PAGE 2 of FLASH FICTION - BOOK TITLES

PLEASE REMEMBER THERE ARE TWO PAGES THIS MONTH.

PLEASE CLICK HERE FOR PAGE 1

“Right girl, you’ve got this”, Jodie muttered to herself as she looped the guitar strap over the head. She stared at herself in the mirror trying not to feel self-conscious. “It’s like riding a bike…”

“Ready?” Mark asked poking his head around the door, “Five minutes to go and I can see the old gang in the front row already.”

She smiled at his familiar face, his long hair falling into his eyes in the same way it did nearly 30 years ago. His bright blue eyes were now lined but still twinkled mischievously. 

“You look great babe,” he winked at her;  “like no time has passed.”

She smiled at her husband gratefully, knowing the truth of how different she looked. When she had seen her old friends earlier, they had tried unsuccessfully to hide their looks of shock at her altered appearance.  

She adjusted the strap again, feeling more confident as the weight of the instrument rested against her chest. 

As she heard the long-forgotten sounds of musicians warming up, the backstage bustle of familiar vocal exercises and colourful language, she could hardly believe she was here. She hadn’t dared to believe the nurses who had held her hands and her head as nausea from the chemotherapy racked her body. They had told her to keep hold of her of her dreams of singing again.

Earlier that afternoon she had walked with Mark along the Pier to quell her nerves. The smell of fish and chips took her back to their early dating days when he would meet her before starting his night shift as a junior doctor at Brighton Hospital. Jodie was temping in an advertising agency and moonlighting in the Seafront Café at night and although many years had  passed the smell always took her back to her leather-wearing rock chick days.

Mark had made her laugh by referring to himself as a “middle aged groupie”, putting his fingers up in a jokey “Rockstar” pose. His easy laugh belying the many days and sleepless nights he’d spent on hospital chairs watching her anxiously.  Their two daughters were farmed out to friends and neighbours who then dropped off food and ironed their school uniforms.

Mark had given her the classic Stratocaster during her final round of chemotherapy saying that he wanted to see her headlining at the old café. 

“I’m so proud of you babe”, he said now as the chatter from the audience intensified. Jodie could picture her friends and family in the front row: her friends rapidly getting stuck into their glasses of Prosecco and G&Ts and her girls giddy at the thought of Mum being on stage. 

She rubbed her hands over her newly shorn hair, which was dyed bright pink. It was disconcerting at first, but now she was glad of the change signifying a fresh start.

She nodded at Mark, smiling broadly. “Yep, this old girl is ready to rock!"

Author's Note: Based on the book Brighton Rock by Graham Greene

Golden fingers creep the curtain from below

To tinker at the horizon’s edge

A quiet interlude

Anticipation

A tuning up.

Then heavenwards shoots and weaves a celestial trellis 

A filigree of burnished light that bursts from high

To explode and fill the eastern sky

With vermillion, scarlet, tangerine and rose.

It’s daybreak.

Dawning.

And so, the yawning world comes alive

To stretch 

And shake the mantle of the night

To fling it to the furthest corner of the universe. 

To banish it from sight.

At home

There is a stirring 

The pad of slippers on the stair

The sound of kettles, spoons, toasters, plates, and dormant wirelesses come-alive

Blackbirds, robins, mewling babes

The rolling out of bins

Morning smells

Of bacon and of toast 

Twitch the nostrils, 

They raise the spirits, fill the house, and draw the risen to the table

Car doors slam

A jarring syncopation

As quiet streets start to fill

With traffic that crawls, coughs, then catches its breath

In a gasping logjam brought to a slowing, eddying, stop.

The air lies heavy with man-made clouds 

The unseen now made visible

Suffused with tastes

That chase away the morning meal.

The noontide sun

A shadow of its former self

Peers down from height

Small, diminished, and almost white

The glories of its golden birth 

Snatched

And lost to mobile phones.

Lunchtime sounds:

The shouts and squeals of schoolyard games, of workers’ gab, and orders at the bar, 

Of radio news, the screech of brakes, motorcycle, bus and car

Then back to work.

Quiet hum of conditioned air, coffee mugs and biscuit tins, 

Desktops lost to paper piles

In, out, pending

The chit and chat of office life

Clock hands seem not to turn

But the workday ticks towards its ending.

And so for home

The traffic’s reeling in 

Reversed

The stop 

The start

The door

The key

The glass of wine

Familiar smells, a favourite chair

To sit, eyes closed, to slump

In the cooling evening air.

The jumper’s on

As lengthening shadows 

Distance from the sun

And branches stretch their reach

Grey flickering flames

They creep the lawn

And silently climb the bricks.

Decision made:  

key turns 

lock clicks

the swish of curtains drawn.

The evening settles like an old settee

Stuffed 

With dishwasher sounds that turn and tumble

A jumble of soaps, rock, arguments, and laughs

A dib, a dab, 

Of whispered news

A painter’s palette 

Of oohs, and ahs, and well-I-nevers

Colour added.

Impressions made.

Now yawning and stretching again return 

Watches checked

The duvet beckons

and 

one

by

one 

the

lights

go

out.

As night-time falls

Slippers climb 

And peace descends upon the close.

But beyond the pane

In shadowed alleys concealed

Or bathed in lunar lambent glow

Or in neon starkness caught 

The darkness brings

A new dawning.

The bark of fox, the cry of owl,

Alarm and siren

A chained dog’s howl

The smash of crockery…

To fill whatever time

Remains of the day.

Author's Note: Inspired by The Remains of the Day (Kazuo Ishiguro)

        In the silent, studio the spotlights created the familiar silhouette of two figures in comfortable armchairs. The control room concluded the countdown to another recording.

“It’s 8pm on a Friday evening,” the voice over stated. “Good Evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to ‘Meet the Author!’ with Martin Hart.”

The host winked at his guest while the theme music played. The guest took a very deep shaky breath. One of the camera’s showed a red recording light and Martin began his introduction.

“Tonight’s guest is the author of twenty-four murder mysteries, many of which have topped the Times’ Best Seller List for several weeks individually. This year he was awarded the Crime Writers’ Association Diamond Dagger Award for his exceptional contribution to crime writing. Ladies and gentlemen, John Doe!”

The recorded applause rang out and John smiled into the camera.

“Thank you, Martin, it’s a pleasure to be here this evening”.

He tried to sound sincere even though it was really two o’clock on a wet Thursday afternoon.

“I hope you don’t mind if we wander through your whole writing career tonight John as you so rarely give interviews. I’d like to begin by asking, is John Doe actually your real name? If so, it’s highly appropriate for your type of writing.”

“It would be certainly but no I chose the name when my first novel was going through the publishing process. Although, I’ve responded to it for so long now it feels like my real name”

“Yes, your first book, ‘The Windermere Murders’”, Martin picked up a copy and held it for a close-up. “Many authors are called overnight successes many manuscript rejections but, for you it truly was an overnight success I believe?”

John thought back to that amazing day when he opened an email from his agent, heart hammering, mouth dry, the mouse dancing crazily across the screen following his shaking control. 

“Yes, I was extremely lucky, several publishers were interested in my first effort and there was a serious auction.”

That feeling of excited anticipation had lasted for the first twelve books before starting to fade gradually until pleasure had become professional writing had become a workaday chore.

“Then of course your second book ‘The Trojan Horse Killer’ was made into an award-winning film.” 

John shifted in his seat and reached for the water glass.

“John, I have to ask on behalf of your loyal readership, it’s been two years since your last book. I’m certain writer’s block doesn’t exist so have you got something brewing?”

John took a drink, put down the glass and pointed at the books piled on the table between them.

“In front of you there are twenty-four books containing a body count of 94. I felt as if I’ve been drowning in bodies for so long that the next one would be one corpse too many. But you have given me a great idea”. He turned to the camera “A chat show host is murdered in a local brewery,”

Author’s note: The Title chosen was ‘One Corpse Too Many’ by Ellis Peters. It is the first book in her Brother Cadfael series.