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Thanks to one of the gentlemen at work (and his penchant for mixing metaphors, specifically ‘The early worm gets the cream’) for giving me this idea 😊
Take two metaphors.
Mix well.
Write the story inspired by the result.400 words or less.
Confusingly, I have asked for two metaphors (mixed) while giving an example using a proverb 😂
So, let’s try this again:
Take two well-known sayings.
Mix well.
Write the story inspired by the result.400 words or less.
[TW for an F-Bomb 💣]
And Your Flesh Shall Be A Wild Night and A New Road
The wild scream of the guitar ripped down his spine, surging like power in his veins. Dominion, utter and absolute electricity, was what their music held over the night.
. . . 1984.
That was the last time he saw her, and all he could recall were a few, sparse details of how she looked, before she’d faded from his life. Shiny curls and almond skin, and a frame so thin it bordered on frailty. Those details he could recall, and the very last question he asked.
“Heyyy,” her voice broke on a beach of uncertainty as she edged up beside him, eyes a strange elixir of warm and aloof. He regretted saying no to hugs and photos when she had asked over the phone a week ago. But only because he wanted to touch her now, to make sure she was real.
And only because he wanted new memories of anything but that fucking question.
“Hey.” He allowed the sudden burst of heat in his chest to reach his eyes at the sight of her.
Your time is almost up.
They had met over two decades ago, both living a charmed life of naïve optimism. Just two strange kids, sheltered and unsophisticated, who shared a love for folk music, and stargazing, and each other.
“You look great,” he added, almost a beat too late. “. . . Life has been kind.”
The wry regard she gave him slipped into something that lingered, her eyes and mouth filled with stories he wanted badly to taste. Then she broke the moment with a nervous smile as she turned her attention towards the stage.
“You look good too.”
He only just heard those words, swimming soft and slow under the thunderous gathering that threatened to crush them from all sides.
Burn into obscurity.
The energy in the air shifted then, as the chords of the next song opened out over the crowd. Atmospheric and full of emotion. It cast a spell and a shadow over his senses, and when she collided with him, jostled by bodies moving in and out of the throng, it didn’t help the feeling.
He watched her reach for his arm to steady herself, and all he could think of was the realness of her flesh, and what he had once asked her to do.
You’re so much more.
So much more.
[394 words excluding semi-ridiculously long title haha]
This Isn’t About Elvis
“Number two?” I clutched the edge of the cold table. “Still?”
“That’s nothing to be scoffed at,” the coward behind the newspaper said. “For fourteen straight weeks too.”
“That makes it worse.”
Gold vinyl records pumped life into the drab wooden wall behind him. Reserved for those who kissed the summit of number one. Number one demanded private planes. Number two dumped lemon cake. The bitter tang still clung to my precious taste buds after weeks.
My manager rested the newspaper on the cluttered table, finally mustering the guts to make eye contact. “Do you know how many musicians would die for a top 40 song? And you’re whining about being number two.”
As if he didn’t know my place on the charts was irrelevant.
“Most musicians don’t have my talent.”
“You’re above Elvis.”
He knew this wasn’t about Elvis.
“What about Roy?” I asked.
He fiddled with his skinny green tie. “He called me yesterday. He asks for you all the time.”
I stressed each word as if he didn’t speak English. “Where is Roy on the charts?”
Why couldn’t I be like Roy? Able to wish him the best. And mean it.
He cradled his boring white mug with both hands like a toddler. His gaze fixed on the newspaper declaring Macmillan had opened a textile plant up north.
Nausea swept across my stomach. What possessed me to have this conversation in person?
I lowered my head, let my long hair hide my face. I stared at the sickly mustard yellow carpet. “By how much?”
“Five.”
I shot off the chair. “So, if my sister had bought six of my records, I would be number one over that snake? I’ll go buy -”
“Makes no sense now. That American group is going to number one.” He folded the newspaper in half. “By way more than five, I can promise you that.”
“You can’t mean that nonsense about a lion?”
“I hate to break it to you but people want to hear about lions.”
If I had known it would be my last hit, I would have been content. I should have popped a bottle of sweet Chateau Latour and drank it until I dreamt of a lion sleeping in the jungle.
374 words
Under the Yoke
The security guard didn’t notice the elderly woman by the checkout. She noticed him. She noticed as his arm shot out, shielding the aisle so that the distinguished visitor could walk by unimpeded. The distinguished visitor, his blond hair carefully disarranged, smirked as his eyes slid, unseeing, across her face. He had come for the important task of buying eggs in front of twenty cameras. Later, he would say that at least he knew the price of a dozen eggs, which was more than the Right Honourable Member opposite. And while he held out his fifty-pound note and rehearsed his banter, the elderly woman looked down to where her own shopping had been knocked aside and trampled.
It was a disaster. She had paid for these things, and since she survived on less in a week than the distinguished visitor spent on lunch each day, she could not afford to replace them. Poking through the battered items, it was clear that some could be salvaged. She could straighten the loaf out. The butter might be OK. The packet of sugar had burst, and it had gone everywhere. But the eggs! Not for her the dozen large that the distinguished visitor was now hoisting from the display. She could only afford half a dozen small. And these were now broken and mixing with the sugar in her bag.
Somehow, this upset her more than anything. Her breakfast egg, with toast and a cup of tea, was her treat to start the day. It set the world to rights. Gone. Her eyes began to fill and annoyed her even more. Don’t be so daft. She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. Her anger grew, and although she knew she shouldn’t, she rummaged in the mess and produced something that looked like a chopstick, with a twig at the thick end. This she held, while murmuring a few words.
The distinguished visitor gave a gurning smile and opened his egg box for the cameras. It was empty. Somebody sniggered. There was a plop and an egg shell dropped from inside his jacket. Puzzled, he pulled back one side. More shell fell out. His shirt and jacket lining were plastered with eggs. The laughter grew louder as a bewildered visitor was hurried from the store.
Shouldn’t keep all your eggs in one silver lining, thought the elderly woman.
398 words ex title
Sorry, all. The day has not gone to plan. I’ll try to get a look at your wonderful entries later tonight 👍
Apologies for the lateness of these results. You won’t believe how hard it’s been these past few days to find time to settle down with a cup of tea and a clear mind to give your entries the attention they deserve.
@Sandra – No worries. If you’re in the zone with ‘Mercy’, you’re in the zone.
@Knickylaurelle – This sparked with energy. Loved ‘her voice broke on a beach of uncertainty’ and ‘eyes a strange elixir of warm and aloof’. The whole piece teased like a trailer in my mind. Is there more? There really ought to be more.
@Alex – A snapshot into a world I know nothing about but I swear I could taste the bitterness of that lemon cake. The scene was set with excellent word choices – drab, cluttered, boring and sickly – and you sketched your characters with a confident pen (which resulted in a Google search of number two hits to see if this was based on actual fact). If I have one criticism, it’s that you’ve left me with that blasted video of the singing hippo and dancing dog playing on repeat in my head.@Ath – Yours made me smile. Oh, not at first, obviously, when my hackles rose at the treatment of the elderly woman, but at the end, when the distinguished visitor got his just desserts. It was a smooth read and topical, too. I bet I’m not the only one wishing I had such a twig at the bottom of my bag.
It was a struggle. I wanted to confound things and make you all winners but, in the end, I chose Knicky 🙂
Awww, thanks @seagreen! I enjoyed writing this piece very much, and it is a very personal one to me. Just an anticipatory imagining of a band festival I attended quite recently, and how I wanted it to go. It went even better than what I wrote 🙂 haha
I too went on a Google search over @alex’s piece, for the exact same reason 😄😄 It’s too funny you did the same. The best fiction always sends me on a search to understand a thing deeper, and you did well in that regard, Alex. I also love the tight dialogue and music history snippets, but you know that already 😛
@athelstone, as always your piece walks the perfect line woven from tight economy with seemingly little effort, lots of emotional textures, knife-sharp exactitude, and just general clever-as-hellness, haha. Well done you, and to all of us as you said 😊✨Nothing wrong with being immersed in a current project, @sandradavies, but I definitely felt your absence / missed your presence this comp around.
I will give June’s theme a think, and post it later today. You guys should see it first thing in the morning!
I really enjoyed all the stories. Congrats Knicky. I liked the tension of the characters meeting.
I was immediately pulled into Athelstone’s world and kept there. Loved the last sentence too.
Well done @ Knicky – I agree with Sea, there should be more, because the writing was, as ever, fabulous. (Thank you too for your kind words) And I too had to check @Alex’s on Google that my my guess was right. 1961, eh?
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