New book out

Hi PD Fiction Blog readers,

just wanted to let you know that I finally finished editing and working over "For The Love Of Not Walking" and it is now available on Amazon Kindle and KU.

Some of you may remember the story from a few years ago and if you enjoyed it then, I hope you consider purchasing it for your Kindle so you can now read the new and improved version. If you enjoy it or any of my stories, please leave a review or rating. I am always happy to connect with my readers behind the scenes or on social media.

I am constantly learning and working on improving my writing, so my readers will have a good experience. I have some other stories in the works and may tackle "No Strings Attached" next. I know it needs A LOT of work.

I miss you and hope this finds everyone in good health. 

Here is the link: 

For The Love Of Not Walking

Love, Dani

Bérénice, part 4

During her session with the balding sculptor, she was patient, even generous, with his ill-concealed wheedling after praise and reassurance. Even after she had to fend off several attempts to fondle her bottom, she emerged feeling virtuous and ebullient, and brought home mussels and a bouquet of rust-colored chrysanthemums for Isidore and Simon.

Isidore raised an eyebrow when she saw Bérénice bustle into the apartment with her booty. “What are we celebrating?” Isidore was scrubbing at a stain on her shirt by the sink, while Simon was sitting at their rickety table, one leg drawn up onto her chair, eating a slice of sausage off of a knife. She followed her sister in raising an eyebrow. She was younger than Isidore, and wore her hair short. She had the same refined features, but was less slender, with a rounded, muscular figure. In addition to gypsy girls, Greek sorceresses, and so on, she was asked sometimes to pose as an Arab or Italian boy.

In answer to Isidore’s question, Bérénice declared, “Friendship! Friendship, and beauty. And whatever wine Simon is drinking.” She stole a swig, then began searching for a pot to boil the mussels.

“Have matters progressed, then?” Isidore inquired.

“With the saint of the studio?” Simon put in. Isidore must have reported their conversation with Vincent to her.

“Mm…. yes.” Bérénice smiled down into the pot as she filled it with water in the cracked enamel sink.

“Strange taste, for your first conquest in Paris—but who are we to speak,” Simon said. “Is it that you like toppling idols? Or do you simply prefer the unusual?”

“That Vincent is no idol, and it struck me that you must have toppled him plenty of times,” Isidore put in.

Bérénice snorted. “It’s true, Vincent is an easy catch—but a sweet one. You know he never lacks for bedmates. I don’t know—don’t you ever feel that the world is simply full of wonderful people, and all so different, and love is the best way to taste that difference?” She swung the pot onto a gas burner with an excess of enthusiasm; water splashed out one side. “Tch…”

Isidore exchanged an amused glance with her sister. “I can’t disagree, but isn’t that another way of saying you prefer the unusual?”

“Usual, unusual… I don’t know. Don’t you also think that once you love a person, they become, at the same time, the most unusual and the most usual person you can imagine? Everything is new—but everything is also safe, and close, and natural.”

“Bérénice, I can’t match your philosophizing, at least not before dinner,” Isidore said. “But I’m happy for you, and I hope he gives you the sweetness you deserve. You’ll have to keep us apprised as to how clever he is… with his feet. Maybe we could learn some things. Simon, pour her a toast—to love in new configurations.”

Bérénice was blushing, but laughingly joined the other women in intoning, “To love in new configurations!” Each took her turn drinking from the same hastily filled wineglass.

Then Simon pleaded, “Bérénice, light the stove! We need dinner!”

 

 

***

 

 

The next morning, Jean-Claude sent her a message by way of the young boy whose family lived upstairs from his studio. “He says that after your session, he can have lunch with you—as late as three o’clock,” the boy said, looking Bérénice up and down with undisguised fascination. He must have been about twelve years old.

Bérénice beamed. “Thank you! Here—buy yourself something that will impress your school-friends.” And she pressed a coin on the boy, who bobbed his head in thanks before hurrying away.

As for work that day, Bérénice had a treat: two sessions with women artists, one a painter and one a print-maker. No pinches on the bottom or lewd comments, today. Posing as they sketched, she felt a happy sense of companionship, even complicity. The painter, a stout Russian with a vast knot of frizzy blonde hair on top of her head, was voluble, and Bérénice cheerfully entered into the flow of her stories and gossip as the artist made great slashing marks on her paper with a red conté crayon. Several times Bérénice was tempted to share that she was, herself, on the brink of a new adventure. But in the end, she didn’t speak of it. She imagined that she was already communicating that knowledge through how she held her body for the artist’s regard: with a renewed sense of physical purposefulness and contentment. At the end of the session, the Russian heartily clasped her hand and praised Bérénice’s vigor and expressiveness.

With the print-maker, who was silent almost the whole session, Bérénice simply posed and thought of Jean-Claude. She remembered the long lines of his face, the crease that formed in one cheek when he smiled, the pale translucence of his eyes when she had looked into them for the first time—like a cool grey crystal of agate. She thought of the stillness of his arms and hands, their angular shapes half-hidden by his draping shirtsleeves; she wondered again if they gave him pain. She thought of the strange elegance and strength of his gestures when he painted; she wondered if he ever wore shoes… She wondered if his mother had slept better, yet, and if there was anything that might help her regain her strength.

She thought of the melancholy and respect, even awe, in Jean-Claude’s voice when he had spoken about the mad Austrian painter with whom he had had his erratic apprenticeship. She wondered how much his mother had known of the painter’s rages. Somehow, she doubted that Jean-Claude would have told Else the whole truth, for she could not imagine his mother permitting him to return if there were any chance of physical threat. She wondered how much Else might have given up to afford that apprenticeship; she wondered how much Else might have suffered in her life, as a woman alone with a crippled child. She wondered where she was from—her name, at least, was German—where her relations lived, what had happened to Jean-Claude’s father.

And she wondered what Jean-Claude was painting today—and whether he was thinking of her.

That night, she went out with Isidore, Simon, and several others to a café where the musicians played tango music at night. While Simon danced with her new girl-friend, a plump black dancer named Aïcha, Bérénice danced with Isidore, laughing when she flashed her green eyes about the room dramatically. Then they traded partners, and Bérénice let Simon whirl her about the room. Then Isidore was back at her shoulder: “He wants to dance with you,” she shouted over the hubbub of the café, pointing at a tall man with curly brown hair, “but wants to know if you are a lesbian.” The man raised his cigarette to them in an ironic salute.

Bérénice laughed. “Well, what did you tell him?” She was sweating; she fumbled for a glass of water.

“I told him he could find out for himself.”

Bérénice swallowed her mouthful of water and rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ll let Aïcha have you back,” she said to Simon, and went to the curly-haired man.

He drew her back into the dance as the violin trilled. He was a skillful dancer, and she liked the confident touch of his hand on her back, the speed of his gliding steps across the room, even the sheen of sweat on his brow. But when he tried to hold her eyes with his, she felt only a reflexive flicker of emotion. For the remainder of the dance, she had to repress laughter at the urgency with which he was trying to bore into her with his gaze.

In the end, they exchanged a few kisses: pleasant enough, but uninspired. When he shrugged and exasperatedly gestured her back to her friends, she gave an apologetic laugh.

She had already begun thinking about Jean-Claude again: plenty of men were good dancers, she thought, but there was only one man exactly like him.

August Writing Prompt

 Thanks for all the fantastic prompt suggestions!  I think I have enough now for at least the next few months.  I'm going to only include one sentence in the prompt though, because that will produce the most variety in the stories.  

You can include the prompt anywhere in your story.  Or you can simply be inspired by the prompt even if you don't use it.  

Put your story in the comments!  Don't count on it accepting a comment longer than 400 words, but last time some people broke up their submission into two separate comments. 

Without further ado, here's the prompt:

"Why the hell did you move my wheelchair across the room?"

(I'm going to play by the rules this time and put my submission in the comments.)

Bérénice, part 5

Late that night, she was awoken by a harsh whisper. “Bérénice. Bérénice!”

She peeled her eyes open. It was Simon, she realized, crouching by the side of her bed. She blinked several times; her eyes were heavy. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Simon gestured back over her shoulder at the doorway. Silhouetted in the light from the room beyond, Bérénice saw the slim figure of a child, a boy. It was Jean-Claude’s neighbor again, she realized.

Instantly she sat up, pushing back her blanket. “What is it?” she repeated.

“His mother is very sick,” the boy said softly. “She’s been taken to the doctor, but he had to stay behind. He wants to know if you’ll come help him.”

Bérénice was already getting out of bed. “Yes, of course,” she said. “What time is it?”

“A little before four,” Simon replied.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry you woke up before I did.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Simon said dryly.

Bérénice was casting about the room, grabbing a sweater, a wool skirt; she jammed her feet into boots, seized a coat. “Did he say he needed anything?” she said to the boy. “Food, money?” She felt a little dizzy, but she took a deep breath and blew it out hard, until she felt clearer.

The boy shook his head. “No, he just asked to see if you would come help him.”

“Yes, yes,” Bérénice said again, moving out her door. Simon and the boy trailed behind her. In the other bedroom, beyond the little kitchen, she could see Aïcha sitting wrapped in a blanket, looking puzzled and worried. Bérénice gave her a tired smile.

Then it seemed that they were already down the stairs, out in the street, Bérénice leading the way, the boy almost running to keep up with her long strides. It was a damp, raw night; mist had come in from the Seine, blurring the streetlights.

“What did you say your name was, again?” Bérénice asked.

“Paul,” the boy said.

And, breathlessly, the boy told her: her family had been awoken by Jean-Claude crying out for help below them, sharply audible through the gappy floorboards.

His mother had been tossing and turning all night, he explained later, unable to sleep; finally she had risen to get out of bed—he wasn’t sure why—taken a few steps, and fallen heavily to the floor. By the time that Paul’s mother had hurried down, Else was still unconscious, although breathing regularly.

With a little effort, a taxi had been hailed from the street; during the time that it took to find one, yet another neighbor, who had a telephone, had been roused, and a call placed to the doctor, so that he should be ready by the time the taxi arrived.

Paul’s father had carried Else into the taxi—but the taxi could not take Jean-Claude in his wheelchair. This was why Jean-Claude had asked for Bérénice’s help, Paul finally explained. Jean-Claude had asked the rest of Paul’s family to please go back to bed—but if Paul could remember his way back to Bérénice’s apartment…

The quarter was so small, they lived less than a half a mile apart; when Bérénice and Paul arrived at Jean-Claude’s studio, Paul guessed that it had only been half an hour since he had first been sent out.

Nonetheless, in the darkness, chill, and uncertainty, Bérénice felt keenly each moment slipping by—a sickly, nightmarish sensation. And when she opened Jean-Claude’s door and saw him waiting just beyond, she felt as if she had been struck in the chest. Slumping to one side in his wheelchair, he was twitching constantly, his head jerking from side to side, his legs clenching and straightening arrhythmically. His face was so white and drawn that he looked ten years older. With his arms clamped to his chest, he looked as if he were being gripped and shaken by a giant’s hand.

“Bérénice,” he said, and she was shocked again by how slurred his voice was. He struggled to voice the last syllable of her name; it disappeared into a muffled “mm.”

She concealed her reaction and simply answered, “Yes. You want the doctor? The one on the western side of the quarter?”

He nodded jerkily. From the look on his face, she could tell he was afraid that Else might die before he could see her.

“Yes. Yes,” Bérénice said, feeling that she was reassuring herself more than him. “Paul, you should go to bed. Thank you.”

The boy nodded and backed away; then they heard his feet running lightly up the stairs.

“Jean-Claude, it’s cold outside. Let me get a blanket for you.” Before he could say no, she strode over to the studio. Even without turning the lights on, she was able to navigate well enough to find the basket of blankets without difficulty.

She was already thinking about the short flight of stairs outside the studio. “Now how shall we go?” she asked Jean-Claude as she tucked first one, then another blanket around his shoulders. He was wearing his customary shirt and loose trousers, and a pair of leather slippers; she wondered if Paul’s mother had helped him dress.

He was still struggling to speak, grimacing as his head jerked. As she maneuvered him out onto the landing and reached for the outside door, he finally managed, “Take me down. In chair. Backwards.”

Quickly she pivoted his chair until she was ready to guide him backwards down the front stairs, balancing him from below. This proved to be easier than she had feared, but it made her mouth twist to see how his body lurched each time they dropped down another step. When she ran back up the steps to close the door behind them, she could see Paul’s mother watching, worried, from an upper window. Bérénice raised a hand briefly.

Then they were off down the pavement. When they turned onto the Boulevard Raspail, Bérénice spoke a silent blessing on the wide, well-kept pavements of Montparnasse’s main thoroughfares. She set her hands firmly on the wooden pushbar and set off at a pace only a little slower than running. Her breath bloomed out opaquely into the mist; sounds were deadened around them, even her own footfalls. They passed occasional knots of late-returning revelers, someone out smoking a solitary cigarette, two prostitutes wearily chatting in a doorway. Heads turned as they passed.

Crossing over to the western side of the quarter, they passed the Cimetière du Montparnasse. With a chill in her heart, Bérénice resisted the instinct to slow her pace to a more ceremonious one. The mist gave it all an uncanny, storybook-like flatness: the boundary of autumn-bare trees, the dense rows of funeral monuments receding into the silver-blurred darkness… Jean-Claude’s head was averted from the sight, but she could not tell if it was voluntary or not. Briefly she released one hand from the pushbar and reached out to touch his shoulder, but regretted it when he jerked violently in reaction. She replaced her hand, set her jaw, and kept going.

After the Cimetière, to break the mood, she ventured to ask, “Why didn’t you go in the taxi?” Clearly his wheelchair could not have been brought that way, but if Paul’s father had already accompanied Else, he could have helped Jean-Claude, too…

After a pause, Jean-Claude answered, “He didn’t want to take me. The driver.” The bitterness in his voice was clear.

Bérénice made a wordless exclamation of anger. She could picture it: the driver, superstitious or squeamish, already uncomfortable with the unconscious woman—might she die on him? and he be blamed?—had therefore refused contact with her crippled son. She admitted that even she had been shocked by Jean-Claude’s appearance tonight, by the erratic violence of his movements, his groaning voice. But still—to separate a son and his mother under such conditions…

Jean-Claude would have given in, finally, anxious for his mother to be seen by the doctor as soon as possible. She cursed the driver’s small-mindedness.

Nonetheless, Jean-Claude seemed to be regaining some measure of physical composure. His body was moving with less agitation; she was no longer afraid that he might lurch from his chair. In the mist, she could see his breath pluming out more steadily.

“The doctor,” she said carefully, “he’s someone who knows your mother?” She had been wondering—if Else’s condition were bad enough, might one of the hospitals not be a better choice…? And the expense of a private doctor…

“Yes,” Jean-Claude said. Reading her question, he continued, “The public hospitals near the quarter are terrible. People are afraid of them—l’Hôpital Cochin especially. That’s where people go to die, surrounded by strangers in filthy beds.” He fell silent again, so that his words hung heavily on them.

Bérénice exhaled and said, “We’ll see her soon.” Her voice was firm. And, knowing that they were close, no longer fearing she would exhaust herself prematurely, she broke into a real run, feeling with grim satisfaction her feet pushing against the pavement, her thighs burning, her hands propelling him forward.

Onde Anda Você chapter update!

 Hey everyone! I almost didn't finish this chapter in time for the Wednesday post, had a huge tech issue with my PC, but here I am! Didn't wanna leave y'all hanging after last chapter. This is a long one, with lots of Ben and Livia. Let me know what you think, and I hope you like it!

Here's Onde Anda Você, Chapter Six

And here's the music that comes with it, Raimundos' Mulher de Fases. It's all about women and their phases, which I think fits well given the context, haha.

Enjoy!

Bérénice, part 6

 At the sight of the light in the doctor’s office, throwing into stark contrast his name painted across the window—Dr. Frédérique Blanchar, Médecin & Chirurgien—she drew in a deep breath, she slowed.

The front door was only one step above street level, but when she pushed Jean-Claude over the step and into the foyer, she could see that the clinic itself was up a half-flight of stairs. Before she had even brought his wheelchair to a stop, he was already pulling himself to the edge of his seat. “Stand in front of me,” he instructed.

She did, and quickly untucked the blankets from around him, throwing them over the back of his wheelchair. He said, “Hold me under my arms.” She had seen Else help him this way once before. “I’m going to stand up. Stand above me; I’ll take one step at a time.” She nodded, taking a deep breath, and he pushed himself to standing, his legs shaking.

Once they had steadied, she found that he was able to hold most of his own weight, except that his posture was bent and awkward. His first step upwards was tentative, fumbling, but after that he was able to move from step to step with surprising speed—except that once, near the top, he lost his balance with a jerk and began to fall backwards. She arrested his backward motion easily and held him while he caught his breath. His eyes were wide. Looking down at his tightly clasped arms, she thought again about how helpless he would be to catch himself in a fall.

After another moment, he muttered, “Help me keep going. Into the clinic.” She did so, moving backwards with his shuffling steps across the landing. When she felt the door at her back, she leaned back until he could lean his weight against her chest, disentangled one arm, and reached it behind her to fumble for the door handle. She got it, and quickly threaded her arm under his again to better take his weight, calling out a soft greeting to whoever was inside the clinic as she did so.

Inside, thank god, there was an empty spindle chair directly by the door. She pivoted, bent, and tried to release Jean-Claude slowly; he all but collapsed into the chair. Someone exclaimed “Jean-Claude!” from behind her; she had a confused impression of someone reaching to help her. When she was sure Jean-Claude was steady in his chair, she stood up, breathing hard, and finally turned to take in the full scene.

Electric light shone down harshly on the clinic. The walls were pale green, the floor black-and-white checked linoleum, the walls lined with white drawers and glass-fronted cabinets. Everything looked too bright and somehow stale, worn, at the same time. She felt suddenly her fatigue, and put out a hand to steady herself against the wall behind her. A stocky, brown-haired man with spectacles—Paul’s father, she could see the resemblance—had risen from his chair and hastened towards them, hesitating now between seeing to Jean-Claude or to her. It must have been him who called Jean-Claude’s name.

And the doctor had been bent over Else, who lay, looking pale and sunken, on an examination table, beneath a thin blanket. The table was white enamel; Bérénice thought that its whiteness was horrible. The doctor straightened now; she could see that he was wearing his paisley dressing-gown beneath his white coat. He was about fifty, square-set, with short, gleaming dark hair and a heavy dark face. He looked at Jean-Claude with sympathy and, she thought, a touch of warmth, despite his obvious fatigue.

Both he and Paul’s father seemed briefly puzzled by her, but fixed their attention instead on Jean-Claude. Paul’s father seemed about to pat or clasp Jean-Claude on the shoulder, but ultimately hesitated to touch him where he slumped in his chair, turning away with an uncertain expression. She leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath.

“How bad is it?” Jean-Claude said.

“The fall was not bad,” Dr. Blanchar said, his voice measured. “She’ll be sore in the morning, some bad bruises—but no breaks, and she didn’t hit her head.” Jean-Claude exhaled. “She woke up during the taxi ride here, and after the examination, I let her fall asleep again. So she’s just resting, now.”

“Good,” Jean-Claude whispered, his voice barely audible.

“The real problem…” Here she saw Jean-Claude spasm with anxiety, his feet knocking against the floor. She reached out a hand to his shoulder. “The real problem is that she has a mass in her abdomen—and one here.” The doctor touched the base of Else’s neck, above her left collarbone. “The one in her abdomen—it’s grown from her stomach, it’s squeezing everything. It’s why she’s lost so much weight.” His voice was low and rapid, yet clear.

He paused. Jean-Claude had let out a wordless moan of sorrow, convulsing in on himself in his narrow chair. When he lurched dangerously to one side, Bérénice caught and steadied him. His flesh seemed to burn her through the fabric of his shirt, he was so full of suffering.

Paul’s father had averted his face, but Dr. Blanchar was still watching Jean-Claude steadily.

Jean-Claude seemed to recover himself, though his breaths were sharp, almost sobbing. With great hesitation, his words slurred and interrupted by twitches, he said, “Would you be able to operate?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied, “but not tonight, it wouldn’t be safe after the shock. She needs to rest, recover some strength. You need to keep her at home for at least a week—no errands, only walking around the apartment, small frequent meals, whatever she can eat. I can give her something for the pain, to help her rest more easily.”

“Yes,” Jean-Claude said, “yes, whatever you think will work, we can do it.” And Paul’s father leaned to him from the other side with a reassuring murmur; Bérénice presumed he was offering his family’s help.

And from there, the night, which had woven itself together with such sharp threads of alarm, seemed to unravel itself rapidly. Paul’s father disappeared to find another taxi to take Else home. Dr. Blanchar dispensed medicine in a dropper-bottle and discussed fees with Jean-Claude in a low voice. Paul’s father reappeared to collect Else and carry her away carefully, followed by Jean-Claude’s fierce gaze; she murmured in her sleep when she was lifted from the table. Bérénice had finally found her way to a chair and rested there, her mind blank of words yet awhirl with sensations and impressions.

She almost laughed when Dr. Blanchar finally inquired, “And who are you, mademoiselle?”

She was readying herself to leave; she didn’t pause as she buttoned up her coat. “I’m one of Jean-Claude’s models,” she said, smiling reflexively.

“Oh, I see,” he said. He gave a speculative look first to her, then to Jean-Claude, who, looking ready to fall asleep, barely moved his lips in a cool smile.

“Well then,” Dr. Blanchar said crisply, eyebrows raised. He handed the medicine to Bérénice in a brown paper sachet to stow in her coat pocket, and together they helped Jean-Claude back down to his wheelchair. Bérénice was grateful for the assistance; this time, Jean-Claude could barely support his weight, his legs sprawling out erratically with each step. Still, six steps could be handled quickly enough with her and Dr. Blanchar’s support, and soon enough they were back out on the pavement.

The mist still held, but it had lightened by a few degrees, the sky greying; dawn was coming. Though few were still out on the streets, there was an indefinable sense of the city awakening. They proceeded homeward in exhausted silence.

Bérénice drew in a long breath when she thought about the final set of steps awaiting them back into Jean-Claude’s studio. As they drew closer, she had the sense that he was steeling himself, too: in his wheelchair, he was carefully extending each of his legs one at a time, stretching as she had seen him do when resting from drawing. His gestures were tentative and his legs trembled often, his feet curling involuntarily into tight arches, but still it seemed to help. When he stood up from his wheelchair for the final time, he leaned heavily into her, but was able to bear more of his weight, and was able to make his way up the stairs with few missteps.

“Don’t go back for my chair,” he told her breathlessly, his head hunched below hers, when they were in the doorway of the studio. “Just keep going. It will be faster.” And she helped him shuffle through the little kitchen—it was her first time being in any space but the studio itself—and into the bedroom beyond, until he could fall backwards into his bed with a grateful sigh.

Each arm of the little L-shaped room was almost fully occupied by a single bed; Else was asleep in the other, of course. Bérénice checked to see that Else was sleeping comfortably, her breath even, and reassured Jean-Claude of it.

She went back to retrieve his wheelchair from the street; she closed all the doors behind her; she went back to Jean-Claude’s bed and, exhausted, climbed in with him. He did not protest. She pulled the blankets up over both of them, wrapped her arms around him. Both still fully clothed, they slept.

Writing Prompt ideas?

Since our last writing prompt was such a fun success, I wanted to open the floor up to writing prompt ideas for next week.  Please put your ideas in the comment!