I want to take a leap here, and put this out there. It isn't much, and I'm still learning exactly how to write things that can hook in an audience while still flowing and having just that right amount of detail. I'm not necessarily looking for feedback, but if anyone leaves some it's most certainly welcome."It's more than just this blog too, sometimes I'll jot down fiction ideas that I manage to scrounge up. I play those a little close to the chest, though, I feel a bit awkward when people read things that I've created from nothing... I write them for myself, really. They get my imagination going, allow me to escape for a little while."
However, before I post that I'm still going to do exactly what I said I didn't want to do this week. That is, posting about my life. This'll be brief, I promise.
- I got a job! It's seasonal work for Stride Rite, and I start in July. Thanks to my friend Leah for helping me get this!
- Starting on Monday, I'm going to be holding down the fort while the rest of the family travels. In the meantime, I'll be doing some odd jobs, I think, for my neighbor at their laundromat. It's not bad work, and it keeps me busy. I'm really just looking forward to marathon-ing Breaking Bad, and whatever movies I can scrounge up on Netflix. Also swimming, a lot.
And so, with a nervous pit in my stomach as I post this, a little fiction I was playing around with today. For now the only title it has is:
Alard De Clercq
The street lamps slowly flickered
to life in the growing darkness. Mist crept its way from the canals, twisting
its way through the cobblestone streets making the stones glisten with
dampness. The lamps in the mist served as beacons, guiding anyone left on the
streets back to their homes or otherwise. It was a cool, quiet night, the only
sound coming from a mournful violin played on the balcony of a distant home.
The music invaded the night streets, joining the veins of mist in their binding
of the city. The soft strings of the violin found its way into the dimly lit
window of one Alard De Clercq. He sat at his desk, scribbling away at one sheet
or another before closing down for the night.
A cigarette still smoldered in the ashtray by the lamp, its smoke
curling in the light as though it were alive. Alard’s spectacles dangled from
his nose, he could see well enough to write and failed to see the sense of
completely taking them off when he’d need them for the walk home. As the music
rose to his ears, he took a moment to sit back and appreciate the sorrowful
strings. He sighed, taking off his spectacles to clean off some unidentified
smudge. He had heard the distant man play his violin before many nights ago.
Alard didn’t mind the music in the least; the man had a certain talent.
Tonight, however, he didn’t have the ear for Vieuxtemps. He shut the window,
keeping the night at bay.
His
work seemed to never be finished. When one case was closed, reported, and
filed, it seemed ten more were always in waiting. The banal reports always
seemed to take the longest. His most recent, regarding a woman searching for a
lost pet, seemed to drag on. Often Alard dreamt of making the prerequisites for
even taking a case more restrictive, but money was money after all and Alard couldn't afford to turn any of them down. His favorite
case had been for a quite wealthy family, the Lemmens, robbed of expensive
family heirlooms. At first, Alard had written it off as another search and find
case, but it soon became more than that. As he had investigated, hunting down
leads, tailing suspects, he came to find that the heirlooms didn’t belong to
the family in the first place. They were just typical valuables, silver
dinnerware that were merely pawns in an ages old family feud long since
forgotten. One spiteful soul thought it was high time the families got back to
feuding, and took back what had once belonged to him. Alard could
remember the dumbstruck look on Madame Lemmens’ face when he informed her of
what he had found, and the look of fury on her husband's. With some tact, he had managed to talk her husband down from gunning down the poor thief, and left the rest to the police. Alard smiled as he sat back in his chair, remembering the near exorbitant amount they had paid him.
Suddenly
his thoughts were interrupted by a fit of coughing. He had been plagued
recently by these fits coughing, hacking, spitting nonsense. Alard found this
unpleasant at most, and didn’t see the need to bother the doctor with his
troubles. During the fit, he heard a light knocking on the door. In between
coughs, he called for the guest to give him one moment. Quite winded, he pulled
himself up from the desk, and opened the door to an official looking Frenchman.
“Monsieur
De Clercq?”
“Yes,”
Alard answered, still winded from the coughing.
“I have
a message for you from Paris,” the Frenchman paused, grabbing for a letter
inside a small travel bag at his feet, “from a---Monsieur Martens.”
Alard
was confused, “Martens? I’m not sure I know any Martens, Monsieur.”
“That
matters little to me, Monsieur De Clercq. What matters to me is that I was
asked to deliver this message, and that is done,” the Frenchman replied curtly.
“Very
well, will there be anything else Monsieur—?”
“That
will be all, I hope you have a pleasant night.”
Alard
closed the door as the Frenchman turned to leave. He looked at the letter, and
sure enough, it was addressed to him.
Monsieur Alard De Clercq
42 Geerolfstraat
Bruges, Belgium
He was
positive that he did not know anybody with the surname Martens, and even more
certain that he had never once been to Paris. His business was only known
locally, so it was unlikely that it could be any privately commissioned case or
job. He noticed that there was no sign of a return address. The letter struck him as odd, and as he went to open it
he was surprised to feel a knot tightening in his stomach. As he read, he could only feel his
confusion growing, and the knot kept his insides in a bind.
Alard,
I regret to inform you, that if
you are reading this I am, or soon will be, dead. I have found myself being
trailed, harassed, and otherwise beleaguered by men who mean to do my harm, for
reasons I cannot begin to comprehend. I write this letter to you in a panic,
hoping that you may use your expertise to bring whoever may be after me to
justice. It is rare that I find sleep, but perhaps knowing that this letter is
in your hands will give me some measure of peace. Please, I beg of you, come to
Paris. My home is on the Rue Cardinet, I am sure finding it will be of little
trouble to you. I cannot risk putting my full address, lest this letter finds
its way into the wrong hands. For that, I am sorry. You and I have never met,
Ala, but I know that you are the only person that I would entrust with this
information. I hope this letter finds you in good health, and I wish you the
best of luck.
Your brother,
Renauld
Brother.
The word stuck out to Alard as if it had been written on the walls of his
office. Brother. The word was as
foreign to him as the idea of a letter from Paris. Brother. He repeated the word to himself, in some vain attempt to
make sense of it. He felt the color drain from his face, the knot in his
stomach was now a vice. As long as Alard had lived, he had never had a brother.
....
So there you have it, an excerpt of what I have so far. It's not too much, and it's definitely due for some revision. I hope whoever stopped to read enjoyed it at the very least. I'll go ahead and be honest, trying to find streets in Bruges and Paris to use as setting points was kind of a pain, as was finding suitable Belgian names. Maybe it's time for me to start traveling after all.Anywho, that's all for this week. Until next time...
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