Yellow blossom bursting from the bracken in the dark.

Bristling, battling boldly to blazon its seasonal mark.

Overcast, leaden, laboured, clouds spreading sadness everywhere.

Yellow barren blossom, abandoned; against the fatalistic stare.

Gnarled branches with blackened boughs,
Standing steadfast against winter showers.
Driven snow piled high at the base,
Covering life, and leaving no trace.

Nests are empty, the birds have gone
To places where the days are long.
There to sing and chirp away
Returning here perhaps another day.

Grey pervades and rules supreme
Leaving me with a solitary dream
Of sunlit days and song filled air
Oh to live forever there!

Aunt Alice and Spot.

By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood, and Danny Kemp. All mention to Tracey Edges is by kind permission of Her Majesty’s Government….. (Thank you David)

Dear Readers,

Again? Where is my oar in this storm, I ask you!  I am reduced to pouring my own tea and making shift with dried toast on the days that the boy’s letters arrive.  My staff have formed a bizarre coalition poring over his adventures and trying to guess what in God’s name a telephone could be…  At least, I still have a good stock of sherry to fortify me.

But what is your excuse?  I call on anyone with resources to see if you can track down the boy, pry that pickle jar out of his hands and attempt to instil a bit of a routine or some discipline.  There must be a school out there that would be delighted to have an imaginative maniac of a certain young age who time travels and has a lovely interest in all things he conjures from his fevered brain.  I predict he will have great success as an author one day.

But here we are.  I share with you, reluctantly, his latest, and urge you to get out your magnifying glasses, microscopes and whatever other devices you may have to locate my Spot.  If nothing else, I can promise you that he will make your life extremely exciting.

Aunt Alice

***

Dearest all understanding Aunt Alice,

Spot’s in a pickle. I took your last message to heart, it brought tears to my eyes, Auntie. The way I read it, you more-or-less said that I should take hold of myself and straighten up! Well, I thought I would follow it, but I’m now in trouble.

When I released Richard’s brother Dickie, from that jar of Branson pickles, he gave me three wishes. The first, the ability to travel through time, of course you know of. What you do not know are the other two. I hope Sherry is nearby to comfort you, as I throw light on another one of those desires.

Incidentally I have stopped rubbing that thing in my pocket, it’s now permanently attached to my finger.

I asked Dickie to give me the intelligence that writers must have. It is taking longer than I thought. As an example of what I aspired to become, I mentioned that chappie, Huckleberry Finn. He wrote many a good book with his friends Widow Davies and Tom Sawyer. Such funny names, they amused me but have stayed in whatever brain I have. Having been abandoned by my parents, my knowledge of adulthood is rather limited. As you know I am a nomad, with nowhere to plant my flag. Sad really, isn’t it!

If it were not for you dear one, then I believe I would have gone insane by now. The thought of your adoption of me had crossed my mind on more than one occasion, but luckily there is now dear Tracey to care for all my future needs and wants. I have my eye on the future, Auntie, but not the very near future.

Taking your studious advice I pointed out my age to her, adding that at sixteen our engagement would be for a long time. I could hear her jumping up and down in disappointment. Just to make her aware of what I shall expect, I propose to visit now and again and read from a philosophical affair called the Kama Sutra. Deals with marriage I believe.

Anyway, the thing is that Dickie said I had a screw loose, in wanting to write. As I’ve never had a screw, I don’t know what he meant. For the past week I have been trying to think of something to scribble onto paper, but nothing has inspired me. During that time I have consumed sixteen boxes of chocolates, twelve tubs of ice-cream, and I must not forget the coke; forty-nine cans! I am becoming rotund again, my belly is almost as large as my height. I have put back most of the weight I had lost, and that has caused me concern. Will Tracey still be in love when I become a writer and she eventually sees me?

She has returned from those three days of dog walking, and although we have spoken via the telephone we cannot meet, she now, unfortunately, has an engagement at the very brink of England’s green and pleasant land; Land’s End!  I think she said she was going to jump off, but it seems a long way to go just for a swim, particularly as the water is freezing. Perhaps coming from Grimsby she is used to cold seawater.

I must close now, Auntie, as I must think of a way to distract Brenda permanently away for my pending wedding nuptials. I’ll need plenty of undisturbed time to arrange the necessary over the coming years. Can’t have her disrupting any of that, can we?

Love and devotion,

Spot.

A message of strategic importance intercepted by British and American Intelligence Services, and released for public awareness. BEWARE.

“Oh yes, it’s so nice to hear your crisp, clear voice! That’s right, Myrtle… Didn’t I tell you, the Virgins have the best ones around? Shut up and listen: Remember when that English Spot, left you with nothing to su— What’s all that noise in the background? The Sunday Girl, show? Good girl, Myrtle! You keep your ears to the English walls for anything Tracey Edges has to say about that no-more-gum-chewing, Spot! That’s what I was trying to talk to you about… He stopped using gum for teeth, and you were left with nothing to su— You need to turn Tracey’s show down! Better yet, how about you have your father listen to it? He fell asleep while taking a bubble bath? You know, I forgot to tell you Myrtle, your father’s favorite thing is listening to the Tracey Edges show, when the radio is set on the side of his tub, and he’s submerged in water and surrounded by bubbles. Well, how could I have mentioned it before, if I had forgotten to tell you? Just go plug it in for him! No, don’t wake him… Let his subconscious gather the information.

You’re right, Myrtle, I am a thoughtful wife. Thank you for helping me treat your father with the sort of kindness he deserves. Okay, shut up. I’ve been laying on this tugboat and riding these super-fast moving waves for days now… I need to figure out where I am. I don’t know why you’re worried about me. Let me tell you, when I got thirsty, all I had to do was remove my bosom hammock, and those trained pigeons returned it filled with fresh water. As soon as the pigeons are within my grasp, I place them beneath my breasts, which actually cooks ’em faster than when they were in the hammock. I do the same when Tuna swim too close to the boat. Exactly right, my dear… Your mother does have an appreciation for a variety of foods. I look forward to the day, when I finally reign as Queen of Wales… I shall celebrate my victory over England, with a private party. Yes, private! Just me and those two English, fighter pilots… The ones who taught me how to slip, while they slide because the oil was just right. Won’t they be surprised when I show them how soothing, and aromatic, Tuna oil is!

Well, look at that… You’re not going to believe what I see! Two ships: A Russian research ship and a Chinese icebreaker. They are stranded in ice! How do you know that means I am in the Antarctic? The news, huh? No wonder my foot is cold! I can’t remove it from the water Myrtle, because I’m using it as a rudder. I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I bet the Russians, and those Chinese, ice-is-for-sailing-in, sailors, have seen me. Hear that, Myrtle? That’s the ice breaking… Here they come! Before I hang up, listen: I want you to get Mack out of jail. WHAT? SHUT-UP! Have Mack, find a helicopter and meet me somewhere between Russia and Africa! And make sure you find out where Spot is! I have to hang up so I can use my hands as oars and get the heck away from these hungry Russian and Chinese sailors! I ain’t sharin’ my pigeons, and they’re not gettin’ anywhere near my aromatic Tuna oil! Good-bye, Myrtle!”

A spokesperson for NATO said. “ We are watching the situation closely. Any person found to be abusing Tuna oil will be dealt with….forcibly! A Royal Navy Battleship, H.M Prince of Wales, is steaming to the area as we speak. 

***

Dear Spot,

I know I thought you well rid of Brenda but I am very much concerned that if she has involved the Royal Navy and the Chinese and the Russians and is somehow a threat to fisheries and penguins…. Things are out of hand!  Of course, all those problems fade when one considers the nightmare of Welsh trained pigeons flitting about out of—well, I cannot write the words but let us just say that a woman of good breeding does NOT store poultry in unquestionable places upon her person.

Having said that, I do remember a certain Lady who would put live animals in cages on her millinery creations…  Until an unfortunate incident with a lap-dog and a monkey which I won’t scandalise you by repeating here.

I’m still not sure what a radio is but if your Miss Tracey has the device well in hand and can alert the authorities to Brenda’s new location, then I think that it would be best.  Heroic measures are required!

I suggest locating a pub down there.  No doubt, it is the first place she will go with her tuna encrusted prisoners and her reliance on shock and awe.  (I highly doubt that the penguins will pay her any attention until she starts eating them like popcorn, wretched woman!)

And how in the world did you attach that thing to your finger?  It must look extremely odd!  Mind that you do not point it about unnecessarily or you will zap yourself into some caveman’s dwelling and alter the course of human history.

(Look at how I’m adapting to your insanity!  I’m quite proud of myself actually.  A year ago I nearly fainted when a female friend mentioned an interest in wearing pants—and now look at me!  Bossing about a time traveller, saving the British Empire from treasonous Welsh women and tippling sherry like a champion!)

Ever your,

Aunt Alice

Can the British Empire be saved? Will Mack save Antarctica, and the penguins from Brenda? Will Sherry ever stop tipping over? Find the answers to these, and many more stupid questions in the next edition of…..Aunt Alice and Spot in…..Female First magazine.

In pain with desperation, with sighs of disbelief.
I seek a Heavenly answer that can bring upon me relief.

Sorrow is never easy, never something to explain.
We bear it individually, suffering silently in shame.

Tears bring mitigation, but still remains the misery.
Is only death the answer? A solitary way to be free.

The Desolate Garden.

I recently did an interview where I was asked ‘how I got an agent?’ it’s on this link:. http://realwritersguide.wordpress. There was a great deal of interest expressed, with some people then actively setting out to do what I had done.

When accepting an agent to work on your behalf, you will sign, as I did, an agreement; a contract. A binding legal document. Beware what you sign for, and what is NOT included. To balance things, I think this article might save someone making a huge mistake.

On the day that I signed another contract, this time with a film producer to render my novel into a movie, I phoned my publisher, who I share many interests with. We were then, and still are, friends. I never told my agent nor did I see the point at that stage, as it was something I had arranged, and not he. The contract that we had, was his standard written affair whereby he was to receive 15% of any agreement he negotiated on my behalf. As I did all the negotiating with the London Production Company, I could not see any reason to tell him.

Let’s go back just a touch, and I’ll try to explain the relationship I had with him. Prior to The Desolate Garden being sent for publication the agent recommended an editor who I paid to edit my work. She not only missed some of my mistakes, of which there were many, but made several herself. I complained, he took no notice.

He said that he would issue press releases. I had no confirmation that they had been sent, and no way of checking. He said he would notify Libraries. He sent me a list of hundreds for me to notify. Another thing he said he would do was to contact book clubs. As I never saw evidence of this I cannot comment as to whether he did or not. To be honest I wondered what he did do for me, and asked. He replied that rather than asking that question, I should be proud of what I had done for myself. A good point, and not wasted on me, but a doubt remained in my suspicious mind.

A few weeks after my lunchtime meeting in Soho, to sign that film deal, the agent rang me at home. This is the brief, and as true as I can recall, conversation.

After first congratulating me and expressing surprise on the payment made and length of option, only one year instead of the several that some authors are offered which ties them to one production company with no chance of seeking other offers, he then ‘suggested’ we look at the contract we had. In his words: “Just to see if you should pay me, or the publisher, Danny.”

It went a bit like this………..He, reading from HIS standard contract….

“Um, Um, Um. No, I can’t see anything in that clause. Let’s try another. Um, Um, Um. No, nor there. Number three then.”

I had by now found the same document. It was two small pages long, concise and easy to read. I would have thought that he knew this. After all, he wrote it!

Two or three more ‘hums and haws’ and finally we came to the crunch.

“No, Danny, it seems as though you have no legal obligation to pay either me, or the publisher. However, you may feel some moral obligation.”

I’m a straight talking person, some might say coarse in certain situations. I was that night. I told him what I thought of morality in business, and left him in no doubt as to how I felt about his solicitation.

A month passed without hearing anything from him. I then received an email explaining how he would advertise my work on an International Publishers site for a certain payment. I left it a week before declining his offer, questioning how he had arrived at the figure he had quoted.

On the Saturday evening, a day or so after I had sent my email, he replied. It was now 11:50 pm, and his mood was far from friendly. He stated that he felt he was entitled to the extra money for his expertise, and then added words to this effect:

‘I can no longer tolerate your attitude. I formally give notice of the termination of our agreement.’

To come to that decision, at that time of night, I thought odd, ringing him on the following Monday to verify if he still viewed the situation in the same way. He was adamant, not changing his opinion.

If you attract an agent, ensure that it’s you that retain all the rights to your work. Any publisher, and all agents, run businesses. They rightfully expect to make profits. However, it’s from you that those profits will come.

Don’t allow your dream to become owned by someone else.

My life was lived within a myriad past,

Always changing, never to last.

Now is the time to quantify

That life I lived, before I die.

Time in life is seldom spent

In ways in which we truly meant.

Mine was no different in that respect,

And there’s nothing I’d change nor now regret.

My life was just a span of time,

Now measured on a dwindling line.

But it’s not pity I seek as I reach my end,

Nor sympathy towards me for you to extend.

My time in life is closing now

But yours you must live as you see how.

That combination of life and time,

Is not only yours, but was also mine.

I killed someone once. I know I did because I used to wake screaming with no sounds coming, to justify what I’d done.

I killed someone once. I don’t want to remember her name, but I do and I don’t like what I have become.

I killed someone once. Her body still lives, but from that day on she sung only sad songs of misery and despair.

I killed someone once. I am a murderer. I stand accused, stock still pleading guilty, as I declare.

I killed someone once. “Tell me you love me.” Was all that she asked, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even lie.

I killed someone once. I could have said, “yes, I love you, and always will,” but I didn’t. Why?

I killed someone once, but it was not her; it was I.

Anything But Hackneyed…. Amazon…Com

Anything But Hackneyed…. Amazon…Co

I see you’re back again dear readers. I’d chide you for being so foolish, but I’m the

fool who keeps answering the boy’s letters, so where is my place to

judge?  Sit back then, friends, and brace yourself. It’s breathtaking

the trouble he’s in…

***

Dear Aunt Alice,

I’m sorry to report that I still haven’t got the hang of this stroke and pause thingy, in working out Dickies Time

Traveling Opal Machine. I almost ended up at some sort of rave party the other day. Let me explain.

There I was, happily traveling through space and time, when I touched-down at a place which I think it must have been close to Copenhagen, as the chap I spoke to, sitting on a horse with no stirrups, kept saying ‘easy Copenhagen, easy there.” Maybe he had been smoking the old…Wacky Baccy, eh?

He wore Wellington boots, and looked a bit spaced out if you know what I mean. He kept saying things like: bring up the guns, and where’s the King of Prussia when you need him? A look of utter astonishment came over his face when I told him who I was and, more importantly, that I had seen some friends of his hiding behind the trees on the left. I had flown over them before landing you see. They were dressed in blue, and spoke a strange language which I could not understand but I caught the name of Napoleon, so I presumed they were having a party and drinking brandy. There were a lot of fireworks going off all around at the time. Made quite din actually. If it was a hide and seek party, it wasn’t very good, Auntie. There were thousands, in fancy dress costumes, running on a big field, all playing with each other in front of us. I didn’t see any balls though.

He said he was pleased that I had disclosed their whereabouts, as it had been a close run affair, but to what he referred, I had no idea. The old opal was still warm in my pocket so after a couple of rubs, I buzzed off pretty damn quick before I got involved in the fiasco. Which brings me nicely to Brenda. Bit of an all round fiasco that one.

Spot

***

I managed to catch this conversation, Auntie, recorded by my sweetheart Tracey in her vast opulent studio at Siren FM. More of her later. I’ll save the good bits to last.

Spot 

***

I don’t know what’s wrong with your phone, Myrtle, I get static with every other word you say. Yes, I’m still on the tugboat. Stop talking! Listen to me… I was in that comfy hull for several minutes. The twenty-nine leeks I stored between my buxom bosom didn’t last but thirty-seconds. What did you say? Last me a few days? But they were warm and oh, so very tender. No, I haven’t caught that gum chewing, English Spot! I told you, I’m still on the tugboat! I was in the hull, the scent of warm, moist leeks wafting around me… Knowing they were the only food I would have access to for days, maybe weeks! I fought temptation to devour them, by counting to ten before I allowed myself a single bite. But you know, numbers and time become confused when those things mix together, to send the mind reeling with thoughts of that scent which called to me from my breasts, you see? So yeah, I ate ’em all! No, I’m not going to starve to death, and I’ll tell you WHY:

I swallowed the very last scrumptious morsel I could dig from the hammock beneath my green, military-style, tent-dress, when the boat swayed and then rocked. I climbed to the deck where I saw a man dressed like Ahab. He didn’t speak proper English, so of course I understood his every word. With one hand he clutched the side of the boat while pointing to the sky and shouting, “The Welsh are mad and now we’re all going to die!”

Turning around, I peered toward the sky. Oh, Myrtle, it was a terrifying sight! Daylight hovered above the tugboat, but in the sky, what looked to be a hurricane coming our way, were 2000 squawking pigeons! The wind picked up, I turned to the man, who was really quite handsome, ya know, the tall and very broad type with lips you can taste just by looking at, and huge muscles that— what?— Oh yeah, the pigeons were coming fast, their squawking grew so loud I could barely hear the sexy man say, “There’s a monster in the sky!”

I directed him, “come down with me, Brenda, the soon to be Queen of Wales, into the hull, where we shall cuddle, and be safe and warm.” Well, those dang pigeons were so freakin’ loud, I couldn’t hear what he said, right before he sprang his sexy knees and big round thighs up in the air, and then over the side of the boat he leapt!

I hurried to where he had jumped, and as I grabbed the side of the boat, those damn pigeons released their filthy load! How did Phyllis The Pigeon, teach them to hold it in, and drop it all in unison? Never mind, Myrtle! I don’t want to know! See, poo fell from the sky, it fell all at once, and yet it missed this boat! Landing in the sea, right behind me. A thunderous splash caused one hell of a wake, which pushed the tugboat through the water at about 100 miles per-hour! Yes, I felt panicked, but I recalled the safety drills I learned in school as a child… Quickly I fell to deck, I tucked and then I rolled… Tuck-and-roll… Tuck-and-roll… The boat leaned to the right, and as I rolled, it dipped! I tucked again, and again the boat leaned… As I made my last roll, it did too! Yes, I’m telling you, it capsized!

I don’t know where I am, Myrtle. Last I saw was a tsunami filled with pigeon poo, heading for that province of confused-as-to-what-to-name-something, Greenland. The sun is out. My tent-dress is dry. The pigeons? Well, they needed a place to land and catch their breath. I put thirteen of ’em into my bosom hammock. This tugboat moves over the sea quite well upside down… The scent of warm pigeon is wafting— No, Myrtle, their feathers don’t bother me. I’ve made a pillow, and I like to call it Friend.

That’s enough about me, Myrtle, have you found the whereabouts of Spot? Myrtle? MYRTLE??? I’m sending you a text message! Myrtle: Get yourself a new phone! Find one of these that the Virgins carry! And then find, Spot! I’ve got to go for now… I smell something that tastes like chicken. Too bad the bones only give ya the feeling of chewing something.

***

Well, Auntie,

What can one say about that load of pigeon poo?

Brenda may have a fixation on the pride of the Welsh, those smelly LEEKS, but I believe her brain has a LEAK! I think we can attribute a new cliché to her. Instead of saying;….Away with the fairies, we could say.…..She’s away on a pigeon’s wing. What a joke Spot has just made!

At last I can speak of tales of an altogether higher nature; the wedding. I proposed to my dear Tracey over the telephone. Obviously you have no knowledge of what a telephone may be, but suffice it to say that it’s a method of communication whereby those speaking do not have to be in the same vicinity. They can in fact, as was the case here, be several miles apart. Tracey was in that seaside resort of Grimsby recording her Sunday morning radio broadcast, called incidentally Sunday Girl, such imagination the girl has, and I was on top of Mount Everest composing a love sonnet for my sweetheart. It went like this:

Roses are white, blood is red. 

Your scrambled eggs are delicious, and I always feel fed. 

I know you could keep Spot’s tummy always rumbling.

So let’s get married and start all the fumbling.

Well, Auntie, after I read that to her the conversation became somewhat confusing. I’m not entirely sure what she said as the line started to crackle, could have been laughter of delight I suppose. It sounded like; wowee aren’t I blessed. Anyway, I pressed on and asked for an exact date. There are several things I need to arrange not least the…..Dum dum da dee…..HONEYMOON. She said that she would get back to me after taking her dogs for a walk. That was two days ago. I’m worried as my calls go straight to her message machine. I’ve had no reply.

Do you think that Tracey is busy picking out a dress, Auntie, and have you any suggestions as where that….HONEYMOON….could take place?

***

Dear Spot,

Why do I feel that it shouldn’t even be remotely possible that the only sane person playing any small part in this story is in fact, myself—a woman of a mature age with a minimal household staff, a stubborn lack of small pets to avoid the appearance of any clichés and who, when she glances at the calendar, sees a date firmly set in 1873? And yet, here we are.

I have two very difficult things to tell you, Spot.  First, that you cannot be engaged to a woman unless she is indeed “in your proximity”.  And let me be clear, I mean in your Immediate Proximity and Personal Presence.  You are right in that I do not know what a telephone is but it cannot possibly alter reality to such an extent that a man can omit making such a request in person.

Asking a woman to marry you when she is several continents away is like attempting to watch a cricket match when you are on the moon.  It might be insanely possible, but how in God’s name would you hear the polite cheers and best gossip on the sidelines?  And why would you bother to try?

I won’t even bother addressing the wretched state of your sonnet. Although in light of your very crass and ungentlemanly reference to “fumbling”, perhaps it’s best she wasn’t there to hit you with her fan.

She cannot have said yes. Not if she is a woman of good grace and sense.

And if my instincts are correct, she’s using the money you gave her to employ bodyguards and install some sort of security measures to ensure that you don’t trouble her again.

Poor boy.

Which brings me to my second, very difficult, topic.

Stop playing with your Dickie.  Keep your hands out of your pockets.  You are bound to offend, and even the French are going to take pause if you make a show of that on the battlefield again. Please remember at all times that you are British. British men do not jiggle about their own stones in public. It’s most unseemly.

(Put it on top of a walking cane or something and hide it in plain sight!)

Well, I’d say that’s done then.  Mind you, I’m going to take a tonic to try to forget the mental picture of Brenda, the “Queen of Wales”, looking like she’d fallen into a lime pit….or a pond of pigeon poo.  If that’s even possible to get over a thing like that.

Watch out for vengeful pigeons and the Welsh.  They do have a way of turning up when you least expect them.

Cautiously,

Aunt Alice

PS  You are too young to marry.

Can Spot keep his hands away from his pockets? Where is Tracey? Can Brenda ever be sane? Just some of the questions yet to be answered in our mystifying saga of Aunt Alice and Spot. Turn your radio dial to Female First for further updates.

A man lay dying in the street, as people passed trying not to meet,

His eyes that stared in desperate hope, knowing that his body could no longer cope.

He tried to speak but no words could he say. His lungs were empty, they were giving way.

He’d been a player. He’d lived a life. Who would now tell his wife?

Who would bother to find her though? Left his side a long time ago.

Perhaps his clothes confused, those that passed and were not moved.

Or, perhaps the smell that emanated, from his body small and emaciated.

A tramp was he, and no one cared, as he laid with no wealth to be shared.

No well-known name, no celebrity status, no family, nor friends to make a fuss.

He died that day, spreadeagled there, as people passed without a care.

Just another man who’d lived and died, without a single tear being cried!

Anything But Hackneyed…Amazon.com

Anything But Hackneyed…Amazon.co uk