Welcome, friends! Come in, and let me tell you a Story A Day, all May long…
In June and July, I’ll be drafting two new Kifo Island novels. I know something about 5 of the 6 point of view characters, and I’ve got a sketchy idea of the plots – but I need to learn more about these people and their stories.
So, in May, I explore. Every day, I’ll follow the prompts in A Month of Writing Prompts 2016. I’ll play while moving through my planning efforts. Some of these stories may become part of the eventual novels, but my goal is to invite these characters to show me who they are and what they want – and how their lives fit together to make a novel.
I’ve been writing my story each day, but I slipped behind in my posting. I’m hoping to catch up by the 20th, and finish the month out on time.
I continue with May 6, following the daily prompt, “When your character is not like you”. My character is a bitter, sick, broken old man…with a conniving mean streak. I also used the guest prompt from C.S.Plocher, “write the real you”.
Week One’s theme is Limits.
Warning: This post is intended for adults only, as it deals with alcohol, violence, and adult themes.
“C’est vous! Vous et votre putain tout homme avec une bite de travail qui va le coller dans votre putain de chatte!“ The haute bitch sipped her wine without looking up. It was as though he wasn’t here. She knew that made him forget his anglais.
“Vous etes ici, Francois.” Yvette smiled sweetly. “And there is no man here.” Her command of anglais came from a lifetime of tutors and travel. She never forgot it, except in the throes of passion.
He could hear the sneer, even though her face was smiling. She was saying that he was no man.
Once, she’d thought he was suave, sophisticated. The perfect catch. He was twenty years older than her, smooth and cultured from all the time learning at the library, and all the small petty thefts to build a gentleman’s wardrobe, and she didn’t know that he was the son of a drink-addled whore. She’d thought him one of her kind, accepted him as an equal. That was before she knew him well enough for the cracks to show.
She’d married him, and done nothing to protect her wealth because he’d tricked her into thinking there was no need. He’d waited a dozen years, plying her with attention, travel, and an abundance of the finest of wines. She was reckless and thoughtless with her money in the way of someone who had never had to think of where it came from, and where it went. A dozen years, before stealthy, little by little, he’d slipped it away until he’d taken it all, put it where she could never find it and reclaim it.
It had taken cinq ans before she even noticed.
Then, he’d owned her, because only he could give her le vin, or an allowance for her painting supplies – and, for him, there’d been as many other women as he wanted, whenever he wanted them. It tickled him to use her family’s old money to buy himself the services of the most beautiful and skilled escorts in the world, to have them flown in and paraded in front of Yvette.
He always let her have as much wine as she wanted, and the most expensive, because he knew well how a woman would go nowhere, once she was filled to busting with le vin, and she’d always take him into herself when he came home. Sometimes, she would beg him, and he would deny her, choosing another instead.
Then cancer robbed his of his couilles, so there were no more women for him – he could go to the fine clubs where they danced exotic dances, watch, his mind aroused – but there was nothing else that he could do, no release for the longing to drive into a woman, until he learned how to probe his own prostate, and he’d spend hours a day, in a fine hotel room, with an endless line of women who tickled him into orgasms over and over and over, but she would never, no, jamais, and that’s when she began parading in men, right in front of him, and shutting herself up all alone with them, as though there was no insult in it.
And now his prostate was poisoned, and here she sat, sipping le vin, with the scent of her lover’s cheap cologne still lingering in the air, layered with their sex-sweat. And she said that he was no man, when he was her husband!
He would prove her wrong.
“No man!” He roared, ran at her, threw her down, pinned her beneath him –
And she smiled, and brought up her knee, into the place where his shriveled empty sac and his malignant prostate were, and Francois was curled into a tight, wounded, gagging ball of an old man, as undone by a wine-soaked whore as he’d been as a child.