Love Will Always Follow You Around

Julia walked. Ever since the split, she walked. She walked for hours every day, until her feet bled and her body ached and throbbed with pain.

But still she couldn't shake the memory of him.

Although it had been her idea to break up, she regretted it. She saw the updates he posted on Facebook: he was having the time of his life. Whereas she was skulking around a dodgy part of the city in the middle of the night, trying to forget about him. He didn't have to rub it in, but she couldn't blame him for it.

He was all she thought about.

She'd thought she wasn't in love with him any more. This was what she had told him and she had watched his heart break. It was true, at the time at least. But now she wanted him back.

Julia was surprised to see the dim light of a bar on the street corner. It was late. She went in. She drank too much these days.

She took a seat at the bar. To her right was a handsome man with long dark hair who looked as bad as she felt. His face was cut and bruised, his shirt was ripped, he was in a terrible state.

"You look as bad as I feel," Julia said, gesturing for the barman to bring over two beers.

He gave her a weak smile and she felt hopeful.

This story is inspired by the song 'Love Will Always Follow You Around' by Paintings of Ships.

The Sea Is A Good Place To Think Of The Future

It was Sunday. And as on most Sundays at this time of year, Will was on the beach. He didn't come during the summer. Instead, Will waited until the tourists had fled and he had the place to himself. Nobody would usually go to the beach in such a grey and miserable town in November, but it suited Will.

Will had his favourite spot on the beach, the spot he had picked out many years ago. He sat in it every Sunday that he could and just thought. He thought about how he was wasting his life. He thought about how he missed his dad. He thought about how he was wasting his life pining over Louise when she had moved on.

Sometimes he took a sketch pad and drew. He never drew what he could see, for he found it too frustrating that he couldn't capture reality just right on the page. Instead, he drew monsters. He drew the insides of people. He drew feelings.

Will usually left his drawings behind. His sister would only throw them away out of spite if she found them around the house and he didn't have anyone he wanted to show them to anyway. He liked that someone might find them and take some pleasure from them.

He often sat on the beach and imagined a happier life for himself. He imagined he came to the beach to think of ideas for his award-winning best-selling series of novels. He imagined he brought his baby daughter here to give his wife a break. He imagined he was happy.

Will left the other Wills on the beach and went home, pledging to return in a week.

This story was inspired by the song 'The Sea Is A Good Place To Think Of The Future' by Los Campesinos!

I Didn't Think It Would Hurt To Think Of You

A month had passed and still he was mooning over Georgina.

The stabbing pain in his heart had lessened somewhat and was now just a dull ache, but even a passing thought that reminded him of her made him wince.

The first week he could not bring himself to leave the house. The first three days, he'd remained, steadfastly, in his bed, crying until there were no more tears.

After that, he ventured out, at night in the beginning, treading the streets of the seaside town until his feet bled and the pain in his blisters was greater than that in his heart.

It was his fault. This was what hurt the most. He would never forgive himself for his idiotic actions. He refused to justify himself with the amount of alcohol he had drank, although it was a factor. Approaching his ex in that bar was a mistake he'd regret forever. Their drunken kiss was inevitable and although she initiated it, he responded and was just as much to blame.

He told Georgina the following day. He could not stomach the guilt, he'd vomited as soon as he woke up and it wasn't just the rum that contributed to his sickness.

She finished him there and then. He couldn't blame her. A girl like Georgina didn't need to stick around with an idiot who'd share a drunken snog with a girl he'd dated for a little over a month. She would have her pick of dozens of potential replacements.

In many ways, theirs was the classic teenage romance. Their relationship had even started with the cheesy 'my friend fancies yours' line - his mate Steve doing the honours with her chip shop colleague Jo - moving rapidly through cinema dates, bus shelter fumbles and their inglorious first night together, his parents next door, their movements under the covers stilted as they tried not to disturb them.

He hauled himself out of bed and sat on the end with his head in his hands. He started each day in this manner now, wishing he could turn back the clocks to before that night, before the life he'd mapped out in his head with Georgina had been wiped out due to his own stupidity.

The situation was compounded by the fact they couldn't avoid each other. This place was too small for that. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt for college and headed for the door. He was already late.

No sooner had he locked the door and turned, she was in his eyeline. Her bright, blonde hair reflected the winter sunshine. His heart panged again. Suppressing the urge to dart back inside, he took a deep breath, plastered his most sincere look on his face and called her name.

She blanked him and he trudged to class staring at the floor, promising himself that if he was ever with a girl as lovely as her again, he would do nothing to screw it up.

This story was inspired by the song 'I Didn't Think It Would Hurt To Think Of You' by The Heartbreaks.

Your Ex-Lover Is Dead

This was without a doubt the most awkward drive of his life.

After 30 years in the trade, there wasn't much that Terry hadn't seen before. But the atmosphere in his cab right now was toxic.

The couple had got in the car five minutes ago and barely acknowledged each other's existence in that time. Terry could tell there was a history there. Working in this business, you got a sixth sense about this kind of thing.

He'd seen all sorts over the years. On occasion he'd had to split rowing pairs up, fearing their arguments would boil over into violence. He'd seen famous businesswomen changing from their office clothes into something more suitable for the evening on the back seat. One time, he was sure a couple's passionate kissing had moved to another level. He tried not to look on those occasions, but he was only human. Another time, a drunken man had thrown up all over the back of his head. It took weeks to get the smell out of his hair.

The woman was touching her face self-consciously, trying to catch the eye of the man, who was doing his best to ignore her. In situations like this, Terry often found himself wondering about the lives of his passengers. Often, they wanted to talk and he got to hear all about them. For some reason, people saw taxi drivers as a cheap type of therapy. He didn't mind, but he usually preferred the silent types.

That way his mind could wander off and imagine what they got up to, what their job was, where they were going and who they were meeting.

Terry was sure this couple had not seen each other for a while and were probably hoping they never would again. He noted the body language: the man, dark and well-dressed, was curled up by the window. The blonde woman, wearing a sparkly top and jeans, was more open, legs pointing towards the man, chin pushed up, defiant.

But still they were silent. Terry thought he'd try the old trick of clearing his throat, asked to check the route. But he got only a gruff, one-word answer from the man. If anything, he'd made it worse.

This tale would be unresolved. Terry let them out at the station and took the man's money, straining to hear their goodbyes. But there was just a brush of a hug between the pair before they each walked off quickly.

Terry drove off to find his next passenger, and his next story.

This story was inspired by the song 'Your Ex-Lover Is Dead' by Stars.

Call Me Maybe

He clocked her at about midnight. She knew all the words to a rare Pulp b-side he often dropped into his set to sort out the proper cool kids at his club night.

It was always a challenge to get people to dance in this place. He noticed only a handful of tracks would ever do the trick - Song 2 by Blur and She Bangs The Drums by The Stone Roses among them - so he would use these sparingly. People were far more interested in taking advantage of the cheap liquor to pay attention to the tunes he was spinning.

Although he loved DJing, the thrill of seeing people enjoying his music was starting to dim. But there were other perks. Free vodka was plentiful and he met plenty of girls.

She'd given him a couple of uncool thumbs-ups at some of the tracks he'd played earlier and he'd feigned indifference. Stand-offishness was his move, he preferred to wait until all parties were suitably lubricated before showing his hand.

It didn't often work, but his awkwardness around the fairer sex left him light on options.

This time, however, it seemed to be doing the trick. She intercepted him on his way back from the gents and introduced herself. She was Lauren. She was taller than she seemed on the dancefloor and in her heels was towering over him, but he liked that. Her dark hair was cut so it fell in sharp waves across her face and he liked that too. Her Midlands accent was distinctive and he even liked that.

They chatted about The Cure for a while. The Cure were always a safe choice for a first conversation: everyone likes The Cure.

Eventually her friends beckoned her back to the bar and she reluctantly left him, he promised to play In-Between Days for her and he assumed that would be that.

But as he was packing up his stuff at the end of the night, she appeared again at his elbow.

"I suppose you get this all the time," she started, nervously. He didn't. "But can I give you my number? I'd love to see you some time."

And with that, she pressed a piece of paper into his hand, pecked a quick kiss on his cheek and swished out into the night.

He grinned.

This story was inspired by the song 'Call Me Maybe' by Carly Rae Jepsen. And a little bit by High Fidelity.

Somebody That I Used To Know

She never intended for it to work out like this. For a long time she thought he might have been The One, or at least a good enough impersonation of The One to be worth sticking with.

But his behaviour had become increasingly erratic. She urged him to see someone about his mood swings, but he always resisted, believing he could pull himself out of the slump without help.

After a while, her tolerance levels dropped. She felt constantly irritable, every little thing he did seemed to grate on her nerves. And as she drifted away from him, spent more time with work colleagues, he grew more clingy, and she hated that.

In the end, there was little she could do but walk out. She knew that in time it would be good for both of them, but it hurt a lot. The look on his face as she walked out was the worst. She still saw it sometimes when she closed her eyes to sleep. The pain, the anguish in his eyes, the knowledge she had caused it.

She couldn't think of anything to say when she left, couldn't deal with the starkness of the silence. So she said they should be friends and regretted it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Even though she had moved out and left him rattling around in the attic apartment on his own, he acted as if they were still together. He sent her messages several times a day, trying to arrange a lunchtime coffee or an evening pint. No matter how feeble the excuses with which she fobbed him off, he didn't give up.

In the end, she broke down one night, chatting about the situation with a girlfriend. The stress of not being with him was almost as all-consuming as it was before she had left. She wished she had remained, just so she might have had some peace.

Her friend urged her to make a clean break of it. She had been offered a promotion at work and it would mean relocating to the coast to manage a new branch of the company. She had been planning to turn it down.

But the more she thought of it, the more it made sense. She knew moving away would be a clear sign to him that they did not have a future together, as friends or otherwise.

Even though she knew she should break the news in person, she couldn't face it. She got a new work mobile phone and didn't give him the number. A friend offered to pick up the rest of her possessions from their old flat.

It felt odd to be moving on, but it felt good too. She knew this was the only way for either of them to take a step forward. Their relationship had been so intense and so busy, other areas of their lives had been neglected.

Now they could get on with things. She still thought of him sometimes, even picked up the phone to see how he was doing. But she always hung up before he could answer. It was better that way.

He represented another time in her life, a period when she was low and in need of support. But the comfort had worn thin and she had to get away from it all.

She wished she hadn't had to walk out, that the relationship had ended in another way. But it couldn't be helped. It was history now. And in any case, the heartbreak was probably good for his art.

This story was inspired by the song 'Somebody That I Used To Know' by Gotye.

Poppy Bird

Gemma felt jaded. She had been feeling this way for a while, it was something that always seemed to creep up on her at this time of year. The cold, long evenings were drawing in earlier each day, yet Christmas was too far away to look forward to.

She knew she was feeling down because usually she loved riding the Tube and tonight she barely noticed her commute home. She'd also taken her copy of 1984 from her bedside cabinet, an edition with a specially designed cover made by a friend of hers for a birthday a few years ago. That book always made her feel more alive.

Her eyes were lowered, absorbed in its pages as the Tube carriage hurtled her towards her home. She remembered how the first time she had read it she didn't get it, couldn't graps the concept - she was too young, too immature, not worldly enough. And she cherished the thought of the next time she read it, the time it clicked, the time it became her favourite novel.

Gemma became aware that she was being watched. She didn't mind, it was hard not to people watch on the Tube even though convention dictated you stare at your shoes until your stop.

She snuck a glance at her apparent admirer. He looked away immediately. He seemed to be around 21, with messy, dark hair and a pallid face that marked him out as a Londoner, probably from not far away from her. Content he was not a threat, Gemma turned back to her book.

A moment or two later, it was her stop. She alighted the train and hurried down the platform and up the stairs to the open air. She loved the feeling of relief when she reached the surface. Though riding the Tube was always an adventure she relished, it could be stifling, especially in the middle of the rush hour, and leaving was often the best bit.

Gemma fiddled with her bag as she walked towards the home she shared with a friend from university who had also gambled on a move to the big city after they have graduated a year ago. She had the feeling she had left something behind, perhaps a file from the office but she cast the nagging doubt to one side. It could wait until tomorrow, she reasoned.

After a couple of minutes, Gemma became aware she was being followed. There was a scurry of footfall a short way behind her. She lived in a quiet neighbourhood, tucked away around the corner from the Tube station, and often got home without seeing another face.

She assessed her options. She was too far away from the flat to start running. She could not take out her mobile phone to make a phone call, it would be just the sign her pursuer would need to snatch it, she wanted to avoid confrontation. Screaming was useless, nobody was around.

Gemma had lived in London a little over 12 months with few problems, but she knew plenty of young women who had been attacked trying to get home in the winter months.

Before she could decide what to do, the man was upon her. She sensed it was a man, the hairs on the back of her neck were on end and she ran over her plan in her head - a kick to his crotch and a thumb to each of his his eye sockets.

But before she could spin round, the man tapped her on the shoulder with a quiet "excuse me, miss". She turned. It was the young man from the Tube she had caught looking at her. He reached out. She flinched, but he looked hurt at her action.

Gemma realised he was holding her copy of 1984 in his hand. She also noticed he had a facial tic, but he was smiling at her nervously. 'I think you left this,' he said softly, and Gemma found he had a lilting Irish accent, she was wrong about him being local.

Relieved, Gemma shot the man a toothy grin and took the book from him. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I've got so many stories about this book, I don't know what I'd do without it.'

'I'd love to hear them,' he replied, with a hopeful look in his eye.

'I'd love to tell you about them. Shall we go and get a drink?'

Gemma was often impulsive and saw this as an opportunity she could not refuse. For a moment she had been sure she was going to be attacked and it turned out it was just a man doing her a massive favour. At the very least, she could buy him a pint and learn some more about him.

She took him to her local, her favourite pub in London, and they found a cosy corner to sit together. She shucked off her long, black coat, adorned with the poppy she always wore at this time of year.

They talked for ours, she felt herself coaxing this nervous young man out of his shell. Gemma had a good feeling about this, and as she took his hand and led him back to her flat, she was glad she had left her most prized possession on the Tube that night.

This story was inspired by the song 'Poppy Bird' by Bromheads Jacket.