While on a recent excursion to Chicago, I ran into Jade Weekes. She had the audacity to claim that I am self-centered. Granted, I like to talk about myself and at times write about my brilliant exploits. I can’t help it; my story is told in the first person narrative. It’s MY story.
As the first person in a first person narrative, I have no choice but to reveal my thoughts, fears and deep longings. It’s also my curse; I can have no secrets from you.
I try to maintain my privacy, but still, you were there as I slipped a razor blade through paper and peeled the dry, paint flecked images from their frames, again and again until six master pieces lined a cardboard tube.
Less than two minutes later, you watched me drop it into the wooden crate, latch it shut, and affix a shipping label to the outside. In the next and most clever plot twist, I added a forged manifest to the clipboard for the morning outgoing stock and opened the door. Alarms rang instantly.
Running through the deserted streets, I looked for a Peugeot idling in the dark. A car swerved, blocking the road, lights flashed too quickly to be luck, and then hands threw me against the car almost before it stopped. I was flung face down on the hot wet metal.
I twisted my head to look; it was not the Paris police, but the Gendarme.
Did you help as you watched my story through the words on the page? Sadly, non. You can tell many stories in first person, letting you, the voyeur, tag along inside the hero’s head. If only my story were a romance rather than a mystery, my secrets would be less incriminating.
Chronically in love with himself, Simon Morrell makes his living acquiring art and artifacts for his employer. On occasion, he simply steals for fun. Although he resides in Paris, his frequent international travel is often monitored by authorities.