Ever since seeing the movie "Memento" I've had a fascination with unreliable narrators. The movie (based on the short story "Memento Mori" by Jonathan Nolan and published in the March 2001 edition of Esquire magazine) is the best executed example of writing an unreliable narrator I've seen. A murder mystery, told in reverse timeline with a protagonist suffering from anterograde amnesia (an inability to form new memories following the event that caused the amnesia).
I've played with unreliable narrators in a couple of stories now, and find them fun characters to write. My first was a gothic ghost story ("I Promise") but my 'superhero goes off the rails' story is even more a homage to Memento/ Memento Mori. It went live today over at Every Day Fiction, and you can check it out here.
I've played with unreliable narrators in a couple of stories now, and find them fun characters to write. My first was a gothic ghost story ("I Promise") but my 'superhero goes off the rails' story is even more a homage to Memento/ Memento Mori. It went live today over at Every Day Fiction, and you can check it out here.
EVERY DAY FICTION
BITE-SIZED STORIES FOR A BUSY WORLDA MAN OF ACTION • BY LIZ COLTERAUGUST 16, 2016EVERY DAY FICTION 4 COMMENTSThe need to hunt my enemies defines my world.
Pacing, I pass the front window. I count twenty police cars and a Special Forces wagon outside. Officers crouch behind their vehicles and barricades, afraid of me, yet I feel no fear of them.
I jab twice at the air to test my strength, right punch, left uppercut. The wind whistles with my speed. The white of my gloved hands blurs, the gold vambraces at my wrists flash in the sunlight. Blood, bright red, stains one glove.
BITE-SIZED STORIES FOR A BUSY WORLDA MAN OF ACTION • BY LIZ COLTERAUGUST 16, 2016EVERY DAY FICTION 4 COMMENTSThe need to hunt my enemies defines my world.
Pacing, I pass the front window. I count twenty police cars and a Special Forces wagon outside. Officers crouch behind their vehicles and barricades, afraid of me, yet I feel no fear of them.
I jab twice at the air to test my strength, right punch, left uppercut. The wind whistles with my speed. The white of my gloved hands blurs, the gold vambraces at my wrists flash in the sunlight. Blood, bright red, stains one glove.
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