Thread: 06/1/2011 - LM - Song into Story

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope the holiday season has been excellent for you all, and now that it’s over I hope you’re just itching to write a story for the next LM challenge.

The prompt this round is:

Song into Story


The idea is to take a song (keep in mind that if you want the judges to understand your clever references, it’d be better if they knew it/could easily find it) and to transform it, however you choose, into a story.
Next to your story title you should put the name and artist of the song you've chosen.
The word limit is 650 words– Not including the title.
If you go over the limit your entry will not be counted.

There are two threads you can post your story in:

The LM Workshop Thread
If you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot).

Or the LM Challenge Thread (Right here)
If you’re not too concerned about your first rights.

If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into the LM Challenge Thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate.
Judges are welcome to participate but their entries will not receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (GMT+11), on Friday January 21st. (This will mean Thursday night/Friday morning for anyone not in Australia).


Your judges for this round are:

K3ng
Kat
ppsage
and me.


No comments, please - Only competition entries to be posted in this thread.

It needs to stop raining already (Raindrops keep falling on my head - Hal David/Burt Bacharach) - 532 words.

So it's raining again. I really should've bought an umbrella. Or a hat. I've been caught outside in the rain way too many times already and it doesn't look like it's about to stop. Sometimes I regret keeping my hair this long. It would've been a lot easier if I was bald. That way I wouldn't look like a drenched dog every time I entered a store. I'd look like a normal person in wet clothes. Way more dignified.

I visited Larry today. He's not in good shape. That lousy bed he bought off the internet is a little too small for him. I'm pretty sure it's a manufacturing defect. Don't they have a standard size for those things? How on earth did they make one that's a foot shorter than usual? And how did Larry not spot that when he bought it? So now he's stuck with a bed that's way too small and he sleeps with his feet dangling over the edge. All he needs now is a blanket that's too short for him and it'll look like he's living in a dwarf house.

A couple of people on the street gave me the weird look again today. I should really keep count of all the people I've freaked out when I think out loud. I don't see why it's so strange. I'm just mumbling to myself about the weather. They all look at me like I'm some clinically insane person. Every single time I start one of my vocal rants to myself I see people giving me that look. That look like I'm about to explode in a frenzy of madness. That look like I could jump on them at any moment and tear their facial hair off.

On the plus side, people tend to back away leaving me a clear path to walk quickly and get out of this darned rain. I guess the downside is that I won't be getting any offers to share umbrellas with strangers any time soon. I don't see what's the big deal. I was just complaining about the weather. Everyone does that at some point. Stupid sun refuses to show up. It's almost summer now and he's still on vacation. He's supposed to be out here instead of these stupid rain clouds, warming up the place. If I was in charge, I'd fire him.

As a result we have this terrible rain. It can get incredibly depressing. I must say that the 'feel good' seminar Alice took me to is actually helping in this dreary weather.

'Nothing can get you down! You make your own happiness! Stay with those positive thoughts and happiness will come right up to your doorstep!'

That man was sure enthusiastic. Some of it might have rubbed off on me actually. On the bright side, this pathetic weather isn't affecting me like it does most people. I wonder if Larry is going to kill himself if this rain keeps going.

But not me. I'm just fine.

It really ought to stop raining soon. I'm not worried. It has to stop raining eventually, right?

P.S. I'm running out of pages. I need to get a new diary.

- June 5 1969

The most beautiful girl in the world by the artiste formerly known as Prince.

Story found HERE.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8noCrJvvvA

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1403668

There was a menacing screech as the tires came to a halt at the bus stop. I warily entered through the red, rusted doors, taking particular fear from the horrid swishing of the window wipers on the glass. I cautiously handed my coins over to the driver, my heart skipping a beat as they clinked into the cold palms of his hands, and moved to sit down at the back of the bus. I tried to compose myself, only for the bus to suddenly roar a spine chilling beep as it started moving.

As I anxiously looked around my shoulders, hoping to see a friendly, warm face to reassure me, I quickly realised that the few people on the bus with me were as if stone, their eyes dark, swirling pools of emptiness. My mind began an endeavour to find my happy place. It was there that I thought I may find serenity. I imagined a beautiful tree, with a bird elegantly circling the exterior, and a squirrel on the grass with a nut.

My dread was eased for all too short a time, as my ears were suddenly being assaulted by an almighty wailing. It pierced the very depths of my soul. I tried to ignore it but to no avail, the storm clouds had gathered upon my happy place and all that was green and delightful wilted and died. I was catapulted back into reality.

It was to my surprise to find that the horrific noise was coming from nothing more than a baby. How could something so small be so spiteful as to bring me back here? The mother was urging it to quiet, shushing incessantly. The painful symphony of mother and son worsened with the addition of ear shattering bells from all directions. I had to find shelter from the nightmare, I had to get off! ‘Let me off!’ I yelled.

The bus came to a stop and awoke me from my daydream with a mocking beep. I watched as a parade of children waiting at the bus-stop skipped on board, singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ as they went. I decided not to follow them on and chose to walk instead.

Based on the dreadful nursery rhyme, the Wheels on the Bus.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fnupL42gmF4

I grabbed the steering wheel and the tyres screeched as I sped off.
I knew it was not going to be easy. The road was paved with dangers ahead. The clouds swirled ominously above and the loose gravel was causing the wheels to skid. The drivers looked angry- some had red faces and were foaming with rage. The red gateway loomed in the distance, the thorns becoming thick and gnarled as I got closer. The incline was steeper now, becoming almost a slide, steeper, until AAaRghHH!!!....................................... .......
"Highway to Hell " by AC/DC

WHERE I AM LYING [Danny BoyI][/I]
Daniel was old and grey. He had been sixteen when he last stood atop the head of Glenariff. He and his brothers used to bath in the deep dark pools of Glenariff falls. It was beautiful then and even now, as the Glens lay under a shroud of frigid winter snow; it was still beautiful. It had been autumn when last he saw the glen. From the deck of a Brig, he and many others watched ; eyes brimming with tears as Antrim's green glens faded away from view.
The famine had extolled a heavy price. Nearly a million dead and as many leaving. Ireland had become a retched gaol of death. And so it was on the day before their departure Danny's wife Mary, had died in his arms. On reaching Philadelphia Danny had worked hard and in the fullness of time he had become successful. But in all the years since Mary's death he had never met another wife, he had never sought one!
The little chapel in the bay was just as Danny had remembered . The same as on the day he and Mary had received as children their first confirmation. The same as on the day when they had exchanged vows and became husband and wife. On the eve of Mary's death as she battled with a high fever, Mary had made Danny promise to catch his Ship in the harbour at Larne. Danny's elderly Father promised to bury Mary...and so it was..that Danny left Mary a few hours after her death.
Danny knelt upon the crisp snow at the foot of Mary's grave...and prayed. He prayed by her side, every day for the next three months. He lit a candle in the Chapel every morning. Then one spring morning the Priest noticed two candles burning, he ventured outside to find Danny. And there on Mary's grave among a carpet of Snowdrops and Harebells, lay Danny.
If you ever happen by the little Chapel in the bay...find the place where they are lying...and say an ave there...for me.

Story inspired by London Bridge is falling down. I personally apologize to anyone from England, and would have it known that this story is just for fun.

The Collapse
By John Juliano

Screams echoed through the streets, drowning in the rumbling roar of stone crashing against stone. The people ran for their lives, trying to escape the debris coming from the site of the catastrophe. The noise was enough to catch her attention, and she went to the window to ascertain the situation.

“Oh dear! I do believe I should see what has happened.” The young woman quickly put on a dress and went out to the scene of the morning’s calamity. All around was the devastation the Collapse had caused. She looked on the scene with apparent horror. Those horrid bridge builders were undoubtedly to blame. This was the second time in a month! Something had to be done. Suddenly a man, a royal guard by the looks of him, came running up to her, shouting for all to hear.

“London Bridge has fallen down! London bridge has fallen down.” He ran to her, and when he reached her, leaned on his haunches to catch his breath. “London bridge has fallen down, my fair lady,” he said, once he regained his composure. The young lady looked at him with slight annoyance.

“I noticed actually. Oh whatever will we do with this old bridge. It collapses every other day it seems.” She thought for a moment, and then had an idea. “Aha! I know. That auctioneer fellow said something about a man in Arizona trying to buy tower bridge. What say we have the bridge builders fix this one up, and sell him London Bridge instead?” The guard stared for a minute, and then went off to tell the bridge builders. “Well, now that all that is taken care of, I think I’ll have some tea.”

The woman walked off, leaving the scene. Those wounded in the collapse rolled in agony until the doctor came to them. The bridge was later shipped to Arizona, where it has stood from then until now, never again to fall down.

Seperated
Inspired by 'I Will Always Love You' - Dolly Parton
(468 words)

Sixteen.
It's no age at all. To have a child now...it's not right. You're so beautiful. I don't have to be your mother to see that, but my heart aches all the same at the notion. You look like me. I don't how I can tell, but somehow I do. The small tufts of hair on your delicate head are dark, like mine. And when you peered at me before you fell to sleep, your eyes were crystal blue. Like mine, like my mother's. Your face is your father's though...on that I won't dwell. You're so small. So fragile, like the softest petal on the daintiest flower. I feel that if I pick you up, if I touch you, you'll shatter into a thousand pieces. So, how could I imagine leaving you?
The doctors and the nurses mill around. I can hear them, every now and then, their relentless footsteps against the floor. But they can't see us. I've pulled the curtain around and across, shielded us from view.
My baby girl.
I'm desperate to think of some other way, but I can't. It would be best for you if I leave now. If I stay, I'll only be in your way.
Who wants a mother that's still in school?
That has to finish their Maths homework before they can read them a bedtime story? It's not fair on you.
I would gladly give up my life for you. Sitting here, watching you, that thought rushes over me in this great wave of understanding. The problem is, I won't let you lose your chance at life so I can keep you. So I'll go. I'll leave right now and I'll never turn back. I might think of you every single step of the way. There's no might about it. I will. With every step away from you, the longing to hold you, to go screaming back, will get stronger and stronger. I will always love you. Never forget it, my princess.
Never.
I've never been one to be sloppy or sentimental. Never one for the touchy feely or for big romantic gestures. But love, pure, plain, simple, is what I feel now. My time, the time I've spent with you, if so short that bittersweet memories will be all I can take. I'll treasure them, I know, until the day I die. The doctors and nurses are quieter now. If the coast is clear, it might be my only chance. Please forgive me. Goodbye. Oh no, please don't cry, hush, hush, go back to sleep. You and I, we both know that I'm not what you need. You need something far more than a teenager like me, an irresponsible wreck, can ever give you.
But I will always love you. I will always love you. Never forget. Goodbye...

Breathe Me-Sia


Judges entry- 441 words



Katie and I laid in sleeping bags on the kitchen roof watching shooting stars. Slow wispy clouds meandered across the sky. Jealous of those clouds, the way they just wandered through life, in no hurry to fulfill their purpose. What if you never found your purpose to begin with?


“Look there's a circle around the moon. Isn't that supposed to mean something?” I asked.


“How would I know? You're the font of useless knowledge.”


Below us the crashing and screaming escalated. It wouldn't be long before one of the neighbors called the cops, again. I wish we'd stayed at Katie's house. Both of us pretended that we couldn't hear a thing and stared straight ahead at the stars.


“I have an appointment tomorrow, I was hoping you'd come with me.”


“Are you sick?” Katie rolled towards me.


“I don't know yet. It's the results from my HIV test.” I turned my head to look at her. She glowed in the moonlight, so pale, like an angel or a ghost. I'd always envied that, her ethereal quality. You couldn't pinpoint one single thing but she always seemed like she was meant for more than this world.


“I didn't know that you had even taken the test.” Her hands reached towards mine. “Are you okay?”


“I'm prepared for the worst. They don't just call you in to tell you that you are negative. They tell you that over the phone, right?” I figured that it was only fitting. I mean born from trash, die as trash.


“I don't know. It could be something else. Maybe your bloodwork turned up something else?”


The screaming had reached a crescendo and I didn't want to deal with that crap too.“Let's get out of here. Just head to the park or something.”



“Okay.”


We threw our blankets in the bedroom window and climbed down to the garage roof. Jumping off we landed just outside the fence-line.


With Katie's hand in mine we ran through the alley filled with broken bottles and dead vehicles. Sickly yellow streetlight puddled at the corners, illuminating the trash as if it was a work of fine art. Black pavement gave way to green grass and we rolled into it, breathless. With our backs to a huge oak tree we watched the cars pass by.


“I'm scared.” The tears I had been holding back all day spilled over. I curled up, knees to chest, burying my face into the dirty denim.


Katie wrapped her arms around me.“It'll be okay.” She whispered over and over again as she stroked my hair.

Me and Bobette was just coolin’ it up at the reservoir, smoking Luckys and drinking Pearl beers when it happened. Fats was playing on Bobette’s transistor and we were laughing about when a bunch of us took that new kid “snipe hunting” and left him in the corn field all night long holding that burlap bag, while he waited for us to scare some snipe into it. We didn’t give him a flashlight or nothing; he was just out in the dark all night, miles from nowhere. Man, did he ever go ape on us when we picked him up the next morning. We never heard so much cussing. But what a kick, man. That clyde was crying like a baby and said he hoped that something would crawl out of the woodwork and kill us in our sleep.
“What? Like a flesh eating monster from outer space?” I remember we laughed till we about turned purple.

“Want another Pearl, Bobette?”

“Okay, but I’m getting drunk.”

Good, cuz the drunker you get, the more I start to look like James Dean.”

“You wish.”

We started necking and I was getting all hot and bothered, trying to feel my way to her you-know- what up through all those crinolines she wears. She never tries to help me with that chore because she says it would make her feel cheap if she did, and of course, she always tells me to stop right after I touch something good. I get frosted and Bobette cries and tells me she’s sorry.

In the big middle of my useless journey on Bobette, a darkness, like a huge cloud, blocked the afternoon light and a loud thrum, thrum, thrum. Ba boom ching. Thrum, thrum, thrum. Ba boom ching resonated rhythmically through the atmosphere like a hundred giant bass guitars warming up for one unearthly recording session.
We both screamed and held our ears. We heard a crash and then a rustling in the tree above us. Then complete silence. Bobette was laying in a big ball on the ground, whimpering, covering her head with her arms, I was about to go ape shit with fear. I never been so scared and that woody I had was shot down again.

There was more rustling in the tree, and I finally got the nerve to look up. It was shadowy in there and kinda camouflaged, but suddenly looking right down at me was a huge, round, red eye. It winked. Then materialized upon a horrible, purple, scaly face. It had a long curved horn where its chin should have been and ears that looked like wings. The teeth looked like spikes that could rip me to pieces. I screamed again, like a little girl. Bobette was screaming,” It’s going to eat us” in between screeching for her daddy and the police.

“Shut up!” the thing squarked. “I come in peace. You don’t need to have a cow. I’m a Purple People Eater. Dig? ”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” I danced around frantically. “Yeah, look, see sir, our skin is pink. We do not taste purple. ”

“Duh.” it bloobed.

The purple people eater flapped its ear wings and fluttered its big horned head and spindly body down to the ground. “Don’t eat me!” I squalled again, tap dancing in place. Bobette started crawling away like a turtle trying to be incognito.

The thing lunged at me then made some cresendoing bleat that sounded like a laugh.

“Cool it, clyde. I ain’t even hungry. I came to earth to join a Rock and Roll band,” he snarggled, “Which way to stardom?”

It made a rippling gesture and a Les Paul guitar appeared in its hands. The Purp played some wild riffs on that guitar, accompanied by his horn. It sounded out of this world. I forgot everything. It’s food preference. EVERYTHING. I was cranked! That eater was cookin’.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9H_cI_WCnE Purple People Eater

Timothy was never a man of words. When he stumbled into room 412 late that night, he did not describe the rustic smell that rushed into his nostrils as corpse-like or imagine the walls being as gray as a Pompeian tomb. He didn’t even think the dust dancing in the neon light, looked like volcanic ash. Having never pursued an education further than high school, Timothy did not know what the words Pompeian or ironic meant, and probably wouldn’t have used them in a sentence together. So, when he popped out his Zippo from his jacket, Timothy was not hit by the words: dramatic foreshadowing.

The only words that hit Timothy in the doorway of 412 were abandoned and flammable.

The air was colder than a phantom’s touch, but Timothy did not shiver as stepped inside; he had numbed himself with alcohol beforehand. The idea that it was too cold briefly crossed his mind as he entered, but was quickly forgotten. He had forgotten a lot lately, including when to eat, when to go work, how much money he still owed, and how much he had to drink each night—although the last had always been typical for him. What was atypical was the level of concentration he found himself mustering in the empty room—for the first time he had a clear idea of what to do in his life. No longer would self-doubt fail him.

His success here would be his last failure.

Either possessed by that thought or by the emotion that accompanied it, Timothy began to break off the legs of the few chairs in the apartment, careful not to drop his Zippo, and piled them in neat stacks in the living room. After he had three piles, he went looking for smaller things to destroy that the former occupants had left behind: like wash cloths, blankets, and loose leaf books on lonely bookshelves.

He had always been good at destroying things: like careers, bank accounts, and the hearts of those he cared about.

A sharp pain erupted in his chest. He moved faster.

As he rushed from the bedroom and back to the living room, his footsteps echoed like bats in a cave. The only echo that came back to him, however, was her voice. Her words had been playing in his mind since she had walked out on him and off a bridge. Words like, “You won’t”, “It’s nothing to you”, “You’re addicted”, “Not anymore; can’t you see what it’s doing to me?”, and “We’re going down, can’t you see it too?” bounced around his skull. He knew what those words meant—he had brushed them aside, without feeling, to excuse his destructive lifestyle. But after he destroyed her, the feelings they evoked burnt a hole in his chest like embers through ice.

He pushed the dry wood and paper into one big pile. If Timothy had known anything about Italian geography, he would have identified its shape as similar to that of Mount Vesuvius. If he had known anything about the Romans, he would have said, “It’s my funeral pyre.”

Instead, he dropped the Zippo onto the kindling.

The light vanished for a quick second and then erupted into flames. The dry wood caught quickly, intensifying the red neon glow that poured through the windows into a blinding orange blaze. He closed his eyes.

When he reopened him the inferno had surrounded him. Knots of wood crackled violently, fire scorched his skin, and smoke filled his lungs. He didn’t notice any of it—only her.
She stood in the center of the room—tears in her eyes, a puddle at her feet. “Can you see me, now?”

“Baby, you're the only light I ever saw.”

As the room burned around them, he took her in his arms and they slow danced together until they became nothing but dust dancing in the light.

***
Inspired by: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer.

Okay, I left it a bit late, but no big, this thread is now closed!

Judges - All yours.