Un jeu simple


Une nouvelle de ma propre création – à l’origine par écrit et en anglais – ici contée par moi-même.

C’est un test pour moi, une sorte de première sur une voie – celle du conte à l’oral – qui me passionne et que j’aimerais beaucoup explorer à l’avenir.

Vos avis, quels qu’ils soient, seront très appréciés, alors n’hésitez pas à commenter !

*

Adapté de A Simple Game.

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Maël

M, A, E-tréma, L. Quatre sons qui, croyez-le ou non, semblent me définir sympathiquement bien ces derniers temps.

M

J’aime beaucoup de choses, souvent. J’aime plus que je n’aime point; non par boniment mais par sincérité je peux dire que j’aime facilement, et que l’inverse ne me vient aussi naturellement.

A

Ou plutôt “AH !”, cette expression de surprise me caractérise. J’aime à l’utiliser, que ce soit nécessaire ou non, elle me parle, me plait, et m’amuse beaucoup.

E

Marque de l’hésitation, de la réflexion, du doute. Tout ce qui me semble m’accaparer beaucoup trop au lieu d’actes et de paroles.

Tréma.

Pour intensifier le E, le mettant en exergue, n’est là que pour perturber, embêter, signe du petit gamin farceur et jovial que j’aime à être.

L

Celle-là je la garde pour moi, cette lettre qui m’occupe et me taraude, qui m’inspire et me fascine. Serait-elle à moi que je ne la posséderais pas.

L s’amplifie du M, du A et du E-tréma autant qu’elle les amplifie.

20 ans après

.

(Ou presque…)

***
***

Inconfortable. De cette expression nonchalante – certains diraient presque noble -, et pourtant nullement à l’aise, il restera toujours une trace sur chaque photo future où j’apparaîtrai au fil des années. Je n’abhorre point cette tradition mais je suis loin de me sentir modèle et ne sais comment me tenir, alors j’attends.

Des cendres de mon style ravageur (chemise, salopette, et mocassins) immolé par l’indifférence sur l’autel de l’adolescence, ne renaîtra un semblant de classe que vers la fin de la deuxième décennie de mon ère. Et cela, principalement sous l’impulsion “classique” d’une petite amie. Cette nouvelle vague perdurera jusqu’à nos jours, à défaut de continuité sentimentale.

Le visage s’allongera, les joues se creuseront un peu et les cheveux s’assombriront, finissant même par s’effacer presque entièrement. Mais les cernes – poches de temps perdu sous les fenêtres de l’âme – sont dès lors, d’ores et déjà mes blessures de guerre à moi. Ni un regret, ni une honte, elles portent l’étendard de mon identité autant que je les porte, elles.

A l’instar du couple que sont ce jardin, flou en arrière plan, et ce banc, quelque peu grossier mais droit, et dont le premier va grandir, fleurir et se métamorphoser avec les âges passant, tandis que le second les traversera avec pour seule marque de changement cette couche de mousse qui s’y déposent, je grandis, je change, et je me transforme, mais je reste aussi pareil à cet enfant : légèrement perdu malgré son apparence peu commode, et pourtant content d’être là.

.


Texte ébauché en atelier d’écriture et retravaillé par la suite.

The Eighth Dead

The Eighth Dead is a project for a short story in three parts that I have decided to try to work on over the course of the next few days. It is based on a script for a hypothetical movie that I wrote last year during a class on script writing. The story itself is something I’ve had in mind for a few years now but, regretfully, I never had the motivation or time or energy to turn it into what I wanted it to become: a short story. At least not until that class last year. It now exists in the form of a script in French, therefore, the broad outline of the story is defined and all that is left for me is to (successfully) turn it into a short story.

It is the story of Jackson Parker, an ex private eye, or private investigator, turned cop (sort of the opposite of the usual “noire” novella) who arrives in Louieville, a small town in the south of the United States, to start his new job and is faced with a series of mysterious murders. The whole “ambiance” is supposed to reflect the early 30s-40s and perhaps 50s, and that “noire” characteristic of movies set in that time period.

I will try to post one part very two days (the key word is ‘try’) for two reasons: one, it will allow you, readers, to be able to read it without having too much time between each part, therefore making it more clear for you. And, secondly, it will give me time to work on it a little more than one part a day (especially considering what I have programmed for myself in the next few days and that each part will be much longer than a poem), while at the same time being a challenge towards myself (idem). Finally, it will make it easier to publish for me (really long pieces always seem to have some kind of issue) and it makes work on a longer and different project while keeping a writing schedule (or at least try).

I will do my best to make this small – albeit important to me – project as entertaining and high in quality as I can. I am starting the actual writing tomorrow, thus the first of the three parts should be published around Saturday (or something). That is all I wanted to say, this post is both a means to catch your attention and to ‘force’ myself to actually do the work by binding my word to it. And, who knows, perhaps it will motivate me to work on all those other shorter writing I have had int he back of my mind for some time now…

So, yeah, we will see how it goes. That’s all folks! See you all later.

PS: Perhaps one day I will make the original script, in French or/and translated, available. Perhaps.

GG

He almost came to regret his decision as light flooded the dim corridor. Air rushed to his face, drowning the deafening cheers of the crowd on the other side. He could hear them since he had left his cell, the hundreds of thousands of feet that made the whole main arena shake, the muffled cries that demanded more, and the screeches of the horns that announced the end of yet another match. Blood rarely flowed in the arenas and when it did, it didn’t stain the ground for long. No, usually the only blood was the one boiling in the veins of the participants and in those of the spectators, or the blood thumping in his ears when he was in the center of it all. Perhaps tonight would be a bit of both…

It felt as if the world started to move again after stopping completely for a moment. His heart was pounding and he forced a smile on his pale face as he stepped into the outer rim of the arena. He had to look, if not for himself or for his audience, for Io. He couldn’t let the young Ehnar worry for him, plus Alexis would beat him to death if she knew what he was about to do and how he felt anything but confident about it… He knew he could do it, somehow. Probably. He had to do it so feeling indecisive about it changed nothing, he was backed into a corner, something he had gloriously achieved himself, and he had no option but to fight his way out.

The spotlights were on him and the three other gladiators that had been chosen that night. Well, “chosen” was perhaps a stretch. True the one in the green corner had been picked almost randomly to fill the slot, but he and Jams had instigated this whole thing, and Kietro had been more than eager to try anything to squeeze herself in-between them. Why she did that, he never knew, but it seemed she had either a grudge against Kietro or a weird fetish for getting into situations that could lead up to violent altercations. Altercations she could then be a part of, sometimes not even to win or beat other people up, but simply for the “thrill of it”.

He looked around and saluted the audience and the casters twice, doing his best to smile as confidently as he could until the moment he would be able to put on his mask. The smiles and the waves were for the audience and the favor points he could get, the mask was for the sponsors, to give a more mysterious image and aura to his gladiator persona. Everyone knew his face but it wasn’t to hide his identity, it was to hide his weaknesses during the bouts and to give himself courage by making himself believe he was becoming someone else, a better, stronger, version of himself. And even if it was only psychologically, and partially, true, it felt right. Finally the first bell rang and he put on the wooden artefact that would hide his features.

It felt as if he was underwater again: everything felt distant and cold, but his heartbeat seemed to calm down instantly. He closed his eyes and focused his mind, which was becoming clear again, on himself and the reasons that has pushed him to do this. Io, he was here to avenge. Or at least, if not to restore their honor, to show that there was still hope. Kietro, he had to defeat. If he could beat him this round it would be perfect but beating him was the top priority. He had to show him what he was capable of and what he, as a more veteran of the league than him, could not. Alexis, he was simply here to prove wrong, to piss her off, like always. And Nerio, he didn’t really know. To show him that he had grown, perhaps?

He had grown. That was obvious, mostly in physique, but also in mentality. He knew he had been too proud, and wrong. But he had learned from this. He hadn’t finished learning, of course. He would never finish learning, as Nerio often liked to remind him, be he dared to believe he had learned enough to call his own bluff tonight. At least, if not for him, for them. Io deserved to know they weren’t alone… The second bell rung and his whole body tensed up. he would have to be ready for the third one, a single misstep as it began and he might be done for. The column, the path, the house. The column, the path, the house. He reviewed his battle plan in his head. Everything would work, it had to. And if it didn’t… well he would make it. Or the arena be damned, he would never utter a single stupidity like this ever again! The third bell rang, his legs felt heavy but as he jumped, he caught the fleeting look of surprise on Kietro’s face. Maybe, just maybe.


A sort of short summary of the opening scene, or prologue, from a story I have had in mind for quite some time now. Perhaps this will motivate me to try to explore it in more detail… Maybe, just maybe.

The break-up

The first thing that hit him when he stepped into the condo was the feeling of something missing. Then his eyes fell on the note. A small piece of white cardboard paper, left there, in plain sight, on the old sideboard in the hallway. His eyes swept around the room, the apartment felt strangely empty. He looked at the note again and hesitated a moment before finally walking up to it. He slowly grabbed the white rectangle and read its content.

William, you have been my greatest love, you are my greatest love and you will probably remain so my whole life. Know that I love you more than anything, truly. But it can’t go on like this, I cannot bear your breakdowns, your bursts of anger, your dark thoughts and all those moments when you don’t seem to live anymore. I cannot bear the thousand wounds you try to cover with your excuses and your apologies, before reopening them the next instant. I know that deep down you are a good person, I truly believe it, but something in you is broken, something I am not sure I could ever repair… I know that I am probably breaking your heart right now but I can’t go on like this, I don’t have the strength anymore. My love for you doesn’t seem sufficient so I have decided to leave. Don’t look for me, I don’t want you to find me. That is the only way to prevent us both from going crazy…

Good bye.

The note was written with blue ink in a thin and gracious cursive. No signature, no name. No need, he though. His hand was shaking as he put it back on the wooden piece of furniture, he could feel his eyes tearing up. He pressed his back to the wall of the hallway and let himself sink down to the floor, his shoulders shaking as if trying to dance away the pain that was rising in his chest. He couldn’t believe it. Was all this real? Was it really the end? After years of love and hardships that they had endured… What had happened for them to let things get to that point? He remained on the ground for a long time, not trying to keep his tears from flowing and his chest from hurting. Only the faint rumbling of water through the walls, sometimes interrupted by his humid hiccups, filled the apartment, now devoid of half the stuff it used to house.

When he finally managed to get up again it seemed as if an eternity had passed, his legs felt heavy and weak. Slowly, giving time to his weary heart to pump enough blood to wake them up, he walked towards the bedroom; the bed was made, the curtains were drawn. Only the pale light of the winter sun managed to light it up a little. On the nightstands stood two small lamps, and on the wall a painting, relic of a distant time that they had found during a garage sale. Despite all of this, the room seemed eerily empty. He had trouble realizing that it was true, that it was over, that this emptiness would now be an integral part of the five-room condo…

He opened the closet, it was only half-full: suits, shirts and trousers. The rest had vanished. The jeans, the colored tops, the scarves and even the fancy underwear, nothing remained. The emotion once again took over him, he only managed to keep the sorrow at bay with the greatest of efforts as he closed the thin door before walking out of the room. He went through each of the rooms, shooting a quick look around. The result was always the same: empty, devoid of part of the stuff that used to fill them. His breathing was ragged and his heart felt like it was beating a thousand times per second when he found himself in the hallway again. The the fight came back to him in a flood of emotions, like a coup de foudre. Or, rather, the opposite.

He had almost been violent. Almost. He would have never dared, he knew it, and yet… The darkness in his eyes left no doubt as to the anger that boiled in side. He might even have surrendered to it and let it out, had he not seen the frightened expression and understood how scary he must have appeared… He had frozen on the spot, staying there, looking lost and powerless as his love walked away into the night. He hadn’t even shown a reaction when he had seen the silhouette turn around halfway. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to do anything, uncertain he could even forgive himself…? Or perhaps he knew then, perhaps they had both understood what that moment meant?

Had he gone for a walk, or had he remained stuck there, on the sidewalk, for hours before coming home? He didn’t know. All he knew was that when he had come home he had found the apartment empty, not unlike today, but not of its furniture, rather of any human presence, the presence that had become so familiar over the years. Surely he had tried to call as soon as he had been back – the twelve missed calls were unmistakable evidence – before finally letting sadness and weariness overwhelm him. The next morning, night having gone away and his love still not back, he had gone to work, leaving the apartment empty and free for the whole day.

Once back in the corridor he cast another look at the note. He felt tears well up once again and, with a visible effort, fought them back. He read  once more, as if to cement the reality and the truth of what was happening in his mind and in his heart, to make sure that this was indeed what was left of them, of what they had been. Goodbye. The word echoed in his mind. It was over, the end. No tearful parting, no sobbing hug, not more fight. Not even a signature. No need, all had been said. Goodbye. It sounded so false, so empty in his mind, faint echoes in an infinite void… He remained like this for a moment, unmoving, staring at the note between his fingers. Finally he let out a sigh. No, despite everything, he deserved at least that. Alex took out the blue pen from his pocket again and wrote his name under the last word in an elegant cursive writing despite his trembling hand. He put the small rectangle of white cardboard paper on the top of the sideboard and, shooting one last look at the apartment, now empty of his belongings but still full of so many memories, before closing the door behind him.


A translation of this one: La rupture.

I feel that it could be improved, perhaps it remains too unclear… The goal is to incite a second reading but, has it been accomplished in a good way? I don’t know, time will tell.

Seven sentence or less

Nerio, the Hero of the Shield

*

It all began long before the events near the small village on the outskirts of our world but the Fates had placed them both under the moon that night.

An Armageddon between the battleworn hero, who valiantly fought to protect his family and his country from the darkness that was to come, and the tortured demon seeking to quench his thirst in seas of blood.

One became none and the other less than even that as the hero became the villain and the villain came to no more be.

Having lost the blood of his blood and the flesh of his flesh but not the heart of his soul, he ripped his heart out before it became foul.

Exiled from his life, banished from his death, he sought revenge and wandered the nether and the never only to become stranded in the silver city with barely a sliver of a hope or a chance.

And yet he made the spark of life come from his still heart, becoming what he hated most and learning the accursed arts of the new family that hosted his rise to power.

The wrongs he wrote were the rights he wronged, what was lost became found again, though in another way, as simply as the bloody moon turned back to the ocean’s jewel.


Another little experiment of mine. Oh but don’t mind me, do keep reading!

The Shore

The waves had carried the small boat to the shore. She didn’t know where it could have come from but somehow it felt it had arrived right where it should be. As she approached she noticed the young man, lying in it, his face pale and his side bloody. His breath was ragged, his skin was cold and yet he was obviously burning with fever. He was dying. She knew it immediately. He was dying and there was nothing she could do. Nothing to save him at least, but perhaps she could ease his pain. The heavy wrinkles were unmistakable traces of the suffering. They were not scars and yet they were, momentary scars of the turmoil that went on inside. He was dying and she wanted to help.

How she managed to make her voice carry to the castle she couldn’t say, all she knew is that it had and somehow the guards had found her. She had given orders and the young man had been carried to a room in the high tower, her room – she would sleep in her sister’s, it was long unoccupied anyway. Her father had come with the doctor, finding her on her knees, by the large bed, lost in her patient’s form. Her patient he was now, for even after the doctor repeated the words she had already formulated in her own mind, she insisted that she would nurse him. Perhaps not back to health but at least to a more painless death. She would nurse him if none other would try, even if were to fail, even if he died. He wouldn’t die though, she could feel it. Or at least she hoped so with all her heart, day and night, by his side, she hoped and hoped. She would not stop hoping. She simply could not. Even thought she knew perfectly well that she didn’t know him, he was nobody to her, but she had found him on the beach and thus it had become her duty to take care of him.

Day and night. Night and day. Day after day. Week after week. For months she remained by his side, only leaving to attain to the basics of her status as the castle’s lady and to sustain her self. A full moon came and went and he remained bed-ridden, shivering with cold and burning up at the same time, unresponsive but breathing. He was alive. Alive weeks after the short time the doctor had given him, alive in spite of all common sense. Hanging by a thread of sheer willpower, or luck, or divine clemency – she could not say – and taking in breath after breath, each ragged and difficult, but taken in nonetheless. Finally, one fine morning, as winter began to melt upon the world and the sun rose to the east, after refusing to go away for so long, the wound at his side finally shed its last bloody tear.

No matter the cataplasms, the potions or the spells, nothing had worked, it had kept spilling the life out of him, each day annulling the care that the lady had put into treating and keeping the young man on the edge of the last breath. Nothing had worked. It was cleaned, disinfected and stitched shut each night, and every morning it would be found open again, spewing blood. Not profusely but never a small enough amount to hope for him to recover. However, that one morning it had stopped, after hours upon hours of sweat and prayers, after days of struggling and nights of wakes, as the young woman woke up she saw no blood. It had refused to close, the deep and fateful cut as fresh as on the first day she had laid eyes on him, but bleeding no more. The day had passed and although his state had not changed in any way, it had not gotten worse. Then came night and then day again, with no sleep on her part, no rest for her weary heart and mind, which over time had grown accustomed to his uneven breathing and the boiling chill of his skin.

It was on the first light of the next day that the countless prayers she had thrown into the air, all the hopes she had kept afloat for so long, for the first time, crystalized into something beautiful. A single tear, running from the corner of the eye to the corner of the mouth. It glided soundlessly on the pallor of his skin, stopped only by her finger as she ran it on his cheek. Awestruck, she had seen the water collect and the power of gravity slowly do its deed as it attracted the painful rains to the ground. She could barely believe it but, refusing to let this miracle be lost, she let her hand shoot to his cheek without a second though and collected the living pearl. Reflexively, as her fingers touched the cold and gruff surface, she let them keep contact and run further, along the hill of his cheekbone to the ledge of his jaw line. A small beard had begun growing again and the fever had kept him at the edge of freezing and boiling, and yet, under her finger, nothing had ever felt more soft.

Still in the most complete of silence, a small wind began to blow through the half-open window and sunlight poured in over the bed. Suddenly, the world seemed to halt as she felt it. It was lightning quick and softer even than the songs of birds outside, yet she had felt it. As clear as she saw the tear run along her finger now and as strongly as she heard his ragged struggle for life, something she felt she had not in an eternity. A heartbeat. A single, solitary heartbeat, lacking strength, lacking its ever-present echo, but a heartbeat nonetheless. There, in the morning-lit room, where the dead man had kept bleeding for so long, and where silence reigned unchallenged, her shoulders began to shake…


The scene where it all begins again.

In a part of the story inspired by an old legend.

Noir

Sur le grand tableau blanc qui trônait au centre de la salle étaient épinglées toutes les photos qui avaient été recueillies au cours des premiers jours de l’enquête. Six portraits en A4 étaient alignés sous le bord supérieur. Six visages, trois hommes et trois femmes, et, juste au dessous, les photos de la victime. Encore plus bas, les photos de la scène du crime, sombre et sanglante.

Sur le premier portrait on pouvait voir le visage d’un homme sur lequel s’étaient imprimées les marques du temps passé. Sa crinière sauvage et sa moustache finement taillée, ornements argentés qu’il arborait fièrement, lui donnaient un air des plus dignes. On pouvait également apercevoir le haut du col d’un gilet couleur moutarde au bas de la photo.

À sa droite, celui d’une femme d’âge environ égal à l’air revêche. Elle fixait l’objectif d’un œil noir derrière les verres en demi-lune de lunettes perchées sur le bout de son nez, nez aussi pâle que l’astre nocturne lui même.

Le troisième portrait attirait immédiatement l’œil de part la beauté naturellement hypnotisante de la jeune femme qui y apparaissait. Sur son visage aux traits fins se dessinait le fantôme d’un sourire narquois et étonnamment confiant. Dans sa longue chevelure noir de jais on pouvait apercevoir une petite broche en forme de rose rouge.

Les deux suivants étaient des hommes.

L’un portait des lunettes, l’autre non. Le premier était vêtu d’un foulard couleur aubergine, l’autre d’une redingote vert foncé à col haut. Le premier semblait grand et mince tandis que le second plus courtaud. L’un arborait une chevelure épaisse et sauvage, presque rousse tandis que l’autre était brun, au crâne presque dégarni. Rien ne semblait rapprocher les deux hommes, l’un était homme de science, l’autre résolument d’église, et pourtant, pour l’observateur attentif, on pouvait déceler dans leur regards quelques similaires lueurs sombres.

Le sixième portrait était celui d’une femme d’une cinquantaine d’années, les cheveux coiffés d’un couvre chef blanc de domestique. Elle semblait mal à l’aise, étrangement apeurée. On pouvait presque entendre la voix chevrotante qui s’échappait péniblement de ses lèvres lorsqu’elle parlait.

Sur la grande table devant le tableau était étalé un plan détaillé du manoir où avait eu lieu le crime et, répartis autour de ce dernier dans des sacs plastiques, les différents objets qui avaient été récupérés et analysés par le département scientifique. Il y en avait six en tout, dont un couteau, une clé anglaise et un pistolet.

La salle, illuminée par la lumière blanchâtre des néons, était vide. Mais cela ne durerait pas car bientôt l’équipe d’enquêteurs entrerait et se mettrait à travailler d’arrache-pied afin de résoudre le mystère qui entourait la mort du vieux Docteur. Cela leur avait été explicité de façon on ne peut plus claire : il était primordial de retrouver le meurtrier du Docteur, c’était tout ce qui importait à présent.

Alea jacta est, les dés étaient jetés…


“Qu’est-ce ?”, vous entends-je demander. Eh bien ne paniquez pas, il y a quelques indices ici et là… ;)

Ps: C’est pas Harry Potter >.>

Black

On the large white board which stood in the middle of the room were displayed all the pictures that had been taken during the preliminary phase of the investigation. Six large portraits had been printed and were aligned horizontally at the top of the board. Six faces, three men and three women, and, just under them, a seventh: the victim’s. Still below, pictures of the crime scene, dark and bloody.

The first face, on the top left corner, was one of a man on whom time had left its mark. His silver mane and impeccably well-trimmed moustache which he proudly displayed gave him an air of strength and dignity. One could also catch a glimpse of the mustard-colored collar of his jacket in the bottom of the frame.

On his right, the surly face of a woman of roughly the same age as him. She seemed to look straight at the camera, her eyes dark behind her glasses shaped in half-moons which were hanging on the very tip of her nose, nose which was as pale as the nightly orb itself.

The third portrait immediately caught the eye due to the mysterious beauty of the young woman who appeared on it. One could see the ghost of a surprisingly confident smirk on her face. Tangled in her long dark hair was a pin in the shape of a red rose.

The next two portraits were of two men.

One had glasses, the other had none. The first wore an eggplant-colored scarf , the second a dark green frock coat with a raised collar. The former seemed tall and skinny whereas the latter appeared short and sturdy. One had thick and wild light brown, almost red hair while the other had lost most of his dark hair to baldness. Everything seemed to draw them apart, one was a man of science while the other was unwaveringly religious, however, despite all this, to the eye of the careful observer, a similar glint of darkness could be seen in both their gazes.

The sixth picture was one of a woman in her fifties, white hair covered by her servant headwear. She seemed uneasy, almost scared. One could almost hear her quavering voice coming out of her mouth with great difficulty when she spoke.

A large and detailed plan of the manor where the crime had taken place was spread on the large table in front of the board and, around it, the different objects that had been taken from the scene and analyzed by the forensic department wrapped in plastic bags. There were six in all including a knife, a wrench and a gun.

The room, lit by the sick white glow of the neon lights, was empty of any life. But that would not last for much longer as, soon enough, the team of detectives would come in and begin working on this case without rest until the mystery that surrounded the death of the old Doctor was solved. It had been very explicitly clarified : finding the Doctor’s killer was of the utmost importance, it was all that mattered now.

Alea jacta est, the die had been cast…


“Now what is this exactly?”, I hear you ask. Well worry not, there is a clue in there, somewhere… ;)