Susan Roberts - Writer
Find Me:
  • Home
  • About Me
  • Blog
  • My Books
  • W. I. P.
  • Reading
  • Gallery
  • Links
  • Contact Me

Conception in an Elevator

10/25/2012

1 Comment

 
Why are we so reluctant to meet the eyes of another person in an elevator?  Are we afraid something violent will happen?  A cataclysmic earthquake?  Love at first sight?  Death? 

After a pleasant afternoon drinking tea in my favourite coffee shop, and talking about writing with fellow writer Julianne Alcott, we went our separate ways.  As I reached the elevator, the doors opened and the tall, dark-haired man who had been waiting for it held the door and ushered me through.  I thanked him and he followed me in.  We journeyed to the car park in silence, avoiding looking at each other, as one does in elevators. 

I stole a glance at his face.  Pleasant enough.  Nothing happened.  No lurching of the heart, or even of the elevator.  What would I do, I thought, if I suddenly realised that there was a knife sticking out of his ribs?  But there wasn’t.  No knife, no violence.  The elevator stopped, he ushered me out, I thanked him once more and we walked to our separate cars, never to meet again.

It was while driving to work a few minutes later that my devious writer’s mind elaborated on that evil little image.  I knew that if I waited until I reached work, the image would either fade, or other forces would intrude before I had the chance to write it down.  So I drove with one hand and scribbled into the notebook on my lap with the other.

Here is that original rough paragraph, scribbled while driving to work on the 5th of September 2010.

“She didn’t see the man’s face before the knife was thrown, but his look of contorted disbelief as he registered the hilt embedded between his ribs led her to believe it must once have been a handsome one.  Too late now.  Already the red bubbles spewing between his lips had begun to slow, and the glazed mist that spread over his corneas now matched the pallor of his drained face.  He clutched at her skirt as he stumbled forward.  ‘Benicio!’ he whispered, and slumped to the ground.”

I had no idea where to set the story, but I wanted it to be somewhere foreign, a place possibly steeped in history or legend.  I liked the name Benicio for the dead man, and since I had never been to Spain or Portugal, I chose Italy.  The tiny courtyard that is supposed be Juliet’s, in Verona, jumped into my head soon after that.  The name of Lisa appealed to me.  I don’t know why, but once I chose it, the name stuck and her character morphed from the original staid schoolteacher I had envisioned, into the more flamboyant art teacher that draws the dead man’s artist brother into the story.  I love cats, but even though there are none in this story, my Vet’s wife gave birth to a son whom they called Matteo.  The name of Lisa’s co-star was born.

Two years and many drafts later, here is the opening page of the now completed novel: “Benicio’s Bequest.”

Lisa stepped back to get a better image of Juliet’s statue on her Nikon, and felt a foot beneath hers.  She turned to apologise, and saw that the self-styled Romeo who had annoyed her earlier was so close behind her that he was almost welded to her shoulder-bag.

Romeo’s gasp of pain and his stagger backwards seemed a little melodramatic for such minor pressure from Lisa’s flat sandals.  Lisa glanced down in exasperation, hoping he wouldn’t sue her for damaging his designer shoes.

And that was when she saw the dark red rosette spreading across his white tee shirt.

With a grunt that became a sob, Romeo’s body flinched as a second rosette opened next to the first.  He stared up at Juliet’s balcony, then turned to Lisa, his blue eyes holding what she imagined to be a lifetime of regrets.

Too late.  Everything was too late for him now.

Grabbing Lisa’s arm as he staggered, he crushed her beaded bangles into her flesh with surprising force for a man too weak to remain upright.  He mumbled as if trying to tell her something, but only blood spewed from his lips, highlighting the pallor of his draining face as his eyes lost their focus.

“Matteo,” he whispered through red bubbles as his grip on her wrist slackened.  “Matteo.”

He collapsed backwards, his blue eyes reflecting the sky above.

The crash of his head hitting the cobbles broke Lisa’s capsule of stunned silence and her discordant cry accompanied the tinkling melody of the beads clattering from her broken bangles.  An answering cacophony of screams began around her as the little courtyard of Juliet’s house in Verona erupted into panic.

You can find “Benicio’s Bequest” as an e-book on Amazon, here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009W36BYA

1 Comment
Sue link
11/20/2012 02:44:57 am

Wait until the cops cotton on. No drinking and driving. No talking on your cell phone and driving but, as yet, we are still allowed to write and drive ... mmh.

Thanks for putting your 'very first' paragraph in too, it's always amazing to see how things morph.

Reply

Your comment will be posted after it is approved.


Leave a Reply.

    Susan's Musings

    Click on the above title to go to my WordPress blog Susan's Musings.
    I'll re-post from that blog here every month. My posts are n
    ot always about writing - sometimes I'll share whatever else is rolling around in my mind.
    Enjoy!

    Archives

    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012

    Categories

    All
    Amazon Kindle
    Authors
    Bookcase
    Characters
    Draft
    Eating While Writing
    Editing
    Family
    Food
    History
    Indie Writing
    Inspiration
    Kate Morton
    Knitting
    Magic
    Mandela
    Movies
    Novel
    Painting
    Plot
    Point Of View
    Renovation
    Restoration
    Sanding
    Setting
    Settlers
    Snacks
    South Africa
    Special Effects
    Spirit Of Place
    Stephen Fry
    Television
    Twitter
    Writing
    Writing Groups

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.