Decades after their music defined a generation, the two surviving members of a legendary sixties quartet are contacted by a residents of a magical land that, once upon a time, they visited and rescued from evil with the joyous power of their music.

They have no memory of this, and really, neither one of them really stands for what they once stood for, in any event. One is a fully corporate rock star in his seventies, the other is an oldies performer. The two others are dead, one from illness, one from assassination. And the band had fallen apart in an orgy of recriminations, anyway.

But the monsters come after them anyway, and they find themselves in a strange vessel, traveling through increasingly surreal dimensions that echo the pivotal moments of their careers, until the two old men arrive in the magical kingdom they once saved — which they are stunned to realize DOES look familiar, after all, even if it is at threat from a grander invasion than the one they thwarted before.

And they are being asked to perform the same miracle as before, but have no clue where to begin…until a familiar man fifty years younger than themselves walks up and tells them it’s aboot bluidy time they got here. It’s the one who was assassinated…who since then has been living his afterlife in this place, making music and standing watch for the day the evil would return. (The one who died of illness is still lost, looking for his way back here…but will arrive, Han-Solo style, at a key moment.)

In the battle that follows, they not only resolve the conflicts that drove them apart…they not only make heroes of themselves again…but they refind their voices. And the biggest emotional moment of the story is when the analogues of Paul and Ringo must board the Yellow Submarine for the journey back to the real world, leaving their revived and rejuvenated friends behind. John’s last words to Paul as the submarine door closes will be, “Trust me, mate. I’ll keep the stage warm for you.”

Folks, I came up with this vague plot outline when George Harrison was still alive, and have had to revise it to reflect his death…and I have got to tell you, merely telling it to you makes me weep. I adore this story more than I can tell you. But it needs to be written by someone other than me — somebody who can write about making music with far more authority than this musically-deprived man can. I don’t want to write it. I just want to read it.

Tags: The Beatles, writing | Category Fantasy, Writing