Creating a children’s story. A Tudorama competition

You are invited to take part in a competition to create a story suitable for turning into an audio book. The winning entry will be posted here and published as an audio post on the Buzzsprout platform.

The Story Begins …

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Megan who lived with her mother and father close to a forest,  far away from their nearest neighbour. 

One day, walking in the forest, Megan said to herself, I wish I had a friend to talk to. Then a voice said ‘I could be your friend’. 

She looked up,  but there was no bird talking to her in the trees.

She looked down but all she could see was a beautiful mushroom, growing on an old tree log.

And that was how Megan became friends with the last mushroom in the forest, and helped her new friend escape being taken by Gobble the Goblin who liked nothing better than a tasty mushroom stew …

The Challenge

Come up with a name for the story, intended to become an audio book, and a short 50 word description of how it continues.

Entry deadline November 30th, 2022

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WHERE’S THE WEALTH TO COME FROM?

Where’s the wealth to come from?

Tell us where it comes from.

Growth

Growth

Growth

Will you cut our pay rise?

Will your words be just lies?

Absolutely

Absolutely

Tax cuts for the wealthy…

Cuts, 

Cuts

Cuts

What of our futures?

What are their features?

Are the gazing at the dawn?

Or on downtrodden creatures?

Are they 

Bright

Bright

Bathed in sunlight

Sunlight

Sunlight

Are they gazing at the dawn?

Or on downtrodden creatures?

[October 19 2022: work in progress]

I do not mourn tonight

I do not mourn tonight.

I celebrate

Not a death, but a life lived

The drought breaks …I’m singing in the rain

I’m singing in the rain

Jus singing in the rain

What a glorious  feeling

It’s Manchester rain

Hear my refrain

As cars aquaplane

Driving through Bridle lane

I’m happy again

The message is plain

I’ll never complain

About Manchester rain

When I’m singing’

Jus singing 

In the rain

An Olive Branch to the 1%…And Mankind

by Steve Jaffa Brown

17 August 2022

“Out of the pit came a glimmer, a sound, singing a soul’s sole command…1 2 SHINE

…So began time, began breath, began the rhythm, begat the rhyme”

PARANOIA:A GUIDE TO PEACE, LOVE AND PROSPERITY

My paranoia I don’t want but it’s always been there

I’ve had some pleasure in it whilst tearing out my hair

But that’s my painful side: a conscience full of sin and regret

…For the way I behaved to family, society, women, even having a bet

So here’s my higher-self with brain speaking, and this is what I get:

Our environment can’t be concrete for the seed of peace to land

So here’s a guide of how man will shake mankind’s hand

No more: Harm to mothers and children or the progressive growth of mankind

Then: Men allowed a sense of dignity, women allowed to express their divine

No more abuse, torture or being rapacious with the earth

Try loving your enemies and fellow man; thence experiencing self-worth 

Because it’s mainly man that created this mess…

With aggression, violence and obsession with the grotesque

“The truth will set you free”. A pardon for Julian Assange

This 1% act of forgiveness clears the wrong

… The divine male became fascinated by the dark; at worst totally immersed

With pornography the link to what makes us worse

The objectification of our feminine and abuse of their child gift

Because even the 1% know and feel a feminine’s mood lift

You see: God can be a ruthless teacher, his missus more benevolent

So here’s what life can offer the billionaires for amnesty development

Yachts, holidays etc without a guard needed anywhere

And a growing of self-love if you’re willing to dare

A strong economy, all the bitcoin you need

Your conscience cleansing and growing the seed; resulting less and less greed

Try becoming an entrepreneur, diplomat or beautiful philanthropist…the fulfilment of sharing

Then remove your shades, reveal yourself, because the sun’s not glaring

Now with war and abuse a distant bad memory

You can pray peace and love instead in your ceremony

You have the skills to organise …cease fires, truces and infrastructure; it’s what you do best

Abolish all debt! Become diplomats, throw away your bullet proof vest

Now feel the good news, I pray you walk this way

Hallelujah! Let’s all now commit to every day being: MOTHERS DAY

AMEN

Ghosts haunt the ground at Old Trafford

I used to go regularly to old Trafford with an old friend when his son was unable to use his season ticket. I remember the last mile walk.
Having left the car in the hands of unofficial but secure guardian of a plot of development land off the Stretford Road, we went with the flow of traffic heading for the Ground.
Our journey was hindered as we both jostled to secure the better side for listening. Eventually, we gave up and jostled on, mostly in silence.

I was reminded of those experiences this week, with the exploits of the Lionesses and experiencing the high drama at Wembley. I remembered those visits to Old Trafford, and the overwhelming atmosphere of the stadium as it filled up.

Ghosts haunt the ground at Old Trafford

Even on a quiet day you can feel their presence.
Some, restless around the clock
where time stands still, at four past three
On the south east corner of the stand
as time on other clocks move on.

Some are gleeful spirits
weaving around the highest ribs, when cheers ring out
For modern number sevens or eights.
or mournful for number tens.

Then, the groundlings,
memories scattered around the penalty areas
faintly urging a mis-hit.

Unnamed others leave a shiver.
Can you feel them, entombed
around the car parks?

The silence of the statues
whose masks never slip
although always under scrutiny
from a paused gaze.

Old Trafford. This theatre of dreams
and mausoleum of memories.

Steve the Didsbury poet

This morning I met Steve the Poet
He was eating his toastie breakfast outside the Deli.
Heard about the local poet.
Approached him. He looked very approachable.

His features are those
of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.
Grey bearded. Looks up at the grey-bearded interrupter of his progress on the toastie.
Confirms he is indeed Steve the Didsbury Poet.

I tell him I write poems, too.
With little encouragement, he pulls out his poems
From his carrier bag.
They are kept, loose-leafed, in a red folder
that has seen better days.
Says he doesn’t publish them.
I say I don’t publish my poems either.

Steve does open-mic readings, doesn’t like to call what he does performances.
The poems are collectively a love-letter to his life companion.
I want to record our conversation, take out my phone.
Wrong, find I have forgotten my phone.

Somehow, our talk gets round to the Universe.
I tell him about the spaceship that sends photographs back to Earth
from the end of the Universe.

What do they look like, he asks.
Like stars we see when we look up, I say.
I’ll show you on my phone.

Wrong. I have forgotten my phone.
One day, Steve will come back again for his breakfast.
I will have my phone that day, and will show him what
the view from the end of the Universe looks like.

Waiting for Cherry Blossom time

 

The dusty old shoes

Look at me dolefully.

 

The garden mud has caked into sepia scars

From their last outing.

 

They have been replaced in my affections

By puppyish new favourites.

 

They are now waiting for Cherry Blossom time.

Afterwards, the visit to the church,

And then on to the churchyard.

CHARLES THE SIXTIETH

 

 

 

A noble and historic name to share

With Kingsley, Darwin, Dickens, Charles de Gaulle

The great and good upon the honour roll

For purity of soul or exploit rare

 

The Bonnie Prince, pretender to the throne

Born to be Charles the Third, across the sea,

Might have been crowned, historians agree

And witnessed thus upon the stone of Scone

 

Neither should the Charlies be forgotten

On stage and screen, they kept us all awake

Chaplin and Chester, Griffith, George and Drake

Some really good, some fair, some rather rotten

 

For Charles LX, a new decade appears

Here’s to the next half century of years.

 

 

 

TR May 2017

I Took a Little Tiger Moth

[In Memorium:  to John Magee and his High Flight]

I took a little tiger moth

On its last journey, today.

We started out from Woodford,

Where before, the great planes were built

In peacetime and in war.

It was sunny.

Blue skies, no wind

All  clear on the smooth unhurried run.

So smooth, I hardly noticed the familiar sights.

We approached Bramhall, where they are building now

To  speed the flow of Cheshire traffic to the airport.

It was only after we arrived, and I had stopped the engine

That I noticed my companion

The beautiful tiger moth

Securely strapped in

And attached to my driving mirror.