Last week, I gave you some titles in the hope that it would spark off lots of ideas. It certainly did! You sent in some wonderful true-stories, poems and prose. A huge thank you to all of you who had a go. They’re all published below. Please take a look. Each one is fantastic.
My new weekly challenge is for you to send me a story in diary form. It can be funny, sad, poignant – it’s up to you. Here’s one I’ve written to illustrate – as you’ll see, it’s written through the eyes of a child:
Diary of Ellie Carter, aged 6 ¾
Monday 10th May
I hate Phoebe Spencer-Rowbotham. She talks like the Queen and she thinks she’s the best at everything. But she isn’t. And she smells, too.
Tuesday 11th May
I really hate Phoebe Spencer-Rowbotham. I had to sit next to her on the carpet for stories and she kept poking me. It really hurt. I didn’t want to squeal but Phoebe made me. Then Miss Cook told me off. It’s not fair.
Wednesday 12th May
Phoebe Spencer-Rowbotham is horrid. She told Miss Cook that I poked my tongue out at her when Miss Cook was looking the other way. I didn’t. But I poked it out at Phoebe. And I’m going to do it again tomorrow.
Thursday 13th May
Phoebe Spencer-Rowbotham is a big pile of poo. She’s been telling everyone about her birthday party. She’s going up to London and they’re going to go everywhere and see everything. I’ve never been to London. It’s not fair.
Friday 14th May
I really like Phoebe Spencer-Rowbotham. She gave me an invitation to her birthday party today.
Now here’s all your wonderful entries into my weekly challenge:
Keith Channing sent in this fascinating true story:
During the end of the 1970s and the beginning of the 1980s I was living on the Arabian Gulf, working on the new port construction at Jebel Ali. At the project’s peak the company that engaged me, which was just one of the companies working on the project, boasted some 400 European and 4000 Asian employees. With those numbers, and being more than 30 km from Dubai, a local police presence was considered essential.
The police post was led by an Inspector who was proud of his command of English, and a small number of officers. Traffic Police from Dubai also called in regularly. One of them was a tall, large Somali by the name of Mohammed, who was in the habit of popping into my house for a cup of tea. On those occasions, he removed the bullets from his pistol and let my son, then four years old, play with it. But that’s a story for another day; as is his frequent complaint to me that “You are over-speeding too much. One day I will catch you, but you are too clever for me.”
Too clever, eh? Maybe because I knew the Traffic Ordinance better than he did – he thought that he could only catch me with a radar gun. I regularly passed him whilst doing more than 110kph in an 80kph speed limit. I was in a 1200cc Datsun, he was in a Mercedes Benz. I waved as I passed him, and he waved back. Way too clever.
My job had me in contact with the police fairly regularly, and I enjoyed a good working relationship with him. He was very helpful when I needed to have my brand new driving licence replaced. The clerk had mis-transcribed my name into Arabic. Twice. Instead of Keith Channing, it said (roughly) Jinnis Keet. I love that name, and shall find a use for it one day. The Inspector sent it back to Dubai with an appropriate note. On its return, I saw that it was better, but still not right. One dot was missing under a letter. Two dots below gives the EE sound, one dot gives B. When he read it, the Inspector confirmed that it said Keith Channbng.
An interesting character and one I shan’t forget – but a number of whose traits I might one day appropriate.
What has this to do with the list of titles? Simply this.
When he first introduced himself to me he said: “My name is Ahmed. I am Spectre for shorta [Arabic for Police] for Jebel Ali.
As an aside, in 1981, the local newspaper stated that Dubai Police was proud to announce a literacy rate of 40% amongst its officers. I was horrified, until I learned from Spectre Ahmed, that literacy was defined as a good working ability in spoken and written English.
Steve sent in this brilliant succinct story using all the titles:
“The spectre of nightfall made the race for this dreamer to the rendezvous,” said The Guardian, “a revelation that summer rain could cure the blues.”
Ayo Oboru was inspired to write this love poem by one title in particular:
THE RENDEZVOUS
Daddy warned last night,
‘No more meeting behind the house.’
Mummy threatened,
‘The next time I’ll lock you inside.’
Yet my heart yearns,
To see the one,
That makes my heart beat,
My smile come alive.
Trained for obedience.
To listen to mummy
And do all the things
I’d promised to daddy.
Yet there’s a call,
It’s louder than daddy’s
And shriller than mummy’s.
Come!,Come!
I hear the call.
No one else does.
To mummy a random bark,
And daddy hears it as a stray’s whine
Woof! Woof!
I’m off,
My love’s waiting.
For Eddy, and his entertaining poem, it was another title:
BLUE
Songs are like tattoos
You know I’ve been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Alright, that’s Joni Mitchell
That’s the poetess herself
So what? I’ve felt this way too
I’ve lived and loved this song
What is plagiarism after all?
Can’t I use her words
if they describe my love for the ocean
better than I could ever do?
Here is a shell for you
Inside you’ll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
There is your song from me
Jasdeep Kaur also went for another title, with her powerful poem:
THE RACE
Morning blues; thumping veins;
yelling horns; congested lanes;
rising strain; slowing pace.
They say, “It’s a race!”
Crafty words; flashy efforts;
manipulative hikes; lobbying minds;
corporate culture or ostentatious glace?
They say, “It’s a race!”
Stressed brains; confused doctors;
re-examinations; endless diagnosis;
wrinkled temples; withered face.
I ask, “Why this race?”
Jacky Tustain chose the same title as Jasdeep and wrote a strong, emotive piece:
THE RACE
Oaken fingers twist their grip on smooth aluminium
Back bent, you rock the walker, each step a strain.
I wait, watching the man I raced to keep pace with each day,
punctuality your perpetual master,
savour each slow shuffling movement.
You pause for breath.
‘Take your time,’ I say.
My young limbed son, your grandson, watches.
The wind ruffles the trees, petals drift carelessly away.
Alexandra Ellul also chose the title, ‘The Rendezvous’ for her emotive story:
THE RENDEZVOUS
I met him once on my way to work. He was as expected; tall and thin, his figure bent by age, leaning on a scythe. His face was hidden by the black cloak, greening with age.
‘You can’t have come for me!’ I said. It wasn’t a question.
‘And why not?’ His was.
‘Because I’m too young. I still have much to do!’
‘Like what?’
I stopped and thought for a while. ‘Well, I’m on my way to work. Can’t just leave without notice. How would my boss cope?’
He paused and didn’t speak for a long while.
‘Have it your way then. I’ll take you later.’
**
He was waiting for me again on my way from work to home.
‘You can’t possible take me now,’ I said.
‘And why on earth not?’ I detected a light frustration in his tone.
‘I haven’t been home all day. My dog’ll be starving!’
‘Can no one else feed your dog?’
‘Of course not!’ I replied with a shrill.
His left shoulder lifted in a shrug. ‘Have it your way then…’ and he vanished with a puff.
Later that night I packed a bag and was on my way out when he appeared blocking my door.
‘What now?’ he asked with a drawl.
‘I’m too young, you see…I need to see the world. I have a lot—‘
‘No. No. I won’t have that any more. Many I have taken who were half as old as you. It’s your time now, whether you like it or not.’
‘But, I haven’t done anything yet. Nothing to be remembered by. Nothing that matters.’
I saw his left shoulder lift in the now familiar shrug, and in an instant, we were both gone with a puff.
And last, buy by no means least is Rachel and her gripping story:
NIGHTFALL
Fire raged through the night sky. Reds and ambers screamed through the blanket of stars. She yelled at him, screeched in his ear to make him let go of her. He picked her up easily and threw her across the soaking lawn. Winded for all of a second, she got back up and hurled herself towards the blazing front door.
“Let me in! You have to let me back in!”
“He’s dead now, a long, slow burning death.”
“No!” With all her might she heaved her shoulder into his chest. The rain hammered profusely saturating her negligee. She let out a roar of frustration, and her panicked voice was taught and high. “You won’t get away with this!” She beat him with her fists, everything she had went into pummelling his chest. He shoved her and grabbed her pounding hands.
“You can’t save him. I won’t let you.”
A tapping on glass, feeble and strained. They both looked up. Finn’s face peeked through the bedroom curtains.
“Finn!” she cried, struggling to her feet again. She ran past him, her legs smaller and lighter than his. As she approached the back door she saw that there was no fire here.
She fumbled with the door knob. It opened! Thick smoke escaped from within. She threw her hand over her mouth, coughing terribly. Then she took a deep breath in and…
A dizzying, agonising pain in the back of her head. She saw nothing as she hit the ground.
Minutes later, when she had come to, she watched as her house burned with the one thing she loved inside. Grief surged through her. In the garden she was distraught. She kneeled on the sodden grass with her hands covering her face. Her negligee was drenched. The rain continued to pour. There was nothing she could do for Finn now.
She smelt him as he approached. Expensive aftershave lingering on the night air. Anger like she’d never felt before shot through her, blood pulsing, heart thumping. Before she got to her feet he had knocked her over.
“What did you think you were playing at?” he snarled.
She didn’t speak for sobs. Her own hysterical cries, the deep noise that was her unnatural breathing, horrified and enraged her.
“You didn’t expect I’d ever catch you, did you?”
She turned to look at him. And suddenly she was on her feet, pushing him, hitting him, slapping him. He was taken aback for a moment and she thrust him to the ground. She was kicking and screaming. Blue lights and sirens couldn’t make her stop. Men were shouting, she was terrified and mad. When she paused for a moment, he was suddenly on his feet. He scooped her off the ground, still shrieking and ran with her towards the wood. They were following, not far behind. She kept on hitting and punching him. Finn was dead. He had made sure that Finn was dead. She hadn’t been able to save him and Finn was dead. He dropped her on the ground and pulled her to her feet. Thrust her against a tree trunk. Stared at her, furious. And then his mouth was on hers and she kissed him back with everything the storm inside gave her. In that moment she knew that nothing, not prison or lovers or anything else could save her. She was his forever and she would never escape.
Esther Chilton 
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