Please Love Me Too

A short story inspired by the song “I Say A Little Prayer.”

He was smiling at me, his long eyelashes made his blue eyes sparkle a small smile was playing over his lips as his face filled my vision moving closer towards me.

I lifted my face to meet his as he pushed his lips out, I close my eyes and waited for his mouth to meet mine.

The image before me was shattered by a deafening alarm. I reached out my arm and frantically fumbled for the alarm clock to silence it. Lying back in the bed I sighed irritably.

“Eric.”

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to conjure up the image of Eric again but it was no use, that dream was over.

“Please let today be the day that he notices me, please” I whispered.

I shuffled in to the bathroom to clean my teeth and put on my make up. I pulled a hairbrush through my hair, as I stood in front of the wardrobe looking at all my clothes and trying to decide what to wear.

“Something nice. What I wear could be the thing that makes him notice me. Really hope he notices me.” I said to my cat, George, who bumped his back side against me as he passed by, curling his tail around my leg, maintaining contact with me until he was too far away to be in reach. He gave a little miaow as he wandered out of the room. At least someone loves me, I mused as I turned my attention back to my wardrobe and selected a dress that was ever so slightly more fitted than usual with a slightly more plunging neckline than I’d ever worn to work before.

I was wearing new shoes, with a heel. I hadn’t realised that walking would be so much more difficult. Still, something about the shoes made my legs look sort of sexy. But I missed the bus and had to wait ages for the next one. Stupid Eric! He’d better notice me after all this! I smiled to myself as I closed my eyes, letting the motion of the bus lull me into a daydream that revolved around Eric. He was handsome, but not too handsome. His eyes crinkled in the corners like he was laughing all the time and he looked so casual he wore his suits like they were sweat pants. He was my kind of guy. Yet somehow, every time I saw him, I tensed up, I couldn’t speak, my mind went blank. I was normally, laid back, relaxed, and having a good laugh. I was convinced we were kindred spirits. But I was so madly in love with him that I got all giddy whenever he was around.

I finally arrived at work and slipped past the managers office unnoticed.

“I saw you, sneaking in late, what happened?” My friend, Joanna, teased me. Leaning casually against the door frame of my office, she smiled at me, “you look very nice. Are you going to actually speak to him today?” She grinned wickedly.

I frowned, feeling my face flush as she spoke. She knew about my crush on Eric, as she called it. Crush? Believe me, it was more than a crush. I was in love with him. There was no one else I could imagine ever wanting to be with.

Joanna stood up straight wide eyed and looked down the corridor.

“Hi Eric.” She said. I felt my eyes widen in an adrenalin-fuelled panic. I saw him walk past my door.

“Hi Jo, Sandra.” He called as he disappeared out of sight. My mouth dropped open.

“He knows my name.” I whispered. Joanna laughed.

“Seriously. You’re the HR manager, of course he knows your name!”

I scowled at her. Three years ago he’d joined the company and for three years I’d been loving him from afar.

“Come on, let’s go get a coffee.” She moved away from the door and waited for me to join her. We took the lift to the 2nd floor and stepped in to the canteen. Joanna nudged me and nodded towards the vending machines. Eric was putting money into the snack machine. He shoved his hands into his pocket, rummaging for more coins.

“Now’s your chance.” she said, holding a handful of coins towards me. I stared at her, “go on.” she hissed, pushing the money into my hands and shoving me in the direction of the man of my dreams.

I stumbled over to him and stopped, plastering a big smile across my face, I leaned against the neighbouring vending machine and looked at him.

“You need some change?” I asked.

He looked at me in surprise, glancing down at my open palm of silver and then past my hand to my outfit. His mouth slowly turned into a smile as he reached for a coin and fed it into the machine.

“Thanks, Sandra.” He said.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled. I didn’t know what to say next so I stood there like a waiter holding a tray of drinks.

“Are you getting anything?” He asked. I shook myself and grinned, feeding coins into the machine. Eric walked away. I heard him speak briefly to Joanna as he left the canteen.

I groaned, waiting for Joanna to ridicule me for my inability to seize the day.

“Well that was a disaster. What a wasted opportunity. I’m going to die alone. It’s him or no one.” I sighed miserably. She grinned at me.

“Not at all. He just asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

Please Love Me Too

A rebrand, sort of.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and any eagle-eyed observant followers may have spotted my first step in making a change when I changed my Twitter display name to H P Stephens. That’s right, my real name.

When I chose the name L E May, it was mainly because I didn’t want my mum to read my novel and shout at me for all the bad language and sex scenes. But she’s my mum, I couldn’t lie to her and she read it anyway. So did my dad, but I don’t want to dwell on that!

But I figured that having a pseudonym for privacy was a good idea so I went with it.

Now that I’ve finished writing my second novel, I have something that I want to put my own name to (and that I’ll gladly let my mum read). And I’ve got several short stories planned out, inspired by songs. I’d kinda like to claim them too.

I’ve never hidden behind fake images (although I did wear a wig for my publicity head shots) so I decided it’s time to stop hiding behind a fake name too.

So over next few weeks I’m going to slowly change things over and make things more simple.

A fresh new look, website and Twitter name. Watch this space!*

*actually, not this space, I’m probably going to move to, I don’t know, hpstephens.co.uk maybe…

A rebrand, sort of.

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars