Please read part one, part two, and part three before continuing.
She stood aside so he could enter. The interior of the house was nothing like Nick expected from observing the outside. It was more of a palace than a Victorian mansion. The entrance hall alone boasted an expansive floor of mirror-like white tile with a fountain in the center. The fountain was easily the size of a swimming pool—if not the depth—and had a larger-than-life-size statue of a barely clothed woman dancing with a satyr and a bird, looking like a cross between a white tailed eagle and a heron. They seemed to have been dancing around a tree that almost reached the ceiling and the water fell from somewhere between the branches at the top. The small portion of walls that Nick could see were white and reached up to a gold ceiling. Most of the walls were covered by doors, which were more than adequately tall and ornately decorated with fantastical creatures that Nick could only guess came from different legends.
The maid let him soak in the overabundant details in the room before leading him to the second door on the left into a typical parlor. There were several couches, easy chairs, and love seats around the room with twice as many coffee tables and ashtrays strategically placed. The two walls to Nick’s left and right sported large windows with lace curtains but the wall adjacent to him was decorated with a large tapestry that could easily pass off as one created during the Middle Ages. Nick didn’t know what scene was depicted, but he could still see the appeal in having such a large art piece displayed where people probably often frequented.
The door opened and shut behind him and Nick turned around to find a tall, gray haired man smiling and extending his hand. Nick took it and gave it a hearty shake. The man looked nothing like the other people Nick saw along his journey. He had no trace of work on his frame, nor did he have a trace of age other than his silver hair. It was hard to tell anything about his character, except for the wrinkle-less suit that he had on and the overly shined shoes. He motioned for Nick to sit down and then followed his guest’s lead.
“I hope your travels weren’t too taxing,” the man said.
“No. Thank you for asking.”
“Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you, Monsieur Fontaine. If you don’t mind, let’s just get down to business.”
“Of course, Mr. Fuentes. And to start, you may simply call me Gervais. We are, after all, family.”
Nick smiled curtly. “Of course.”
Author’s comments on post 392: As I said yesterday, this is part two of my recovery story chunk (for lack of a better term). More at a later date…hopefully tomorrow. On a completely different note: I can’t believe I’m almost at post 400! I have no idea what I’m going to do–if anything–to celebrate.
For those of you starting here, please read part one and part two before continuing.
The two-story shops with apartments on top became houses spread apart. A few farms started popping up next to the houses if he had continued on the same main street, but upon turning onto Chestnut Street, the view remained the same. It stayed fairly monotonous until he turned onto Nottingham Street.
Nottingham Street seemed as if it has stepped out of a Victorian fairy tale. The painted lady houses were in such bright colors it was as if a rainbow had fallen out of the sky and left its hues behind. Most of the mansions continued down the street to Nick’s left; those to the right were all dwarfed by a single house a block down the street. It sat in the middle of the block, but there were no other houses around it for miles. Nick wouldn’t say it was bright blue, but the sun made it seem a shade darker than the paint looked up close. The windows and walls were well kept, the porch was in tip-top shape and the pebbles in the driveway neatly smoothed and swept.
Nick got out of his car and took in the house’s appearance. The house was wider than it was tall and the porch curved around one side of the house. While the front semi-circle driveway was better kept and obviously the preferred spot to park, there was a carriage trail leading next to the side of the house towards a garage and stable in the back. The rest of the grounds were mostly grass, with a few trees scattered here and there. There was a white picket fence blocking the main street from the lawn in front and far away, a hedge blocking the western edge of the property. The rest of the garden—if there was one—in back of the house was impossible to see.
Nick stepped away from his car and made his way up the porch steps to the front door. The woman who answered it reminded Nick of a teddy bear: she had rosy, round cheeks underneath sparkling green eyes. Though she wasn’t smiling, there was a joyous curiosity about her so Nick couldn’t help but be polite when he greeted her.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Fuentes. The Master said that you should be coming.”
Author’s note on post 391: Well, I’ve been recovering from getting my wisdom teeth removed, so I thought I’d use this time for more than computer games. And I’ve been writing. This is just part one of what I wrote today (part two will be published tomorrow), but it’s a lot more than my usual 10 minutes. In addition, I planned a lot, not necessarily about the plot–though I know where it’s going–but about the characters. So, I’ve been a busy bee and I feel a lot better having gotten work done.
City. Nick laughed at the thought. There was nothing about this town that reminded him of a city. A city had magnificent geometric buildings whose entrances were masked by walls of a writhing mass of hurrying people. A city was bathed in the sounds of car horns, chatter, car motors, the smell of car exhaust and stale air. A city had no light, just the blue-gray shadows of the buildings looming over the people that made the giant machine of the city run, day in and day out. A city had no night and day, just constant motion and a disregard for time, except to switch from work to play.
This town had night and day, sunlight, fresh air, and space. The street was practically deserted and except for the people seen from the large shop windows of the diner and bar, the place looked like a ghost town. The people were molded by work and weariness and the only bit of sophistication were the tacky striped awnings over the windows.
Author’s comments on post 390: I think I like this part of the story best. I know it’s just boring description, but there is a cetain part of poetry in it that tickles my fancy. More at a later date.
Since I wrote a long description about it, I won’t say much here. I welcome any interpretations in the comments and if you want to see mine, click the picture.
Larger size/more information –> click on picture
Info on prints –> click here
“Excuse me,” Nicolas yelled out his car window to the man walking on the board sidewalks beside the street. “Can you tell me how to get to the Fontaine Mansion?”
The man on the street paused and turned his head slowly. He was a bent and weathered old man whose stature seemed to suggest the later half of his life was spent in a rocking chair or bent over a bar counter.
“You mean the Blue house?” he asked Nick. His jaw seemed to rotate as he drawled it, as if his mouth needed the circular motion to keep it moving.
“Sure,” Nick said. He reached over and shut off the air-conditioning.
“Well, you just have to keep going down this street and then turn left on Chestnut. Chestnut will take you to Prairie (you turn right) and then you want to take Prairie out of the city to Nottingham. I believe you turn right onto Nottingham and continue on down. You can’t miss it. It’s bright blue.”
“Thanks,” Nick said, putting his hand up in a wave. He placed his hand down on the window button, which lifted the window with a soft whir. Then he turned the air conditioning on, again.
Author’s comments on 389: Ugh. I’ve been bit by the uninspired, unmotivated bug. I think I know where this is going, but I’m not positive. More of the story at a later date.
It’s hard to imagine that I started writing my first post on LucidWaking.com 4 years ago. The very next post was a republished one from my first Lucid Waking blog that was hosted on blog.com. Since then, I have published 386 poetry and prose works. Some were long, others short, some took several days to write and many newer ones only ten minutes, but I have learned a lot along the way and continue to hone my craft.
Those of you who have been paying attention will notice that I did something different for LW’s birthday this year. Usually I have worked on a different template for my blog (for you luddites, this means its appearance, including pictures and colors) and unveiled it on June 17. This year, I felt uninspired. I had no other ideas for the layout than what had been done. So, I made a banner and plan on keeping the current template for another year. Next year will be year 5, so I should have something special for that occasion.
For now, let’s celebrate another fruitful year of writing and reading.
They had nothing to say to each other. Yet, they managed to say nothing in so many words that they would often find hours of their lives missing and sometimes wonder where the time went. Their marriage didn’t work, unsurprisingly, since it was built on clouds and dreams. She never told him her secret affair and brief rehab for her Tylenol addiction and eating disorder. He never told her that he was a compulsive liar who disliked strong women. She thought his chauvinism was chivalry. All in all, it was a very flawed relationship.
I loved my parents, but I never liked them. As a teenager, I wanted to be the opposite of my mother and as an adult I didn’t mind sacrificing my complete individuality as long as I could see things better than she did. My father’s strong-willed, “take the bull by the horns” attitude made my relationship with my husband work. I wish my parents could have seen my accomplishments and how I took their traits and made them strengths, not weaknesses. But they’re too busy being superficial with other people to notice a self-sufficient adult like me. Its a burden of having parents with their heads in the clouds, but with my feet firmly planted on the ground, I don’t mind.
Author’s comments on post 388: Just writing. I’m pleased with the narrator’s tone, overall, but I’m not sure how I’m pleased with the subject matter. Unfortunately, I can imagine a lot of people are like her parents, but I’ll remain optimistic since they’re no one I know. Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this, don’t think this is how I see you (because I don’t. At all). It’s just a story.
Sketching practice.
Larger size/more information –> click on picture
She didn’t hate anything more than she hated him. She hated that he insist they meet at his swimming pool where he often spent a sunny summer day resting in the sun. She knew that he did this to throw her off track because, no matter his age, he was young, well-built and generally attractive. He was arrogant, selfish, and sophisticated, too, which didn’t add up to much in her book—though sophistication was never a bad thing.
“Samantha,” he said when she had arrived at their pool-side rendezvous, “Why are you late?”
“Traffic was pretty bad near downtown and—”
“Samantha,” he said more forcefully.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re hanging by a limb all ready. If I were you I wouldn’t be late to something as important as this.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Since you’ve gotten such glowing recommendations from the other team members you were with on this last mission, I’ll give you another chance. Find the central enemy base and report back to Washington. Do not infiltrate, do not adopt vigilantism, do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right. We’re done.”
She promptly turned on her heel and left. There was no way she was staying longer than she could help it.
He waited for her to go before picking up the rotary phone lying on the table by his chair.
“Well, she accepted the challenge. Now we just have to wait for her to get caught…Yes, I know this is risky, but she’ll either find it or get caught by the other side…Of course she hasn’t caught on that this is most likely a suicide mission…Well you should have thought of that before you tried saving her from that royal screw-up she made last week…Since you’re my best man, I’ll ignore that remark…Yes, that’s all.”
He hung up the phone with a smirk.
Author’s comments on post 387: At the end, she succeeds and keeps her job and her life. FYI. I’m not sure what I was trying to accomplish, except to write something short and precise. I’ve been working on some longer stories to try to practice "show, don’t tell." For short shorts, that doesn’t work. Hopefully you still get a sketch of the characters.
I decided to practice drawing by doing a sketch every other day, which means:
- There is a new page specifically for sketches since they won’t be finished enough to be put up in “Paintings and Drawings” page.
- These will be given their own posts when I can get to it.
Also, I’ve been practicing my writing on the days I am not drawing. Unfortunately, sometimes the work I write is unfinished or not of sufficient quality (in my opinion) to be published. That’s why it has been quiet around here. I hope to have something up this week, but I might just succeed in getting the sketches posted.
Thank you for your patience. I wore out my muse in March by doing different stories every day and I’m trying my best. Hopefully the artwork will tide you over until I get a written post done.
