100 Words Plus A Sentence… & Some Bubblemen To Boot

I love Professor SAM. In part because we talk about things outside of class like tattoo designs. I love her, and not just in an effort to snag a 4.0 for the semester. I love Professor SAM, and would invite you all to play along with her thought-provoking Master Class prompt. Think writing 100 words or so about a picture is challenging? Try making someone else’s words your own, without a hiccup in your story, and see if you’re not hooked almost immediately!

That said, here’s this week’s Master Class 2013 and Friday Fictioneers mash-up.

And no, I’ve no earthly idea how it was that these two prompts seemed like such a natural fit to me…

Copyright - Jennifer Pendergast

Copyright – Jennifer Pendergast

Such big, beautiful eyes!

Such a full body!

Such sweet sin awaiting, should she take notice of me.

Mmmm, the way those wings shimmer…

I make my way over.

Cautiously, as not to frighten, “Ummm, hello…?”

A question or a statement? Don’t be a fool – make your play, man!

HELLO!!!

Too much. Still, she smiles while looking over.

I sense the stirrings, faint but unmistakable, of an afternoon delight.

Slowly she swivels closer.

Closer still.

Close enough to realize that I’m not “like” her. No, not enough.

Watching her hurriedly fly off, my pride’s stung as I wonder – when will this ridiculous belief that bee can’t hive with wasp ever be squashed?

•••

This week’s sentence prompt came from page 55 of the 5th book in on my shelf (it’s a church pew actually), 5th line down: Jean Shepherd’s “A Christmas Story.” And while not exactly in keeping with the motif of the remainder of the post, I’m ending today with the song below, partially because I couldn’t find “Waspy” by The Bolshoi, and partially because – quite honestly – when will I ever even come this close to having a tie-in for it again?

501 Words Plus A Sentence… the Daily Prompt edition

I am using a recent Daily Prompt Challenge to hopefully introduce you to a wonderful exercise I’ve had the pleasure of being involved with, in Master Class 2013. I decided to do so, simply because the Prompt asked us to do what Master Class does every week. Take a random sentence from a piece of literature (or sometimes music), and wrap a post around it.  I hope you come play along with both, and as always, your feedback is appreciated!

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Rossamund was a boy with a girl’s name.

And no, not anything like “Sue.” Because “Sue” would’ve been too easy. “Sue” would’ve had the children laughing at Rossamund over a staid old Johnny Cash song, though none of them would’ve realized it in the first.

A name like “Sue” would have had them delighting, similar to the way that they did over the girl who decided to call herself “Johnny.” And she did so, only after she’d been liberated by the character in the Waterboys song of the same name. A character that could not be laughed at, as she had made a decision, a conscious choice – versus being simply thrown under some linguistic bus.

So they called him “Rossa,” the stupid kids, they did. Not because they were sure they could, but simply because it sounded hateful and racist enough. And they pulled on his every heart string and physical attribute, to make him aware of their hatred of him.

A hatred, mind you, that grew out of a name. Simply a name, misplaced. A name that, had it been assigned to a person with the correct bits, wouldn’t have been an issue at all.

Johnny felt for him, she always had, even before she had reborn herself. But Rossa – well, Rossamund – was having none of her “pity.” To him, it was all a waste. A sham. To him, all she could offer was a little piece of inconsequential peace, in a vast ocean of hate and ignorance.

No, for him, it wouldn’t be all right until he saw his name in lights. Not until he was standing proudly atop of – well – atop of whatever it is that is the highest thing you can stick on a Goddamned stage. Standing upon it, and dazzling his audience with the greatest magic ever known. Or the most heartbreaking song. Or the funniest joke, or whatever. He didn’t really give a good flip HOW he was going to achieve his fame, that Rossamund. Not really. Not as long as his name, HIS name – “MR. Rossamund Laura” – was the one that was up there in the marquee, and drawing in crowds like head lice to a Bee Gees buffet.

Of course poor Rossa – well – Rossamund, never was quite able to come to grips with the fact that mere dreams weren’t the same thing as effort, and cockiness wasn’t nearly the same thing as confidence. And talent? Well, you sorta had to have some – if even just a bit – in order to draw in them crowds. As a result, he would never see his name in lights. Well, that’s not entirely true. He did get to see at least a bit, after Johnny had asked to borrow a slice of it to help aid her in her career, seeing as she felt that “ MZ. Johnny Rossamund” had just about the perfect ring to it. And while the name alone didn’t bring in the boys, the skills she possessed, whether it be on the pole or the lap – well  – it sure as hell kept them there, at least.

•••

Professor SAM asked Doodle to choose the prompt for today, from D.M. Cornish’s Monster Blood Tattoo Book 1: Founding

Briefly… 100 Words Plus A Sentence

Wait… is this my first-ever 100 Word Song AND Master Class 2013 Mash Up?

Hot damn, I think it is. But you tell me – as I’d love to know if you’ve been paying attention. Lord knows I haven’t…

Anywho – I saw both challenges, and just knew that I had to make them work together (in part, because I had no earthly idea what to do with them individually!) I hope it worked out in the end. And I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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“Do-ya mind… iffff I play tha ukulele?”

He slurred it to no one in particular, as he sat alone, drunk on the park bench. While playing, some pigeons waddled over to inspect it, his efforts, that is. Finding his talent lacking (and he without bread), they went their way; wreaking a havoc different than his upon people simply trying to enjoy themselves – sans pigeons and the homeless.

But he was no mere homeless. No, He was the Savior. The Messiah. The King returned to His people.

Sadly, neither the people, nor the pigeons, nor even himself knew all that. And as such, the world just continued to tip.

•••

This week’s song was chosen by Deana: “Tight Rope” by Janelle Monae

And Prof “asked Lexy to choose any book and give me a 10:” from the 10th page of Terry Pratchett’s “Mort.”

228 Words Plus A Sentence

They call me scrapper.

What?

They call me scrapper.

Now why in the fuck would they call you that?

Don’t know. Just do.

Well, hell, Ain’t nothing scrappy ‘bout you. When’d they start?

Start what?

Start calling ya that, “Scrapper?”

Not sure.

Did ya used to get into fights?

Nope.

Wear rags?

What?

Wear rags? Did your clothes used to be all tattered n’ such?

Ha-ha, no.

Damdendst thing then, them calling you that. Sheez, “scrapper.”

Yup.

Hey, did ya ever happen to ask them where they got the name from?

Nope.

Well, why not?

Well, cuz they was all in my head anyway.

Now wait a… WHAT?

Yeah, they was all in my head anyway.

Who?

The folk that done called me that. They was all living up in my head, see?

Well now, why in the hoot didn’t’ you tell me that before?

Don’t know.

Don’t know??

Don’t know.

Well I’ll be…

Yep. So ya see, asking them why they called me that would be just like asking me, I suppose.

Well… there is that. A whole ball a fuck if ya ask me, but there is that. So, did you ask you?

Sure did.

And?

And what?

And whadya answer with, DAMMIT?

Whelp, all that I could really come up with was what they said at the start.

You mean, your answer was…

Yep, just that, “they call me scrapper.”

•••

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It’s not often that a prompt comes along so perfectly suited to aid me in my long(ish) term goal of using it at both the beginning and the end of the story. This week’s entry for Master Class 2013 finally(ish) realizes that dream. I hope you enjoyed this little trip down the Southernmost section of the rolling trail of the unexpected, and I hope y’all come back now, ya here?

Now, here’s another scrapper. One with a similar problem…

490 Words Plus A Sentence, AND One More To Boot.

I think I’m missing an assignment, but the Prof promised me extra credit, as long as I really “brought it” this week.

Damn. I could’ve used that extra credit…

Anywho, this week’s Master Class 2013 assignment had a bit of a switch in it, in that the prompt came from a song instead of a work of literature; to be used at the end of the submission. As such, and after reading the prompt, I decided to put one more switch into place, and also included a lyric at the beginning. One that was prompted by the prompt. Make sense?

Probably not. Regardless, I hope you enjoy, and invite you to please click on the MC2013 link above, in order to join in on the fun! You know you wanna…

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I’m standing in a line with a dirty mind. Clean it up on Sunday morning.

Yeah, yeah. Gotta go to Big God’s house today. Better clean up. Hide everything… get all the “stuff” put away. Yeah. He’ll never see it up there, tucked way away in the corner of my filthy little mind. All the things I want, all the things I crave. All the things I need, all the things I think would fulfill me. All the things that He said I can’t have, after He created them. Yeah, grab all that shit and hide it away.

Yeah. Put all that shit away. Just put it away, boy-O. No one, but no one, needs to know about all that. They don’t wanna know that you like it a little rough sometimes. No. Just sit there looking pretty. They don’t need to know that your first time wasn’t with the right sex. Oh, hell no! Just sit there with your eyes glued to the pulpit. They don’t wanna hear that you sometimes wish you could dress out here, the way that you dress behind closed doors. They don’t wanna know. They can’t bear to know the person that God made ya to be. They can’t stomach knowing how often you wanna share your love, and with how many different types you wanna share it. No. That would disgust them. They only wanna see the pin-striped, straight-jacketed version of the body that you deny weekly, all in an effort to appease them and their rules. To appease Him. Yeah. That’s what they want. That’s what He wants. Why’d He make you otherwise? Who knows? Cross-to-bear shit, I would imagine.

It don’t matter much. It’s His game, not mine. And every drop of sunshine he lets in, just confuses me more. I mean, why’d He give me these glimpses of happiness, only to have His tool of a shepherd-man tell me it’s all wrong, raining on the very parade He started? Gotta be cross-to-bear shit, man. Gotta be.

So you go on denying. You go on pretending that it’s girls you like, and white lace, and picket fences in the moonlight. You make sure you rough up your brows, just so no one notices that they look a little too nice otherwise. You keep grinning with that same stupid-ass grin you slather on your face every Sunday morning. The same stupid-ass grin your daddy slathered on his face before you. You grin it, and you ignore every last nerve inside of you, screaming to God for freedom in a world that He created, and then gave over to the power-hungry, the homophobes and the pricks.

I mean, why not, right? Cross-to-bear shit, man, cross-to-bear. Besides, it ain’t gonna rain unless it pours anyway. Until then, there’ll be no sun, and no rain. Just constant and oppressive pin-striped straight-jacketed grey. So what’s the point? Like daddy used to spit out through his stupid ass grin, well before the day he blew out his denial-doused brains, “No umbrellas, no sunglasses, hell and hallelujah everyday,” right?

•••

This week’s prompt came from Incubus’ “If Not Now, When?” and the subsequent prompt to the prompt came from The Bolshoi’s “Sunday Morning.” That’s right kids, that means it’s a double song day bonus!