical scene eminently suited to the dining hall of a the Black Monks. (It can now be viewed at the Louvre, Paris.)

The painter Paolo Caliari (known as Veronese) was one of the leading lights of Venetian mannerism in 1562. He was contracted by the monks on June 6, 1562. Veronese was asked to people the painting with as many as he could fit into it. He managed 130. The artist was paid 324 ducats (approx. US$289,000 today), but he would also receive a wine cask and all meals during the time of the contract. He was only a few days past the deadline.

Here is how the painting has been described:

"The intoxicating genius of Venice is palpable in this superb masterpiece, with its urbane light-heartedness, its colourful array of costumes, its delight in opulence, its theatrical flavour and decorative flair, its embrace of light, and its sheer vivacity. There is no other painting as purely Venetian as The Wedding at Cana." Theophile Gautier, 1882.

The theme of the painting is taken from the New Testament, the Gospel of St John. This is the story..:

"And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there: and both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage. And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.

Jesus saith unto her, Woman...Mine hour is not yet come.

His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.

And there were set there six waterpots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece. Jesus saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it.

When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made into wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom. And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doeth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that whichis worse; but thou has kept the good wine until now.

This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee."

Well, I would have liked to have tasted that wine!

All good wishes to any brides and grooms out there who will be toasting a happy future together!

Go here to read more stories/poems/non-fiction based on the June Wedding theme...

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So, here's good ole boy Johnny Cash singing to the good ole boys in San Quentin prison (1969). Love it!

#Romantic Friday Writers First Challenge - my dire moment entry, Moonlight and Venice.

Hey, here's my first Romantic Friday Writers post! Like most blogspot clients around the world I've had no access to blogger for 2 days! So my Friday post is actually on Saturday! Judging by your emails many of you have given up and will try again next week. Please still post! You spent all that time on your Dire Moment and blogger gave us one suitable to the theme!

Let's get lost in Venice. I was reminded I had this story in my archives when I wrote about Venice on my L'Aussie Travel blog for the A-Z Challenge, so I dusted it off, took the delete key to it and edited it down to a small snippet to fit into the 400-word criteria. I hope you can get lost in Venice with me.....

 Moonlight and Venice

Darkness floated over the city like a black cape, its edges reflecting the glint of the moon.

She dressed in mask and costume then drifted into a white, starry world. She was ready to lose herself in Carnevale where the power of the mask lured revellers into lurid rites of celebration.

Running through streets with bands of masked and costumed figures, she was led past candle-lit palazzos dusted with snow. In the cold of the floating city, she felt time burning as she danced with masked men and drank wine that flowed incessantly in a hothouse of pleasure.

She ran down slippery, dimly-lit streets, going deeper and deeper into the unknown Venice.

A party of people carried her along a narrow and treacherous path.

Out of the darkness, a man grabbed her hand as fireworks exploded high above the Grand Canal.

The stranger led her upstairs to an apartment where they slow danced. The party was so crowded that they simply swayed from side to side in a room blue with smoke. The masked women were ethereal beauties in rustling silky gowns while the men dazzled in capes, tight trousers and shiny boots. Her man was masked but her imagination raced to fill in every detail of his features.

‘I’m Count de Rozario,’ he said.

‘Truly?’

‘All men are counts at Carnevale.’

She bowed. ‘My count.’

‘My servant,’ he said, then disappeared.

She walked again through the snow, her feet freezing. Men lounged in alleyways, smoking, watching her from behind lacquered masks.

A man appeared from out of the mist, alone.

‘My count.’

‘Come.’

He took her hand, hurrying her through passages and beneath arches until they came upon a magnificent doorway. He led her up a flight of stairs to a large bedroom, dazzling in moonlight, its rich red furnishings and lush brocade setting her senses on fire.

His mouth tasted like wine, sea and smoke as they surrendered themselves to the madness of the night.

He tensed.

Footsteps on the stairs.

‘My contessa comes. Go.’

He thrust clothes into her arms and pushed her onto the balcony where she huddled, shivering with cold and shock.

The contessa passed by so closely she could have reached out and touched her.

‘Ah, Contessa, come, I’ve been waiting.’

‘I, too, my count.’

Tears running down her frozen cheeks, she tiptoed down the stairs into the bewildering night, lost in Venice's black cape.

I hope you liked my Dire Moment. If you'd like to write a romance story of this length (400 words) on a Friday, go here to the Romantic Friday Writers blog to read how...

Photo source here.