FLASH FICTION - SONG TITLE

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).

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

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.

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 

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.

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

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

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’

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

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