Valentine’s vs Walking Dead Season Start

Hi all! You okay? Hope so, it’s February!

So the gang have all been trying to work out what the hell I meant with the last piece and you can check out their findings on the blog page and then you can vote for your favourite by clicking the subtle link below:


See it? Anyhow…

February means we’re going to have to dig deep and remind our significant others that we love them dearly for one day and then sod them for the 363 (you’ll have some sort of anniversary) so we’re going for the theme of LOVE!!!!

I hate writing romance, so I have added a little alternative to the theme. Not only have the gang got to write a romance piece in 1500 words or less but they also have to incorporate a song that I have given each of them. It doesn’t have to use the song literally, it can reference it. It can make a story from the lyrics. DO WHAT YOU WANT AS LONG AS IT SOMEHOW USES IT!

You can click on the writer’s name below to find what song they have been given:








Now obviously I couldn’t set myself a song so I went to the man I always go to when I need a song suggestion, my old Dad. Dad is a dick! His response to “I need a love song” was “Bruce?” Which if you know my dad or me, means one song…

Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen

This song means so much to me that I hate this example piece, but it’s just an example and as such I offer it out. I’ll see you in March, when things will get a little weird…


Thunder Road

The screen door slammed as Mary’s dress waved. She turned in hope and had them shattered as she realised it was just the wind once more. She had lived her later life in solitude but for her early twenties in which she had met a boy named Bruce. As she sat there on the porch swing in the cool summer breeze, she reminisced about her short time they had spent together.

They met in high school, but it wasn’t until they were 17 that they truly knew each other. It was at the leaver’s ball that Bruce had come over to her, blushing over his lack of confidence and asked for the dance that sealed their fate. They slow danced to a Roy Orbison number that not many of their peers would know and later that night, they fumbled in the back seat of Bruce’s pink Cadillac. Later on, she would ask why he owned a beaten up wreck of a car, fix it up with all the love and care he could muster and yet leave the rusted pink paint job. He’d laugh and, knowing he was about to get a punch on the arm for it, respond:

“Hey little baby, she’s just like you!”

“And whatever does that mean?”

“You ain’t a beauty but babe you’re alright…”

She couldn’t help but smile at that line. He meant it with all the love in the world but showed it in such a way that it felt much more than a corny line he had heard in a jukebox downtown. At 19, they ran away together, to the old house that she sat outside now. At the time they felt they were making a statement; to their parents, to the authorities, but most of all themselves. Unfortunately, karma swung back and Bruce was drafted and taken to Vietnam for what felt like eternity. Each letter was signed with the sweet sentiment of a long walk home, so don’t wait up for him.

A rumble from the street pulled her from her daydream, as she watched kids running on the pavement back home before lights out. They had never had kids, though they were never against the idea. Bruce had worked construction, though with the lack of money coming in he plucked up his courage and took to playing his dishevelled guitar at the local bar twice a week. At night she’d sit and listen to the songs he’d write; of better days, of hungry hearts, of the working man’s plight. Nothing moved her more than watching the man she had grown up with and had somehow grown on her become another being on stage. She had no idea where this sudden confidence appeared from, until he alighted to the origin once, between songs.

“You know, there’s not much I have to be proud of,” he said after a large pull of his bottle. “But when I see my Mary beaming up at me from the back of the room, I couldn’t help but feel a fire spark in my soul.” She smirked, knowing full well that she would tease him for his attempt at poetic speech and wait until he turned the puppy dog eyes in her direction. But the eyes never came…

A tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered the last time he sat with her on the porch swing, telling jokes of how he was a gun for hire and that he was going to start wearing flannel shirts and grow a lumberjack’s beard. They were in their 40’s now and his childishness gave her a revitalising breath. On this night, however, he had a return of a fierce cough that had racked him for a while. He hid his handkerchief hurriedly in his pocket before regaining breath. She looked at him and knew that something was amiss, but dared not ask for want of the truth. He turned to her and kissed her on the forehead, the way he had done every night for the past 30 years.

“It still amazes me that in a town full of losers…”

She cut him off, “I married the worst?”

But he did not grin, and it unsettled her. He held her for a while he spoke, trying to squeeze together the broken pieces. The cancer hit hard, and he was taken before she knew he had gone. He had promised her the world, and now that promise had been broken. She had taken his hand and they had gone up Thunder Road, only to find that it only led to more places to die.


The screen door slammed once more and Mary’s dressed waved. Once again he was not there. She got up, looking off into the distance and hoping he’d be there once more with those words he’d whisper so many times before.





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