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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Just a Few Butterflies” Down in the Dirt, v193 (the 3/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Just a Few Butterflies” Down in the Dirt, v193 (the 3/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Ice that Was the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Running Out of Time the 2022 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the one-of-a-kind poetry, flash fiction, prose, artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Just a Few Butterflies” Down in the Dirt, v193 (the 3/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Ice that Was the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Running Out of Time the 2022 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the one-of-a-kind poetry, flash fiction, prose, artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

British Invasions

George M. George, Daniel R. George, Grant Meese

    The alarm sounded, and George lightly tapped his wife’s hand.
    “Time to rise, Sheena.”
    As she sat up and worked her feet into her slippers, George stared at the ceiling considering the day ahead. Slowly, the date, 6th of June, came into focus—far from an ordinary day for anyone born on this island.
    “It’s D-Day, dear,” he said quietly, as his wife put on her robe. “Eighteen years ago...hard to believe...”
    “Are you going to do your ‘never surrender’ routine for the children again, Leftenant George?”
    He gave a half-hearted chuckle. A good way to jump-start the morning for a man who had produced records for Spike Milligan.
    Sheena tightened her robe and headed for the kitchen to prepare breakfast for George and their two children. Soon, she began clanging pots and pans in the rhythmic pattern her husband had grown accustomed to for the last 14 years.
    “Greg, Alexis, hurry, you’ll be late for school. George, your eggs will get cold. Why are you dawdling so?”
    “I’ll be there straightaway,” said George, still laying in bed.
    As he stared at the pale ceiling, he couldn’t suppress visions of the invasion in France—waves of men storming the Normandy beaches; the deafening rattle of machine-gun fire; the red tide along the shore washing upon the bodies of fallen infantrymen. The courage and loss of life that marked that day always overwhelmed George. He had joined the Royal Navy in 1943, becoming an aerial observer, but the war ended before he had seen action. Now, he was a middle-aged man whose eggs were getting cold.
    George rolled out of bed, embarrassed by the paralysis of his self-pity.
    A classically-trained musician, he had once harbored dreams of becoming the next Rachmaninoff, but those illusions were long gone. He felt satisfied with his career as a producer at EMI Records, and had helped record several hit comedy albums; but there was no music of any substance on his resume.
    “I’m thirty-six,” he thought, “Mozart was dead at thirty-five.”
    George showered and dressed in silence. He walked to the kitchen and took a seat in front of his breakfast, watching wisps of steam drift off his black tea.
    “Sheena, what did you really think of ‘My Boomerang Won’t Come Back’?”, he asked, referring to a novelty song that had been arguably his greatest professional “success”.
    “That silly little ditty? Well, other than offending the aborigines and most of polite society, it paid the bills.”
    “It did reach no.1 on the charts...”
    “What’s the matter with you this morning, George?” asked Sheena.
    “Oh, nothing to concern yourself about, dear,” said George, with a stiff smile. “Just piecing together my day.”
    “I do hope you’re having a session with that lovely Peter Sellers.”
    George picked at his breakfast. He was in no mood to trade banalities with his wife. For years, he’d been having trouble connecting with her, and increasingly found his mind wandering to his secretary Judy at EMI.
    “Nothing that grand, I fear,” he replied. “Well, as you say, I mustn’t dawdle. The day beckons.”
    He kissed his wife on the forehead as she sipped her tea, walked into the garage, and pulled out in his motorcar. Early as always, he decided to drive the long way to the studio and swing by the Palladium.
    He pulled over and parked his car in front of the hallowed venue on Argyle St. Rolling down the window, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to walk across that stage, knowing you’d made it.
    With each passing year, such triumphs became the province of fantasy. George was reminded of a poem he had memorized as a schoolboy:

    For deeds undone
    Rankle and snarl, and hunger for their due.
    Till there seems naught so despicable as you
    In all the grin o’ the sun.

    A Union Jack flew from the venue’s marquee, and George watched as it hung lifelessly, occasionally twitching in the light summer breeze. The Palladium held just over 2,000 people. Over 4,000 allied troops—enough men to twice fill the theater’s seats—had died on those Normandy beaches 18 years ago today. How would those men feel about “My Boomerang Won’t Come Back”? What would Rachmaninoff think?
    George sighed, threw the car into gear, and drove on. Lost in daydreams, he imagined himself as a great Sergei-like figure reporting to Abbey Road Studio. He would stride in, unaffected by his fame. The staff, in awe of this maestro, would wonder what magic composition was incubating in his genius’s brain. He would head to his office and nod to Judy in cool command.
    “Any calls this morning?”
    “Sir George, Rolls Royce called, they want to build a car in your honor.”
    “Why, that would be splendid, Judy. How thoughtful of them...”
    He laughed at the excesses of his fantasy as he drove past the Marylebone railway terminal.
    “Perhaps it’s best to be satisfied and accept one’s station...”
    That’s what his father had always said, at least. George, however, had long been devoted to escaping his humble origins. He smoothed over his working-class background with a practiced poshness that never betrayed his roots. By all standards he had achieved much in his career, but he couldn’t suppress the creeping feeling he’d reached a plateau.
    After a few minutes, he found himself driving over the zebra-stripe crosswalk in front of the studio. He parked his car and walked past his lovely secretary.
    “Good morning, Judy. Any calls requiring my attention?”
    He smiled, half hoping she’d say Rolls Royce had called.
    “No calls, Mr. Martin. But that nice gentleman from Liverpool, Mr. Epstein, is here with those four boys—they’re waiting for you in studio three. Claim they have an audition this morning.”
    “Oh bloody hell, I forgot about that.”
    “Should I tell them you’re out?”
    He considered the question.
    “No, I gave my word. Those kids aren’t very good; their demo tape was terribly unpolished. Still, there’s something about their voices...tell them I’ll be right down.”

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