A big, fat, sloppy, wet thank you (bet you thought a kiss was coming) to mskatykins for suggesting this song. I am listening to it as I write this post. I hope when the time comes for me to write the story it prompts, I remember the storyline running through my head now. It is hilarious. Anyway, see what images your mind conjures up when you listen to “Slow Drag” by Donald Byrd. There’s so much going on to stimulate creation.
If you could choose to live forever right here, right now, would you? This story prompt via JaY-Z’s song “Forever Young” poses the question. Let’s answer it with a story.
What if you were given a gift of time? What would you do with it? Tell us.
Yahoooo. Ride ’em cowboy. This prompt song has got me thinking about a western. That would be a switch for me. Think I can pull it off? How about you?
Here’s my response to the song prompt “Mean” sung by Taylor Swift. I hope you enjoy it — well, given the subject matter, perhaps “enjoy” isn’t the correct word to use.
by Fay Moore (c) 2012
“You didn’t do it right.”
“Sorry, sir. I thought you said . . .”
“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do what I tell you to do.”
“Now go out there and do it over. This time do it the right way.”
“I’m not sure how you want it . . .”
“You figure it out. I told you once already. Use your head. That’s why it’s there on your shoulders. Quit acting like an imbecile.”
“And none of that silly singing. Who told you you could sing anyway? With a voice like that you should get a job scaring away crows. Your voice reminds me of those damnable noisemakers the city put in the trees to scare off birds. You hurt my ears. No singing.”
“Yes.” There’s a pause followed by, “sir.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Get to it. Are you going to make me stand here all day supervising you? You lazy dog. Get to work.”
No one could hear the reply muttered under the kid’s breath.
Your next song to inspire a story is “If I DIe Young” by The Band Perry.
Finally, I finished the story prompted by Tracy Chapman’s song “Give Me One Reason.” I hope you like it.
by Fay Moore © 2012
Stacy swirled a circle on the steamy mirror with her hand. The skin on the back of it caught her attention, and she stopped moving the extremity mid-circle to push her palm flat to the glass. She studied the way the skin wrinkled in fine lines, sagging a bit. Veins bulged like mountain ranges across a plain. Her eyes shifted from her hand to the face in the mirror. She leaned in to look closer. The marks on her face were more pronounced. Her forehead was furrowed. Using her fingertips, she traced crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and creases across the bridge of her nose. Moving lower, her fingertips rested on her mouth, where she noted for the first time that lines radiated from her lips like sunbeams.
Stacy straightened, realizing her posture was slightly slumped. She pulled her shoulders and head back, forcing the top of her head toward the ceiling. She was shocked that she gained another inch or two in height. Aging was coming on hard.
Still naked from her shower, she shuddered at the thought of continuing the examination. Nevertheless, she wiped away more steam from the glass, then stood to assess herself.
Her breasts, though small, sagged. The skin around her navel frowned at her, the weight of her tummy pulling the edges down. She turned sideways. Instead of the once straight arrow-like body she remembered, she saw a series of S-curves. Dimples pock-marked her hips and thighs. She’d seen enough. She turned away from the mirror and wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe, her hair in a towel.
She moved to her closet, pulling out what she planned to wear. She thought about the work day ahead. She had a full docket of criminal cases. Back to back, she would defend people she disliked–and disregarded in the world outside the courtroom. She hated her job, but it provided her with a good living.
Stacy lived alone. She’d been married once. The marriage ended in divorce. Finding companions was tricky. All the men she admired were married or gay. That left her with a choice: being alone or sleeping with married men. At present she was in an on-again-off-again illicit affair with a married journalist. She liked him. She wanted him more than he wanted her. That hurt.
It was time to go. Stacy got into her car and turned the key. She thought about her lover as she drove, and she wished her cell phone would ring. She could call him. She had his number. He had hers.
But long ago, she promised herself she would not sell out completely to loneliness. She wanted to salvage a shred of dignity. The rules of her game were that he needed to call her. She wished he’d give her one reason to turn the car around. She’d call in sick.
She wished and wished.
Have fun with this prompt song. Think new release of your first novel. Think nasty critic. You get the picture.
Thanks to Taylor Swift’s “Mean” for the inspiration.
Got the blues? Then take a moment to listen to today’s prompt song and see what story you can create. Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” with lyrics is available for listening at the following link:
Thanks to you and your advice, my brain was jogged loose from being stuck.
You know what’s funny? The idea that first came to me evaporated when I began to write. My brain took over. It decided that the story generated from the song prompt needed to be a 55-word flash fiction piece. Like lightning, it is quick and brilliantly illuminating.
The story is a study in contrasts, as is the song which prompted it. I hope you enjoy it. It was hard coming, but like childbirth, when it finally happened, it poured out in an instant.
by Fay Moore © 2012
She misses the thunderhead building until a flash illuminates his actions.
When she asks him the first pointed question, she opens a door and looses a tornado in the room. The argument is at hurricane force, words hurling back and forth, slicing through heart tissue, wounding fatally.
From love to hate, it happens so fast.