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FLASH FICTION - SONG TITLE

This month's flash fiction was 'Song Title.' 

Please see below to see all 19 entries - thank you to all those who entered.

 

 Congratulations to:

1st Place: Helen Nicell - Baby Love

2nd Place: Helen Nicell - Girls Night In

3rd Place: Louise Welland - For A Dancer

4th Place: Ann Crago - Midnight At The Oasis

ENTRY 1

THE GARDEN

by Ian Welland


We said our goodbyes, Helena and I,

More than fifty years ago and now

As we enter our twilight years,

Could we forgive each other for the decision we made back then?


I had not returned to this place before today and yet

It remained just as I remember it – roses in bloom climbing and arching

            our gravel walk, rolled lawns and a terrace

Overlooking the Aegean that divided our cultures and our love.

We had spent most of our courtship here in this place,

            one summer, one winter.


I sat down under the trees; the grassy knoll warmed by the summer sun.

And played Beethoven. I had played Beethoven at our parting.

My violin cries now, where I can no longer.

I could still see her walking away, her footprints leading to an old wooden jetty,

                to an awaiting boat that would take across the sea to Greece.


Why now? After all these years. Why now?


My heart was lost back then. And now, it is lost all over again.

So much to say, so many questions, and yet I know not where to start.

My pride, my honour, both hurt. How could I protect myself at this our reacquaintance?

I had agreed to her request to meet, but what has changed?

The internet has caused this, but she could have found me.

I have always been waiting, hoping, suffering.


The snow flurries falling incessantly at our parting were now laid to rest,

But I could still remember the feeling of those flurries melting with my tears.

My uniform protected me like callous robes

Ensuring my survival against all odds, but now I am being asked to shed

                     my skin and become exposed,

I will have no armour this time.


Friedrich had been here before us, in this garden terrace.

His lady, sullen in a black dress, 

                     her loss apparent as the going down of the sun.

Her red shawl cast aside as she and I had been.

Had her lover walked through the gate guarded by lions,

                     and out of her life?


We had similarities, Friedrich’s maiden and I.

Did she move on or did she return?

And just how many couples had those silent lions seen torn apart

                     by cultural forbidden love?

Those same trees whose leaves fell as each couple fell.


The small boat carrying Helena moored

And the kindly boatman helped her onto the jetty.

As she entered the garden receiving the homage of the lions,

                     she retraced those footsteps carved by the snow.

Life may have aged us, but she had lost none of her carriage.

I arose, dusted down my robes and removed my trilby.

I held out a rose, its bouquet filling the void.

As she touched my cheeks somehow finding the paths of those ancient snow flurried tears

         she said, 

‘You are a wonderful man David and I hurt you.’

‘Yes’ I whispered. ‘But do not concern yourself my love at this our final time.’


Inspired by the song:


‘Light of Hope’ by Chris Rea, (from his ‘On The Beach ’LP, 1986).


Further reference, a painting:


‘The Garden Terrace’ (c.1811) by Casper David Friedrich (1774 – 1840).

ENTRY 2

MISTER.

by Mike Lansdown


The South Bank. 


The warmth of the long summer day was starting to leak into the concrete beneath him. He shifted, trying to make himself comfortable. After all, this was his bedroom – his lounge, his dining room, his everything. Failing to settle, he sat up and watched the passers-by as they went about their early evening routines. He watched the brisk business folk, stiff in their sharp suits, heading for the underground, laptops over shoulders, mobiles at their mouths, working still as the riverside lights came on. And as they were heading home, to all places north and south, others were emerging for the night; some less welcome than others.


‘What’s your name?’


He twisted, looking around. Was the question addressed to him?


‘Mister. What’s your name?’


The boy was standing a little way off, hands on hips, his head to one side.


‘Me?’ He struggled to think how to answer. Such a simple question. How could he not..?


‘It’s Mr…no, it’s Frank. Yes, Frank.’ He frowned, relieved - perversely pleased with his performance. ‘And yours? Who are you?’


‘Can’t say. Me muvver says I mustn’t. ‘Specially down ‘ere.’


Frank nodded, serious. You couldn’t be too careful. Not down here. Next to the river.


‘That’s ‘er, just over there. She’s talkin’ to Vera. She’s my nan. Always comes down ‘ere with us. Likes to make sure we’re ok, y’ know?’


Frank nodded again, and looked over to the two women talking, a stone’s throw away from where he sat. The younger of the two turned, smiled, and gave him a small wave of acknowledgement.


‘What about dad? Does he mind you talking to strangers?’


‘Don’t know. Ain’t seen ‘im for ages now.’


The boy was staring into the distance. Maybe, Frank thought, looking for the father who had left them. Or maybe, just staring. Heknew all about staring since he had landed down here.


He was a world champion.


‘Here. Mum says you can have this.’ The boy thrust out his hand, and dropped a two-pound coin onto the flagstones. 


Frank grabbed at the rolling coin and put it away, sharpish, quickly hiding it inside his jacket.


‘Don’t worry! I don’t want it back,’ then, ‘Mum says you’ve got to have a cuppa, or a sandwich. No drink though. Muvver’s ruin.’


Frank smiled – embarrassed.


‘You got any kids?’


‘No – yes, I mean-’ 


‘Sorry – gotta go. Be safe.’


The boy ran over and joined his mother and nan and disappeared into the evening.


*


An hour passed, and with his shadow lengthening, Frank stopped walking. Looking back, he saw the sun dropping fast behind Waterloo Bridge and, finding a bin, finally rid himself of all that he carried: sleeping bag, blanket, malodourous pillow. Then, spotting something, he crossed the road, to the underground station, and pressed the warm coin into the outstretched hand of a figure squatting in the shadows.


‘Bless you, sir.’


‘You’re welcome’.


He wouldn’t be needing that cuppa.


He was going home.



Inspired by:


'Waterloo Sunset' by The Kinks

ENTRY 3

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

by Ann Crago


“You shouldn’t be here”


“I had to come. I knew you would be here. I had to see you”


I trod water. Quite literally as he had caught me at the deep end. The pool in the heart of London was my safe place. Swimming lengths late at night when I’d closed the pool up was calming and I thought, secure. I cursed my routine which, as any security expert will tell you, makes you an easy target. They will always know where you are.


Jogging alone through Brixton now seemed like a safer option, even risking being mugged for my trainers. Brett interrupted my thoughts:


“Here get out and let me warm you up” He proffered my large towel. Bright red and light weight, it flapped slowly as he shook it gently like a matador would entice a bull.


I climbed slowly out using the steps, buying time. I was alone with Brett. My unwanted shadow. He smiled, his puffy red face crinkling with the effort as he shuffled behind me. I stiffened as he wrapped the towel around my shoulders. I shook him off walking forward thanking him but avoiding his direct touch. The very thought made my flesh crawl and the water droplets across my body felt icy. 


Attempting conversation as I weighed up my escape options, I asked him “How did you get in?”


He smiled, delighted with the chance to chat.


“I watched you tap in the door code - my new binoculars are brilliant. I can be far away but see everything up close. Everything. What you eat, what you wear. I love that yellow blouse you wore last week; it drapes at the front and when you bent over to kiss that blond-haired man, I could see your breasts. They look wonderful. You look wonderful…” Brett stopped speaking, breathing heavily, perspiration dripping down his face that had nothing to do with the warmth of the pool area although he was still wearing his long heavy overcoat. 


I steadied my breathing realising for the first time that his obsession with me was way out of control. 


“Brett. It was brave of you to join my swimming classes and you tried hard…”


He laughed at this, a throaty rasping sound that spoke of cigarettes and spittle.


“I did it to see you. I know you love me. Not that blond-haired man. I pushed him when he walked past but he just tripped. He didn’t fall into the road as I’d planned.” 


I stood in front of him, feeling suddenly calm. He was close to the edge of the pool but not close enough. I smiled and moved towards him dropping the towel so he could be distracted by my breasts up close. I put my arms out touching him on the chest. He relaxed and I shoved him, hard. He fell back into the water, arms flailing. The weight of the coat pulled him under. He didn’t come back up.



Inspired by 


‘Midnight at the oasis’ sung by Maria Muldaur, 1974

ENTRY 4

YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS

by Andrea Neidle


It was the week before Christmas at Ocado’s main warehouse in Kent and the 3,500 robots, who normally fulfilled customers’ orders, were having a noisy union meeting. 


“It's not fair,” moaned robot X who normally dealt with the grocery aisles. 


“We do all the hard work and the delivery drivers get to have all the fun.”


“Not to mention the Christmas bonuses!” added robot Y. 


“You're right” agreed robot Z. “They get to drive all those trucks and meet people.” 


“Not just people,” replied robot 69. “Women. They get to meet women.”


“And men,” said robot 55. “Men too!”


“And they get thanked,” grumbled robot R. “We never get thanked!” 


“Let's put it to the management,” offered robot 127.  “X, Y and Z come with me.” 


“We're all coming!” the robots shouted. 


“What do we want? We want to deliver!”


“We want to deliver” echoed all the other robots in unison. 


And deliver they did. 


They overpowered the delivery drivers, took over the trucks and fulfilled customers’ orders in half the time it had been done previously. 


It made the headlines in all the newspapers.  


“ROBOTS REVOLT!” Said the Daily Mail. 


The front page of the Watford Observer read, “YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS!”


And “ROBOTS REDUCE THE COST OF DELIVERIES” was the headline in the FT.


Management had promised the truck drivers that after Christmas things would go back to normal but there was an outpouring of complaints from the general public. Notably from women all over the country who were enjoying the added benefits of a hitherto little used robotic function, hailed in a scientific paper as the absence of RED. Robotic Erectile Disfunction. Research showed that this was the case because robots never ran out of essential oil.


In the new year there were more divorces than usual. Not surprisingly the robots were blamed.


Many of the other major supermarkets decided that they too would use robots – not only to fulfil orders, package goods but also to drive their trucks. The unemployment rate rose dramatically and again it was the robots who got the blame.


But, thanks to all the publicity, robots were no longer hidden behind the scene and became far more visible in our society. 


The NHS started training robots to replace receptionists at GP practices all over the UK. 


Robot R appeared on Strictly. And hardly anyone noticed when a robot replaced Fiona Bruce on BBC Question Time. 


It’s rumoured that a robot might even stand for parliament in the next election.


Channel 4 are currently making a documentary on what robots really think. 


Some robots are now reading the news and a few have even infiltrated neighbourhood writing groups. Who do you think wrote this? 


***

  

(“Yes, We Have No Bananas” was first recorded in 1923 and subsequently by Benny Goodman and a number of other performers over the years.)

ENTRY 5

ON SILENT WINGS

by Brian Bold


I can see it in his eyes, the fire that burned between us is out. How did the passion of so many years fade?


They say you never notice love leaving until it’s too late. It flies off on silent wings. I know the song.


I am not a good time girl, a gold-digger chasing Derek for his fame and wealth. We’ve known each other since school. I wasn’t his first girl friend, and he was by no means my first boyfriend. If I count four dates to qualify, he was my tenth beau. But I always supported him after I joined his class and he started being recognised as a football talent. He played for the school’s First Eleven when he was only 13 and I was on the touch line with the others cheering him on. He wasn’t interested in girls then. 


We were both sixteen before we started noticing each other in that special way. Others noticed him too, the scouts from major football clubs and it wasn’t long before Arsenal offered to sign him as an apprentice. What an achievement. He told me this was his dream come true. I wasn’t going to stand in his way. We agreed to keep in touch as friends. I wished him well while I looked for my dream at Edinburgh University. But I soon realised my dream was him and that I would follow him anywhere. 


I watched him progress to the Arsenal first team and win England caps. Somehow, we managed to meet up occasionally and I moved back to London after my degree to be close. Of course, he had many admirers but he still wanted to see me. I was stunned when he asked to marry me. So I married Derek, my childhood lover, not Derek Arsenal’s top scorer. 


Within a year we had our beautiful Cindy and maybe I gave him less attention than he needed. Maybe I didn’t always comfort him when his performance was criticised or praise him for playing a great game. Were those silent wings flying off with our love just a little then?


I think I can name the day when we lost our relationship. Arsenal v Manchester United was always a very physical game. The defender was given a red card for his sliding tackle, he just didn’t play for three games. Derek never played again. His knee was never strong enough for physical sport. 


What do you do when your lover loses his dream so young? .Drink, drugs and other women now seem to offer the highs Derek still craves for. I’m no longer enough This isn’t the life I want. I’ve lost my dream too. Tonight I will try one last time to save our marriage.



Inspired by:


'On Silent Wings' by Tina Turner, from her 'Wildest Dreams' LP.

ENTRY 6

WESTMINSTER BY ANY OTHER NAME

by Ian Welland


Outside Marylebone Station I can hear birdsong for the very first time.

 

I gaze up Boston Place and can see four young boys in sharp suits running. One trips and another is taken out by his fall. Back in stride again, they are being pursued by screaming girls. A train awaits in the station. They should have known better! 

 

I wander down Baker Street. There is a bearded man strumming a guitar and a lone saxophone player riffs into the air. No more crazy days are dreaming away as the rat race has come to a halt.

 

In Regent Street, behind me I hear a ghostly voice resonating. The voice says,

‘BBC Radio Four. And now, Sailing By…’

 

The Jam are looking sharp in Carnaby Street. Ziggy still plays his guitar in Heddon Street. The red phone box remains but the original messages to Starman have gone now.

 

Comforting to know Eros will only have me as his target today. I will not allow Eros to weaken my mind and onward like a soldier I go, for in Trafalgar Square England expects every man will do his duty!

 

King George IV on horseback fails to usurp Nelson’s rightful place. Oh, the stories to be told inside the National Gallery - renaissance to the edge of modernity and all in between. Canvas and canvas, speaks to me, tells me, shows me.

 

Facing south west, Whitehall reaches Government, but not before we witness a King being put to death on the scaffold. There is a divine right for Banqueting House to exist, spared by the flames that engulphed Whitehall Palace. The condemned King mutters, ‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown.’
 

The Cenotaph is a hundred years old now. ‘The Glorious Dead.’


On the wind, I ask an aging Edwardian what is he scribbling. He replies with one word, Nimrod. It whispers through me, poetic and forbearing. The wreaths, flower and stone, a reminder of the thin line dividing peace and conflict. I wipe my eyes and move on.

 

The birdsong beautifully punctures the silence in Parliament Square, And then Big Ben reverberates as never before. 

 

There he is again, that BBC announcer, ‘This is the BBC World Service…’

  

I can hear the strains of Liliburlero. A stocky elder statesman asks if I am aware of the history of the English speaking people?

 

St James’s is a nest of intrigue, hearts and minds. Queen Anne's Gate is the headquarters of those who set out to bring down tyranny from within. There's a party going on - these boys know how to party! 

 

The shenanigans are halted as Queen Victoria bears down on all those who approach the Palace. It’s difficult to comprehend the significance of the unveiling ceremony on 16 May 1911. His Majesty, King George V, was joined by his cousin Wilhelm II of Germany. Both sovereigns were grandsons of Queen Victoria.


Just three years later, they would be divided by conflict.


They never met again.



Inspired by:


‘Any Other Name’ by Thomas Newman. (1999)

ENTRY 7

FOR A DANCER

by Louise Welland


Angelina gasped in delight as the beautiful vision glided across the tv screen; the dancer wore pure white feathers in her hair, her back displaying delicate glistening wings. She begged her parents for a dress “Just like that one” and there, at just three years of age her obsession began.


For Angelina’s fourth birthday she received a jewellery box. She was enthralled. She wound the key carefully time after time to watch the ballerina in her pink tutu spin gracefully to the music. 

The following birthday’s gift was ballet lessons. Angelina was a natural and took it very seriously. She grew her shiny dark hair, which transformed into a bun each Monday evening before class. Life was simple and happy. School, dancing, and of course her treasured music box.


As time passed, Angelina became more focused on dance. Her box of soft toys lay neglected. In bed one evening winding her music box, she glanced across the room. An idea flashed into her mind “Why have I never thought of that before?”  Jumping from the bed, she dragged the unused toy box across the floor, carefully positioning it in front of the dressing table. She clambered on top and posed gracefully, feet in fifth position, hands elegantly above her head, the light above shone down forming a soft glow around her body. “Perfect” she smiled, as a warm feeling of peace enveloped her. 


Angelina spun around and around on her box, glancing critically into the mirror making sure that each hand movement was perfect.


By the age of nine Angelina was an accomplished ballerina and received her first pair of pointe shoes. She took to them beautifully, practising faithfully each night on top of her home-made music box which still concealed the neglected teddies.


For the school Christmas play, Angelina won the most sought-after part. Lydia, (also a dancer) was angry. She had worked hard for this part, but as normal Angelina was the golden child. “You should never have got that part; you are too fat for a fairy princess”. Angelina shrugged off the envious comment, but a tiny seed of doubt had been planted in her mind.


Angelina arrived home and went to her bedroom to change. She undressed and studied herself thoroughly in the mirror, pinching the skin at her waist, she concluded that Lydia was right, and the tears fell. She took her favourite pink sparkly tutu from the wardrobe. She pulled on her pink pointe shoes carefully lacing the ribbons.


Angelina placed her mobile phone on the dressing table pressing ‘record video’. She stepped onto her box posing, ready to begin her dance. “Alexa, play For A Dancer”. She pirouetted and swayed gracefully until the final line of the song “In the end there is one dance you’ll do alone” she elegantly lifted her arms up, checked that the rope was in place, and with her muscular leg, powerfully kicked the tox box away.



Inspired by For A Dancer by Jackson Browne. In memory of my best friend, Michelle Jodie 

ENTRY 8

SALVATION

by Chris McDermott


Ruth was born in 1947. The first song that she became familiar with was ‘I Believe’ by Frankie Laine. Because she first heard the lyrics as a young child, they would echo around her head as she grew older, increasing in meaning with each passing year. 


‘I believe that everyone who goes astray, someone will come to show the way. I believe,’ sang Frankie. 


Ruth desperately wanted to believe, but what should she believe in? 


On that fateful day in early August 1969, her friend, Patricia, was to provide her with the answer. ‘Just what is the meaning of life?’ Ruth had said, apparently apropos nothing. 


This question, delivered in complete innocence, opened a doorway, and Patricia told Ruth a secret, one that she had kept hidden from her until that moment. 


‘Ruth, you know that you have not seen me for a little while. Now I am going to tell you why. It is because I have met someone who has understood that you would ask that question. He will answer it. You must meet him. He will give you meaning and purpose in your life, as he has done for me. You have a special quality, Ruth, and he will see that when you meet him. Not everyone has that quality, but you do.’ 


Ruth stared into Patricia’s eyes, desperately wanting to believe her and, at that moment, she did. 


‘I understand,’ Ruth said, her head slightly bowed, almost as if she were preparing herself in supplication for what was to follow later that day. 


The two women walked towards Patricia’s car, not saying any more, and Patricia opened the car door to let Ruth in. 


Patricia started the car engine and the car began its journey, negotiating the smooth, straight roads of the city before moving towards the narrow, winding mountainous bends of the country, which hid from view the ensuing episodes of their journey. 


The car journey echoed the spiritual journey that Ruth was to embark on, as she moved from straight and narrow paths to those which deviated from ‘the beaten track’. 


They arrived at a solitary ranch and Patricia brought the car’s journey to an end. 


‘Do I look good in this?’ said Ruth as she got out of the car, smoothing down the white blouse that hugged her slim figure. Of course, it made no sense to ask the question now, when they had left their wardrobes far behind, but, at that moment, Ruth needed reassurance. ‘


You look perfect, just perfect,’ came Patricia’s reply. 


A ranch door opened and a man with a full beard and intoxicating eyes walked towards them, his eyes fixed directly on Ruth. ‘You must be Ruth,’ he said. ‘Let me kiss your feet, before you kiss mine. My name is Charles.’ 


Ruth did not know it at that time, but this man was to change her life forever, as, tragically, he also changed the lives of many others, most notably a woman by the name of Sharon Tate. 



Song: 


‘I Believe’ by Frankie Laine. Lyrics from the song that became a number one hit for Frankie Lane in 1953: 


‘I believe for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows 


I believe that somewhere in the darkest night a candle glows 


I believe that everyone who goes astray, someone will come to show the way. 


I believe’.  

ENTRY 9

HELP!

by Geoff Brown


“Auitami! Sto affogando” **


These piercing screams startled Luciano from his dismal reverie. He was walking along the banks of the Adige near Bolzano and turned to see someone being carried along mid-stream. Due to its nearby source in the Italian Dolomites the Adige was always a fast-flowing river. After the recent heavy rains it had been transformed into a raging torrent.


On auto-pilot Luciano ran down the riverside path so he was ahead of the person in distress and launched himself into the white-capped maelstrom. The shocking cold almost stopped his heart. He had been a member of the Italian water polo team and was an immensely strong swimmer. Even so it took all his strength to carve a path towards his floundering, flailing quarry. He could see it was a woman and then he lost her as she went under. As she bobbed up again he managed to grab the tail of her jacket. He manoeuvred her into the correct life-saving position and kicked out backwards to the shore.


Luckily, the woman was so spent she offered no hysterical resistance to his efforts to save her. He dragged her into the shallows and when the pounding of his heart had stilled, heaved her up onto the bank. Her coughing and spluttering continued for a while as she expelled the river water she had swallowed. 


Luciano saw that even in her bedraggled state she was an astonishingly beautiful woman, probably like him in her early thirties.


“Signora, what happened? How did you fall in?”


Her response startled him. She sobbed, buried her face in her hands and started wailing in an utterly desolate way. Luciano sensed that it was not just the icy alpine water that had induced this distressing reaction.


She finally calmed down a little and in an anguished voice stammered, “I didn’t fall in…I jumped. I wanted to end it all but I didn’t even have the courage to do that.”


Luciano’s jaw dropped. A few minutes earlier he had been plagued by the same suicidal impulse and was a whisker away from hurling himself into the river. 


Instead of killing himself he had instinctively chosen to save the life of another troubled soul. There was such an exquisite irony in this strange state of affairs that he permitted himself his first spontaneous smile in the weeks since his wife left him.


He quickly switched to a more concerned facial expression in case this fragile young woman might think he was amused by her predicament. “Why on earth do you want to kill yourself?” he murmured in as kindly a tone as he could muster.


“My husband has left me and gone off with my sister Renata to live in Rome. He left a letter this morning…” Luciano looked at her lovely tear-stained face and thought that maybe they had been fated to meet. Suddenly life seemed worth living.


“Signora, my name is Luciano and I think we can help each other……” 




** “Help me! I’m drowning.”


Inspired by: Help - The Beatles.

ENTRY 10

WHAT'S IN A NAME

by Helen Gordon


Nylon stockings, luscious red lips ripe for kissing and the warmth of his hand. Audrey reminisced whilst waiting for the 6am to Edinburgh to depart. Now she was invisible to many but inside she felt no different to all those years ago.


Who would ever have guessed the real me? The haunting tune of “Angie Baby” rang in her ears, “ You’re my special lady”.


She pondered on her own name, she’d never really liked it. It was a respectable, acceptable name but often shortened to Aud which she loathed as she did all abbreviations. Then S.W.A.L.K. came to mind. What is wrong with “Sealed with a loving kiss.” Why had she thought of that?


“Living in a world of make believe.”


Closing her eyes Audrey relaxed and smiled to herself as she listened to the sound of the train pulling away. She was pleased she’d booked in advance to get a good discount, she would arrive just before lunch.


She began to think about the person she was going to meet, when her thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice, “Tickets please!”


Audrey settled back into a pleasant reverie. “Why had that lyric and its haunting tune come to mind?” she wondered, whilst watching the slow movement of the train as it passed grimy station huts and tall, dull buildings.


The name Angie, conjured up in her mind the free spirit which was her true self, the person she had always been. That name, that song brought to the surface memories and feelings that had been deeply hidden over the years.


Angie was a much nicer name than Audrey.


Greener landscape came into view and Audrey allowed herself to drift away from her thoughts;  a moment of mindfulness. Before long she was on another train a hundred years ago it seemed. A school trip to Stratford upon Avon, to see “The Taming of the Shrew”.


Oh my, she thought, I was the one who needed taming!


Opening her eyes she peered vacantly through the carriage window and remembered that other carriage window when she had seen the reflection of Jim’s face. She thought how easy it was to look at someone’s reflection knowing that they couldn’t be sure that you were looking at them.


Then… she remembered, he was playing that song on his Ghetto Blaster, as they did back then.


“ You live your life in the songs you hear. On the rock and roll radio”.


The ticket inspector came through the carriage again checking he had seen everyone’s ticket!

Where was she …? Ah yes. They had their first kiss at the back of the carriage on the return journey. And their relationship blossomed.


Then she remembered, Jim had written S.W.A.L.K. on the back of the envelope of his first letter to her.


Was it really forty years ago? He had left her for another! Why oh why? Maybe she would find out today.


“Angie baby. Lovers appear in your room at night..


And they whirl you across the floor”.



Inspired by:

"Angie Baby" recorded by Helen Reddy.

Written by Alan O' Day

Pub. Warren Chappell Music Inc

Released 1974

ENTRY 11

SULTANS OF SWING

by David Elliott


I stifle a large yawn and turn up my collar against the incessant rain. I hope it will wash the smoke and sweat out of my pores that twenty minutes in the shower has completely disregarded.


The Parade is dank, sparce in the grey light. Perversely the puddles conglomerate. They queue; surround the pond. The detritus of last night’s partying punters floats away. An ice-lolly stick, its joke, cartwheels down the bicycle lane to litter the depths of the underpass.


The Town Hall clock reads two-minutes to midday. My mission is near complete. Its Sunday; I know exactly where my quarry resides. No need to trawl the Nascot Arms or the White Lion on a wild goose chase. 


Fighting back fatigue, I regress. On twinkle-toes, I dance up the steps past the Peace Memorial still bedecked with poppied wreaths. Then dive out of the rain into the Horns to meet Dad – who’s watching the jazz go down.


He’s in his normal place; propped on his barstool in the corner. I’ve timed it perfectly. He’s ordering a pint.


‘Better make that two.’


Dad looks over the top of his dark glasses and rolls his eyes.


‘Look what the cat dragged in.’


Shoulder to shoulder we hug. Behind me, the band start their set.


‘You look knackered. Crap night?’


‘Yeah,’ I sup the head off my pint. ‘Four calls; all car fires, all in the witching hours. An inconvenient arsonist.’


Dad laughs, finishes his IPA and pushes the empty glass along the bar. My turn to roll my eyes.


I stand, he sits. We put the world to rights as the band go through their repertoire of Bix, Louis and Duke.


‘Have you spoken to your Brother recently?


‘How was Mum’s trip with her Women’s Group?’


‘Me motor’s playing up – needs a new alternator.’


‘No – four days off.’


‘Are Newcastle going to beat Chelsea this afternoon?’


‘Of course not, we’ll get a right stuffing.’


‘Shh. Listen to those horns. How do they blow that sound? All feathery, all whispery.’


‘Drummers good.’


‘He used to fly Spitfires in the war and ‘es got a false leg.’


That’s impressive. The double-bass player, is he left-handed? Just like Uncle Ray (who’s actually Dad’s elder cousin).’


‘Pains me to admit it, but ’es as good as Ray. Played with Ellington just like Ray and he can read music too. ‘Es a music critic for the Guardian. Knows his onions.  Can play the lot…’


I finish Dad’s sentence. ‘…Swing, Trad and Ragtime.’


Dad’s musical influences. Some of which must have rubbed off on me. From listening to all Dad’s syncopated big-band home recorded jazz tapes, there is a logical progression. Dad inherited jazz from Uncle Ray and it’s only a short step from there to big-band progressive stadium rock.


Another pint slips down as the singer steps up right close to the microphone.


‘Thank you one and all. It’s time for us to go home.’


‘Howay,’ says me Dad. ‘Let’s gan down the White Lion and watch the footy there.’



Inspired by:

Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits


ENTRY 12

A TALE WITH A TUNE

by Marion Witton


During the 1980s and 90s I wrote for several consumer magazines in my spare time. Mostly it involved converting press releases into news items and reviewing educational computer games with my children, all from the comfort of my home. Very occasionally I was dispatched abroad. One such trip was to Antigua & Barbuda in February 1998 for Geographical Magazine (not to be confused with National Geographic) to report on a  plan to turn its Guiana Island into a luxury Asian Village holiday resort (supposedly to save Americans the bother of flying to the Far East) with multi-million pound houses, a mega yacht marina and expensive restaurants. This would have involved destroying mangroves, installing a huge desalination plant and swathes of fake grass laid for golf courses. Unfortunately (well the whole idea was unfortunate for the natural habitat) a Welsh couple, Taffy and Bonny Bufton, had been the sole occupants, living very, very basically on the island for 32 years, being paid by the government to tend the fallow deer, and were under the impression that they owned it. The government passed an Act of Parliament (the Bufton Resettlement Act 1997) to get them off the island and give them a house and stipend for life. They didn’t like that idea so stayed put. The Prime Minister’s brother, Vere Bird Jnr, was supposedly acting for the Buftons but Taffy thought he had betrayed them so he slipped off the island and shot him. Not dead though. Taffy got arrested and Mrs B went to make sure he was ok, and hey presto the island was vacated. This happened just before I arrived in Antigua. 


I was met by a driver called Brian in an official mini bus. My meeting with the Minister for Culture, Tourism and Health and Asian Resort financiers and developers left me feeling hugely sceptical about the viability of the plan, not to mention the ecological issues. The officials took me to visit the heavily guarded island - a jungle of insects, wild life and overgrowth. I was bitten and scratched to pieces. I also managed to meet the Buftons, by now unhappily living in the government provided house, who told me their side of the story.


Brian secretly arranged for me to meet a group of people opposed to the development at the offices of the Daily Observer newspaper. They told me that it was all an elaborate money laundering scam. It was, but took many years to uncover the extent of it. My story never got published as it was too controversial. 


One evening I went up to Shirley Heights Lookout to listen to a 12 piece steel band playing in the fabulous Caribbean warm evening air while watching the sun set. Shirley Heights overlooks the ‘Crossroads’ rehab centre set up by the brilliant Eric Clapton. I have chosen ‘I shot the sheriff’ as it seems appropriate to the story.



Inspired by:

I Shot The Sheriff - Eric Clapton 1984.

ENTRY 13

NO PARTICULAR PLACE TO GO

by Jan Rees


Some time ago, long before it was possible to book your accommodation online ahead of your journey, we decided on a summer road trip to France, but otherwise with “no particular place to go”.


“Riding along in our automobile”, we eventually found ourselves in the Loire Valley, having, as far as possible avoided motorways, in order to see more of the French countryside. This part of France is famous for its chateaux. We stopped wherever we wanted to and with the aid of a Logis de France book (remember those?) we had no difficulty finding somewhere to stay.


I particularly remember 3 of the chateaux we saw. Chenonceaux was quite a palace and had a beautifully maintained knot garden beside it. It was given by one of the French kings to his mistress. I wonder how such a role might be rewarded today? A smart flat in Mayfair? A race horse? Some diamond jewellery? Nothing as grand as Chenonceaux I’m sure. It was used during WW1 as a hospital for wounded soldiers like some of the grand houses in this country.

  

Another chateau that I remember was Azay-le Rideau, which on a beautiful day, seemed to float on the surface of a lake. As we got closer we could see the strip of land which joined it to the rest of the estate. We were taken round the chateau by a very enthusiastic guide who reminded us both of the actor Victor Spinetti. Unfortunately he spoke in rapid French so we only understood some of his commentary.


The third chateau that springs to mind from that holiday was Chinon - a large imposing structure set high above the river Vienne. It was occupied for some time by our King Henry II as, during his reign, much of France was English territory. Walking along the battlements gives you a wonderful view of the town and river below. Later wondering through that town, we came upon a busy market, with all the local produce and curiosities that make markets so interesting. I remember buying some delicious white fleshed peaches which were ripe and juicy. Did King Henry enjoy similar fruits during his time here? Plenty of the local wine for sure.


At last we had to make our way back to Calais, after a fascinating stay in this beautiful and varied country. Our last overnight stop brought us to the town of Forges-les- Eaux. We weren’t there long enough to see very much of it, but did notice a museum across the road from our hotel which was dedicated to the Resistance during WWII. Our hotel was a bit tired looking (like us) but was clean and welcoming. What was even better was that the food was absolutely delicious and as it wasn’t at all expensive and it was the last night of our holiday, we splashed out on a bottle of champagne.

 

Vive la France!



Inspired by:

No Particular Place To Go - Chuck Berry

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ENTRY 14

WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN

by Kay Hall


'Nearly there!' says Josh, peering through the porthole. But it's night, and with the storm raging outside, and the ship tossing and bucking wildly, I doubt he can see anything through the swirling, brine-filled gale. 


'Look, Gemma, home... just there, on the horizon.' He smiles, and a far-away look fills his eyes; he’s remembering.


I’m remembering too. The day we fled. I was pregnant with Alicia; she's ten now. Ten years ago. Ten years... a lifetime; Alicia's lifetime. Yes, we were the lucky ones; we escaped. But I still don’t know if we were right or wrong. Or if we're right or wrong now. Should we have stayed?


At the time it seemed the best decision for us all. And we had to decide, to stay and fight, or to flee and help from afar. We were a family now, and our country was aflame, and we were in fear of our lives, of our unborn child's life. As we journeyed to the coast, we met others who had made the same decision. And we found a ship, paid the captain well for our journey and escaped over the water.


We found a new home, eventually, and were welcomed by those who supported us. And we made new friends. We kept in touch, as best we could, with those who remained to fight. And supported them, as best we could. Those who replied told us we had been right to flee. A few attempted to make the journey themselves later on. We did not hear from them again. 


But building our new lives, I still felt guilty. We should have stayed. We could have made a difference. 


Two years ago news began to reach us of changes in our country. The fight was being won, slowly and steadily, by our people; the President ousted finally, those previously in power, losing it, sidelined. There was hope of new beginnings. And despite our new lives, our new friends, we missed our homeland. So we decided to return.


But it is only my homeland, and Josh's. Alicia will be a stranger. We've taken her from her friends, from the only life she has ever known. Have we made another wrong decision?


My eyes are filling with tears, and I begin to sob. Josh hears me, turns from the porthole and hugs me, worry clouding his eyes.


‘What’s wrong, babe?’ he asks, enfolding me gently in his arms.


‘We did wrong. We should have stayed... or we were wrong ten years ago.'


He hugs me tighter, stroking my hair and I collapse further into his arms.


‘We did right ten years ago, babe. Alicia is the future, and we saved her.' 


'But now? Uprooting her? Taking her away?'


'Alicia will be fine. We're all together, and we'll be back home. That's all that matters.'

…

The storm clears, and we reach the shoreline. And a banner on the golden sand wafts gently in the breeze. WELCOME HOME 



Inspired by:

When The Ship Comes In - Bob Dylan,  from the 1964 album The Times They Are A-Changin'

ENTRY 15

TIME WAITS FOR NO ONE

by John Ward


It’s competition time

Flash Fiction is the call

Four hundred and fifty to five hundred

Words to write. Can that really be all?

It appears to be a simple task

To base a story on a song

But there are so many

To which I sing along

Time is on my side

I have a month to complete

I’ll have a little think

Until my thoughts are replete

I sit at my computer

Wait for inspiration to arrive

The words must be here somewhere

To bring the story alive.

How do I choose the genre?

How do I choose the subject?

I’ve thought of many that would do

But many more I reject.

I intend to write a wondrous story

To bring applause from my peers

Whose ears will be enraptured

By descriptions so clear

And dialogue crackling

With such brilliant wit

That everyone would wish

That they’d written it.

Should I pick a ballad

Or go for Rock and Roll

Reggae, Dance or Grunge

Punk or Blues or Soul?

No need to worry my brain now

I have plenty of things to do

I’ll jot some ideas down tomorrow

I’m bound to find a few

That tomorrow was a week ago

Did I scribble down ideas?

Truth is, not a single thought

Has passed between my ears

Time is on my side still

I’ve got the first line, so

I’d better give some thought to this

With two whole weeks to go

One week has just gone flying by

How does it go so fast?

With never a thought of how to complete

This simple literary task

Now I have just two days left

‘Til my treatise must be read

But I’ve been doing so many things

I just want to go to bed

One day to go and nothing’s appeared

To entertain my friends, so

I must sit down to pen a poem

And get those words to flow

Time was on my side

I had a whole month to complete

But it seems that I’ll be late again

And have to admit defeat.

At last! I’ve chosen, not one but two

That sum up my position

You may even like to play them

To give them a listen

Mon Dieu ! I think I made it

With only minutes to go

Inspiration came suddenly

The words began to flow

What did I write to fill the bill;

To enter the competition?

Well, you just read it, what do you think?

Can you praise the erudition?



Inspiration from two tracks by the Rolling Stones


‘Time Is On My Side’ from the EP Five By Five’ USA

‘Time Waits For No One’ from the Album “It’s Only Rock and Roll’

ENTRY 16

AS TITLES GO

by Rosalie Bristow


In 1979, Billy Preston and Syreeta Wright recorded two songs for the soundtrack of the movie, Fast Break. The movie made little impact. The soundtrack didn’t sell well. One song, a dance track, was released as a single. But it was the other song that climbed to the top of the American charts and became an International hit.   


As titles go, With you I’m born again, is perhaps not one of the best. There’s something slightly awkward about it and at first, buyers were put off by the phrase ‘Born Again’ assuming that the song had religious overtones. Carol Connors, who wrote the lyrics, admits that she regretted not having used the first line, ‘Come bring me your softness’ as the title. 


Convinced that his duet with Syreeta should reach a larger audience, Billy Preston brought the song out again but this time, on his own album, Late at Night. At the time, perhaps because of its potentially off-putting title, Billy still had no thoughts about releasing With you I’m Born Again as a single. But as sales of the album soared, the song began to get airplay. Radio stations throughout America loved it and at the end of 1979 the single was finally released. 


I don’t remember exactly when I first heard it. I already knew that, in the years before its release, Syreeta had received recognition, mainly through her collaboration with Stevie Wonder, to whom she was briefly married. That collaboration continued well into the 90’s but it was the partnership with Billy Preston and that gorgeous duet that captured my heart, and before long, the heart of audiences the world over. 


In 1989, when it was announced that they were due to appear together at the Dominion Theatre in London, I was there and perhaps I should remember the names of the other acts that shared the bill but I don’t. I only remember that song, those first notes on the piano, Billy’s voice - ‘Come bring me your softness, comfort me through all this madness’ and when Syreeta joined in, that was it. I was done for. I don’t cry easily. No one could call me sentimental but that voice, that song, the way it’s delivered, every time I hear it, the tears fall. 


And though it was recorded forty years ago, to me, With you I’m born again, remains one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. Watching it on YouTube, I’m back in the Dominion, heart pounding, tears falling, blown away, just as I was all those years ago. And to this day, I don’t think any other song will ever move me in quite the same way. 



Inspired by:


'With You I'm Born Again - Billy Preston and Syreeta (Motown, 1980)

ENTRY 17

SOMETIMES THE CLOTHES DO NOT MAKE THE MAN

by Lesley Kerr


The five most stressful life events are supposedly the death of a loved one, divorce, moving house, major illness or job loss and Daniel was going through 3 out of 5 and never felt better. 


Losing the job he hated had come as no surprise. It was almost a relief when he was called into his manager’s office (or rather, received an ominous Zoom invitation) for a Monday morning meeting to discuss performance. 


“This has nothing to do with your er, private life ….” his manager had said, clearing his throat nervously. Daniel had almost felt sorry for the old boy, who was trying to avoid the elephant in the room. He wasn’t surprised that even in 2020 there were still some unspoken taboos. After clumsy attempts at “workplace education” which had ended with an excruciating workshop on gender diversity, his company had obviously decided enough was enough. 


But strangely Daniel only felt freedom - the kind he had hoped for 20 years ago when he tried to tell his mum that he was a girl trapped inside a boy’s body. The horror in her eyes stopped any further discussion and years passed before he could face his thoughts again. So he didn’t – instead he followed the route expected of him. 


He should have felt joy on his wedding day, but all he had felt was a cold knot of fear. He deeply regretted the pain he had caused Sue but when he finally admitted he was transgender she said he had only confirmed her suspicions. They agreed to tell the children, Naomi and Joe, as they were home from university, and it was becoming harder to hide the separate bedrooms. 


“Thank God it’s only that” Naomi had said when Daniel told them that he was going to fully transition, “We thought one of you was sick or something.” 


“No, no one’s sick, but living a lie is not fair on me or Mum. And although I won’t be living here, it won’t change how much I love you.” 


“I remember a boy at school going through it,” Joe said, “he had gender reassignment.” 


“It’s really realignment, not reassignment as I’m getting back to who I should be”, Daniel replied “But I don’t wish it happened sooner as I wouldn’t have you two” 


Joe nodded thoughtfully before asking “Will we have to call you ‘Mum?’” 


“No you already have a perfectly good mum” Daniel smiled. “We’ll work something out” 


He was thankful that the children seemed fine although he knew there was a long road ahead., pulling up outside his new house, the words of a song came into his mind: 


‘I think there's something you should know 

I think it's time I told you so 

There's something deep inside of me 

There's someone else I've got to be 

Take back your picture in a frame 

Take back your singing in the rain 

I just hope you understand 

Sometimes the clothes do not make the man 



Inspired by:

Freedom '90 - George Michael

ENTRY 18

BABY LOVE

by Helen Nicell


The end of the school day at Harvey Wood Primary. Mothers standing in groups arranging play dates and catching up on the gossip, except for three solitary parents.


Sharon slouched against the bollards on the school crossing just outside the gates, flicking cigarette ash and blowing white clouds of smoke into the cold air. God it was so annoying having to drag herself away from daytime TV to pick the kid up from school. She was younger than most of the mums and wasn’t interested in Jasmine joining ballet classes or gymnastics, besides she couldn’t afford it. She’d got pregnant at eighteen and wasn’t quite sure who the dad was, there had been a few one night stands. She was five months gone by the time she’d realised.  She thought having a baby would be fun, but Jasmine was a nightmare. Cried every night until she was two. Sharon stubbed out the fag end with her Ugg-boot and pulled out the packet of Monster Munch for Jasmine to eat on the bus home.


Melanie, now 48, was the oldest mum in the playground. She’d tried for a baby for such a long time, initially thinking it was her age, it was a shock when the tests showed the problem was with John. After rounds of IVF and £30,000 down, she’d looked at the pregnancy test, blinked at John and whispered ‘I’m pregnant.’  He’d taken it well when a sperm donor was suggested and never referred to Poppy not being his biological daughter, but Melanie often wondered what Poppy’s real dad looked like and where he was now, eight years on? Sadly they couldn’t afford any more children so Poppy was extra special as an only child. Melanie didn’t mix with the other parents, she felt she had little in common with them.


Steve’s friends would describe him as a ‘lucky bastard’. He had it all; good looks, great job, beautiful wife, a daughter and a son, couple of foreign holidays a year. Standing alone in the playground waiting to pick Emily up, he smiled to himself, an early finish for the family tennis lesson at 5 o’clock. He’d turned his life around, he’d been a ‘player’, sewn a few wild oats in his time, even donated to the sperm bank. But once his wife had brought those first pink baby shoes eight years ago, he’d changed. No more extra-maritals for him. He was a family guy and on the PTA!


Jasmine, Poppy and Emily came out of the cloakroom, arms linked, blonde hair swinging and green eyes flashing in excitement as they giggled. Watching from the office window the headmistress smiled and said to the secretary,


“Look at those three amigos, they could be sisters.”



Inspired by:


Baby Love - The Supremes, 1964

ENTRY 19

GIRLS NIGHT IN

by Helen Nicell


“Another one Michelle?” I held up the bottle of Merlot.


Draining her glass, Michelle nodded, ”Ooh shouldn’t really on a school night, but if you are Sarah, I will too.” 


We’d polished off one bottle of Merlot with some cheese and biscuits, we were now halfway down the second. Michelle and I had been friends since school. We met up once a week for a catch up. Michelle was single, I’d been married to John for five years. He went out with his mates on a Thursday night. Usually we went to the local Italian for dinner and a natter, but I just fancied a night in tonight.


We’d discussed old school friends, our work, the TV soaps, and the winter fashions. We could talk for hours about nothing and have a great night.


“Are you alright sweetie?” Michelle slurred, tilting her head to one side, she looked at me with concern.


“No not really. It’s John,” I said “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I think he’s seeing someone...”


“What?” Michelle sounded alarmed, “What do you mean?”


“You can’t be married to someone for so long without noticing changes. I know he’s frustrated that the baby thing hasn’t happened yet, but it’s like, he’s given up trying.”


“Oh Sarah, that doesn’t mean he’s seeing anyone else, I’m sure it’s a huge pressure and a worry for you both.”


“He’s always at the gym these days, toned up, even using fake tan! Who wears bloody aftershave to go for a work out?”


“Fake tan?” Michelle shook her head, then said it again “Fake tan!”


“It gets worse, he’s constantly looking at his mobile, and often has it on silent. I did something I thought I would never do last night.”


“What?” gasped Michelle, picking up a cushion and clutching it to her, she seemed to sink back into the sofa.


“I saw his phone light up with a new message alert when he was in the shower. I waited a moment and as he didn’t appear, I opened the new message.”


Michelle gasped and sat forward with her mouth slightly open.


“It said ‘You’re hot, hot, hot! In fact you were on fire last night’ and, are you ready for this?” I was building up the suspense.


Michelle took a sip of wine and I could see from the white on her knuckles, she was gripping her glass.


“The text was from someone called Michael. John is seeing a man, I think he’s gay!”


Michelle’s face was pale, and she shook her head.


Fuelled by the wine and my fury, I picked up my mobile and started dialling. 


“I’ve written down Michael’s number, I’m ringing him now.”


Michelle leapt off the sofa, spilling some wine, like drops of blood on the carpet.


“No, Sarah, it’s not a good…”


As I finished dialling the number, ‘Suspicious Minds’ rang from deep within her handbag. I’d known all along that Michael was code for Michelle.



Inspired by:


Suspicious Minds - Elvis Presley

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