#WritingWednesday: “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage” excerpt

Happy #WritingWednesday, everyone! It’s a little after midnight, so that totally makes it okay for me to post this now. We are mid-week, which means it’s time for another writing excerpt. And that also means we’re halfway to the weekend. Yesss!!

Last week, I gave you the first chapter of my Panic! At The Disco-inspired series: “Introduction” from A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out. I’ve started writing the second chapter, which is the second song in the album and one of my favorites, “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage.” Lengthy, I know. They were notorious for their long song titles that made absolutely no sense back then.

Anyways, here’s the beginning of that. This is literally all I have written so far because I’ve been working hard on Betrayed edits, but I hope you enjoy. See you next week! xx

Freddie and Élodie burst through the doors of Moulin Rouge, expecting Boulevard de Clichy to be somewhat barren. Since their little meeting, the road has come alive and the people, dressed in attire that definitely does not belong in the 21st Century.

Every man who passes dons coats, waistcoats, and trousers, much like you’d expect in the 1900s. A keener eye would notice the very tall and stiff “winged” collars on the men’s dress shirts, and ascot ties rather than bow ties.

As for the women, puffed sleeves appear to be all the rage, along with the hourglass shape. Skirts sweep the floor as they travel alongside their partners, and wavy tresses are pinned into knots at the top of their heads under small hats.

Befuddled and bewildered, Freddie stares down at his clothes, which seem so foreign and unkempt compared to the men of this Paris. Black skinny jeans, a State Champs tee, and Vans exposes the blond, making him uncomfortable for not looking like he belongs.

“Um…Élodie, where are we?” he asks, clutching the vinyl tighter as he scans the street.

“Paris, obviously!” she responds with a peal of laughter that rings like silver bells.

“Yeah, I know that. But what year is it? This doesn’t look like 2017 to me. Everyone’s dressed so…”

“Old-fashioned?” she guesses, flashing him a smile. Freddie shakes his head in response. “That’s because everything is old-fashioned to us. Welcome to 20th Century Paris, Freddie Miller.”

“Wh-when you say ‘20th Century,’ what specific year do you mean?”

Élodie shakes her head and sighs. She glances at something in her palm, and chuckles.

“We might have traveled back over a hundred years,” she teases.

How far back, Élode? WHAT YEAR IS THIS?”

“1907.”

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