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

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“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

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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.

 

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.