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 13, following the daily prompt, “Your Villain as a Mirror.”
Week Two‘s theme is: Elements of Story.
Xavier Perrault encounters his wife’s arrogant defiance. But is she alone in it?
Warning: This story is rated PG-13 for adult language.
“Petite salope!” Xavier crunched through the wreckage of soil and tiny painted pots. They crunched and ground beneath the heel of his fine dress shoe.
She laughed at the way he dressed, now, when once she’d found it so suave. Well, maybe he had to do an odd little dance step to turn all of her little rebellion into so much dust beneath his feet, but he couldn’t crush anything with the ridiculous loafers, boat shoes, and sandals most of the men wore on this beknighted island.
“I’ll teach you to defy me!” Arrogant. Highborn. Always acting like she was better than him, like no matter what, she would be able to find a way to do just as she pleased. He’d taken her money and her freedom, but he would never be able to reach in and grind her soul, her self, her damned arrogance under his foot, no matter what shoes he wore. He couldn’t fuck her into submission anymore, either.
“Is it a defiance to paint – barely paint, really! – a few tiny little flowerpots, Xavier? Is it defiance to want a tiny bit of prettiness and green herbs in my kitchen?”
She knew he was the child of a drunken whore, unloved and unwanted. That he had made something of himself, with petty thefts and endless hours in the public libraries, learning things she took for granted, that her life had taught her.
But she didn’t know his truth. She didn’t know the lengths he’d go to – the lengths he had gone to already.
And she wouldn’t. Not until it was far too late for her to do a damned thing about it.