I once read a prompt that basically said, write a story based on one random photo. The cliche "a picture speaks a thousand words" is true, but with a premise of someone else's real image, you can create a universe totally different from the original.
These will be called "small stories" instead of short stories, because they have as much of an untold past as well as a possible future. They're just snippets.
----------------
My last evening in that town, I wanted to give the amphitheater one last moment of my attention. I figured it could use some company from someone who knew it well.
The entire space was abandoned as usual except for a singular man in the center of the spiral with an old guitar hanging from his shoulders. I silently took a seat - near enough to hear his singing, but far enough to let him do his thing. He was playing so intently that his eyes were closed tight and he didn't notice me. I thought he was going to break a string with how wildly he was strumming. He finished his song with a wide stroke of his arm and as the final notes faded away, I clapped.
His eyes flew open. "Hi there!" he called out in surprise. His voice projected well.
"Hello." I smiled back uncertainly.
"I was waiting for someone to show up."
"Don't you know that no one plays here anymore? They haven't for years."
"I figured so. This place is a real ghost town." he surveyed the sea of empty seats. "But it makes it perfect for my experiment."
"And what would that be?"
"If my music is truly any good, then anyone who hears it will want to stop and listen."
"Shouldn't you do that in a place with more foot traffic?"
He put his hands on his hips and squinted against the sun to tried to make out my expression. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
"... Should I?"
"I'm a famous musician, you know! I can't just go play on a street corner; I would get mobbed by all my fans."
"Oh," I smirked. "Well then this town is honored to have you. But no one gives their time, even if it is free."
"Everyone except you."
I shrugged. "I'm not exactly a replacement for a giant screaming audience."
The famous musician earnestly shook his head. "This reminds me of how things used to be. Back in the day, I couldn't be heard even if my music was golden. Now, I feel like it's the opposite. Even if my songs are rubbish, people convince themselves that it's genius."
"Sounds like a dilemma." I muttered wryly. It sure was the stamp of a romantic to think that their past struggles were worth re-living once the lessons were already learned.
He raised a hand. "Okay, let me rephrase that. I... would really appreciate it if you gave me your honest opinion. Did that song just now sound any good?"
"I would need to hear it from start to finish to fairly decide."
"Do you want me to play it again?"
"Sure. Is it one of your popular songs?"
"No, I've actually never let anyone hear it. It's pretty different from what made me successful, so I've been worried that people wouldn't believe it's really me."
I leaned in curiously. "Well... I'm listening."
He beamed nervously, gazed back down at his guitar in search of something, and began once more.
The entire space was abandoned as usual except for a singular man in the center of the spiral with an old guitar hanging from his shoulders. I silently took a seat - near enough to hear his singing, but far enough to let him do his thing. He was playing so intently that his eyes were closed tight and he didn't notice me. I thought he was going to break a string with how wildly he was strumming. He finished his song with a wide stroke of his arm and as the final notes faded away, I clapped.
His eyes flew open. "Hi there!" he called out in surprise. His voice projected well.
"Hello." I smiled back uncertainly.
"I was waiting for someone to show up."
"Don't you know that no one plays here anymore? They haven't for years."
"I figured so. This place is a real ghost town." he surveyed the sea of empty seats. "But it makes it perfect for my experiment."
"And what would that be?"
"If my music is truly any good, then anyone who hears it will want to stop and listen."
"Shouldn't you do that in a place with more foot traffic?"
He put his hands on his hips and squinted against the sun to tried to make out my expression. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
"... Should I?"
"I'm a famous musician, you know! I can't just go play on a street corner; I would get mobbed by all my fans."
"Oh," I smirked. "Well then this town is honored to have you. But no one gives their time, even if it is free."
"Everyone except you."
I shrugged. "I'm not exactly a replacement for a giant screaming audience."
The famous musician earnestly shook his head. "This reminds me of how things used to be. Back in the day, I couldn't be heard even if my music was golden. Now, I feel like it's the opposite. Even if my songs are rubbish, people convince themselves that it's genius."
"Sounds like a dilemma." I muttered wryly. It sure was the stamp of a romantic to think that their past struggles were worth re-living once the lessons were already learned.
He raised a hand. "Okay, let me rephrase that. I... would really appreciate it if you gave me your honest opinion. Did that song just now sound any good?"
"I would need to hear it from start to finish to fairly decide."
"Do you want me to play it again?"
"Sure. Is it one of your popular songs?"
"No, I've actually never let anyone hear it. It's pretty different from what made me successful, so I've been worried that people wouldn't believe it's really me."
I leaned in curiously. "Well... I'm listening."
He beamed nervously, gazed back down at his guitar in search of something, and began once more.
