Tag: fiction

Budapest

~ Meg ~ 97 Comments

A short story by Meg Sorick.

I tasted blood. I was on my knees, my eye was swelling shut but at least I was alone. Somehow –and the how was really fuzzy– I had managed to fight off my attacker. The block was quiet and dark except for the street lights at regular intervals. I had been in that dark space between two of them when I was struck from behind. Some preternatural sense had made me move at the last minute so that the blow didn’t find its mark, probably saving my life.

I pulled myself to my feet, abandoned my errand and hurried back to the apartment we’d rented for the month. “Let’s live abroad,” my husband had said. “We’ll never get this chance again,” he’d insisted. “You will love Budapest,” he’d promised. “I can work on my book and you can indulge yourself in history,” he’d tempted.

Julian had a way of convincing me that all his ideas were mine, too. So that when things didn’t go as planned I could share the blame. I kept looking over my shoulder as I ran, terrified that the attacker would return. I never should’ve gone out alone this late at night.

Julian had been tapping away at his keyboard all evening while I read quietly on the other end of the narrow sofa. Without looking up, he said, “Cara, I’m out of cigarettes. Get me some, would you?” It wasn’t really a request. The ‘would you’ was just a polite afterthought. He knew I would go. Most of the time it was just easier to acquiesce rather than bear his brooding if I refused his wishes. Tonight however, I had resisted.

“But Julian, it’s nearly midnight. Nothing will be open,” I reasoned.

“Try the Lado,” he suggested. “They’re open late.”

“You must be joking,” I laughed mirthlessly. “That’s seven blocks away.”

“But Cara,” he pouted. “I’m on a roll. The words are flowing effortlessly tonight. Please don’t make me beg you. You do care about me don’t you?”

Internally I rolled my eyes. I had fallen in love with the quintessential temperamental artist. Tall and gaunt, but roguishly handsome, a brilliant conversationalist, educated, cultured and absolutely the most frustrating and childish creature I’d ever known. He had enchanted me, romanced me, made me lose all sense and reason, and married me six weeks after we’d first met. Our days were certainly numbered. But tonight, I thought… tonight I would accede to his wishes once again and tomorrow I would make plans to leave.

I arrived at the door breathless, my heart thundering in my chest. Perhaps he would come to his senses when he saw my injuries. Surely he’d agree that Budapest was a mistake. With shaking hands, I inserted the key into the lock on the outer door of the apartment building. Tears of relief spilled over as I closed the door behind me and leaned back against it.

I climbed the three flights of stairs and stumbled, weeping, into the apartment. Julian stood and came over to me. I collapsed into his arms as he held them out to me. “There, there, Cara. There, there…”

“Julian,” I sobbed. “We have to get out of here. I can’t spend another night in this place.”

“Cara,” he said, holding my face between his hands. “We aren’t going anywhere.” He grasped me by the shoulders and spun me around. From the darkened bedroom a figure stepped forward. Julian shoved me toward him and snarled, “Now, be a good girl and let the man finish his work.”

The Novelist’s Pen

~ Meg ~ 30 Comments

“The novel, if I may express it so, is the ‘picture of the manners of every age’. To the philosopher who seeks to know the nature of man, it is as indispensable as history. The historian’s pencil can draw a man only in his public roles, when he is not truly himself: ambition and pride cover his face with a mask which shows only these two passions and not the man entire. The novelist’s pen, on the other hand, captures his inner truth and catches him when he puts his mask aside, and the resulting sketch, which is far more interesting, is also much truer; that is the point of novels.” – Essay on Novels – The Marquis de Sade.

What a weighty responsibility lies on the shoulders of the novelist then. To capture the truth of an age, to illuminate that which history’s light does not reach. It seems terribly important, doesn’t it? I’m considering this quote from the perspective of one who is researching and writing a story out of time.

I enjoy reading historical fiction. I’m attempting to write historical fiction –a story set in the period during and around the Great War. There are many challenges in writing a story outside the time in which you are living. Of course there are plentiful books of history, analysis of the actual battles and the geopolitical situation that preceded the conflict. But how does a writer put him or herself into the mind of a person who lived through it? Peel away the mask and find the inner truth?

Wouldn’t it be great to have a time machine and go back to see for yourself? Or the next best thing –access to a person or persons who lived through it and could give you eyewitness accounts? In the case of World War One, too much time has slipped away from that massive calamity and the last veteran of the trenches passed away in 2009 at the age of 111! What about a younger member of that generation?

One way ‘generation’ is defined is by all the people whose lives crossed during a particular period of time. Thusly, a member of that ‘generation’ could be the child or younger sibling of the WWI contemporary. Such a person may be able to recount the stories told by another, or to have memories of the time in question as an aware child or adolescent (although they would be getting scarce at this point too). My own father was 7 years old when the Armistice was achieved and he remembers the church bells ringing, bringing everyone into the streets to hear the news. (Incidentally my own father also passed away in 2009 at the grand old age of 97). Nevertheless, valuable information can be gained from talking with the second hand witness.

My point is that the ‘feel’ of a time period isn’t fully realized by simply reading the history books. I find it supremely insightful that the Marquis refers to ‘the historian’s pencil’ but the ‘novelist’s pen.’ The former can be erased and modified while the latter is permanent. You must delve into the arts and culture of the day. Listen to the music, peruse the art, read the popular books of fiction and poetry –there was a time when poetry was popular. If available, watch the films of the time. (Obviously some things are dependent on the advent of certain technologies). Of the things you can read, memoirs can be helpful, however, the opportunity for rationalization, embellishment or self aggrandizing is always there, so take these with a grain of salt.

For Here Lies a Soldier, I researched some material that might seem trivial or picky but I felt was important to my setting. How to clean a Victorian Era home, was one thing for example. I wasn’t about to rely on Downton Abby for my information. Another bit of research I did was on the types of homes a working family would live in –this for the other set of characters in the story. Illnesses and how they were treated, the types of food they ate, the clothing, the weather for the climate and the season –all these things tell you how the people lived.

I came across a series of War Letters in my searching for materials. This collection (available on Amazon) is of the letters of ordinary soldiers writing home to their families. I cannot wait to dig into this treasure. Imagine reading the sentiments of the common man addressing the people he loved. Some of it will be mundane, but there is even much to learned from that: What did they ask their families to send them? Warm socks, new underwear? Did they make friends? Did they pray or lose faith?

As you can imagine, I am anxious to pick up the novelist’s pen and return to Here Lies a Soldier, finish the sketch of my characters both in the past and the present. But first I must finish Breaking Bread. Onward…