Monday Motivations

Struggling for something to write about? Why not take the name of a film and use it as the impetus for a story, poem, or article? You don’t even have to know anything about the original film; take the title and see where you mind takes you. Here are a few titles for you:

  • The Go-Between
  • Forbidden Games
  • The Dead
  • The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
  • It’s a Gift
  • Only Angels have Wings
  • The Godfather
  • Persuasion
  • The Piano
  • The Shining

Here’s my story, The Godfather, which you’ll soon discover is nothing like the film!

The Godfather

His head hurt like mad. He lay there awhile on the cold concrete, his eyes closed. How long had he been there? A day? Two? What had happened? Who was he? He didn’t even know his own name. He gulped back the tears.

He froze. He wasn’t alone. Someone had hurt him and now they had come back. They were getting closer. He braced himself for a fist to come flying or…a tongue to lick his face?

He forced his eyes open, fighting against the persistent pain. It was a cat. He smiled, despite himself. He liked cats, even mangy old cats like this one. There, that was something else he knew about himself. Any minute now, his name, address, date of birth and school would explode into his head.

He waited. Nothing.

“Who am I?” he shouted.

The cat stopped its ferocious licking and hopped off him huffily. Did cats get huffy and if they did, why was this one huffy?

The cat had to be a she. She was even worse than his mum. He grinned. He was beginning to remember! He couldn’t picture his mum though, but he knew she nagged him. A lot. 

He looked around. He was in an alleyway – a shortcut to somewhere. Maybe a shortcut home. 

His eyes came to rest on the cat, now with its nose stuck up in the air, too.

“Blimey, you are worse than my mum. I was only asking who I am. I wasn’t shouting at you,” he said.

The cat turned round and shrugged its shoulders. The boy’s mouth gaped open. Cats didn’t shrug their shoulders and cats didn’t understand human words either. 

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. The cat started meowing.

“Stop that. You’re making my head throb,” he said.

The meowing stopped. 

“Okay, so you can understand more than most cats. Bet you can’t tell me my name can you?”

The cat started to nod its head.

“Great, my name’s Noddy,” the boy said, touching his head.

He took his hand away, disappointed not to find a very large lump there. Something had to explain what he was doing in an alleyway, battered and bruised and talking to a cat.  

Then it came to him.

“You’re not nodding. You’re bobbing your head up and down. My name’s Bob,” he said.

The cat meowed and launched itself on him, rewarding him with a loud purr. Bob’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at his clothes. His trainers were trendy, his Jeans were baggy and his top was the ‘in’ colour. He was certain of it. Bobs wore frumpy trousers, stiff shirts, silly shoes and khaki cardigans. Bobs were at least sixty years old and he was fifteen. What on earth had his mum and dad been playing at calling him Bob?

His hands flew to his Jeans’ pocket. A wallet would be in there – an address, a phone – a way to get home. Nothing.

“I’m never going to get home,” he said.

A flurry of fur caught his eye.

“Don’t leave me,” Bob said.

The cat was almost round the corner now. Then it stopped, turned to him and waved its paw to beckon him forward.

“I’m coming. What are you, my Fairy Godmother?” Bob asked.

A hiss came from between barred teeth.

“Sorry, Fairy Godfather?”

The hiss fizzled out and the teeth were gone from view. Instead, a gigantic grin had taken their place.

“As long as it gets me home, I suppose I can sort out the ‘seeing a Fairy Godfather cat thing’ later. What are my mum and dad like?” Bob asked when his saviour stopped to scratch its ear.

The nose wrinkled and the ears flattened.

“A bit weird, then?”

The head went on one side.

“A lot weird? But are they kind? Am I happy at home?”

The head nodded vigorously then the cat swivelled round and darted off again. Bob followed.

So, he was happy at home but would he ever get home? Of course he wouldn’t. Not if he was talking to a cat who thought it understood humans. It probably hadn’t been fed for days and when it had seen Bob, it thought Christmas had come early. No wonder it was trying to get Bob moving. It wanted some food, shelter and a warm place to stay.   

But they already had three dogs, five cats, a budgie, two rabbits, two guinea pigs, seven goldfish and a tortoise. Bob laughed. Another thing remembered.

He stared at the sullen face.

“You knew what I was thinking, didn’t you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, but I just want to go home,” he said.

This time the tears fell. More images came – of a hand on his shoulder and a smiley face – Mum – of a pat on the back and a proud look in the eye – Dad.

Still more flashes came. Not so pleasant this time – of boys standing round him. Poking him, pulling him, punching him and taking his wallet and phone. Then came the pain, blinding him until he blacked out. 

Sobs swept through his whole body and he stopped, his shoulders shaking. He jumped at the sound of a door opening. Cries and screams filled the air. Bob looked at his saviour. He smiled, sure the cat winked and certain a sparkle of shimmering dust had shot up into the sky.

Then arms grabbed him. Hands ruffled his hair. Lips kissed him. He allowed himself to become lost in their love. Tears came once more, but this time for a very different reason. He let the strong arms lead him inside. He glanced back, searching for the cat, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. 




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13 Responses to Monday Motivations

  1. Le Fragi says:

    Interesting story. thank you for the read. And I write a quick ‘it’s a gift’ 50-worser for you in return. G:)

    It’s a gift (50-word story)

    “What is it, Faith?” The small boy, looked up enquiringly as Faith sighed.

    “It’s a gift, Bertie. And it’s yours.”

    “Mine?” queried Bertie. “Are you sure?”

    “Positive” said Faith. Nobody can ever take your sweet voice away from you.”

    Bertie smiled and with his eyes shining he resumed his song.

  2. Steve says:

    Very nice!

  3. Thanks for the story! Here’s a 150-word offering:


    I know what most of you think: what’s the point? Isn’t life too short for this? But you’re not getting it, you’re not grasping the deeper significance of this act. What you fail to realize is the importance of the little things. The saying used to be—before the devil took it over—that God is in the details. I’m not saying I believe in God or anything, but I get the point. In the details lies the higher truth; when you look at them you see who a person really is. Do they work hard or not? Are they confident or not? Do they make an effort towards themselves and others?

    When I work that cloth and polish I am making a statement. Look hard enough and you’ll see that I am not shining my belt buckle and boots—I am shining my soul.

  4. Such a heart-warming story, Esther. I need to start writing happy endings.

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