It’s story time!

Posted byChico’s MomPosted inIt’s story time, UncategorizedTags:, , , ,

Your story or poem can be as long or as short as you want it to be. All four pieces below have to be used. Go wild. 

The only thing is, you can’t kill your main character. 

Post your work in the comments below. Feel free to tag and share. 

Here are your story lines:

1 sports car

2 phone call at 3 a.m. 

3 celebrity stalker

4 violinist

   

Published by Chico’s Mom

Thanks for visiting. My blog has lots of different styles: drawing, painting, photography, stories and poetry.

13 thoughts on “It’s story time!”

  1. The woman who moved into my old house was a violinist with the London Philharmonic. She’d moved to our town as a single mum so she could be near the school where her daughter was studying dance.

    They are, by all accounts, lovely people. We still talk with our old neighbours. Arts-focused, polite and discreet. I hope they have as wonderful a time in the mill worker’s cottage as my wife and I did before we outgrew it.

    And the school of dance in the old mansion house across town has quite the reputation. Its alumni include many a world-famous English actress and performer, with credits ranging as widely as the ROH, Star Wars and Downton Abbey.

    I do wonder if there is a correlation between this performing arts school at one end of the town and the repeated use of the hill and valley at the other. They so regularly get used for location shoots for major television and cinema productions.

    It’s not considered unusual to see A-listers roaring through our sleepy, picturesque English town in their sports cars or popping into The Robin Hood for a meal. They’d struggle to get a seat on quiz night, though.

    Doug did once joke that he was being stalked by Helen Mirren because he’d run into her three times in a week. Once at the post office, then at the farmers’ market, and finally in the pub. But not on quiz night.

    He said he wouldn’t be pressing charges, however.

    One Saturday night I got an early-hours phone call from my old mate Doug telling me to meet him at 3 a.m. on top of Paul’s Knob (the locals’ name for the hill) because the meteor shower happening up there “Right now Mate” was unlike any he’d seen before. It was super exciting. I pulled on my boots and coat and headed up to the top of the town to join him with his telescope.

    There were already a dozen stargazers atop the largest of the three rises, with their various scopes all set for the most impressive showing of the Perseids in years. Up here, out of the reach of the town’s street lamps, the sky was like a special effects department had left a slow-motion camera rolling in a firework box with a lit match inside.

    As streaks of white light split the sky in all directions, I marvelled at the show. Doug is always like a big kid on nights like this. He and the other Sky Botherers whooped and cheered and set cameras to try to capture some of this majesty.

    I just soaked it in. Arms open, head back, watching the universe stroke our atmosphere and put on a sky dance.

    It was only a couple of minutes after the first intense burst that I heard the music.

    A lone violin.

    Slowly at first, singing out long, aching notes. Then a melody that felt folky but celebratory.

    The player stood on the next rise. I could barely see her in the dark, but she was there. A woman with her instrument, playing to the night sky, and beside her a girl dancing for the meteor shower above them.

    I’ve still never met the people who moved into our old house.

    But I sure do think I like them a lot.

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  2. “No, no, no,” I muttered under my breath. “No,” by way of added punctuation.

    “What?” my roommate passed me a whiskey, neat.

    I had him look through the crack of the drapes. He raised a hand to part them further. I stopped him, of course.

    Leaning back, his own tumbler in hand. “A sports car. So what?”

    “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

    “There was a violinist in the yard.”

    He shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger.”

    Violin music rose up into the night. I groaned.

    “Okay,” my roommate said. “Now that is unexpected. It’s three a.m. Hardly the time to play a violin in the front yard.”

    “You think?”

    “Who do you think it is?”

    “I don’t have to think. I know.”

    “Wut? Explain.”

    “You know what a celebrity stalker is, right?”

    “Of course.”

    “That there, in the car, is the famous actor, Esme Landray.”

    “That cute one from—“

    “Yes.”

    “You’re stalking her?”

    “No. She’s stalking me.”

    My cellphone rang. I groaned again. I considered not answering, but then she’d start singing at the top of her lungs in the front yard to whatever song the violinist was performing. Probably something from a recent of-broadway musical…

    I answered my phone. What else was I supposed to do?

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