Over the course of two years I’ve written well over a hundred flash fiction stories for Friday Fictioneers. Four of my favorites stories about the Beatles. I’ve been a fan since I saw them on the Ed Sullivan show fifty-one years ago. It’s been suggested that I post a blog with all four of these stories which seems like a grand idea. I hope you’ll indulge me.
The first in my unintentional series is a complete work of fiction. One of those ‘what if’ stories.
Word count: 100
Out for a walk in the night, lost in thought, I didn’t see him until we collided. I apologized repeatedly.
“No, it’s me. Without me glasses I’m fair blind.” He pointed at my bonnet. “Costume party?”
“Amish. I’m in New York to choose my future—my parent’s home or the modern world.”
“Do you like rock and roll?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“What’ll you choose—1694 or 1964?”
“Not sure. I hate big crowds.”
“So do I.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss…”
“And you, sir?”
“John. John Lennon.”
Later on, down the road, another prompt put me in mind of George Harrison. Up until this one I hadn’t intended on making it a series. Nor did I truly plan for it after this one.
ALL THINGS MUST PASS
Word Count: 100
“‘A sunrise doesn’t last all morning,’” I sing and strum the chords that take me back to a New York television studio thirty years ago.
There to meet a friend, I loaned my Martin to an aging musician for his last live performance.
“You don’t happen to have a capo, do you, Miss Guitar Lady?” he asked.
Something in his serene eyes and genuine smile reached to the depths of my soul.
My fingers move on the fretboard where his once did. I never changed those strings.
And as VH1’s cameras recorded history, George Harrison made my guitar gently weep.
This is the story that sealed the deal.
WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS
Word Count: 100 words
The boy stared out the window beside his bed and listened to his Alyn Ainsworth record. He tapped his fingers on the night stand in time to the music.
Sentenced to the ‘greenhouse,’ a children’s sanitarium, he’d celebrated his fourteenth birthday with tea, boredom and Streptomycin. Yet, after a year of incarceration, the doctors still considered Ritchie too ill to go home.
“Join our band,” said a nurse. “Bring your new banjo.”
“I’d rather play drums.”
Ten years later Ritchie smiled over his drum set at a sea of screaming teenagers as Ed Sullivan cried, “Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!”
It was only a matter of time until a photo prompt would inspire a story for or about Paul.
WORDS OF WISDOM
“I pressed your clothes,” said Mary. “Mind Dad and look after your brother whilst I’m in hospital.”
“Thanks, Mum.” Paul buttoned his shirt. “Deese are me bezzies.”
“Stop it. I’ve taught you better, now haven’t I?”
“Not half.” He quipped in falsetto. “The Queen’s English. Ever so posh.”
She looked as if she wanted to scold him more. Instead, she embraced him and said, “If I don’t come back…”
Emptiness flooded the boy.
“Of course you’re coming back. Who’ll cook for us if you don’t?”
“There will be an answer.” Mary McCartney kissed her son and whispered, “Let it be.”
Although some have believed this to be a religious song, Mother Mary is none other than Paul’s dear mum who passed away when he was only fourteen.
Marie Gail, this blog’s for you. 😉