The exercise:
Today we're going to use song titles as the inspiration for our writing. But not just any song titles. I want you to pick one of the songs on this list of the worst song titles ever.
Worlds and worlds and worlds of possibilities in there.
This morning we got a late message from the restaurant we supply, asking for ten pounds of strawberries. As it was our first order from them I decided to make the effort to fill it and the cooks seemed suitably impressed with our berries.
I'm saving the rest of those bad boys for our market pick tomorrow morning though.
Mine:
I Changed Her Oil, She Changed My Life
The smell of grease and exhaust lingers still, residing in coveralls and rags, lurking beneath fingernails. I hear the rumble of an idling engine in the silent hours before midnight, guiding me toward comforting dreams.
Fingers twitch when they find themselves unused, grasping for tools long since put away. Mufflers and brake lines occupy the corners of my eyes, always disappearing when I turn my head to get a better view. I keep on turning, though. Can't seem to stop myself.
It's been years, so many years since I left that life behind. Seems like that life isn't ready to leave me quite so easily. But that's all right, that's just fine.
I don't regret my choice.
Honest.
3 comments:
That's quite a list... they all look like C&W though! Surely rock or punk or some other genre must have produced some bad song titles at some point (e.g. anything ever recorded by Meat Loaf)?
I like yours, it's rather positive! There's a lovely sense of longing hiding beneath the words too, it's a treat to read.
You're the reason our kids are so ugly
You can see me through the window, I know. I shouldn't keep looking, but I can't help myself. I can't see you without seeing Tony, Elsa, and Raine, and I can't think about them without tears coming to my eyes. And you never react to the tears.
It was a Thursday. I was home early; the Product had actually completed on time, and so all the contigency I'd added in, all the excuses I'd prepared for, weren't needed. We made the announcement, modestly accepted a cheer and a handshake, and we left early. A bonus-in-kind for a job well done.
The gravel on the drive crunched under the wheels of the car as I turned in. It sounded loud to me, but you never heard it. I was almost whistling as I walked to the front door, and looking back I can't understand why I wasn't. If I had been you would have heard. You might have had time....
Key in the lock. I wake up hearing that snick sound echoing over and over again, the remnant of a dream that won't let me remember it. My hands are clenched into tight, white fists; my nails draw blood from the palms of my hands. I have so many tiny scars there now, like some kind of skin disease.
I could hear the whimpering as I came into the hall, and I still don't understand why they weren't screaming. Then I opened the kitchen door, and there they were, sat at the table, their hands tied in front of them, and you were bending over them with a knife.
You're the reason our children are so ugly.
Please read in your best southern accent…
I head stories about my Mama from my old school friend, Caroline Banks Beaumont. Caroline said her Mamie, who is as old as the South is free, said my Mama used to come around and visit Caroline’s uncle, Reginald Carter Beaumont. Mr. Beau (as we all called him) owns all of Caroline Avenue in Downtown Beaumont with Caroline’s Daddy. Two stories I heard is that she was caught with Mr. Beau in the water tower one time, and there was suspicion she was quite unladylike at her debutant ball of 1947 again with Mr. Beau. Now, I have it on good authority that it was not Mama caught in a compromising way with Mr. Beau though he was indeed her escort. I heard that may have been Babs Laughlin. I know her daughter Mary Kate, and I believe this could be true if the ol’ saying “the apple doesn’t fall from the tree” saying is true. In any case, Mama doesn’t do much except drink tea with the ladies, organize committees for everything in town, and run me ragged with southern lady etiquette. I tried asking her, discreetly mind you, whether or not these stories were true. Well, she sent me right off to visit our minister’s wife to discuss gossip every afternoon for 3 and a half weeks. She did later ask where I heard these things, and I told her. Well, that same school friend, Caroline Banks Beaumont told me that my Mama came to her house, and behind the tearoom doors she heard a little whispering. Then she heard them call for Mamie. She was sent to her room at that point and didn’t hear anymore, but the next day I asked Mamie about it. I said “Mamie, what did Mama want with you?” She said, “Child, I goin’ hell talkin’ you about ya Mama. I won’t be doin’ that ‘gain.” I said, “Mamie, really! The only one going way down south to the Devil’s lair is Mama for raising H E Double Hockey sticks in this here town!” Well, Mamie said, “Child, The Only Hell Mama Ever Raised was you.”
And that was the last I ever heard Mamie speak of Mama.
Greg - yeah, I was disappointed when my searches did not yield more varying results. Or at least a few more songs that I'd actually heard of - at least that I could listen to online somewhere.
Good lord, that's cringe inducing stuff. Brilliantly crafted, but (and?) it gives me chills.
Mo - that was a fun read! And a great take on that song title too :)
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