Aunt Alice and Spot.

Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp.

There is nothing more unbelievable to me than the notion that anyone is reading this without pure horror and a summons to the clergy for spiritual support. But then, who am I to say what a modern reader’s heart can withstand? It’s 1872 as far as I am concerned and since that makes me the most sensible woman in this mix, I won’t apologize for it.

I’ve dutifully attached Spot’s latest message as instructed by Mr. Kemp but let me say this just once: Run, dear reader!  Run while you still can!  There must be a lovely journal on dahlias somewhere to edify your intellect!  What?  No?  Very well.  Read on at your own risk.  And don’t forget to tie yourselves into your chair first.

It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Yours without approval,

Aunt Alice


Dearest Auntie,

I address you in a deep sense of shame, tinged with heavy regret and embarrassment. I should have taken your advice and ran, but it’s too late for that now. Spot is in deep TROUBLE!

I shall have to be brief as the electrifying situation is changing by the millisecond. (Oh, I like that sentence. Conveys elements of intrigue, mystery and tension don’t you think? And I do so like tension!) I shall soon rival those international bestselling scribes Renee Bernard and Vonda Norwood. Yes, a writer I will be, my path is set.

I will start at the beginning, in fact, I’ll start with the fart! Not any old fart you understand, but a colossal one. If flatulence was to be measured on a scale of one-to-ten, then this one soared through the ceiling to unknown heights. Let me explain. We were feeding Seamus, the shire horse you remember, on a mixture of hay and the vegetable the Welsh prize above all others: leeks, but the hay ran out on reaching London. I could not replenish our cart load, although almost everyone was shouting out ‘hay’ on seeing Myrtle, Seamus and I. Very strange these Londoners.

The thing is, that for three days now Seamus has had only leeks to eat and, as you know they taste and smell the same as onions, well, that led directly to Brenda and The Dirty Dozen’s escape.

They were tied together, in a line with a guard at the front and back, on their way to be hung, drawn and quartered for the crimes of extortion, robbery and flashing. Yes, exposing themselves, heady stuff eh? As the huge gates to Newgate Prison closed behind them, Seamus let go! Did he let go, or WHAT!

It was the noise that first distracted those two guards but then, worse; far worse. If I smelled disgustingly after that escapade with the tin prunes, then I cannot begin to describe the utter stench that escaped from Seamus’s bum. The leeks brought on…the REEKS…I did say that I have considered poetry, didn’t I?

Everyone was overcome. Myrtle fainted and just as I was going to give her the kiss of life I saw the fellow Mack, strange-looking chap, with a chopper in his hand. He had a big one. I cannot say where it came from. He chopped the ropes that held Brenda and the grannies together and then, just when I thought they would run for it, the grannies threw off their clothes and they stood there naked. Even Seamus turned his head away. Myrtle re-fainted just as my lips met hers.

Then all hell broke loose. Brenda and the naked Dirty Dozen dived into the cart. Well, to be truthful, they sort of wallowed along into it. The guards ran off and thundered at the gates to Newgate to let them back in. They wanted no part in a pursuit.

Worse was to follow, and is still in the process of happening. Brenda asked how we had retrieved her message from that pigeon, and I said that I found it in her husband’s dovecote.  She said that was strange as it belonged to Phyllis The Pigeon. I thought she meant the Phyllis I had seen him with and just happened to say…”Oh, you don’t mind then?”

She twisted my muscular arm up my back, she is so immensely strong. I could not stand the pain and to relieve myself, I splurted out the whole story. How was I to know there was a Phyllis The Pigeon, aged ninety-one, and a Phyllis The Younger, her niece, aged thirty-one!

We are now on our way back to Wales with Seamus bolting along; blowing-off. That man Mack is sitting on his back with a cigarette lighter, lighting up his; you know what. I must say we are making considerable pace and keeping warm if nothing else. Fortunately all the naked flesh of the GRANNIES is hidden from view under a blanket of rotting green leeks.

What can Spot do when the leeks run dry? (figure of speak there, you see)



Auntie, it’s too late,

I’m trapped. Brenda has grabbed Spot, and holds me captive. She has hooked her leg around one of mine, and wrapped one arm around my waist, I cannot move. She’s a veritable contortionist! (Or should that be; vegetable?)  Now she’s stroking the back of Spot’s neck! I want my mummy. I’m frightened, Auntie.

Mack looks dark and ominous as well, he still has his chopper in his hand.


“Mack, keep control of that Shire stud, or I’ll make certain you and your big one get off in the ditch!” 

“Stop whispering sweet murderous talk to me, Myrtle dear… Once I quench my lust for vengeance by hacking your father physic into what is known as eunuch… Let me tell you daughter, it has been my experience that once fully developed, the Englishman do become quite tasty good soldiers.”

Myrtle dear, your English Spot has developed into quite a desirable young boy. Hand your mum another leek. I need something long and wide to munch on.


Danny Kemp’s iPad is on record and send Auntie, so you are getting the conversation between Brenda and Myrtle instantly. I didn’t catch whatever it was Myrtle said about murder.


Queen Brenda has taken a bite from another smelly leek. Does she not realise that those leeks are all that’s between the decency of the grannies and naked reality! If this is how she acts as a commoner, how she going to act once she is crowed.

Phyllis The Pigeon has just shouted out that Brenda was seduced by firemen. Haven’t a clue what that’s about.


“Don’t concern yourself with what happened with those erotic firemen and the bright shiny pieces they had in their hands. Look at me Myrtle, everybody wants a piece of your dear mum. You may complain, but in my defence, let me tell you this, they came equipped to give me a once in a lifetime chance to experience such a thing that could never be found in the ‘Massage Parlour’ back home in Bangor! Another tasty leek, my daughter, please!”

“Oh my daffodils, my imagination did run riot. I was instantly weakened, so much so, that it was then that the jealous soldiers, and those London bobbies took advantage of me. They bound my body and forced me to miss my date with that Russian man with the sexy name and cheap weapons. Men can’t help but do everything to keep me only for themselves.  Anyone need a leek other than me? Yes, another please, Myrtle. I’m insatiable!”

“What’s past is past. The jealous men of London merely put a little kink in my unwavering plot. We will succeed.”


She’s now patting my head, Auntie. Get off, get off you mad woman.


“Ah… but this toy soldier here may moan, but I like him now he has added substance to his build. So change your mind about insurance claims, Myrtle. After I delight in serving the young Phyllis The Pigeon, Rocky Mountain Oyster Stew, we’ll set-up your father to make good our situation.

That’s right, Spot… Keep squirming, squirm with all your might, but soon I shall be Queen of the Aisle of the Mighty with all Englishmen bowed before me. I wonder what it’s like to have one’s toes sucked?

Leek, please, Myrtle. I have a mind for a nibble.”


Oh Auntie, I do so want my MUMMY…..




Hold the front page, we’ve been ambushed. The police are here and so are the NSA, but hold on a sec, it’s not THE..NSA, it’s the NANNIES SALVATION ARMY..NSA. I hope that’s clear Auntie, it’s all a bit confusing, I know.

What’s that they’re saying…”we have to take you into care.”…Oh, they mean THE DIRTY DOZEN, and the police are going after Brenda and Mack. They are getting away, on a soaring Seamus. I hope sherry is there to help you out with all that.

Oh, I didn’t expect that. Now that is a surprise. Brenda just called out to Myrtle, ‘take care of Spot, we will need him and RUN Myrtle, RUN!’ Perhaps there is some kindness in her after all.

What do you think, Auntie dearest one?

Over and out,



Dear Spot,

I do my best to brace myself before I ever contemplate even peeking at your letters.  I take deep breaths and even recite old scriptures to see if there is any chance that Divine Patience and Fortitude are yet attainable.  So far, nothing seems to help.

What a tangle!  I don’t know what the NSA is to begin with, much less an army of redeeming grandmothers and what do they have to do with anything?  I am picturing nothing short of mayhem and worse still—I’ve pulled out all my lavender sachets in the hope of warding off even the strange psychic hints of that wretched animals gaseous outbursts!  I fear even reading about such things has made the air in my parlour seem oddly tainted—and I am not content at the discovery!

I thought we had moved past this male tendency to linger on bodily functions which are not dainty or delicate to bring up to a lady.  Much less to mention how flammable things have become…  Gracious!

For the last time, Brenda is ten degrees past criminal and I suspect a walking blueprint for “How to Get to Bedlam and Back”.  The only good news in any of this is that authorities of some kind have arrived and her shocking speeches about England’s finest and the abuse of vegetables.

By association, this makes Myrtle an unsavory and unsuitable associate and since both women seem determined to murder you in one way or another… Why are we still debating this?


Yours truly,

Aunt Alice

Will Spot run? Can Seamus get far on only leeks, and will Mack’s lighter keep lighting? These and other questions must be addressed next week. Until then dear readers, check in Female First for availability of Lavender sachets! I suspect there will be a shortage; soon.

About Daniel Kemp

Daniel Kemp’s introduction to the world of espionage and mystery happened at an early age when his father was employed by the War Office in Whitehall, London, at the end of WWII. However, it wasn’t until after his father died that he showed any interest in anything other than himself! On leaving academia he took on many roles in his working life: a London police officer, mini-cab business owner, pub tenant and licensed London taxi driver, but never did he plan to become a writer. Nevertheless, after a road traffic accident left him suffering from PTSD and effectively—out of paid work for four years, he wrote and self-published his first novel —The Desolate Garden. Within three months of publication, that book was under a paid option to become a $30 million film. The option lasted for five years until distribution became an insurmountable problem for the production company. All seven of his novels are now published by Creativia with the seventh—The Widow’s Son, completing a three book series alongside: What Happened In Vienna, Jack? and Once I Was A Soldier. Under the Creativia publishing banner, The Desolate Garden went on to become a bestselling novel in World and Russian Literature in 2017. The following year, in May 2018, his book What Happened In Vienna, Jack? was a number one bestseller on four separate Amazon sites: America, UK, Canada, and Australia.  Although it's true to say that he mainly concentrates on what he knows most about; murders laced by the mystery involving spies, his diverse experience of life shows in the short stories he writes, namely: Why? A Complicated Love, and the intriguing story titled The Story That Had No Beginning. He is the recipient of rave reviews from a prestigious Manhattan publication and described as—the new Graham Green—by a highly placed employee of Waterstones Books, for whom he did a countrywide tour of book signing events. He has also appeared on 'live' television in the UK publicising that first novel of his. He continues to write novels, poetry and the occasional quote; this one is taken from the beginning of Once I Was A Soldier There is no morality to be found in evil. But to recognise that which is truly evil one must forget the rules of morality.
This entry was posted in Author/Writer, Raconteur. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s