I’ve been more than a little distracted recently and editing has fallen by the wayside.
However, all is not lost and tomorrow (promise!) will see me back on track. Six out of twenty-two revisions made to date, so there is still much to do.
Oh, and my distraction is loosely connected to The Nasrid Charm. Very loosely! It’s a short story with a revenge theme. I’ve never written anything less than a zillion words long, so keeping the word count below 1500 was a major challenge. I also tried to write a funny story – you’ll see for yourself if I mastered that task!
I’m going to post the story here – in four parts – so please check in for the later episodes. Be sure to tell me what you think too. Feedback is important – good or bad – I can take it.
So, here’s part one:
The Proof of the Pudding is in the Eating
Whilst the innocent might deserve rewards for good behaviour, so might the guilty fear retribution, for eventually Fate will dispense their just desserts.
Igor Romanski, a highly acclaimed chef, paced the floor of his office. His once thriving riverfront restaurant had steadily been losing clientele. His flair for delicious, high-quality-verging-on-luxurious meals left most customers out-of-pocket and often hungry – due to his insistence on haute-cuisine-sized portions! His moules marinière bounced with rubberiness, his Vichyssoise curdled from being heated and his speciality dessert, tarte tatin, suffered the worst fate of all – a soggy bottom!
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his cherished Silver Apple trophy, awarded for Excellence in Pastry. ‘Ugh!’ he groaned and with an impatient flourish sent the award toppling onto the floor, landing amid countless unpaid bills. ‘It’s all over!’ he sighed and stormed out, shoulders sagging, towards the village pub.
Laurel Leeffe, a recipe writer for a small-town lifestyle magazine, sat nestled in front of the pub’s cosy, roaring fire. Weekly, she posted features extolling the virtues of the latest super-foods, or denigrating the failings of celebrity diets.
After another boring day at work, Laurel met with her sister, Clover. ‘I’m thinking of creating a Medieval menu,’ the words rushed out of her as, fidgeting in her seat, she began to outline her plan.
‘Hush Laurel. You’re shouting.’ Clover insisted. Other customers were glaring at her, tutting and rolling their eyes at her outburst. One stranger, however, raised an inquisitive brow and pulled his chair a tad closer to the girls, intent on listening some more. With her spiel over, she sat back, a satisfied, almost smug look on her face, and shook her empty glass in her sister’s direction pleading for a refill, allowing the eavesdropper to sneak away unnoticed.
The editor loved her ideas and petitioned series of six articles, together with taste-testing sessions at the supermarket. Her first feature led to a flood of rave reviews, and so, keen to continue her run of good luck, the sisters discussed each subsequent article in the same pub, at the same table, and – unbeknownst to them – with the same interloper hidden in the shadows, secretly taking notes.
to be continued