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 THE JOYCE RUSHTON TROPHY
Awarded periodically for best club fiction (prose or poetry).
Winner November 2009
Heather Chandler
For Her Poem: Flower Power
Joint Second Place: Jacqui Gregory
Helen Johnson
Fourth Place: David Bell
Heather's winning entry November 2009
Flower Power
Flowers set carefully
by the roadside in a country lane
trapping a human spirit where the tragedy occured.
No-one heard the crash of dying metal
chink of glass or banshee cry.
No-one knew
untilthey saw the carmine grass
with bike and body twined
in a lovers' tryst. The early morning mist
rolled back from ditch and briar
revealed the horror to the cowman's eye.
Life and its blood have gone.
The grass grows green again
but the scene is fixed in flowers
where we pass, wondering
who lays this fresh-cut posy week by week?
Can you not hold him in your heart?
Release him from this wayside verge.
let go, and know his soul flies free.
Too many years are done.
let this be the last bouquet.
Let it dry to a natural death
and then, as dust to dust,
crumble to earth and feed some living thing.
The biker's spirit will not die
but prisoned in flowers
it cannot reach Eternity.
David Bell's entry November 2009
DEATH OF A DARK EMPRESS
Clarkedale, Mississippi, 1937,
Bessie Smith died at half eleven,
Driving home in the late black night.
Blues singer, powerhouse, woman of might.
She hit the back of a slow moving truck
On a slow winding southern country lane.
Broke her ribs and near severed her arm.
Bleeding and groaning in too much pain.
Like the trouper she used to be.
Knowing Bessie, I bet she swore.
Never a girl of refinement
But a lover of life, that’s for sure.
They got her to hospital, but
The nurse stood outside with a smile.
“Whites only,” she said, “No niggers here.
There’s a black place only a couple of mile.”
That formidable voice was silenced
Never rang out one more day.
Bessie died before she could get there
Bled to death on the way.
The proclaimed Empress of the Blues
Dark diva, all woman from her head to her shoes,
Bessie Smith died at half past eleven.
Clarkedale, Mississippi, 1937.
Mark Taylor's winner August 2009.
Dear Lord,
We have not spoken for a very, very long time. I am sorry, it was remiss of me, but now you must listen to what I say. There are things you must hear, and things you must do.
You must be wondering why I am not speaking directly to you, why I am writing a letter. I have no choice. I have been unable to say the words ‘Dear Lord’ for such a long time, and even now they sting my lips as I mouth them. I will tell you why I cannot say them and you must do something about it.
We had a contract. It was not a legal document. It was much more than that. It was created in spirit and flesh. As a boy I was told – we were all told – that you made us in your image, that you loved us all. We had only to accept you as our creator to find peace. Why, then, did you also create Father Gilbert Gauthe, and why did you appoint him as your representative? I will write his name again, so there is no mistake. Father Gilbert Gauthe.
I hope you understand how hard it is for me to even write this name.
We were told that you created the wind, the trees, the seas; touch, smell, feelings. After you sent your representative I could no longer sense any beauty in all those things you created. None of them. Yet, after all these years, I still hear his footsteps. I smell the heat rising from his body. I feel his hands, his breath, my disgust.
I am a man now - Strong, tall. Inside I am weak, a small frightened boy. You broke our contract. You did not protect us. I will not speak again. You must speak to me.
Joint Second Place August 2009: Jenny Anderson
From: Council Planning Office
To: Health & Safety Executive
Dear Sir,
TLP Homes Limited – site at Field Lane, Newtown
I visited the above site this morning and must protest at the shocking safety procedures being followed there. The workforce has quit and all work is being done by the directors in a most unprofessional manner.
The first house I inspected had received planning permission as a straw bale eco-home. The roof was on but only the front wall had been rendered. While I was inside a sudden gust of wind blew all the straw away from the back of the house. That edge of the roof collapsed and the chimney pot fell through the slates. It would have hit me had I not been running for the door at the time.
The second house, planned as a timber frame construction, had unclad walls, even though the roof was in place. On this occasion, a passing earthmover shook the house before I could enter. All four walls collapsed inwards, one after the other, and the roof dropped on top. The chimney pot then rolled off and I had to jump out of its way.
The third house was a conventional brick construction and appeared almost complete. Finding it locked up, I climbed the scaffolding to an open skylight. As I reached roof level, a cherry picker carrying a chimney pot was driven towards the house by one of the directors. The cherry picker pushed me through the skylight. I fell between the open floor joists and landed in the downstairs fireplace with the chimney pot smashed beside me. This house, too, was just a shell.
I must insist that this site is closed down at once and the public prevented from viewing the properties.
Yours faithfully,
BB Wolf
Building Inspector.
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JOINT SECOND AUGUST 2009
DEAR VICAR by Norma Durant
Dear Vicar
I have enjoyed a peaceful existence, happy to live and let live, but now I have left this mortal coil I feel impelled to make a complaint regarding your most unprofessional conduct during my funeral.
Yes, I was there! Whilst my earthly body rested in it’s middle of the range, imitation oak casket, complete with gilt handles and polyester satin lining as chosen by my dear wife, my immortal soul observed the proceedings from above...
We have all heard the expression of “being late for ones own funeral” but I was there – a full ten minutes before you, then, surplice all askew, you galloped down the aisle. But in a fluster opening the service by intoning “Dearly beloved we are gathered here to join this man and woman....” was totally beyond the pale. And don’t think I didn’t see a pink cheeked Mrs Armstrong, stalwart of the ladies flower rota, sneak into the back row five minutes later.
I have to congratulate you on the way in which you covered your snigger by turning it into a coughing fit after mentioning my “dear devoted wife”. However, dropping your prayer book into my open grave made such a loud bang, that one could almost believe that the dead could be wakened. Such a performance to retrieve it so that you could finish the "ashes to ashes" bit.
Downing a full bottle of sherry with the ham sandwiches seems rather excessive. And I feel you took something of a risk fondling my sister-in-laws bottom when you passed her on the doorstep. Obviously your reputation of being a ladies’ man is well founded.
This complaint has been forwarded to you via Madam Opal – our local medium. I would be obliged if I could have your response by the same means, by return.
Yours sincerely
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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Another Entry by Mark Taylor
The Yellow Bus
There was no doubt in my mind that daddy’s bus was the cleanest in the county. He drove the yellow bus from Capachi to Montgomery like it was a train. When the bus stopped he’d yell “Choo, choo!” On the occasions I was allowed to ride he’d stop outside our place – which was no more than a pile of wood - and pick me up, and I would sit on the front seat like a cowboy. He always said he would have been a train driver if it wasn’t for the war getting in the way, but the yellow bus was the next best thing and that he surely would have been the best train driver in the county. He kept that bus clean as a whistle.
It was only when I was older – maybe eleven – that I began to understand what the bus really represented. Until then I took no notice that black people went to the back and the whites to the front. But this one day a coloured lady sat down at the front. Daddy had been uptight, taping the wheel. He clenched his fists and I couldn’t move for fear what he might do. The coloured folk at the back started to sing. Daddy rose from his seat and hollowed for them to be quiet, but they wouldn’t. He put his big red face to the lady’s. She did not move. “You get the hell to the back, nigger,” he said. “Or I’ll have you arrested.” She did not move. Daddy picked her up and pushed her clean out.
Later, when black people were allowed on the front, daddy was adamant niggers would never get on the front of his bus. From that day, as much as he polished it, that bus never looked as yellow to me.
SECOND PLACE March 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.
THIRD PLACE MARCH 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.
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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
MONKEY BUSINESS by Henry Sharples
Nina’s new job was at a garage business in Sparkhill. There was secure storage for insurance write-offs and second hand cars were repaired and sold.
She typed invoices, kept accounts and when she was not phoning her friend Avril, nosed about. A remarkable number of top of the range Subarus and Range Rovers came and went and strange packages were stored all over the premises.
The proprietor, Rafique, had really wanted another Asian girl, but settled for Nina because she could speak English, albeit with a Jamaican accent. Leroy the security guard fancied her and she could not resist taunting him.
‘Leroy you want to see a rude photograph on my phone?’
‘No I don’t’. He growled as Nina casually snapped him with her cellphone camera.
It was several weeks before she was certain where the cash was hidden, only mundane items were kept in the safe.
Early one morning there was a commotion on the forecourt and Nina was alone for a few seconds. She slipped off her high heels, stood on the manager’s chair and lifted down a box from the cupboard. There were two bulky packets of money. One she replaced and the other she hid in her box of tissues.
‘Stay where you are.’ A burly police officer stood in the doorway. Nina screamed.
‘I ain’t done nothing man.’
* * *
Champagne corks popped as CID headquarters buzzed with news of the drugs bust. Substantial car stealing had also been uncovered and a huge sum of money impounded. Showered and changed Inspector Janine McKenzie, the force’s senior black woman officer, made a late arrival. A WPC brought her a glass of bubbly.
‘Can I get you anything else Ma’am’ She asked.
‘Yes Avril, could you find me some tissues, I seem to have left mine in my locker.’
304 words
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Another Entry
The Mask In The Mirror
by
Steve Bull
Alfredo waited in a doorway by an arch in St. Marks square. The rain had emptied the square of all those except the people who has business there. It dripped from his hooded cloak and down his leather mask.
His mask gave him anonymity in the street. Perhaps if he were seen he might be taken for Casanova, Mozart, or Goethe. His reveries distracted him momentarily from the task in hand. He gripped the leather pouch in his pocket. The fear returned, and he wondered if he should turn and run. He peered into the gloom trying to seek out the man he was to meet.
The rendezvous had been arranged for 10pm, and the go-between had given them both distinctive but identical masks to ensure that they would recognise one another. As the church bell rang he saw his mirror image step out of the shadows on the other side of the canal and walk over the bridge towards him. The man stopped a few feet away and waited patiently. The cloaked and masked figure appeared very sinister in the gloom. After a few moments Alfredo was forced to break the silence.
“You’ve come. Do you know what you have to do?”
The other masked man nodded but remained silent. Alfredo took the small pouch out of his pocket.
“I have the money here. You do know who it is? I don’t care how you do it. Just as long as he is found floating in the canal in the morning.”
The man nodded again. Alfredo realised his hired assassin did not want to speak for fear of recognition. The assassin pulled back his cloak and pulled out a rapier and a dagger.
“Of course I know the name of the man who you want killed. It is me.”
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Winner September 2007
Diane Buxton
for
Letting The Fire Out
I’ve had flames in my head forever. Fire licking around the edge of my thoughts, singeing and scorching their borders. The faster the thoughts raced through my mind, the higher the flames. Fat, rippling rivers of fire. When I peered out at the world, no one could see the conflagration, burning behind my eyes.
I’ll bet that sounds a crazy thing to you. But I can talk to you. I just couldn’t do it before. I’ve never had a friend. My family thought I was peculiar, wrote me off as depressed. No way could I tell them about the stink of burning, which only I could smell.
My pyromania was inevitable. Written in the stars, perhaps. I love those fiery objects in the night sky. I was careful though, and never hurt anyone when I burnt things. Except for the cat. How was I to know it liked to sleep underneath the shed at the bottom of next door’s garden? I never liked that cat. That mangy, ginger tom with slitty yellow eyes. It hissed every time it saw me.
After that, they made me see a psychiatrist. I didn’t mind. I liked sitting there, talking about anything I chose. I told the stupid bitch any old rubbish and she lapped it up.
“You can tell me anything. I won’t be shocked, I promise. Let it all out.” She said to me,
smiling eagerly.
She knows. I can see it in her eyes as she sits, bound, on the sofa next to you. I light the candles, scattered around the room, and settle down, cross-legged, on the hearthrug. I reach out and turn on the gas tap by the fire. I’m going to let the fire out. Oh yes! I’m really going to let the fire out now.
300 WORDS
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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.
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