Rose & Ghun Episode One: You want me to do what?

rose&ghun header

“Ow,” I mumbled.

“Does that hurt, pretty baby?” I stared up out of one eye at the woman above me. Perfect lipstick and hair, nails still shimmering in the light of night, and brandishing a tire iron she had just used on my ribs.

“Only a little, Cornelia,” I managed. “I guess you aren’t what you used to be.”

“Errrngh!”

I’m not very smart…sometimes. That’s the idea that flowed through my head as my body rolled along behind it. The pavement was cold on my face. I smiled and my lip stung from the cracks in it. “Broke a heel,” I said. “Should have stuck with the iron.”

She stalked toward me. It’s amazing how beautiful people can look so hideous when evil twisted them from the inside. As for me on the asphalt . . . if it had just been Cornelia things would have been fine, but she never traveled alone. Part of her posse, gang, whatever gorgeous women criminal types called their hired thugs was present.

“Not gonna move, purdy boy,” said Larry.

“That’s ‘pretty baby’,” I said.

“Yeah, pretty baby, Larry,” said Justin.

Good, I got the names right. Big sacks of meat all looked the same through a swollen eye…in the night…in the street…on your face, points for me. Now what? Only one thing I could do.

“unnnnhhh,” was all Larry managed as my heel connected with his inseam. I rolled like a log along the street whRose1ile Justin paused to glance at his partner. Can’t run, then roll.

“Get him!”

By the time Justin turned at Cornelia’s order I had made it to my feet and was running…hobbling or maybe it was skipping. The only concern I had was that I was fast enough. Gary’s was not far and if I could make it there, then I might have a chance.

“Ain’t happenin’,” said Justin. I could hear boots pounding the street. Why do big men move faster these days? Why am I saying ‘these days’? I’m not even middle aged. But with the life I led maybe I was middle aged.

I could see Gary’s Grill’s sign lit up not even a block away. But sucking wind and dancing ribs were not going to allow me to get there. My feet kept running into the air as my head and shoulders came to a sudden stop.

“Aw, pretty baby got caught,” said Cornelia.

Justin held me in his arms like a constrictor, not that he needed to. I was spent. Cornelia walked slowly up and smiled. She had brought the tire iron. “I warned you not to take the case, now didn’t I?”

I couldn’t answer and wouldn’t have even if I could have taken a breath.

“That building fire was an accident. That’s what the insurance company is going to find out, and you are not going to disagree, are you, pretty baby?”

“wwww”

Cornelia glanced over my shoulder and nodded. The arms loosened slightly. At least I could breathe again.

“Now what did you want to tell me?”

“Why do you call me pretty baby?”

The slap jerked my head sideways and my neck popped. Why do women take these crazy classes where they exercise by fighting? That was a pro shot. Rib pain, the constrictor had returned.

Fingers pulled my hair and my face lifted to hers. “Drop the case or else,” she said. She leaned in close to my ear. I felt her breath and could smell her perfume. “Drop the case, Trevor. I don’t want this to get worse,” she ended in a whisper.

She stepped back and nodded at Justin. I was slammed to the pavement and couldn’t move. I saw them walk away. It wasn’t a bad sight. Justin leaving was a good thing, and even in the condition I was in…well…Cornelia was Cornelia, evil or not.

“And I was coming to you for help.” I slGhunowly rolled over onto my back and looked up into the face of another woman.

“What can I do for you?” I groaned.

“Not die for starters.”

“Working on it. What else?”

“Need you to help me kill the man that killed my sister.”

How do things get this bad this fast?

 

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Write Honestly or Write Popularly? The question every writer must face.

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.-Ernest Hemingway accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954 (You may listen to the actual speech here. It is only just over two minutes long.)

Does sharing your imagination frighten or worry you at times? Don’t laugh, you extroverted, uninhibited, creationistic, followers of your characters’ whims. There are those who think of who will be reading their work as in their friends and relatives, or even worse their religious leaders. Then all will know the strange goings on of their minds. Or even the naughty things they think of and dared shared. Those who do not venture into writing do not understand how the author can separate one world from the other.

Some will just laugh at the thought of being worried about what other people think, but for many it is a real fear. I believe this may be one think that keeps several very talented writers from ever becoming published or realizing their true potential. And the worst part is, they don’t even realize it.

Here is an example that might hit home for some. You have a situation where as you are writing one of the characters somehow turns out to be gay. I say somehow as in that it wasn’t a plan but as the story went along there was just something there that seemed to lead your writing in that direction. This character is a main character and a favorite. So far so good, right?

Now you have the issue that the author is fundamentally religious or whose friends are primarily against the gay life style. I use ‘religious’ because some religions share the same thoughts on certain issues. The writer personally doesn’t have an issue with it, but the friends would be shocked. So what does the writer do? Probably bails on the idea and just diverts from the issue.

But now we enter another one of those areas where the writer must decide between the truth of reality and the character or caving to peer pressure and believing it really doesn’t make a difference in the big picture. Where does the compromising end?

If anyone has read my We are the Editors of our Lives article you know that I believe God had a story written for us and then we end up editing it along the way. And I believe everyone may edit as they please without interference from anyone else, unless you plan to edit your life so that you intend to off me somehow. I might complain then.

I mention the article because my take on things is contrary to many that are of the same guild as I am in religion. I would write the character as the character would be written and move along. Would my views cost me some acquaintances? Yes, and it already has. But I believe that art should imitate life. Put what you believe into what you create.

I put the Hemingway quote at the beginning for a reason. Writing honestly will cost you some friends, perhaps many. Your life may end up a lonely one because you cannot make everyone happy. If you are making everyone happy then you are perhaps not being completely honest with yourself or your writing.

Readers want honesty. They are drawn to it. They revile the obvious snubs and cowardice of an author who runs from an issue. Some readers will never admit to reading the book, but they will read it. And…they will learn from it. That’s what we do, we allow them to escape into a place they want to be but cannot seem to get to. Be it a space adventure, a romance, a magical ride through another land, or yes, even admitting that there are real lives in the world that are not like our own but still exist and the world keeps turning as it always has anyway.

Now here comes the question all writers must face. Do you want to be true to yourself and your art and possibly end up lonely but free or be popular and unsatisfied with what should have been? And is perhaps honestly actually the popular in truth after all?