Flash Fiction Challenge: Song Shuffle Stories

Some administrative stuff — first, don’t hesitate to run your eyeballs over last week’s challenge, “Revenge Of The The Sub-Genre Mash-Up.” Some very cool and bizarre-o stories there that deserve your unswerving gaze. Second, regarding Blackbloom: Blackbloom is not dead, but I am putting it on hold in order to take a look at some new ways of handling it. Not only were the last two challenges a bit wan in terms of content but my time as of late is busy enough where it’s difficult for me to properly give the challenge the time it deserves. Oh, and I worry that it took the focus off the flash fiction challenges too much by alternating week to week? I don’t know. More on that soon-ish, I hope.

This week’s challenge is based off of music.

Your music, actually.

Go to Your Favorite Music Player. Dig out your digital music collection.

Maybe this is iTunes or Spotify, or use Pandora if you’d rather go that way.

Hit SHUFFLE, then “Play.”

Meaning, let a random song come bubbling up out of nothing.

The title to this song is the title to your story.

Use the song for inspiration, too, if you feel so inclined.

Let’s tighten up the word count a little, too —

You only have 500 words this time.

Once again, the deadline is a week: noon EST on Friday (DUN DUN DUN) the 13th. Any genre will do. Post at your blog or whatever Internet space you’ve carved out, and link here so we can all come gaze at your fictional offerings on the terribleminds altar. Some folks ask what they do if they don’t have a blog? You can post direct to comments here, but that often looks shitty in terms of formatting. You can try Google+ or Tumblr. Or, get an easy Blogspot or WordPress blog on a lark.

Crank some tunes. Splatter some ink.

See you on the other side.

115 responses to “Flash Fiction Challenge: Song Shuffle Stories”

  1. iTunes shuffle gave me: Send in The Clowns by The Tiger Lilies

    “Jesus, Sam! Would you shut up already? I can’t type with your jabbering!”

    Sam retorts, sulkily. The usual rot: how it’s hardly his fault I lack talent and can’t string a decent sentence. Which leads, invariably to the usual name calling, threats and flying mug – frustrated coup de grace, rah-rah resorting to violence. Not that it helps – he just laughs.

    24/7, 365 and the full quarter, Sam talks non-bloody-stop. I had quit my job after the first week – my colleagues freaked out over my seemingly erratic explosions. A few unfortunate fiascos with strangers forced me indoors and my girl split after he conned me into talking dirty (he’s wrong: not all women think it’s hot). That was about 15 years ago. He’s been helpful, however, when it comes to writing. Got ideas coming out of his wazoo, does he. Not that it wasn’t a fight in the beginning – I wanted to be a writer myself and though Sam could help, like an assistant or something but he shot that down fast. Whenever I scratched out a storyline, he tore huge holes in it, critiqued every fucking word (harshly, I might add) until after 5 days on relentless sarcasm, I threw in the pen and I gave up. Sam tells me the story and I type it down. Sometimes he lets me add a detail or two but mostly I’m his scribe. Once I got over the humiliation, I saw the sweet side: he’s got a wild imagination leftover from his carny days and weaves together impossible tales with the help of a posse of unlikely protagonists (like his last: a tin opener). Which guarantees me an interesting time pushing pens and pumping keys. And people seem to go for that sh*t. Had I been the one writing, the readerly public would be wading through be romantic swill about vampires, werewolves and a prepubescent teenager. Up against a psycho “opener” who rips the lids off gangster cans of Campbell’s… well, there no comparison is there? His stories sold and the books bounced across the globe. I became a celebrity. Which was kinda cool, don’t read me wrong, but stuck in this house I hardly enjoyed my fame.

    Now, I’m tired. Only so much dictation a man can take in his life before it gives him cranial cramp or carpal tunnel or something depressing. I’ve done my time, put in a good decade plus as penmonkey for this joker.


    “Feeling lucky, Sam?”

    I suck the slick barrel, hammer coldly cocked.

    “Jesus, Chuck. Calm down!”

    The trigger tingles – I’m tired of talking, typing and taking orders. From a clown. Yeah, it’s probably a bit extreme but I then I always hated the circus.

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