Sunday Photo Fiction – June 19th 2016

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.



“Well, Yorick, any suggestions?”

“I had some ten hours back, but obviously they were wrong.”  Never had a skull spoken with such sarcasm and loathing (since last time we’d had this discussion.) It was becoming far too regular for my tastes.

I sighed. Cast him in one play and he never allows me to forget. I turned from my work table to scowl at him.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I never swore to be helpful.”


He would have rolled his eyes if possible. It wasn’t, so I stole the chance to do the same to him.

“You’d be nothing without me.”

“True.  I’d have a peaceful, quiet, life.”

“Humph. Nobody listens to the skull.”

“This surprises you why?”

Unintelligible mumble.

Silence surrounded me except for the scratching of pen across paper. It was a game we played; who can hold out longest.

He broke first; his ego didn’t allow anything else. “You can’t have Oberon do that in Act 3.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what he does in Act 4.”

A scramble through pages. “Oh.” He was right. As always.

“Like I said, Bill, you’d be nothing without me.”

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #30-Favorite Song

Word Count is off! Let’s focus on the theme of the thing. Not many actually stick to the word count anyway. (SUGGESTED-No more than 500 if you want to try that.)

Using the prompt of ‘Favorite Song’, WRITE. Use your Favorite Song as inspiration for your fiction. Maybe it’s the title for it or maybe it appears in the story in some way? (REQUIRED)

DEADLINE IS: 23:59 EST (New York Time) Wednesday

Click Here for more stories.

Play this. Play that. Play my favorite song. Giggle, giggle, ohhhh, ahhhhh. What’s your favorite song you didn’t write? That you wrote? He’d heard them all and more. The songs, of course, but also the cries and pleas. The screams. From reporters. Talk show hosts. Fans. Whispered on pillows between intimacies done for very different reasons. And, on his side, just because he could. There had been a few years of drinking and a few of drugs – more to focus his attention, keep him going, – than for recreation. He’d never thought of drugs as recreation. Now, he didn’t drink and he didn’t drug and he didn’t….. well…. he didn’t do any of those things from his younger years. Except the intimacies.

What he did was music. In the mixed-up world of  stardom and fame, he’d clung to his music like he’s clung to his sanity. Music had always been his high, only he’d forgotten for a while. It’s hard to remember the truth when a gaggle of fans are tearing off your clothes.

“So,” asked the anchor of one of those morning shows – he’d have to ask his publicist which one – , “What is your favorite song that you’ve written?”

Over the years, he’d answered differently, just to keep everybody guessing. All part of the game of superstar and fan. Really, Superstar and the World.

His mind  flipped through the endless loop in his head, looking for the best answer. They would never learned the truth, because they didn’t want the truth.

They wanted Story.

Truth was, his songs were his autobiography.

“My favorite song?” Which would he choose? Heaven or Hell? He wasn’t a hell or heavens man. If he was, he’d be in deep shit. He’d come to believe each person created their own heaven and hell right here, right now, every moment of their lives..

“I always said if I wrote anything country, the title would be ‘My Love Is Like A Toaster, It Keeps Popping Up And Down.”

Finally, the right answer. His favorite song was the song unwritten, lingering just on the edge of consciousness, waiting to be heard.

Canned laughter. He no longer wanted a canned life.