Writing inspired by song titles

We were challenged to write a story based on a song. Photo by Matthias Groeneveld on Pexels.com

Rugby Cafe Writers’ members were invited to write a story, poem or article of up to 300 words based on a popular song title. Here is a selection of the contributions.

Scarborough Fair by Pam Barton

It was years since I had been to the annual local fair. In fact it must have been at least forty years since I last wandered through the stalls with their offerings, mostly home made but seen through my teenage eyes and a little blinded with first love, memories rushed in and I felt again the thrill of questioning my love. 

I wonder if anyone from that time was here today.  I started looking at the faces, looking for a familiar face just in case.  Then all of a sudden there she was, the years had been gentle to her, and I remembered her beautiful eyes, why oh why had I left the next day and not returned.  Would she recognize me?  Dare I remind her of that last day or would she be offended after all these years

As my memories flooded back I decided I would be very careful with my response, (just in case she didn’t remember the last time we were together) 

“After all these years to meet like this at the fair.  Have you been here all the time or are you visiting like me?”

“I live here, I’ve made my life here as I had some tasks to complete, I was asked to make a shirt and find an acre of land between the salt water and the sea strands”  

She hadn’t even stopped to think, her memory was as strong as mine, I had asked for those plus much, much more.        

I found myself saying: “I too had looked for the land between the salt water and the sea strands, I had found it “

I just stood there looking at her and not knowing what to say.  She smiled and everything was as if we were picking up where we left forty years ago. For she once was a true love of mine.

Perfect by Lindsay Woodward

Perfection is such a curious word.
Why would you want perfection?
Where is the challenge in that?
The thing I like most about you
Is that you have your faults.
That’s what makes you perfect.

Perfection is such a lazy word.
In an ideal world things wouldn’t be ideal.
What I really like is interesting.
Quirky, funny and full of charm.
And in there lies numerous faults.
That’s what makes you perfect.

Perfection is such a deceptive word.
What we really strive for is fresh.
You can’t beat that feeling of passion,
And that comes from rawness and grit,
And that comes from all your faults.
That’s what makes you perfect.

Unheeded by Steve Redshaw 

Inspired by “Saltwater” by Julian Lennon 

Following in the footsteps of his famous father 
Roving out on the road to rock and roll 
One song stands apart, entitled, “Saltwater” 
Expressing the sorrow and grief in his soul 

“We are a rock revolving, around a golden sun”  The roots of all life, taken too much for granted “We are a billion children, rolled into one” 

Sustaining the planet on which we are planted 

“We climb the highest mountain, we’ll make the desert bloom”  Conquering the world, we take what we need “We’re so ingenious we can walk on the moon” 

 Imposing no limit on our short-sighted greed 

“We light the deepest oceans, send photographs of Mars”  Driven to explore, discover, invent 

“We’re so enchanted by how clever we are” 

 But the time will soon come when the Earth is all spent 

“What will I think of me, the day that I die?” 

 Eloquent lyrics, but the message we shun 

“Saltwater wells in my eyes” 

Charting at 6 in 1991 
Three decades on, what have we achieved? 
Unfulfilled promises, empty passage of years 
The next generation, betrayed and deceived, 
Left with so little, but their saltwater tears

Where do you go to my lovely? by Simon Parker

Look into my eyes… 
Dear Peter, 
Meet me at our usual place, for lunch, this Friday? 
Much love, 
Marie-Claire 

The hand-written note from her brought on a flood of emotions he thought he buried years  ago. It was 20 years since they had last spoken, but her getting in touch wasn’t a complete surprise. He’d read in the newspapers that her millionaire husband – an industrialist from  the Savoie – had died in a car crash on the treacherous D902 between Morzine and Marnaz. 

The usual place was Il Tinello, their favourite Italian restaurant in Juan Les Pins. He decided  to make a short holiday of it. He needed a break from the bank in Zurich. Besides, his latest  toy, a new electric-blue Renault Alpine A110, needed exercising.  

The drive from Switzerland to the French Riviera was exhilarating and he checked into the  Hotel Belle Rives at 4pm on the Wednesday, tired but filled with anticipation. Thursday  came and went with a mixture of swimming, sun-bathing and walking around their old  haunts. Evening fell, and after a light dinner and an early night, he felt ready to face her. 

Friday dawned. A mixture of nervous excitement and morbid curiosity washed over him as  he walked to the restaurant. He hadn’t been there long when he saw her crossing the  promenade, wearing a peppermint green Balmain summer dress. She had been alluring at  17, stunning at 23, but at 45 she was beyond compare. Men and women alike looked twice as she walked up the restaurant’s steps.  

“Hello Pietro,” she said. Nobody had called him that since they had been children together in Naples. “I thought you’d gone and forgotten me forever” he replied. “How can I forget  you. I see you every night when I’m alone in my bed.” 

Galloping By (Theme from Black Beauty) by Christine Hancock

“I want to walk with the stable lad.”

It was almost the last thing she said. The staff had told me that earlier she was asking to visit the horses. What horses?

She had never been interested in horses – her mother had, but only with jockeys on top. As far as I knew she had never ridden a horse. I was the horsy one in the family, always galloping instead of running, tossing my mane and stamping my hoof, and indoors, reading, and dreaming of pony clubs, and later, handsome men on big black stallions.

All her memories had fled, even I, her own daughter, was a stranger to her, a friendly stranger, but not someone she knew. Events recent, and from long ago were unfamiliar. 

Who was the stable lad that occupied her mind now? Her grandfather had been a carrier, delivering goods and people to local villages, by cart. He must have had a horse, and a stable, but a stable lad? That was for rich people not for our family. And she was only two when he died – had her memory gone that far back?

Perhaps she had picked it up from some book she read, like me she favoured historical fiction, plenty of stable lads to fantasise about there, or a film on the ever-present television, flickering in the corner. Maybe just an advert, shapes moving at the corner of her eye.

She wanted to go somewhere, but couldn’t tell me what. She became upset, she had to go. I told her that soon she would be going, and that everything was all right. I held her hand and she was content.

A few short days after that last meeting, she was gone. Gone to visit the horses with the stable lad? I hope so. 

Mr Tambourine Man by Theresa Le Flem

It was freedom’s easy time
the 60s and sunshine, sea and wine,
a carefree Catch the Wind
Jingle Jangle music sort of time
Jeans and beads
and plimsolls full of sand

I wrote poetry by candlelight
late into the night, 
a Folk guitar and Donovan
and protest songs from Dylan,
years later, Bob Geldof cried
for all the hungry children
who clung to him

If I’d known where the Flowers go
And met my Tambourine Man
and understood 
what his jingle jangle music meant
to me, I might have changed my mind,
made a wiser decision, turned around
but that was then, my friend,
and I was young
That was then, my friend
and I was young

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