What happens when the music stops?
That’s the question that popped into my mind when I saw the picture this week. I hope my take is original, I do try, darlings.
What is this? Oh, right — Friday Fictioneers — every Wednesday, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts a picture and prompts participants to pick a perspective and pen a poem or piece of prose that portrays pickled peppers that Peter Piper picked… or, you know, something else, so long as it’s around 100 words. Rochelle’s really nice, and won’t chide you if you go over, but I think you’ll carry the shame personally for the rest of your natural life.
Feel free to read but not participate, but if you participate, it’s my opinion that you should do your best to read others’ work as well, but don’t feel bad if you don’t get to ALL of them — that’s quite a chore, and I confess I’ve only read every single one maybe 7 times out of 10.
But you can find them all HERE if you want to give it a whirl.
And now, without further ado about nothing except a Twelfth Night reference:
“I’m starving,” she said, wiping a tear away.
Her husband wrung his hands but was silent.
“I used to hang on your every phrase, and you would linger over every note until I had my fill. There was nothing more delicious than an afternoon with you. But now…”
She paused and looked at his face, which she had kissed hungrily a thousand times until she was sated.
“Now I’m so hungry,” she said. “And all the music has gone quiet.”
“You didn’t always speak in metaphors,” he said, sadly sighing.
“You weren’t always so obtuse,” she replied, her passion dying.
100 words precisely.
Patricia from highfiveandraspberries’ story Keyboard Blues was wonderfully written and hilarious.