THE JOYCE RUSHTON TROPHY

Awarded periodically for best club fiction (prose or poetry). 

Winner June 2009

Mark Taylor

For 300 words on 'Regrets'

tba

Second Place:  David Bell.  The Wife's Tale

Regrets?  I have a few, like the song says.

I regret that for the past seven years, I’ve been chained to a monster in a wheelchair who controls my life.  I cook for him, wash his clothes, clean him up when he soils himself.

I regret that I have no friends, no life of my own.  My only social life is the weekly trip to the supermarket, but I know I mustn’t take more than half an hour even for that.

I regret that I spend my one half day of respite – Thursday afternoonS when the professional carer comes to supervise John – sitting in a café in town, nursing a cup of coffee and thinking about my lonely life.  John hates Thursday afternoons when he can’t see me there at his beck and call.  He certainly lets me know how much he hates me, through his grunts and sighs and his glares of rage.

I regret that I no longer have Andre in my life.  Andre, the young man who came to do the garden and stayed to make passionate love to me.  Twelve years younger than me, but who didn’t seem to mind.  Andre who ran away when John had the accident that left him a crippled monster, a one-man dictator with just one subject to rule over.

I regret that my future stretches out like a life sentence, a sentence of hard labour and near solitary confinement.

I regret so many things about my life. 

But my main regret is that I put the roller skate only half-way down the stairs.  If I’d put it nearer the top, John would have broken his bloody neck, not just his spine.  He would have died, not lived on to make my life the hell it is today. 

Yes, that I really regret.

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First Place  March 2009.  Mark Taylor

                               

                                                      Mum

 

                                                               I said, “it’s for the best mum.

                                                              You’ll like it in the home.

                                                              You’re a danger to yourself,

                                                              You should not live alone.

 

                                                             “Try it for a few weeks,

                                                             See how you get on.”

                                                             I couldn’t wait to leave her,

                                                             She turned round I was gone.

 

                                                             Best for her?  Yes, perhaps.

                                                             But it’s me who cannot cope.

                                                             I cannot bear to dress her,

                                                            To wash her with the soap.

 

                                                            I began to hate her,

                                                           To hate myself as well.

                                                           The way she chews her food

                                                           The way she starts to smell.

 

                                                           When I was a child,

                                                           I’d cry to see her go.

                                                           Now she’s like an alien,

                                                           Her face I do not know.

 

                                                           Have I made the right choice,

                                                           My life instead of you?

                                                           If you were still my mum,

                                                           You’d know what to do.

 

 

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SECOND PLACE 2009

Those Ageing Blues

BY ALF GILASPY

 

 

 

The Old Folk Sitting on Their Deckchairs

 

 

I saw them, when I was young,

The old folk sitting on their deckchairs.

Unlovely faces,

Long, lost graces,

Did you see, when you were young,

The old folk sitting on their deckchairs.

 

How funny, when I was young,

Were the old folk sitting on their deckchairs.

Handkerchieves on heads,

Faces sunburnt red,

Did you laugh, when you were young,

At the old folk sitting on their deckchairs.

 

Now we've swapped places

With those old faces;

The youngsters treat us with scorn.

They think we're no good,

With water for blood,

It's so long ago we were born.

 

But we had our day

In a brand new way,

And the sixties were better than now;

With sex, surf and sand,

And the loudest of bands,

And all that our youth would allow.

 

They don't know, not the young,

When you're old and sitting in a deckchair,

We don't envy their days

And copycat ways

And we smile, when we see them, the young,

Watching us sitting in our deckchairs.

 

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THIRD PLACE 2009

Those Aging Blues by Norma Durant

 

See that girl over there, she’s young and bright and flirty,

Short Skirt, tight top, you can wear them when your thirty,

High heels, red lips, girly little giggle

And all the male eyes follow as she walks by with a wiggle.

That was me when I was young but I’ll tell you this for free,

You suddenly become invisible when you’ve turned 53,

 

Its not that I am envious, I’ve had days in the sun

And it’s really rather restful when all is said and done,

To sit here and watch her ‘cause I know it’s such hard graft,

And to appear so cool and sexy is really quite a craft,

Hours are spent on face and hair and an awful lot of dough,

And you can’t afford to let up pace or ever let things go.

 

Look, her shoes are rather fab, and in the latest fashion

I still love high-heeled shoes and crave them with a passion

I buy them quite compulsively and have a cupboard full

But when I go out, my shoes are flat, comfortable and dull

These days comfort wins hands down over elegance and style

The theory is that I can walk for many a long mile

 

Or then I think I really could but really what is true

I drop before the shopping’s done and have to find a pew

I know all the coffee shops in every shopping street

Cause I’ve been in them all to rest my weary feet

I sit and sip my coffee and eat a cake or two

I would never have to do that when I was twenty-two

 

I’ll bet that young girl over there has been on the go all day

In and out of fashion shops to spend her monthly pay

And try to find the right top to match that perfect skirt

And now it’s ten pm and I’ll bet her feet don’t hurt

It’s early still, the night is young and she’ll go on till three

But its ten o’clock and I’m off home, ‘cause my bed is calling me.

                                  -o0o-

 

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COME TO SATAN  by David Bell Winner October 2008

There was a time, twenty years ago, when this town loved me.  They used my name to attract visitors.  They even named a street after me.  I was its favourite son.   

Today they’re going to remember me again. 

I must say that this morning people look happy to see me walking down the street.  They only see what I want them to see, they cannot see past my costume.  “Hello, people.  Give me a wave.  Smile while you can.” 

 This outfit hides secrets.  These folk can’t see the explosive strapped beneath it.  The Irish bombers had one flaw in their attempts.  They wanted to survive.  They had to plan their escape.  They left a trail that could be traced.  Al Khayeda had the advantage there.  They were happy to go up with their enemies.  What was it they were promised?  Forty virgins waiting in Paradise? 

 “Morning kiddies, morning young mums, look delighted that I’m here.”

 Only a few weeks since bonfire night.  You thought that was impressive.  You ain’t seen nothing yet.  This firework will be heard for miles.  Tonight this town will be talking about me again.

 Into the shopping mall, still waving at my fans.  Where were you when I needed you.   I was the biggest star this town ever produced.  Until the fall, until their idol proved to have feet of clay.  Half of what they said about me was lies, anyway.  Kids jumping on the media bandwagon.  “Yes, he molested me too.  Send him to jail.”  Well, they did.

 The town suddenly stopped mentioning me at all.  Quietly renamed my street.  Bastards.  I was the reason people had heard of this place, now they want to forget.

 Nearly there.  Finger on the trigger on my belt.  Greet the little helpers, gather a big crowd round me. 

 “Yo-ho-ho!  Come on everyone, come to Santa.”

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Another entry Oct. 2008

Winner September 2007

Diane Buxton

for

Letting The Fire Out

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Winner August 2007:  Mark Taylor for

THE BEAST

Why do you blame me, mum,

When I’ve done nothing wrong?

I was only twelve years old

And he was very strong.

You brought that man into our home,

You won’t believe he is a beast.

You see him as your lover,

He saw me as a feast.

He didn’t have to hold my wrists,

Just threaten with his eyes.

Now I wake up every morning

Wishing I had died.

You say that if he did it

I must have led him on.

But I know the fear in your eyes,

I know where it came from.

So, why do you blame me, mum,

When I still suffer so?

I shall not carry a guilt,

That’s his and yours to know.

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Winner April 2007: Peter Gylde

A Jumble Of A Man

He was a great big jumble of a man. His glasses were held together with three huge blobs of sellotape and his bib and brace overalls were tucked into American style baseball boots. Topping his thatch of grey hair was a New York City tourist cap with the peak wildly askew. He stood solidly with his feet apart blocking my way on the public footpath I was walking. He eyed me accusingly and then spoke in a broad South Derbyshire accent saying;

'Is it you?'

'Is it me what?' I replied defensively.

'Is it you whose been riding your motorbike across my small holding?'

'I haven't got a motorbike.' I replied.

He paused for thought and then said; 'Well it's somebody.'

He pointed angrily at the tyre tracks between his feet and then back at me. The logic of his statement was undeniable. I was feeling in a playful mood and was going to suggest that it could have been a phantom motorcyclist in the dead of night but thought better of it. Anyway, I considered, he could be dangerous. After a while he calmed down and the conversation became more amicable.

'What brings you this way on?' he asked.

I explained that I had suffered a heart attack and that my doctor had prescribed a daily walk.

'I had a heart attack once.' He said quickly. 'It was the best thing that ever happened to me.'

'Wait a minute.' I responded. 'You had a heart attack and it was the best thing that ever happened to you!'

'Definitely; I was working down the pit on permanent nights at the time I had my attack. Well they rushed me into hospital and when it were all sorted out they told me 1 couldn't work again. So they paid me off and I bought me small holding and I've never been so happy in all me life.'

'That's a very positive way of looking at such an unfortunate incident.' I replied.

I considered my own situation and began to regard this 'jumble of a man' in a new light. Ordinary folk often have rich veins of wisdom deep within them and this man was probably an example.

'I've only got one regret about having a heart attack.'

'What's that?' I asked intrigued.

'That it didn't happen to me sooner.'

Again there was an undeniable logic to his statement. I eyed him anew as an eccentric philosopher of lowly birth. 'What a character.' I thought to myself. I felt a smile spread across my face and in response one spread across his. It was a huge smile as big as the sun and twice as bright. I wanted to hug him and thank him for giving me hope in such a humorous and life affirming way.

We talked for a while longer as if we were old mates and then I bid him 'Good day' and went on my way.

The meeting took place about twelve years ago but I often think of that 'jumble of a man' and how he helped me at such a difficult time in my life. And I'll always remember his smile; as big as the sun and twice as bright.