The literary lion is in mourning, and so this fortnight’s challenge is Bowie inspired… and rather scarily, the chosen word – Star – seems so very apt.
It was F Scott Fitzgerald that dared to tell the great Hemingway that he couldn’t write a story in six words. Hemingway delivered a literary KO with “For sale, baby shoes: Never worn.”
For the first Literary Lion challenge of this year, I am going to ask you all to create a story with this in mind, in just six words.
As always, remember to pingback to this post, include the tag ‘Literary Lion’ so we can all read your story in the WP reader, and of course come and say hello on Instagram and twitter.
Here is my six word tale…
Thought you were here to stay.
Another day, another free-writing challenge, this time inspired by three stellar pieces of music that my ears were most certainly seized by…
David Bowie – Magic Dance
Sitting against a sofa of worn orange corduroy. I’m looking into Mr Bowie’s mismatched eyes and feeling a chilled flurry envelop me. Having just seconds ago metamorphosed from a snowy owl with feathers that were the purest of white, his bleached mullet wasn’t one of hilarity, it was a monochrome menace as much as the vampire like front teeth and the pale face. Jareth the Goblin King.
Radiohead – Talk Show Host
Plucked strings. The sands are flooded with a golden tinge. Leonardo sits in blue with a smoking cigarette in his hand, soft blonde hair trailing into those cobalt blues. Teenage crush. Teenage angst. Driving in the rays of the English summer. Closing my eyes and my head tripping backwards. Laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Gazing out the car window, pretending to be somewhere else. The spirit being sucked from my chest as it lifts towards the sky and my body drags it back down again with a weighty thud. We hope that you choke. Do not choke.
Alexandre Desplat – Courtyard Apocalypse
One the outside they are gritty soldiers. On the inside, they are trembling. We are sneaking through the darkness, overcome. Can we drink it in? Trying not to sob, we are overwhelmed. Finding a place at the pinnacle. They’re seizing my insides, behind the eyes, in the chest, deep in the stomach, and they’re not letting go. The breathing of many on the head of only one. This is the epitome of sadness.
Our walls are adorned with little pieces of the soul. David Bowie, Bryan Cranston and Aaron Paul sit above the boy’s guitars, because they belong in the cool corner of our abode. That Bowie exhibition at the V&A was insane. Only Jesse Pinkman could pull off psychotic skull chic in a suit and aviators. I still have post Breaking Bad depression. #100happydays #day41