This is Plymouth -- PLYMOUTH writer Alan Grant's humorous take on love has been selected as this year's Herald Valentine's short story. Alan was delighted his fictional tale A Wish Came True was chosen by author and creative writing lecturer Gavin Smith – especially as it's the second year running he's won. Last year, Alan's story Welcome Home was named as the best submission. He also has a spooky Halloween story selected in 2012, making him a three-time champ. "I'm chuffed," he said. "I got the idea of someone working in a big office, because that is something I used to do." A retired social worker Alan is a member of Plymouth Writers Group, which meet at Plymouth Arts Centre, has already had a book of short stories published and seen his work on book shelves in Canada and the USA. "I'm currently shortlisted for a BBC radio play competition," he said. He dedicated his triumph to Plymouth writer Roy York, a friend and former tutor, who sadly died in 2012. Plymouth author Gavin Smith, who lectures in creative writing at the Open University and penned the novel DogFellow's Ghost, judged the entries. He said: "It was a witty and entertaining story of love, romance and Valentine cards." Alan's story just pipped the tale Love and Literature, by Christine Wilson, from Tamerton Foliot. Gavin called that story: "Quirky and humorous. It reveals how the road to true love can lie in a chicken sandwich." Gavin also commended January Blues, by Bex Olver, from Tavistock, which he called a "bittersweet story of love found and lost". VALENTINE'S SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER: A WISH CAME TRUE By Alan Grant I didn't get a Valentine's card last year, nor the year before. In fact, when I sat down and really thought about it, I realised I hadn't had one for nearly 10 years. Not since Jason and I split up. It was then, I decided to do something about it. In the office I've had the odd birthday card, and at Christmas we usually manage to exchange cards, however, Valentine's Day for me has always been a dead loss, a complete and absolute dodo. Have I really become that fat and unattractive? Don't get me wrong, I've met and personally "known" a lot of men since Jason and I finished. Some of them were absolutely brilliant lovers, far better than Jason, but unlike him, not romantic in terms of thinking about sending a Valentine's card. He always sent me one. I work on the twelfth floor at the council, and over the years, it's become a ritual for staff to exchange the contents of their Valentine's cards, no matter where they came from. People would even bring them in from home and open them in front of everyone. Shrieks and sighs would be the order of the day. If only the poor devils that sent them had known, they'd have died of embarrassment. "Oh Debbie. How sexy." They'd chorus as she carefully opened her padded card, releasing a few verses from Barry White. John would gently open his card from Janet. No sounds, but lots of romantic twaddle, which he dramatically read out to an adoring audience. Craig's was hysterical as usual, and inevitably rude. Matt's cards from his partner Tim were always, moronic, and from the most recent clear out sale at a pound store, with the price inevitably still displayed on the back. Claire's card was a serial repeat. In other words, I distinctly remember her coming into the office with the same one in previous years. I'm sure she simply glued the envelope down again. Was I the only one to notice? Nah! Basically, I never questioned their enjoyment, nor joined in. Cos I never got one. Although I knew they were mouthing to one another behind my back, "Ellie got nothing as usual." I don't know what changed my thinking and approach, but suddenly, this year, I knew it would be different. I bought the biggest blooming Valentines Card in the shop. It cost me nearly a tenner and weighed a ton. Sonia who runs my local pub on the Barbican, helped me fill it in. She understood some of the problems I was having, and was very sympathetic. In her own way, Sonia was an agony aunt for the various middle-aged men and women who frequented her bar. Always sympathetic, caring and available, but with strict house rules, especially with men. For Sonia business and pleasure didn't mix. She could listen to the most detailed and graphic explanations as to why a person's relationship had broken down. Sonia would sympathise. Sonia would empathise. But that's as close as any man ever got to her actual thighs. Me? I didn't even get the chance of a man fancying me. Nevertheless, Sonia was brilliant. So was her daughter Mandy who helped out in the bar. "Ellie," she said. "You've spent a lot of dosh on the card, but it needs a little extra oomph. Leave it to me." A few minutes later Mandy came back downstairs from her flat. She had a photograph in her hand, and said it was a former boyfriend, a Royal Marine called Nick. She passed it to Sonia who wrote a few words and some kisses on the back, then put it inside the card before sealing it, and addressing it to me at the office. Whilst it was only a brief glimpse, I personally believe that a man's assets are best displayed with a modicum of clothing, and with as much left to the imagination as possible. Mind you, I was quite looking forward to opening the envelope, and Sonia seemed to enjoy adding to the content. As an added safeguard I took the card into Dingles. Whilst pretending to put the smell on the back of my hand, I gave it a spray from a really expensive sample on the men's toiletries, then posted it to the civic centre. On Valentine's Day I deliberately took a day's leave. This wasn't unusual, but I wanted no other distractions. Next morning, I immediately noticed how quiet it was in the office. There was a distinct air of expectancy. I felt many eyes on me as I approached my desk in the civic centre. I nodded to the usual people that I nod with, and ignored those that I knew I could afford to. I looked down at my desk. There it stood. Propped up against my PC screen. Erect and alone, like the Statue of Liberty. My first office Valentine's card, even if it was from me. I slowly took my jacket off, put my sandwiches away on my bookcase, then placed my umbrella in the adjacent stand. Dame Helen Mirren would have been hard pressed to beat my performance. I sat down and casually switched on the PC, whilst, in the same movement removing the card blocking the screen. Opening it nonchalantly, I pretended to briefly study the content, whilst carefully palming the photograph so that I could glimpse what Sonia's daughter had enclosed. My God it was hot! I deliberately tore the card in two in a disdainful but precise way, and carefully placed it in the adjacent waste bin. I left the photograph face down on my desk, put my jacket back on, picked up my handbag and told the receptionist I would be back in an hour. After 45 minutes, the tension was too much. I stood up, massaged my numbed buttocks, opened the cubicle and re-entered the office from the adjacent toilets. There was a distinctly different atmosphere, particularly amongst the women. I strode confidently towards my desk, nodding graciously to the left and to the right. Even Sue the autocratic office manager seemed impressed. I felt like an empress returning in triumph. Helen of Troy! Cleopatra! Unusually and significantly, men were also deferring their gaze in my presence. Well that's what it seemed like. As I approached my desk I felt the ultimate surge of adrenalin. Clearly the photograph had been examined and the waste bin moved. My card had been read by some, but pronounced to many. Ellie reigned supreme. I sat down slowly, and opened my desk drawer to put my handbag away. "Oh my God." There sat another Valentine's card. The handwriting was totally unfamiliar, it was masculine, strong and bold, and clearly it hadn't been posted. An internal office Valentine for me! With trembling hands and whilst discretely enclosing it within a file on housing policy, I teased open the envelope and from a distance read the contents. "I've loved you from afar. No day has gone by As each night I cry To be with you To have you lie In my safe strong arms Our bodies would gel Ellie, Oh Ellie Will you please be my girl? "Bugger it," I thought. "Trust me to get it wrong. Ten years I've been waiting for a card. And now? Who dunnit?" It was then I realised that I wasn't just thinking to myself, but had begun to shriek, and loudly. Everyone was definitely paying attention to me now. I picked up the phone and rang the pub. Mandy answered. "I've had enough help from your mother," I said triumphantly. "Tell her thanks for everything, but I got my own personal card, as well as the other one. So there!" There was a long pause before Mandy responded. "Oh it arrived did it? Ellie, you were looking so nervous, we thought you might chicken out, and not send your own one to the office. So we left a spare with the reception, just for you, and just in case. Nick filled it in, and even wrote the poem.. Ellie can you hear me... Ellie... Ellie?" RUNNER UP: LOVE AND LITERATURE By Christine Wilson Last night, Jason had been watching a play adapted for television from the novel Pride and Prejudice (there wasn't any football on). Now that he thought about it, it was obvious Mr Darcy had been looking for love, just like he was. Darcy had been invited to stay at Bingley's place in the country, but there wasn't any talent in sight there, so he had to go out looking for crumpet at the Assembly, which was a sort of Regency dancehall. There wasn't a lot of crumpet there either. Elizabeth Bennet was the best of the bunch so he had made a play for her, but he was so subtle about it that not many people realised what he was about. Elizabeth didn't fancy him at first, but when he came out of the lake in his wet shirt she changed her mind. Jason thought it was the women who were supposed to wear the wet shirts, but it seemed to work for Darcy so it was worth a try. Co-incidentally, Jason had been invited to stay in the country, to look after his mate's dog. As there was a lake in the vicinity he decided to walk the dog round the lake so he could be in the right place at the right time. He hoped he'd get lucky and some bird would fall in the lake so he could rescue her and get his shirt wet to arouse her passion. Unfortunately, his dog had run off before he got a result so now, instead of looking for love, he was looking for Monty. Monty was the name of the stupid dog. Amanda had moved to the country to get away from her possessive and abusive boyfriend Darren. When she had found out what he was really like she told him it was all over between them, but Darren didn't get the message and carried on as if they were still together. He wouldn't leave her alone and he was beginning to scare her. In the end she had to move without telling him where she was going. Now she had a new home, a new life, and the sun was shining in through her bedroom window. What a relief it was not to be afraid to answer the phone in case she might be subjected to more of his crazy accusations and spiteful criticism. Now she would be able to go out without fearing that he would be lurking outside waiting to grab her. She showered, dressed and ate a hearty breakfast. Her job as an illustrator meant she could work from home and didn't have to keep regular hours so she was going to explore her new neighbourhood. With a chicken sandwich in one pocket and a carton of juice in the other she set off. She hadn't gone far before she came upon a beautiful lake surrounded by a variety of lush green trees and bushes. She watched a pair of swans skimming over the water. It was so cool and peaceful. She wandered along the path daydreaming about the kind of boyfriend she'd like to have now she'd finally got rid of Darren. Someone like tall, dark and handsome Mr Darcy, as portrayed in the television play she had watched last night. She smiled to herself. If she ever saw someone like him approaching she might well be tempted to fall in the lake and wait for him to rescue her. It was at this point she became aware that she was being followed. She could definitely hear someone behind her. She was petrified. Was it Darren? Had he found out where she was living and come after her? How could she escape? She walked faster. The person behind her walked faster too. She stopped. The person stopped. She ran. The person ran. She could hear heavy breathing. It was a nightmare. Finally she managed to conjure up some courage. She took a deep breath and turned round to face her pursuer. What a relief. It wasn't Darren. Her pursuer was extremely handsome and he was big and strong with plenty of black hair just like Mr Darcy. There was one minor problem. He was a dog. A dog who appeared to have fallen madly in love with her. He drooled and began to lick every exposed part of her. This wasn't how her daydream was supposed to play out. As she tried to extricate herself from his powerful overtures of passion, she heard a shout. "Stop thief! Here Monty!" She looked up. The dog, who she assumed to be Monty, did not. He continued his wet assault upon her person, much to her embarrassment. A very angry young man ran up to them. Amanda hardly had time to notice his striking resemblance to Mr Darcy before he yelled at her again. "Let go of my dog!""Tell your dog to let go of me," she yelled back. "He's followed me for miles. He seems to like me a lot." She was hoping the young man would also notice how likeable she was, but he didn't. "You encouraged him to follow you. You lured him.""I did no such thing.""You tempted him with titbits!""I most certainly did not.""Monty is not the sort of dog who would go off with strangers.""He didn't go off with me. He stalked me.""My dog is not a stalker.""Your dog stalked me and then he assaulted me.""And how did he assault you may I ask? You look all right to me.""He tried to lick me to death. I'm all wet." e produced a lead which he clipped to the dog's collar. "If I catch you trying to steal him again I'll call the police.""If he assaults me again I'll call the police," she countered. Jason snorted contemptuously and marched off, hauling a reluctant Monty in his wake. As he made his way home he began to regret that he had lost his temper. She was the prettiest girl he'd seen around here. He didn't like apologising, but maybe he would if he ever saw her again. Amanda watched them go. What a pity they got off to such a bad start when he looked so much like Mr Darcy. She would try to arrange another meeting under more congenial circumstances. Hopefully romance would blossom. Later, when her diaries were published, she would become half of one of the greatest literary love stories of all time. Up there with Romeo and Juliet, Scarlett and Rhett, Heathcliff and Cathy, and of course, Darcy and Elizabeth. On the way home she tried to work out why Monty was so attracted to her. Dogs didn't usually pay her so much attention. Then she remembered. The chicken sandwich! It was still in her coat pocket. She'd forgotten to eat it. She made a detour to the butchers and bought another chicken. COMMENDED: JANUARY BLUES by Bex Olver The alarm sounds and my eyes haven't even fully opened and already I know that I'm going to the bar. I ball my hand into a fist and bring it down in the vicinity of the alarm clock. There are a few misguided hits but the damn thing eventually shuts up with a particularly vicious, well aimed bash. It is January 2 today, the light filtering through the curtains is a weak grey and this will be the fourth consecutive day I will have spent in this bed and later the bar. I haven't changed the sheets since before she last spent the night here. Her scent is gone now, obliterated by my alcohol and sweaty stink, but the longer the sheets stay on the bed the more I feel she's still here. I press my nose to the fabric in the black of night when I can't summon tears to express my heartache. Sometimes I think her smell is locked deep in the fibres and if I inhale violently enough, I'll coax it out and be able to smell her again. If I'm really feeling sadistic I like to pretend that she's lying next to me in the bed and I torture myself with how she used to look with her head on the pillow, the morning sunlight catching the golden strands of her hair. It is a fruitless occupation for when I turn to see her, she is gone, vaporised by my movement and I am left with nothing but my breaking heart for company. I don't remember thinking that life was dull or lacking anything before she came along. But she exploded, like a firework, all over every inch of my existence fizzling, splattering and daubing bright colour everywhere. As soon as I knew she existed it was impossible not to think of the time before her as anything but grey and boring and deficient. She fell off a gate. Like a sack of potatoes she would later tell me, but I don't remember it that way. I watched her head, gracefully follow the rest of her body off snowy wood and onto the snowy pavement, with a thud that rang out against the white deadened silence. She fell off a gate and I fell head over heels in love. Of course, I took her to the hospital and of course she had concussion. The girl with no family nearby, no flat-mate and no one to call threw up on my shoes after I had been given strict instructions to not leave her alone and to bring her back to the harsh, silvery light of A&E if she got worse. The nurses assumed I was her partner. We didn't correct them. We got to her flat, after I managed to get the address out of her. Drowsiness isn't a good thing with concussion, but she was going to have to sleep at some point and she muttered something about her bedroom and asking me to stay as I de-booted her before she bundled herself under the coral flowery duvet cover. Her flat was silent and as I stood, I wasn't sure if this was really happening. It was like something out of a movie. She'd demonstrated nothing but clumsiness, concussion and an inability to hold onto the contents of her stomach. I knew nothing about her – not even her name or her age or anything and yet it was like she had hold of my heart in an invisible, captivating grasp. While the craziness of the situation percolated in my brain. I made a cup of tea with some on-the-turn milk I found in the pine green kitchen and then curiosity got the better of me. I did not know who this girl was and before I gave myself much time to think I was rifling through a dark brown handbag, looking for a card or something with her name on. I found a terracota coloured library card, dog eared, well used and I read the name written in black Biro, enjoying the sound of her name on my lips. January Blues. The name set me off and I browsed her book collection desperate to know more, I looked at the pictures of friends and family crammed into mirrors and picture frames which were all the colours of the rainbow. I went through her cream kitchen cupboards (two pot noodles, a Cadburys Boost and a can of baked beans are the only things I can remember), I opened the chrome bin in the bathroom and found cotton buds with translucent yellowy slicks at each end and an empty bottle of shampoo (which may have been tinged a pinky hue). An origami crane mobile hung from the living room ceiling, with shades of emerald, scarlet and sapphire that jolted my brain with their brightness. Mauve polka dot heels lay where they had been kicked off. I slid all over the wooden floor in my crimson socks as I took in as much of her as possible and when she eventually overwhelmed my head and each of my senses I slept on the tatty, faded jade sofa. In the morning, I went out to get her some fresh milk and bread, in an effort to catch my breath and to get away from the colours that dazzled and shook me and made me all too aware of my own dull existence. I had no idea if she would remember the accident the day before and I didn't know if she would remember asking me to stay. When I returned she was up and had a headache but she remembered the stranger who took her to A&E. With the dazzling morning sun flooding the front room, she sat in a vaguely cheerful mood and in a dressing gown of bright fuchsia; the colour instantly searing itself onto my mind. Whenever I think about her now my memories are painted with the most vivid of colours. Jan was a prettily coloured butterfly. The longer she fluttered about me, the more certain I became that she would eventually float off, away from me in search of sweet, summer air to frolic on. For those all too brief weeks she was my everything and I was all she needed. For that bizarre meeting snowballed into trips to the pictures, dinner, chilly walks in the park, days lying on her sofa reading or watching TV and in the inky black still of night she would lay on my sheets and in my arms and whisper words that alluded to forever but promised nothing more than that moment. On December 30, the weather grew stormy and the butterfly girl who had fallen off the gate and into my heart began to feel the wintry chill and fluttered away to warmer climes. It wasn't working, I wasn't what she needed, it was her (not me) and she was sorry et cetera. The recollection of that moment causes my heart to twist in a fresh spasm of pain. I decide that I will not achieve anything by staying in bed; the lure of alcoholic anaesthesia is too great. I stumble into stale smelling clothes, their colours muted in the presence of my hangover. I ignore my bleary eyed reflection and I wrap myself up and when I crunch over dirty frozen snow to the bar I wonder whether I could ever have kept her. I had known that January could not be tamed and in the end, somehow she would have slipped from my grasp and into the path of another unassuming mug, who would only realise how boring life was without her when it was too late. I heave open the door to the bar and I tell myself there are two days left. Two more days before I head back to work after Christmas. Two more days to wallow in self-pity and then I will stay sober, go to work and move on. I slide into a seat at the bar, which has a faded and cracked grey leather cushion and order a vodka. When the clear liquid is placed in front of me I knock it back and order another, straight away. "What you in for dude?" slurs the guy next to me, clearly recognising a kindred spirit with a need to forget. Picking up the refilled glass, I swirl the colourless contents. "January blues." I say matter of factly. He cackles a drunken laugh, "Man, they're a pain in the... ""You have no idea… " I tell him and clink my glass against his.
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