Month: September 2019

The show premiered as a series on ABC, September 22, 1976, ironically the same day as the publication of “Girl’s Night”. I swear it wasn’t planned!

For those that know me well, what inspired me to write “Girl’s Night” should come as no surprise. As a young gay boy I was obsessed with the TV series Charlie’s Angels, the original, and its original leads: Kate Jackson, Farrah Fawcett-Majors (then), Jaclyn Smith, and Cheryl Ladd, the latter who replaced Farrah after the first season. Cheryl actually became my favorite as the spunky, but relatable Kris Munroe, the little sister of Fawcett’s Jill Munroe.

Gorgeous girls with big hair, bell bottoms, platform shoes and guns, fighting the bad guys. It was pure escapism and tailor made for my vivid imagination; it kick-started my favor of crime/detective fiction.

The show stayed with me, even to this day, but as I matured and my writing skills matured, I longed to somehow express a similar plot with more of my signature expression. A few decades later, during the explosion of “Chick Lit” which I believe Charlie’s Angels somehow inspired, I got the idea to write a stand alone short story about four, female, high school friends that reunite, late thirty-something women that get together and become involved in a crime mystery. After I had finished it, I realized it was a combo of Charlie’s Angels and the late 90’s popular, “Sex And The City”, a show I had never watched, but knew it played well to the celebrated, empowered, successful, martini sipping girlfriend culture that had become popular, thankfully. Even my tagline of Girl’s Night is: Martinis & Murder.

Throw in my favorite female murder mystery, early 70’s Movie of The Week classic, “Five Desperate Women”, in my opinion the precursor to Charlie’s Angels which was also an Aaron Spelling production, I had found my groove. I’ll focus solely on Five Desperate Women in a future post, not sure when.

I dare not give too much of Girl’s Night away, however, Tamara, Rita, Melissa and Lisa finally meet up at a swanky martini joint in Chicago’s South Loop neighborhood. Through the years they had mostly been in contact with each other on social media reunions. Right away their familiar chemistry as close friends from high school kicks in: They were very close, like sisters with all the dynamics like, competitiveness, love and envy, all rolled up into one complicated ball, mix in a little crime and you’ve got it.

After writing Girl’s Night, I put it on the shelf and started working on other projects, almost completely forgetting about it until I took an inventory of my short stories. I had never intended on Girl’s Night being more than a one time short, but as I read it again, I realized how well it would work as a short read series. I revised it, made one major change to a characters fate, and was ready to write the follow up: Girl’s Night: Disco Night. It was my direct homage to Charlie’s Angels and the 70’s. I’ll go into that one more when it’s ready for publication.

I can’t deny that Girl’s Night, like Charlie’s Angels, is pure escapism. It’s totally unrealistic for four high school friends to get involved in crimes at every reading, however I hope to entertain an audience that likes to have fun, and as unrealistic as certain elements are, I want to blend in the realism of today, such as friendships, dating, loneliness and crime that we face in our society like never before. I hope you’ll enjoy reading Girl’s Night.

https://www.amazon.com/Girls-Night-Franchot-ebook/dp/B07Y8KNBJ7

When I got the idea for “Living Right”, I wasn’t quite sure where it came from. I wanted to do a younger person, older person relationship drama with a little religion thrown in there, but after I wrote it, it felt like something was a little familiar to me personally.

It made me think back to my own mother, Gladys Reaves and what I learned as I became an adult. Mama, as we affectionately called her, left our father when we were fairly young. I was eight and my sister Carol was ten. she took us from Chicago to her hometown of Hopewell Virginia, but that didn’t work out as planned for very long so she brought us back to Chicago. It was tough for her. She was still young, in her thirties without much money or shelter. We bounced around a bit, but never once was her love for us in question. To keep us off the street she took the help of the older ladies she met along the way. Most of the ladies she befriended were nice, but one lady in particular, Mrs. Smith, had an agenda.

Mrs. Smith is no longer with us so I’ll tread carefully, however, the truth is the truth. I won’t say Mrs. Smith hadn’t been kind to mama because she did help us in our times of need; bringing food, loaning money and at times being a shoulder for mama to lean on, but as a youngster watching, I noticed things about Mrs. Smith, subtle things, that made me uncomfortable. I was a perceptive kid, feisty and spoke my mind about it to mama, but she wasn’t ready to hear me.

I vividly recall one weekend morning I was in the kitchen of our modest tenement, frying eggs for breakfast, Mrs. Smith happened to come over with bags of food which she did often enough. She wanted to prove that we were starving; she wanted to save the day. This particular morning, seeing mama’s 13 year old boy frying eggs from a carton she hadn’t given, remarked, “What are you doing making breakfast?!” almost with a bit of sarcasm in her tone. She was obviously stunned that I was making breakfast without a contribution from her. It angered me so I ignored her and flipped my eggs over. I was not friendly to Mrs. Smith.

Many years later, when I was all grown, I believe mama was becoming suspicious of Mrs. Smith’s true intentions. By this time, mama had found a very nice apartment in the city and was able to afford nicer things, like a nice rug she’d been wanting. Mrs. Smith came over to the apartment, her first visit there. Walking through the door she looked around, but never commented on the apartment, but told mama, “You’re moving into one of my buildings!” She had said it with such vigor and authority, like mama was a child and couldn’t find a decent place on her own. Mrs. Smith had become little more than a slum lord, having bought buildings in neighborhoods we didn’t care for, and on top of that, mama discovered through a mutual friend that Mrs. Smith had made a comment about the rug, saying to the friend, “I wonder how she could afford a rug like that?” Afterwards, their friendship was never the same.

Ultimately, Mrs. Smith was the older woman that took my struggling mother under her wing, but wanted to keep her there. Mama was scared and insecure at the time, recently separated with two children. Mrs. Smith played on those facts and was manipulative. She was jealous of mama’s spirit, youth and promise. She didn’t want her to become successful, but wanted to take credit for whatever she was able to achieve. Mama did achieve, and it went against Mrs. Smith agenda. She wanted to keep an upper hand, maintain her charitable appearance to feed her own insecurities, which were many.

With “Living Right”, I took a different approach, involving romance and religion, but the message is the same. Some friends want to keep you where you are and take credit for your accomplishments. Do you know anyone like that?

The End

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/958524

This short story is posted in its entirety, however you have the option to purchase it with it’s funky little Chicago el artwork for your own reader.

Man, I was tired that day. I’m always tired after work, but on that particular day I had worked late and it was extremely busy, and to top it off, It was a hot summer in the city. It was late August; the entire month had been high temperatures and humidity. I welcomed the coming fall. At about 9:13pm, right before going down in the Roosevelt Street subway, I contemplated taking the bus. The bus was above ground thus cooler. The only issue I had with the bus is that it took so long to get home. I decided on the subway. I’d be home in less than a half hour, instead of an hour on the bus. I sucked it up and went down into hell. That’s exactly what it felt like in the subway. It was miserable. Within minutes I could feel the sweat dripping down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. I leaned forward on the platform, looking for the train. I didn’t see it, though the train going south had roared into the station. The train platform became mobbed with people exiting the train. All I kept thinking is how tired I was. I wanted a seat whenever the train came. Was it a Cubs game? I figured surely the game had started by then. I quickly checked the CTA transit app on my phone. The Howard train would arrive in two minutes. Thank God!

***

My mind went blank from the heat, and then I heard the Howard train in the distance. I was so grateful. Soon the train had pulled into the station. The doors split apart and I got on. It felt good and icy on the car. The air conditioner was pumped up. It was a blessing. Not too many people got on. I sat down in the nearest seat, closest to the doors; the side seats, where I could look at the seats directly across from me. Nobody sat there. The train sped out of the Roosevelt station.

I was starting to relax a bit. The cool from the air conditioner was definitely the main contributor. I put on my headphones and looked down at my phone, opening iTunes and scanning my playlists. After making my selection and listening to contemporary jazz, the train pulled into the next station which was Harrison. The doors opened and people got on, but not many. I really wasn’t paying attention to anything, only listening to Paul Hardcastle. As the train left the station I knew someone sat down in the seats across from me, but I didn’t look up, instead I read a funny text that a close friend had just sent me. I texted her back. We went on a bit, texting each other until the train reached the Monroe station. Again, not too many people got on, but it was well past rush hour. As the train pulled out I looked around, finally noticing the young lady that sat down across from me two stations ago. Subconsciously, I found myself staring at the young lady, but didn’t know exactly why. Something was off about her appearance, but before I figured it out, I had to be respectful and direct my eyes away from her. I looked back down at my phone. It was rude to stare. Mama had raised me that way, besides, I was uncomfortable when people stared at me. But I was curious nonetheless. There was something about the young woman’s face. What had happened to her?  With my eyes on my phone, I was opening and closing apps, but my mind was still on the young woman sitting across from me. Nothing else seemed strange about her. She seemed fairly young, African American, dressed casually in jeans, sneakers and a yellow t-shirt. I looked up quickly and caught a partial view of her t-shirt at the bottom. It was stained with dried blood. What?!  The young lady looked in my direction and I quickly shifted my eyes back down to my phone. She caught on, noticed me staring. I didn’t know if she was staring back at me then. I didn’t know what to do and was embarrassed at the thought of her seeing me stare. Regardless, it was rude of me.

Still looking down at my phone, not really into it, I felt I had to do something with myself to appear normal, in case the young lady had been insulted by my stare. The train screeched into the station at Grand and State. A larger crowd of people got on. I looked toward the doors and saw several people look in the young woman’s direction. Almost every person that boarded the train cut their eyes over to her. What else was it about her? I had seen her blood stained t-shirt, but where was the blood coming from? My curiosity was becoming aroused again, but I kept my eyes glued to my phone. As crowded as the train was getting, in my peripheral vision I could tell that nobody sat next to the young woman.

A couple of stops past Grand and State, the train stopped at the Clark and Division station. Two older ladies got on. They were together, looked like friends, maybe work friends. I saw them immediately look at the young woman, gaping openly before they even took seats. They sat down in two seats that were cater-corner from where I was sitting and the young woman across from me. My curiosity about the young woman was becoming overwhelming. I had to know what had happened to her. I could only get limited knowledge from the people around me, those that were rude enough to stare at her. I didn’t want to stare at other people either, but looked around the train in such a way that I wouldn’t attract too much attention. I caught several sets of eyes, all trying to take inconspicuous glances at the young woman. When I looked at the two older ladies, they had started a conversation, but their eyes kept looking at the young woman in intervals. What was I to do next? My curiosity had reached desperation levels. I had to look at the young woman myself. I had to know what was the matter with her. I felt like a hypocrite; other people were obviously staring at her, even turning to other people, like me, to see their reactions, silently in unison, collecting a club of sneaky, judgmental glances. I started to wonder if I was indeed a hypocrite for not staring like them. Whatever the case, I did have feelings and didn’t want to make the young woman uncomfortable. Still I wanted to know, insanely.

***

By the time the train had reached the Fullerton station, I was ready to take a look at her. I had to. 6 more stops I’d be home. I wouldn’t rest until I knew why so many eyeballs were on her. All I knew about was her bloody t-shirt. She was still sitting across from me alone. Nobody wanted to sit with her. My peripheral vision had been working overtime, making me dizzy. I looked at the two older ladies. Before they had been talking loud, in the open about their day, homemade bread and the Clinton and Trump debates, but they started whispering, all the while taking glances at the young woman. They were talking about her. The shorter woman of the two even had a pained, worried look on her face. As I looked around the train again, old passengers and the new ones that got on at Belmont were gaping at her. Yes, it was my turn. Time for me to look, time for the mystery to be over.

The train doors opened at Wrigley Field, the Addison station. A woman walked on with a small child, a little boy. I took him to be about three or four years old. The boy immediately looked at the young woman. His innocent eyes grew wide with terror and his mouth opened as if he was going to scream.

“Mama?!” he cried.

His mother looked too, grimaced, and then pulled him away in another direction. “Come on!” she said.

That time I knew I had to look. I tried as inconspicuously as I could. It was her lips. Her top lip was normal, but her bottom lip was severely cut and swollen twice it’s size. I tried not to react, but the sight of it was unnerving. I looked back down at my phone. Oh God!  It looked like her lip had been sliced with a knife. Thick, dried, almost black looking blood was protruding through a large open wound. It had to be painful. It made her face look deformed. How could she sit there like that? Just staring into space. What happened to her? Had she been in a fight? Her lip was so savagely cut that it had to be a blade. Jesus! 

***

A few more minutes had gone by. We were pulling out of the Sheridan station. I was still looking down at my phone, but didn’t even see what I was looking at. Three more stops would be my destination. I felt so bad for her, but didn’t know what to do. Should I do something? Was it even any of my business? What could I do anyway? My eyes went up to her quickly and I scanned her lip. It looked like fresh red blood was starting to seep through the dried blood. And I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but it looked like her lip was even more swollen than minutes before. Oh no!  The young woman needed help. The expression on her face showed that she was in pain and she moved up to sit on the edge of the seat, starting to rock back and forth; yes, she was in pain.

***

We pulled out of the Wilson station. I was two more stops from home. New boarders at Wilson gaped at her. The old gapers were settling down, even myself a little. Everybody going back to their transit routines. That was it. Another strange sight on the CTA. There were plenty, had seen them myself. I had been riding the city  trains and buses since I was ten years old. I’m 52 now. That’s a lot of years on public transit. Chicago has one of the best public transit systems in the country. I’ve seen a lot of things, weirder than a young woman with a cut lip, but something about it bothered me. I appeared to be the only person worried about her. What had been gaping material a few minutes ago was now an after-thought, something others and myself would talk about later. I cut my eyes to two college age young men. They noticed her. They started hunching each other, laughing and both started doing something with their phones. They were trying to veil it, but were laughing silently, but hysterically. They were sneaking pictures of her. Soon, somewhere in Chicago, the country, the world, that wounded young woman’s picture would be uploaded for everyone’s amusement. A century ago, people stood in line at sideshows gaping at Siamese twins, bearded ladies, giants and little people. Now we’re amused online: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc., at a woman with a severely cut lip. Go over, talk to her, ask her if she’s alright.

I had lost track of everything. My stop was called out over the auto-recorded intercom: Argyle. I quickly looked at her and saw fresh blood dripping from her lip. I was alarmed. The train had settled into the Argyle station and I sprang from my seat. I ran to the doors, waiting for them to open. I wanted to look back at her so bad, but I couldn’t. I was just like everybody else. The only thing that mattered to me was my world, my stop, my relaxation at home. I saw the two older ladies get up. Was it their stop too?

The doors opened and I got out. I walked the platform toward the stairs, about to go down. As the train slowly pulled out of the station, I caught a glimpse through the window of the train: The two older ladies I thought had got off with me, were standing over the young woman talking to her. The train sped up and was quickly leaving my view. I headed down the stairs from the platform, hearing the familiar sound of the train screeching over my head. I let out a sigh of relief. Somebody actually cared.

The End

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/957608

I’ve been riding public transit in Chicago for decades. Barely anything I see on the bus, el or subway phases me. Most of the time I’m so much into my own commuting world with my phone or whatever portable entertainment is popular at the time, the world could end on the train and I wouldn’t be the wiser. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, especially in today’s unpredictable world, but that’s just just the way it is in a big city. Public transit is a way of life, almost like breathing. I’ve never owned a car.

The less jaded side of me still marvels at the city trains. A massive transit system reminds me that I live in a big, bustling metropolis. Having spent most of my life in Chicago and a decade on the East Coast, I’ve relied heavily on public transit. From New York’s gargantuan MTA, with its seemingly never ending, complex subway system, Boston’s intriguing T, to Chicago’s awe worthy elevated trains; how they screech over head in the densely built up Loop. As a kid, the el frightened me, but I also loved it.

Public transit in big cities move millions of people. With millions of people comes millions of stories. Public transit riders alone provide a never ending supply of stories. I could make an entire career out of the CTA alone, but I won’t do that, although, you may get another story or two from me that may include a ride on the Windy City’s famous el.

Some of the best people watching is by riding public transit, and I must say, the Chicago el, bus and subway has given me some of the most diverse people watching of any other transit system I’ve taken.

What are some of the strangest things I’ve seen riding public transit in Chicago: Rats on the subway? No, not yet. That distinction belongs to New York City. When I was living there, a rat accompanied me to the MTA vending machine where I hurriedly loaded up. In Boston, one of the fattest rats I’d ever seen followed me down the stairs of the T, as I was stumbling down coming from the Beantown Pub, a great pub I must add.

On Chicago’s el I’ve witnessed: 3 card monte scams played on unsuspecting tourists, a bitter ventriloquist who cursed passengers out with his dummy, street vendors selling condoms and getting into fights over train car territory, people moving furniture on the el, how they lifted a loveseat over the turnstile, brought it on the train and used it as their seat, and finally, a young woman that took a shit in the seat in front of me. Yes! I had never gagged until then. She caused the entire O’Hare Blue Line train to be taken out of service due to the incredible stench. Who knows what else I may have missed.

Then comes summer, 2016, August. It was hotter than Satan’s ass. Coming from work I got on the Subway. I was thrilled that the ac was pumped up. I sat down and noticed something odd about the young woman sitting across from me. It took a few stops and a few peripheral stares, but I noticed something about her lip. Now that may not seem like strangest thing to see on the el, but it did inspire me to write “The Lip”. I won’t give the story away here because I want you to read it. It’s a true story. After writing it, I realized the story was about more than her lip. It was about us, a society of judgement passing people and how we reacted to the woman’s obvious dilemma. Myself, guilty as charged. I desperately wanted to stare at her, but instead relied on the reactions of the passengers around me. The gaping old ladies, the child that screamed at the sight of her, and the young frat boys that laughed and actually took pictures of her with their phones. Ultimately the story was about the people watchers, not so much the young woman. Please read The Lip. I’m curious to know what you think.

Next Time: The Lip.

Writing fiction comes easy to me, but I don’t take it for granted, however, writing about myself is much more difficult. I suppose you’ll learn more about me as you read my blog over time, instead of on a website -About Me- page. I really don’t have a lot of fancy credentials to brag about anyway.

This writing is basically an introduction to Franchot Inspired, a blog intended to share with you what inspires me to write the fiction I write.

I love fiction, especially short stories. That’s mostly what I write. I have nothing against novels, even wrote a few myself as well as a full length non fiction book that I’ll go into much later. My love of short stories started when I was around twelve years old, simultaneously with my passion for episodic television. Mysteries and crime fiction stood out. I was obsessed with Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. It had, and still has some of the best short stories. As for television, some of my favorite shows were: Dark Shadows, Land of The Giants, Charlie’s Angels, and later in the early to mid 80’s, Dynasty and Spenser: For Hire. And there were some excellent 90 minute TV movies of the week, most notably Five Desperate Women, Bad Ronald, The Night Stalker and Trapped with James Brolin, all of what I consider early 70’s TV classics.

I already had a vivid imagination and these short stories and TV shows inspired the creativity in me. By the time I was in my mid teens, I was acting out full four act dramas, doing all the characters, improvisational style before I even knew what improv was. I was doing this in the living room of our modest tenement in Chicago’s Bronzeville neighborhood, and recording them on a tape recorder (yes, a tape recorder).

Eventually I started writing my ideas down, turning them into short stories. They meant so much to me. I tried novels, but they didn’t stick with me until many years later. I wrote a lot of short stories and soon learned how to submit them to the magazines that published short fiction. I failed miserably, most rejected by Ellery Queen Magazine. I was hurt, but learned not to take it personally. I wasn’t good at writing whodunit or locked room mysteries. My crime dramas were more reflective of real life, kind of gritty with a street element. I had to learn and grow as a writer; I’m still learning. In 1981 I sent a short story called ‘Suspicions’ to Chicago Magazine. I got rejected there too, but it came with a critique that I never forgot. The editor said, “Suspicions has its moments, but it’s not suited for our magazine.” Has its moments.

I remained a closet writer for many years while I worked a myriad of day jobs. I still have a day job (not complaining). I got serious about writing in 2000. I started a novel that year, a long, exhausting novel that I finished about two years later. I wrote two more novels during the decade. I still have them and may resurrect them someday, maybe break them down into shorts. I’m back to writing short stories, exclusively. Again, I’m not anti-novel, and at some point may tackle them again, but I’ll have to be fully inspired to do so.

I love the impact of a great short story and embrace their brevity, something you can enjoy, but finish in one or two readings. Even a novella can be read quickly. The belief is that attention spans are getting shorter, for readers as well as writers, but I can’t fully buy into it, after all, a good story will be read whether it’s a short story or a novel.

For me, short stories, especially a series, more closely resembles life. They’re told in never ending chunks of time. Stand alone shorts can be powerful too. The great ones leave a lasting impression for many years. Episodic TV shows are much like short stories, bite sized pieces of entertainment. I love it! Writing a good script for a TV show or movie is also something I’ve dreamed of, but I would’t be good with the politics it brings. I’ll post about that in the near future.

Right now I’m happy writing short stories and sharing them with you, along with my inspiration for writing them. I have a growing catalog of stand alone shorts and series of shorts. I hope you visit my blog from time to time to read them. I plan to post some of them here very soon. Please check back!

Up Next: Inspiration for: The Lip