Story From A Song #2

Here’s the second of my Story From A Song series – can you figure out which popular song I’ve based this particular piece on? (Remember, there are embellishments and details here that the song didn’t feature – otherwise it wouldn’t really work as a story.) Make your guesses!

I remember that long, hot summer. It was just you and me, then. Well, you, me and the band. That was all I needed. I remember thinking that band would set the world on fire.

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Santa and the Massive Mince Pie

This is my non-winning entry for Amazon’s ‘new Night Before Christmas’ contest. I had loads of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas to you all, and thanks for following my blog – it means a lot.

It was Christmas Eve night. Santa’s magical sled,
Slid through the sky as the world slept in bed.

He stopped on the roof of a nearby house,
And dropped down the chimney, quiet as a mouse.
Santa looked round the room, placed the presents on the floor,
Stepped his way through the hall to the kitchen door.

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Story from a song

I’m short of story ideas right now. So to keep my writing going, I’ve done this instead – taken an old song and based a piece of fiction around its lyrics. I’ve embellished and added detail that wasn’t there originally, of course, but can you guess what song I’ve based this story on? (Yes, I’m sure you can.) There may be more of these in future, as I enjoyed this as a writing exercise.

He stared through the window of the pawn shop. His guitar, the beautiful old Strat his dad had given him, stood there precariously on a stand too small for it. There was a price tag of fifty quid tied around its neck. A tear slipped down his face.

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Speak For Yourself

So I’ve just realised it’s been more than three months since I posted a story here directly – the last couple have been on other sites. So here’s a story set in my fictional town, Upshott Creek (which I haven’t visited lately, and have missed a bit). Full of stupid jokes, this one. Hope you all like it.

I stroll into the newsagents, which looks shabby, and approach John behind the counter, who looks shabbier still.

‘Excuse me?’ says John, his piggy nose wrinkling in confusion, the morning light shining off his baldy head.

‘What did you just say about my nose?’ asks John, his eyes swivelling like a lady’s hips at a seventies disco. I ignore him and pick up my paper and my daily bag of pickled onion Space Raiders, and give him the smile that’s seduced so many of the town’s most attractive womenfolk, although I must point out that I am not trying to seduce John in any way. You can smell John’s body odour through walls.

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Hurray, Sick Lit Magazine put me up (for my story, Shrink) as one of their six nominations for the Pushcart Prize! I’m extremely chuffed about this. And while I don’t expect to come anywhere near being one of the winning entries (six nominations each from who knows how many websites and magazines = not much chance), it’s awesome to be complimented in this way! Thank you, Kelly and Melissa at Sick Lit!