FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #33-Favorite Food

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 Food’, WRITE. Use your Favorite Food 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

https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/67244281/posts/109324


“No really, what is your favorite food?”

“Really? You want to talk about that now? Right now?”?

“Sure, why not. You told me to show more interested in my fellows, so I’m trying to be interested.”

Snort.

“I want to know more about you, that’s all.”

Double snort.

“Oh, come on. It’s a simple question.”

“I didn’t tell you to be more interested NOW!”

“You didn’t specify a time really.”

“Well…. NOW is not the time.”

“Why not? We’re here, nothing else to do, just hanging around.”

“Just. Hanging. Around?”

“What else would you call this?”

“I woulda called it a vacation if I didn’t have to listen to you natter on.”

“There is no need to insult. I was just trying to make conversation, show interest in your life. Be a friend.”

“With friends like you and all that.”

“If you are just going to insult me, I’ll leave.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ah… well, I really can’t you know.”

Sigh.

“Well….”

“I know! I don’t need to hear about it.”

“Some friend you are.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my friend. In fact, I’d be perfectly happy if we’d never met.”

“That’s rude, but I guess everybody has their own opinion.”

“Right.”

“I thought you said this was a vacation?”

Strangling noise. “I said if you weren’t here it would be like a vacation!”

“Oh. Right. Well.”

“Yes, well. Now do you think you could shut up for a minute so I can have just a moment to myself?”

“If you insist.” Hurt silence.

“All right, all right, all right! Steamed clams and mashed potatoes!”

“What?”

“My favorite foods.”

“That’s an odd thing to bring up in conversation.”

“What?”

“I mean, if we’d been talking about food, sure, but just out of the blue?”

“You asked me my favorite food and now I’ve told you.”

“I did?”

Muttered rant.

“Okay, fine. Your favorite food. How nice. Thanks for sharing.”

“Just pull the god-fangled thing!”

Grinding lever, trapdoor slamming.

Snap. Snap.

Silence.

Peace.

Creaking of rope in the wind.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #28-A Dream

See more here.

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 ‘A Dream’, WRITE. Is a dream something that happens while asleep or something you want really really bad?  Or is it something else entirely? (REQUIRED)

The monster was eating him from the legs up, crunching flesh and bone and something inside that had no form. Every day, he woke as the sun broke over the trees, dream fading, dimmer and dimmer, until it was nothing more than a ghost inside his head.

In the daylight, he remembered the good things from his yesterdays: the number of words written, pages filled, the number of times, and there had been many, when his voices refused to do as he wanted. He wrote one thing, but when he returned, an hour or a day later, his words were gone, replaced by the voice’s stories.

Most times a better story than his.

Their stories gave him security in life, no need to worry about bills to be paid, groceries to be purchased, dinners and movies and dances to be missed. He didn’t remember the last time he had gone to a dinner or a movie or a dance. Most of the time he pushed those memories aside. Time enough for regret later.

He hadn’t been out of the house in three years. The days and weeks disappeared like his words, written and gone, while he tapped away, praying for one story of his own. He wasn’t selfish. He didn’t want to silence the voices. He wanted time to write the story of stories, pouring out heart and soul so perfectly he would never be forgotten.

His story.

He paced the floor, using up the days. A day. A week. A month. A year. Five years. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Searching for that one story. None of them right. None of them perfect.

The monster ate him up one night deep in February, a thick blanket of snow silencing keys tapping out his screams.

 

We Interrupt This Blog….

I have just discovered that Yahoo, in all it’s mighty glory, decided to send half my Word Press emails to my Spam Folder. Why half and not all? That is not my secret to know. Yahoo in all its infinite glory knows best.

So, if you have liked a post and have not gotten a return visit from me, made a comment that has not been moderated or replied to, please know I am going to get there.  I just finished moving all the emails from Spam to my Inbox.  Which took my inbox from 3 pages to 15.

I apologize and I will visiting and reading as fast as I can.

 

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #27-Use 3 of 5

  • 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 ‘Use 3 of the following in your writing: Cheese, Ladder, Wart, Bottle, Flower’, WRITE. Enjoy. (REQUIRED)

Here

“Cheese?  Ladder?  Wart?” he said in a puzzled tone.  Moreover, in fact, a bewildered tone. How the Hades were those words supposed to, not only tell him where to go, but what to do when he got there? This cryptic message gig was getting old. Fast.

He shifted in his seat, wiping his nose. And why did this gig always have to happen on the hottest or coldest days of the frigging year? He suspected somebody had sold him a load of stinking baloney the day he’d signed on. There was no other explanation.

His radio crackled and he shook his head. Perfectly good cell phones plastered all over the known world and they insisted on using radios. Bet that kept the failure rate pretty darn high.

“Forty on,” he replied. “I saw a duck with your cat.” He rolled his eyes.  Oh please god…..

“Do you have the three sheep?”

“Yeah.  Baa, Baa and Baa are cozy right here beside me.”

“Come again?”

“Yes, I have the three sheep.”  Baa, baa, baa, baaaaaa crap.

“Proceed to next point with all care.”

He was tempted to reply with “Ten-Four good buddy,” but the pimple-faced operator was too danged young to even know what that meant. Instead, he just rose and continued on through the frigid woods. When he’d signed up to serve his country, this was not what he’d expected.

As he trudged, his mind works over the three puzzle pieces; cheese, ladder and wart. Now there was a combination. Eat some cheese to propel you up the ladder and to the wart?

That made no sense.

Maybe the words were code names for different operatives, names for persons so deep under cover he’d never be able to poke them with a stick. Nor, to be perfectly honest, would he want to.

Turn left at the stinky cheese.  Continue straight until you reach the silver ladder. Turn right and drive until you reach a hill that looks like a wart?

Find the warthog, escape down the ladder into Candyland and find the stinky cheese?

Climb down the ladder to the land of Wart and find the Princess of Cheese?

Madame Wart lived under the ladder and made cheese from her nursing mice. Find her and find the Scepter of Stupidsville?

He stopped dead, looking at the dark woods around him. Turning, he trudged back to his car. Forget this. He was going home to watch Jeopardy.  At least then, he’d understand the frigging clues.

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #23-Surprise.

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 ‘Surprise, WRITE. A surprise can be anything. Surprise me with yours. (REQUIRED)

DEADLINE IS:

23:59 EST (New York Time) Wednesday.

To read more about this challenge, click Here.

 

The surprise was she came at all. He hadn’t expected it. She never did the expected.

“So,” she asked, swinging easily down in the chair across from him, hair dancing about her face. Sexy. She was so damn sexy, but he forced his mind to focus on the important.

“I’m surprised you came.”

“Darling, you know I adore you more than anything.”

Thing. Yes, that was the reality of the matter.

“Yes, whatever.” He paused, turning his coke can, laying ring after ring of condensation on the dark tabletop. “I’ve been thinking.”

She laughed, reaching across to touch his hand. “You know what I’ve told you about that, darling.”

“What?”

“Thinking too much.”

He grimaced. This was what she did, distracted him from his real purpose, his truth.

“I’m busy today,” she went on, eyes loving him.

It was a lie, but a lie he desperately wanted to believe.

“Can we do this later?” She cocked her head, smiled. “Tonight, when we have all the time in the world.  Just us.” Her voice softened to a purr, smile promising things he couldn’t refuse.

He was addicted. That was the thing.  Addicted.

She rose, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Tonight, darling.” Her voice promised things he’d never have.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  Man or mouse? Man or mouse?

He watched her walk away, swing in her hips affecting him deep down inside. Finally, he faced the truth.

She owned hm.

He ran towards her, calling out her name. The street and sidewalk were busy all around, forcing him to duck and dodge.

“Valarie, wait!” he called, skirting around a parked car.

To his surprise, she turned.

Man or mouse? Chicken or egg?

When he stepped in front of the truck, her irritation turned to confusion and then, at the last second, to surprise.

Finally, he’d surprised her.

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #22-A sad friend.

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 ‘A sad friend, WRITE. Sad can mean different things depending on how you say it and the culture you are in. Someone may be depressed or someone might even be pathetic. Perhaps there are other meanings as well. Whatever meaning you give it, go with it and prosper! (REQUIRED) Sad defined. Sad synonyms.

The sadness was all persuasive, wrapped around them like a blanket of fog, holding them all together. Alone they would have fallen and quickly. Together, they managed to prop each other up and hold the grief at bay.

“Why?” was Susie’s endless question.

“How?” Macy’s.

He just wanted to go home and be alone. This was something he didn’t like or want to share, this sorrow. It filled him full, leaving no room for kind words or reassurance of hope and continuation. Dead was dead. The mere fact of the matter took away the last traces from his life. Soon even the memory would be gone, the sadness over.

Maybe, if he hung on tight enough some sprinkle of memory might remain; colored sugar on a cake.

“He was a good man,” Macy said, wiping raccoon eyes. “He never judged me like the fathers of some of my friends.”

“He always supported us in everything we did,” Susie agreed.

They both looked at him so he nodded. “Never said a word when I bought my bike.” The bike that lived in his living room so he didn’t forget. The father who lived with him so he remembered.

“He was hoping you’d get over stupid on your own,” both of his sisters said and laughed.

If only they knew. He hadn’t ridden the bike in over ten years, not wanting to risk more loss. The Doctors couldn’t tell him why the accident wiped away only part of his memory, only that he was lucky.  At least he had something left, some memories, some hold on the world of his past. Not people, but events. Some didn’t. Some people with similar brain injuries simply forgot everything. He might have been left with only 15 minutes of everything. Or 15 seconds. Or nothing.

Lucky meant he only forgot people once they faded from his life. Like birthdays. He remembered the day, the cake, the presents but not the people. He knew people had been there, but they no longer existed. Bare walls bracketed the memories; he the last person alive. Childhood. Christmases. Lovers. Nothing.

The funeral was over. They hugged, kissed, promised to keep in touch before another funeral brought them together again. They wouldn’t, but they pretended for him. He looked at them, his sisters, aching to commit them so deep in his memory he would never forget but eventually, inevitably, he would.

Turning, he walked away.  Why the heck was he in a cemetery anyway?

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES

See if you can come in at no more than a Word Count of 500.

Using the prompt of ‘You meet a professor, WRITE. What age is that professor anyway, and what does the professor profess about? You can make this one a hilarious alien scifi spoof, a world saving discovery, or a chance meeting in the dark that leads to wherever. Enjoy! (REQUIRED)


 

“You’re what?” I asked, tilting my head as if the motion might cut the chatter in the room, channel his words direct from his mouth to my ear. I thought he’d said he was Professor Emeritus Magerica Universidad de Creta en Zakynthos. I’d totally spaced on his name, thought I’m fairly sure he’d given it to me in the jumble.

“You can call me Theon.”

Well. okay. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Theon.”

He laughed, a pleasant enough sound. “Just Theon.”

“Nice to meet you, Theon. I’m Justin, Unemployed at.. ah…. Amherst.” Since it seemed we were being formal.

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”

I raised an eyebrow, a trick I’d learned from my brother, the drunk of Amherst. I’d also learned early to distrust any conversation beginning with such a presumptuous statement. “Why?”

“You are the hero for whom we’ve been searching.”

I sprayed a mouthful of coke, most of it landing on the back of Ms. College President’s tan suit. “What?”

“The Hellhound escaped and needs to be shut back into Hades.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No” I shot back, suspicion bubbling to my surface. “Who put you up to this?” Some ass-friend no doubt, knowing how much this job meant to my future. It was almost impossible to get an assistant professorship at an exclusive private colleges like Freemont, much less a full professorship.

“No,” Theon decided after a moment studying my face. “You are correct. You have Jason’s eyes.”

“Jason? The Argonaut?”

“Indeed.”

I held out my hands as if to pacify him, or hold back the craziness. “Look, the joke is funny, ha, ha, but really….” My voice lowered. “I don’t need this. I’m this close to getting the job.” Fingers held a splinter’s width apart. “And I will not let your sick little joke ruin this for me!”

Turning on my heels, I forced myself to take deep breaths, walk calmly across the President’s living room, making nice with words of farewell, before heading out the front door.

And stopped dead in my tracks. On the steps leading up to the front porch stood a ginormous dog. A black dog. A black dog with three heads. Three heads dripping drool like waterfalls. Red eyes. Sparking red eyes. I took all this in as six red eyes focused on me, Justin Tibbs, just looking to be an assistant professor, nothing more, thank you.

I took a step backward, fumbling for the door knob.  “Ah…. Theon?  Could we possibly… talk…. over coffee?”