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The Quest For The Truth

He promised his wife, his children, Sister Mary Daphne who danced to his songs that he wouldn't return. He promised himself that last year would be the very last time. He travelled on the cross country train listening to the rhythm of the wheels on the track, music spurring him on. He'd walked the three miles from the station disbelieving where his feet were heading. He tried to change direction, he tried to stop at the artisan coffee shop and eat a bagel that was unique to the locality. Had fish eggs in it or some weird speciality, probably one of his better decisions to give that a miss.

Sitting in the middle of the field crammed amongst the devotees, he looked around. Everyone seemed so much younger than him. His quest had begun on August 16th 1977. He remembered the sombre moment it was announced on the BBC news. He couldn't believe it, he wouldn't believe it. It was a hoax.

The first one started to sing. It wasn't him. He'd sat through so many renderings over the years that he would instantly know the real one. Sister Mary Daphne tried to persuade him that his quest was ungodly, Elvis was dead. He knew that one day amongst all these impersonators the King would walk again.

Story by:

Stella Turner


10 October 2016