August-September writing challenge: And the winner is…

A multitude of entries this time round – a great many of which came from members of the All About Writing community, which is very gratifying. Songs do appear to be excellent story triggers – and many of the stories they inspired were exceptional. Which makes the judging all the more difficult, of course – although we’d far rather it be difficult than easy…

The challenge, you’ll remember, was “to write a piece of flash fiction inspired by a favourite song. Be sure to include the name of the song and the artist in your entry.”

The winner, just a bar or so ahead of the runners up, was one of our old favourites, Bindi Davies, for her sly and chilling tale of a very intimate murder.

Bindi receives a literary assessment on 5000 words of writing worth R 2750 / £ 150 or a voucher to the same value to use on one of our courses or programmes.

We declare two runners-up this time: Dorothy Dyer for her story in which her character describes a quite exquisite and convincing arc; and Shirlane Douglas for her sweet and nicely judged portrait of grief.

Honourable mentions go to Liz Lewis for her really spine-chilling finale; Alain Mackrill for his innovative use of the second person perspective; and Clive Goodchild-Brown for his evocation, from the inside, of a genuine tragedy in pop history.

Bindi Davies

Aerosmith’s I don’t want to miss a thing.

A guillotine would work better, but kitchen scissors will have to do.

I cut off the bottom half of your letter, the bit about her. Just as well you’re old-fashioned. An email wouldn’t present quite the same opportunity.  Gripping the paper with the ice tongs she gave us last Christmas, I hold it over our wedding candle. The scented one we planned to relight each anniversary, but which sits forlornly behind the bar, nestled in a dry bed of seven-year-old potpourri.

The flame licks around the page, ash dropping into the desiccated rose petals as the edges crinkle and disappear. The acrid smell of burning paper overpowers any lingering vanilla aroma. When there’s nothing left, I give a short puff, and a final spiral of black smoke drifts towards the ceiling.

In the kitchen, I rinse the powdery residue from your whiskey glass and give it a half-inch refill. I carry it, together with the top section of your letter, to our room.

You’re curled in a foetal position, denim-clad knees tucked up to your chin. Still breathing.

Propping the note between the glass and the empty pill bottle, your spineless, backward-sloping words stare back at me. “Sorry. I can’t carry on.” That’s all anyone needs to know.

I crawl up onto the bed behind you. Pressing my ear against your back like a stethoscope, our Aerosmith wedding song plays in my head. I could stay awake, just to hear you stop breathing.

I don’t want to miss a thing.

Dorothy Dyer

Bob Marley’s One love

The song came on as he drove her to the centre. The easy reggae beat warmed her bones, brought the memory of Grant dancing with a beer in his hands, smiling at her.

She had first heard the song on a mixed tape, sitting in her bedroom wishing for a life, a boyfriend. And then later she’d met Grant who’d provided her with both. That first party she was awkwardly dancing on her own; he’d come up and taken her hand gently, started singing along with the song. “Let’s get together and feel alright.”

The uber driver misread her bowed head. “Too loud?”

No, she shook her head. “No, turn it up,” she whispered. He looked at her in surprise. The music filled her body, spilled out of the window like on the other road trips where they drove into the night with reggae and sherry, camped next to fires, and then made love in their tent in the deep dark of the Karoo.

But this was a different trip as she sat here in her tailored suit, stealing time during lunch. And it was a different Grant. Would he be angry? Weepy? She thought longingly of a glass of wine. But all the wine would have to go now, and all those fancy whiskies.

“Let’s get together and feel alright.” The song jarred. It wasn’t true, any of it. She was glad when it ended and the driver turned the radio down.

Shirlane Douglas

Bill Withers’ Ain’t no sunshine

“I can play whatever you want little miss.” The dreadlocked busker pointed to an open guitar case on the crowded sidewalk. “Just ten bucks.”

Anna gave me a stern look and stuck out her hand. I knew better than to argue and fished around in my pockets for two five rand coins.

She tugged at Charlie’s sleeve. “Gampa, what song do you want?”

Charlie stood frozen in his vacant stare. Nothing moved him now, especially after the funeral. He frowned. I needed to get him back to the home before he turned.

“Just a quick one princess, or maybe have an ice cream instead?” I pleaded.

Anna ignored me and skipped over to the busker. He cupped his ear as she whispered to him, then nodded and tapped one, two, three and began to strum. The intimate sounds of Bill Withers washed away the street noise and flowed around us.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone
It’s not warm when she’s away.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone
And she’s always gone too long
Anytime she goes away.”

My chest constricted, and I struggled to breathe. Charlie had sung it to her as a lullaby, and she in turn used to sing it to our princess. Anna snuck between us and poked my ribs.

“Gampa’s here Papa,” she said.

Charlie was looking at the busker. I mean really looking. Tears streamed down his papery cheeks as the busker sang to the old man.

“I know, I know, I know.”

Liz Lewis

Janis Joplin’s Summertime

“How is the pain?”

“So-so… It’s really sad about Lydia.”

“Rather. Oh, I’ve downloaded your song.”

“Summertime? That’s wonderful!!”

“Pleasure.”

“She was your fourth.”

“It’s the shift. People often die at night.”

“And? No more suffering, blah-blah-blah, and mind you, no more squandering of resources to keep the half-dead alive. I’ve heard people say that.”

“Nonsense.” She tapped her phone – and my heart sang. Those achingly seductive chords, ripe with yearning. Then the raw voice lured me back: Summertime, time, time. It gnawed at the shards of my young self. All those Aquarian summers! Music and friends, smoking with Andy, laughing and dancing in the sun.

“So many summers ago…” How many left? The mutant cells in my body were gobbling them all up. “Ouch!”

“Almost… I can’t find a vein.” Icy-cold fingers rammed the needle into my battered arm. Ugh. Child, the living’s easy

“Aw, this one stings. Weird, Lydia seemed fine yesterday. She even played her favourite – Moonlight something. What happened?”

“A stroke.”

“A stroke?”

“She reacted adversely to the medication. Nothing unusual.” Her eyes glinted like steely ingots. “It’s better this way. Far better.” Hush, baby, baby, don’t you cry

My head was feeling funny now, all spongy. “Nurse, Joy. What’s in the drip? I’m diz-zy.” I slurred? She turned and fiddled with the IV.

Then I knew.

“Nurse, Joy!” I gagged. “One more. Please. One last summer… Someone… help me…” But, I couldn’t say the words anymore.

Summertime, time, time

Alain Mackrill

John Mayer’s Slow dancing in a burning room

It really is a spectrum of emotion walking up to that girl and asking for that dance. It’s quite a broader thing doing this and knowing it will be your last one…with her in particular. Your feet almost refuse to move. The nerve you always banked on fails you. Your brain mangles and your normally clever vocabulary escapes you. You find the nerve to do it anyway because it really is an injustice if you don’t. You have no choice. It is the deep and dying breath of it all. It’s unavoidable and unmistakable.

“May I have this dance?”

The room is filled with judgemental eyes. Her eyes meet yours. She smiles. She knows. She is okay with the finality of it. She takes up your offer. She wishes it didn’t have to be like this…but she takes what she can anyway. There is this understanding. The waltz begins.

The room is near divinely set in lights of the festive season. Waiters serve all’s every whim. It’s an unsustainable dream for you and her both. You and her float around the room. The eyes remain steady on you and her. The very gossip that destroyed your love bubbles whilst you dance.

You whisper in her ear. She dare not guide your nervous hand and let it feel her expectant belly. She’d never risk it. The parents would never approve.

“Keep her safe, Julie. The war will not last forever. We’re slow dancing in a burning room, babe.”

Clive Goodchild-Brown

John Lennon’s Imagine

My body tingled. I shivered. It was much colder than Hawaii at this time of year. The breeze ruffled my hair. I glanced at my watch. 10:44pm

The staccato clicking of high heels approached from West Central Park. Her coat swished past. I wrinkled my nose at the rich perfume. She disappeared under
the arched entrance of the Dakota apartment block.

Holden Caulfield would’ve been proud of me. We were brothers after all. This was going to be our legacy. I fingered the novel inside my jacket pocket.

A cab swung out of a parking bay. A young couple dodged past, just in front. The hooter blared as it sped away.

I shivered again. Who did he think he was, keeping me waiting like this? Jesus Christ? “No heaven … no hell?” Well, he wouldn’t have to imagine anything, anymore.

I’d asked God for another way, but…

The Dakota glittered like a massive Christmas tree, with all its fat cat sinners snug inside. I wanted to walk up and tell the doorman I was doing this for every downtrodden doorman on the planet.

The limo glided past. The brakes hissed. The door swung open.

I stepped away from the gargoyle railing and edged forward.

She got out first. I smiled, but she looked right through me. He climbed out and followed her. Had he even noticed me?

I pulled out the Charter Arms .38 Special and shot him five times in the back.

John Lennon staggered and fell forward.