nilesite writes


New York, New York, USA
January 08
The Backpack Press
Pilgrim, writer, photographer, mom, singer - author of "A Marshmallow on the Bus: A Collection of Stories Written on the MTA."


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NOVEMBER 9, 2012 3:12PM

OS Weekend Fiction: From Seville to the Ends of the Earth

Rate: 5 Flag

This week's prompt:

Write the beginning of a novel.This could be one sentence, one paragraph, a page or two, or a first chapter.

Javier stepped up onto the long, low, wide platform that passed for a stage, his metal heels tapping out his introduction long before the spotlight welcomed him, slim pants, black vest, the wrinkled black shirt and worn jacket betraying its age and his.  María was sitting near the back.  She noticed his beard was graying a bit now, but in the Flamenco world, this was considered a badge of honor, a milestone.  She smiled to herself and took another sip of her vino tinto, a warm, red Rioja.  He wore gold rings on his right hand that caught the light as he walked across the stage.  His hair was drenched with sweat and combed flat in a way that made him look as if he were late to a summer funeral.  He did not look up into the light, but he peered into the room over his shoulder, never really acknowledging the adoring troop of Flamenco boys who sat down front and never missed his show.  As he reached the middle of the stage to sit on the tall, ladder-back chair, Javier knew he had no close friends here.  He saw only empty, pointless lives he would fail to change with his songs.  He took the microphone and he stared at the planks in the wood floor as if it would offer him the strength he needed to begin.  Two guitar players slipped silently into the background just behind him and, with a nod, one to the other, they began to strum slowly together and Javier began to sing.  María set her glass down slowly, carefully on the marble tabletop and leaned forward.  Her heart was breaking.

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One paragraph of what I think might be a novel. Setting this scene in Madrid. Ole!
Changed planes in Madrid once during their siesta while returning from Tenerife. Bags caught up with us two weeks later.

Can I have more please?
I would love to know more about Javier. What happened in his life to leave him feeling as if he affected no one's life?
Harp - I think this one has a longer shelf life too - thanks. I'll be back in Madrid in January for a couple of days. It's my home away from home.

jp - It's part Flamenco, part Maria ...
I, too would like to know much more about Javier. Sounds like you are on to something good.
Oh 'vino tinto,' how many hearts have you broken? R&R ;-)
For a number of years, I was in my own world, listening to nothing but flamenco music. I suppose you have to do that, if you want to play it (or sing or dance or even understand it). It was a little alienating for my family. At least now, when I play flamenco on my guitar, I am not asked why I keep playing the same tune over and over. You can make it up, as you play, once you "understand" it. I know, for the gypsies in Spain, it is a way of life. I would say that flamenco alone would make their existence meaningful, if they had nothing else. Flamenco doesn't mean very much to anyone else that I know-- its foreign and incomprehensible to most people in California. But it justifies me to me.
Poor Javier. It's tough to keep the art going, year in year out, with little to show but grey in your beard. Good job, nilesite! It looks good and reads like the start of a novel, with so many questions accompanying the action.