Guess that song

I belong to a writers’ group here in Madrid. It’s not your usual writers’ group — or at least my usual-in-the-past writers’ group — where you sit around, listen to people read their work aloud, and then try to critique it without sounding like a complete asshole. No, in this writers group we actually write. We get together on the second floor of a Madrid bar, nurse our cañas, and create masterpieces in response to various prompts and exercises. Then we read them aloud. There is no critiquing although depending on the kind of nods you get from your subgroup, you either keep what you’ve written and develop it further or you hide it in the same place where you’ve stashed your adolescent love poetry (full disclosure: I’ve destroyed mine years ago).

I never post what I’ve written during those meetings on my blog because I either think it’s complete crap or I am delusional and I am hoping to develop it further into a publishable story (so far I’ve developed one and since that one ended up being shortlisted in a contest I think ratio wise of stories-developed to stories-published I am doing exceptionally well).

But today I am going to post what I wrote last night. The prompt was fun and I think it makes for an interesting game. So, ready?

Prompt: Write something that’s inspired by a song — any song — and then let your listeners guess the name of the artist and the name of the song

He’ll make it dark, he decided. And he’ll make it stormy. He’ll make it so that anyone looking at it would step back afraid of gushing water and rising tide. The boat, reddish in the light of a blood moon, will protrude far enough to make its intention of escape real. And the woman — the dark-haired, green-eyed woman in the boat — will stare out as if this frame and this canvas were her last frontier.

He didn’t have much time. The museum wanted the piece in two months and oil dries slowly. The exhibition, they told him, was about run away realities, worlds in oblivion, and pieces stuck in limbo forever. A boat with a woman, who wanted to flee but never could, would fit right in.

(This is my first draft, everyone. Completely unedited. So no sneering please).

Post your guesses in comments. Your prize for being the first to get it right is a first class ticket to Spain, a night in a royal palace, a dinner with either Real Madrid or Barça, and the sweet feeling of knowing that you won.

Just kidding. You only get the sweet feeling. (And maybe a caña if you ever make it to Madrid Writers Club).

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