Themes offer readers a lens through which to interpret
the story’s events, influencing how they connect with
characters and understand their motivations. For instance,
take Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. The central
theme revolves around guilt, redemption, and the moral
consequences of crime. Raskolnikov, the protagonist, is not
just a criminal; he embodies the psychological turmoil that
accompanies transgression. The novel’s enduring impact
stems from its thematic depth, compelling readers to ponder
the nature of morality and justice.

Or how about our own great Agatha Christie’s Murder on
the Orient Express. While it presents a classic whodunit
structure, its theme delves into justice and retribution. The
story challenges the black-and-white perception of right
and wrong, as the detective Hercule Poirot grapples with a
moral dilemma about legal justice versus moral justice. This
thematic complexity elevates the novel beyond a simple
mystery, inviting readers to question their own ethical beliefs.

I can’t compare my work to Dostoevsky or Agatha Christie,
sadly. The Spy Who Sank the Armada, the first book in the
Sir Anthony Standen Adventures, didn’t really have a theme.
I simply had to join the dots of Standen’s entry in the Oxford
Dictionary of National Biography. He was an Elizabethan spy
and the elder brother of my 10th great-grandfather. I imagined

the why and how of the twists and turns in his life. It was quite
a life: he is the only man I know of to have been knighted by
both Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I.
For each subsequent book, I scanned forward through history until
I found an event that inspired me.
The second book, Fire and Earth, was inspired by the execution
of Giordano Bruno. When the wife of a dear friend,John, died,
he asked me if I believed in an immortal soul. I tried to give him
an honest answer, but to leave the door open to the possibility.
I told him that Gilbert Ryle described the concept as the ghost
in the machine, but that René Descartes believed inmind-body
dualism. Then I saw that the theme for Fire and Earth had
to be the conflict between faith and reason. Bruno had been executed,
amongst other reasons, for writing that the Earth revolved around the sun. Incidentally, it was in 1992 that the Catholic Church finally admitted that
it had been wrong, and that the scientists had been right.

The Suggested Assassin was inspired by the murder of King Henry IV
of France. Standen knew his wife, Marie de Medici, because he had
been sent by Sir Francis Walsingham to spy on her father, the Grand Duke
of Tuscany. Marie ruled as regent to her son, Louis XIII, after the assassination,
but Salic law prevented any woman from ruling in her own right.
At the time of writing, the “MeToo” movement was at its height,
so misogyny became the theme.

The inspiring event for Called to Account was the Fettmilch Uprising,
a pogrom in Frankfurt. Black Lives Matter was in the news, so anti-semitism
in particular, and racism in general, was the theme. Through my research,
I found that the mindset of the time was that God created a perfect world.
Therefore, if weather events caused crop failures and famine, someone
had to be to blame. Witches and Jews were the most common scapegoats.

The Favourite Murder, my work in progress, has favouritism as its theme.
Louis XIII was not his mother’s favourite son; Gaston was. I knew I had hit
on a powerful theme when I was on the Dartmouth Book Festival’s historical
fiction panel last year. Tim Pears and I were interviewed by John Suchet.
I was asked about my work in progress, and I described why I had chosen favouritism as the theme. It comes back to my friend John again, who has
had some mental health issues over the years. In the 90s, John’s brother
died of AIDS. John had nursed him through his illness, and on the day that
his brother died, their mother, in her grief, wailed that the wrong son
had died. The gasp of the audience told me all that I needed to know.
Having a historical crime fiction series means, for me anyway, that the
inspiring events come first and the theme second. But I’m not sure that’s
true of The Favourite Murder. Certainly, the location and period follow
on from the ending of Called to Account. However, the murder victim, the murderer, and the motive are all driven by the theme of favouritism.

WITHOUT THE THEME, I WOULDN’T HAVE A STORY.
https://www.davidvswest.co.uk

ORMA, THE SONG OF THE LARK
By our newest member Jac Forsyth

Two young people miss a bus and alter the outcome of a war

Full of satire, adventure and delicious surprises, Ørma is a liminal hero’s journey that takes us far into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.

When an extraordinary superspecies known only as the Mandolin emerges in Afghanistan, humans do what they do best: declare war and make a reality TV show. Eight months of televised war later, and a reality show is the only truth anyone cares about. But who are the Mandolin, and why do they protect the secrets of WØLF, a TV series created for war, and designed for public entertainment.

*************************************
Frustrated by civilian life, university student Hollow Quinn volunteers to join the British army. Her only friend Ezra Blake justifies the decision not to enlist, taking solace in a gothic anomaly full of magical innovation, mystical intrigue and self-aware furniture. But when Hollow grabs a starring role in the reality show, Ezra makes an impulsive decision. A decision that will overshadow even the horrors of a paraspecies war in Afghanistan. And as the game levels up, the non-player characters unlock the terrible secrets of WØLF. A reality show created for war, and designed for public entertainment.

https://jacforsyth.co.uk

Big Red Bucket by Vicky Lloyd-West

He hadn’t really understood what4 a bucket list was. He’d begun by listing all the buckets he owned in order of size, then abandoned that idea and instead grouped them by colour alphabetically. He had an aversion to yellow so the final one was the big red bucket - he had only one of those and it was also the only bucket with a lock-tight lid.

Each bucket housed his various word collections and he kept them in different rooms in his house, apart from the big red one, which was in the passageway by the back door so that he could escape with it should the need arise.The threat from the poetry police was constant and he was always on high alert.

The red bucket contained rhyming pairs of words written on post-it notes (pink ones). He had been collecting them since the Great UnRhyming of 2046. The GU had followed a period of political unrest due to rising sea and river levels, when rhyming chants at mass protests had destabilised the government. Many renowned poets were overseas in exile and the publication or performance of song lyrics, sonnets, villanelles and various other verse forms were totally banned. Even chanting the once innocuous

‘Two, Four, Six, Eight

Who do we appreciate?’

could now carry the death sentence. Most people had given up on any form of conversation in public in case they inadvertently spoke a rhyming sentence.

The call came in the late afternoon. He grabbed the bucket and slipped out, working his way through the back streets of Bath towards the sanctuary of the Abbey, where the rest of his writing group awaited him. The bucket was conspicuous but he hoped that, if spotted, he would be taken for a charity collector returning home. He failed to notice the undercover police officer under the archway taking his photograph as he slipped hopefully through a high doorway and off the street …

The Little red Bucket by Grant White

Did you get the brain Igor ?
Yes Master … from, The top shelf master.
Who’s was it - a. Genius ?
Er… no master, not really ?

…Not really, Who’s then ?

Er…Um Abby something…Abby Norman er no.. Abby… Abby.. Abby Normal yes that was it Abby Normal ! Master.
…You got an abnormal brain ?
Er…yes master.

******** Crackling sounds over Walky talky.

…I’m at the old Mews – Yeah Yeah trailing ******* - a piece of cake – No, no I didn’t need a tracker, the idiot used a red bucket, ******* Yeah Bright Red !
******Laughter & crackling over the walky talky********.

Ha ! yeah, I know ! - Nah, no backup needed I’m going in now. – Over & Out !

….Were you followed Igor?
Yes master.
You were ?
Oh Yes ! - I used the red bucket as you instructed master.

Goood – Scrub up for surgery !

The Red Box by Jeff Phelps

He had a recurring dream in which he was walking down an arcade of doors and arches. Often, on waking he would forget the dream, then be reminded of it by an ache in his legs, as though he’d walked a long distance.

One morning he rose early. Half-asleep, he stepped out of bed and nearly tripped over something. It was an object he’d never seen before – a red box, slightly battered and well-travelled. Puzzled, he picked it up by the handle and put it on the bed.

That was when he remembered his dream again. But this time there’d been a man further down the arcade disappearing into one of the doorways, just his leg visible, a flash of colour from something he’d been carrying – a red box.
He reached for the box, snapped open the two latches.
The clicks woke him with a start.

…………………………………………….
Red Bucket by David West

The college scout pushed open the oak door with his shoulder, a red bucket swinging from one hand, a mop in the other. He climbed the stairs. Morning light from the quad fell in dusty slabs across Staircase Three. He knocked on the door of Doctor Lund’s room. There was no answer. It was unusual for the young don to be out so early, so he knocked again. There was still no reply, so he put the mop down and took his keys from his pocket, then unlocked the door. He stepped inside. Books lay in obedient towers, papers arranged neatly, fountain pen on the ink blotter.

Lund sat slumped in his chair before the fire, chin on his chest, arms loose at his sides. Sleeping perhaps? No his eyes stared blankly at him. The scout put down the bucket.

‘Sir?’ He took two steps closer and tapped Lund on the shoulder. There was no response. He felt for a pulse in Lund’s neck. The flesh was still warm, but he could feel no pulse. He backed away, his own heart pounding. On the table were a teapot and two cups. One was full, the other empty. He felt the full cup. It was still warm, and there was lipstick on the rim. Then he heard footsteps on the staircase. They were not a man’s footsteps, but those of a woman in heels. 

…………………………………………
Red Bucket-Green Bucket By Cathy Roberts

“Fetch in the sealed red bucket,” Pierre’s father called, leaning out of a window of their flat, “it holds the safe mushrooms. Remember to add garlic to the pan this time. I must get ready for work.” His son looked up and waved, hesitating before he snatched one of the two buckets by its handle, and ran up the stairs.

His friend Marie looked out of her window, curious about the fuss, and saw the red bucket still on the grass, the surface glistening like blood in the morning sunlight. In a panic she flies down the stairs, through the passage between the houses, up the next set of stairs, and forces her way into the Pharmacist’s house.

“Monsieur Gilbert!” she cries, as Pierre empties the small green bucket of mushrooms into the sizzling frying pan.

“Mon Dieu! Pierre, are you colour blind? I confiscated those from foragers yesterday…” Monsieur Gilbert exclaims, stumbling through the kitchen door.

When Simon arrives in the morning, the night shift are all dead on the floor.

He walks around them carefully. He doesn’t think it’s an emergency. He doesn’t dial 999.

He finds some food in the usual place and eats methodically, ignoring the bodies.

When the day shift comes in, all hell breaks loose.

“Get the police! Now! Don’t touch them for Christ’s sake! And get that cat off poor Alfredo’s chest!”

Simon, yowling, is unceremoniously removed.
…………………………………

The Granny by Jeff Phelps

When the footlights went up the granny had disappeared from the bed and the man-wolf sat in her place wearing her night cap, pretending to knit. Why couldn’t Red Riding Hood see what was in store for her? Anyone – even a child of six - could tell this wasn’t the granny. It had a sharp pelt and dagger teeth.

The woodcutter, breaking in at the last moment, was strong and fierce but his axe, just silver-painted cardboard, was surely useless. Before the painted blade came down the wolf roared that he would have revenge. Maybe he would. Jan couldn’t be sure, despite the happiness at the end of the show - the songs and the dazzling outfits. The actors stepped forward and bowed - even the wolf, grinning, was alive. He’d come back as he’d said he would and, Jan thought, wouldn’t ever be far away again.
……………………………

Title to be decided. by Cathy Roberts
( A short paragraph from my current fantasy novel )

“The morning had an icy stillness about it. A Haar had edged in overnight, and was only now beginning to retreat under the bite of the subdued winter sun. Leaving through the side gate Wynter followed a path towards the sea, salty drizzle stinging her face with increasing force. After fifteen minutes the pale limestone track touching her property turned to pass parallel to the cliff edge. It gave off a muted glow, hinting at the lives that had once made it up, providing a safer route than the narrow country road that bordered her property. The soft touch of spring feathered her as she ran, her dogs speeding before her; dawn stretching purposely over the horizon towards the land, adding a gentle warmth to the mist, tickling the sea with colour. Picking up her pace the dogs stopped pausing to sniff and bounded on, their tongues lolling, appearing to laugh at her.”
………………………………

Border Shoreline by Grant White
( intro to The Mud & The Tide )

Border towns all look the same.
Swirl the dishwater let the tides flow,
Heading out to the sandbank.
Washing up & scraping crap don’t help me back,
But in the fog the steam keeps me warm.
People laugh & people cry, but the tides still flow.
Flick knife with nowhere to stay, got to go anywhere but home.
Snatch the cash, buy as suit from a charity shop,
Get a gun - Get a car - Head down the coast.
Dodge the customs and currents of discontent.
Steal a boat & hope it floats
Find a place to drown my dreams and launch my hopes.
Border towns, all look the same.

photograph Gordon White

………………………………………

BORDER by David West

The river was colder than she had expected. Her skin was numb, her bones aching, her only thought to keep swimming. Her four-year-old boy, Mustafa, clung to her neck. His breath came in quick, sobbing bursts.

‘Hold on,’ she whispered, though her lips trembled too much to make the words intelligible. She thought of the house they had left behind, its windows shattered by morning shellfire, her mother’s shawl still hanging on the back of the chair. She pushed the memory down. Memories were harder to bear than the depths that beckoned her down to blissful oblivion. She shook her head, she had to keep going for Mustafa.

Halfway across, voices barked from the opposite shore—foreign words, sharp and clipped. The beam of a torch cut the darkness, slicing through the wavelets.

‘Almost there,’ she whispered.

Her foot found the slick mud of the bank. She hauled herself up, heart pounding, knees shaking. Mustafa slipped off her back, coughing, she snatched him up and clamped her hand over his mouth.

The beam of the torch swept over the water again, but missed them. Somewhere close, boots splashed through the shallows. She pulled Mustafa deeper into the reeds. At last, the sounds receded. She dared a look: the soldiers were gone, the river ignorant of their passage. Mustafa tugged her arm. ‘Are we safe?’ he whispered. She swallowed. Safe was a word she daren’t use yet. But she tightened her grip on his small fingers and answered, ‘We’re closer than we were yesterday.’
……………………………….

The Gift by Sue Lander

You trace the line of his pale lips with your knife.

‘You promised me everything,’ you say, sadness smoking the edge in your voice.

Its tip mosquitos his chin. Hovers questions at his neck. You apply a tiny pressure, and a ruby pearl rises to the surface. It is beautiful. You watch as it ripens onto the blade, slickens it with his banality.

He shivers. Swallows. Bound, he can do nothing else.

The tree glitters with a thousand fireflies.

You tip your head. Nod to the Hoover with its torn festive wrappings, placed meticulously by his side. The knife does not move.

Your eyes, grey dust devils, lift once again to his.

‘Christmas,’ you muse, ‘is a time of magic. Of gratitude. Of love, and the expression of that love.’

The point snakes to a place over his heart. Stays.

‘Of course,’ you continue, ‘there is no blame.

Just consequence.’
………………………………………….

You open the door and you 

                                                                                                               hesitate.

A timid seafarer,

angled, unsure.
                                                         Behind you
                                                                        
                                                                          a billowing sail 
                                                         of love.

Terror tries it’s best to bind you

whispering crippling

hateful

shackles     of fear.



But courage? 

And strength? 

And desire?


You remind yourself that you have these, and more.
So much more.


So


you take that love 

and you use it. 

                                         And you grip the sides of your tiny skiff
                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                             And launch.

by
Sue Lander

must have bet his only shirt and lost -

holds his collar to his naked throat

to ward off rain and early winter frost.

Spends afternoons in Ladbrokes studying form,

glued to endless racing on the screens,

sits by the radiator to keep warm,

has no credit for the gambling machines.

You wouldn’t put a penny on his chances

of making good or cleaning up a bit.

He’s the underdog no decent punter fancies.

He’s the double when you know you should have quit,

he’s life’s pony limping home without its rider,

the torn betting slip, the hundred-to-one outsider.

by
Jeff Phelps

The art of teenage life

Behind the scenes there is undoubtedly strife

Intentional, unintentional often times downright humorous

Smirks at me with my impending ‘fuss’

Yes ‘I’ve done my homework mum’

Yes ‘I’ve brushed my teeth’

As his eyes roll, what in gods name had he done to deserve this ‘grief’

I will not sound like my own mother I implore

As I hear yet another slam of the door.

Inevitably the sentences trip off my tongue

I kid myself it’s a song unsung.

The tense conversations around GCSE revision

The comical tales just like the ‘inbetweeners’ on television

Belly laugh and frustration in equal measure

How did he become such a treasure?

As we dance this dance a masquerade

Between coarse practical conversation as tempers get frayed

The smokescreen reveals a wonderful young man

Beyond his phone screen he proves, in life, in fact he capably can.

Incredibly proud of my teen, even if his room needs a hefty clean.

A tenacious relationship, steady and full of joy.

I see myself in the eyes of this once boy.

by
Tracey Bailey

He towered above us as quiet we knelt
And his eyes were as dead as a shark’s and as black,
And he raised up the leather and gave it a crack
And the sweat of his power we smelt.

Another four years is the sentence we’re dealt,
See the Proud Boys and Oathkeepers claim him as kin,
And the MAGA caps wave and the tech bros fall in,
And the purging and vengefulness start to begin,
For Daddy has took of his belt.

Vicky Lloyd-West

I have none.

1 dog, myself, 1 daughter and 2 sons.

A passion for writing.

That loiters in the background.

Time for which is rarely found.

No time to stop and pause within.

I find my patience running thin.

Make time they say.

Have some discipline I echo.

I'll have this written in a seco.

Rush here, rush there.

Maybe I'll get a wild hare.

The impulse to write never goes away.

It sits like a little neglected friend on my shoulder, that wants to hand me a bouquet.

Whether this verse makes sense or not, for now it's all I got.

card by Drfilmgood

how are you? Where’s this year gone - already at its end

and Christmas upon us. Please excuse the lateness of this note

but I’ve had a bad shock/ dream/ bank balance/ throat.

Doesn’t time fly? Next year I promise to write

and arrange a meet-up. How about Wetherspoon’s/ Tesco’s/ The Isle of Wight?

Jason/ Kevin/ Tara/ Kate did the GCSE’s this summer,

got twelve/ six/ none/ other. Well done to him/ her/ What a bummer!

Family hols were in Tenerife/ Tenby/ the Transit/ Korea.

We swam/ golfed/ argued, got lucky/ arrested/ lost/ diarrhoea.

Peter/ Alice/ Richard/ Jill says she/ he loved/ despised it there

so we’re suing the company/ emigrating/ buying timeshare.

Mother is still working/ grappling/ sleeping with her poodle/ psychiatrist/ debt adviser,

but none of us are getting any younger/ nookie/ richer/ wiser.

That’s all from me, sending joy and peace

from your loving cousin/ uncle/ auntie/ nephew/ niece

for a Christmas that’s happy/ fantastic/ festive/ neat,

and full of seasonal love/ love/ love (no need to delete)

by Jeff Phelps

Hello big boy, pick me up – Oo! What a strong grip you have !
- hold me - go on - shove it in ! you know you want to – pleeze !
- right up my chamber,– yes !- yes ! - squeeze me now !

He felt the gun jump in his hand even before he heard the shot.

He weighs the gun in his hand,
“It is a nice piece… Ok, I’ll take it and throw in a couple of clips”

He looks around for the store keeper.

“ Hey ! Hello, any one there...”

He notices blood spattered over the wall and the shelves,
He leans over the counter and sees the corpse of the sales assistant.

”Oh ! Shit! - Oh No, Crap ! Not Another One !
And I was doing real good this week !”

“… Err Yeah, Um, sorry, pall.”
“ Oh well, its not all gloom, - Got a Free Gun !”

Shoving the pistol into the back of his belt, casually draping his jacket over one shoulder, ( covering the pistol ) he strolls out of the gun store into the bright sunlight. He nonchalantly puts on his shades.

It was going to be another hot day…

* Title was the name of my late friend Len Lewys’ animation studio.
Illustration by DrFilmgood click to view.

…

Me
“Yeah ! its a bind ain’t it ? I’ve got M.A.B.”
Patients
“Uh? Eh? Wa? What is M.A.B ?”
Me
“M.A.B ? – M.A.B is a big horse!”
Patients
“What? Eh? Hu?!”
Me
“Yeah!  M.A.B is a Big Horse!
Me, singing
“♫ Em Ay Bee is a Big Horse I’m a Londoner ♫ that I love London so ♫…”

…

I’m not Actually a Londoner, but I am on the spectrum.

Song by Hubert Gregg

David West

In the mirror I see a trickle of blood start to seep from a cut on the edge of the faint old scar from my father's ring. I rinse off the remaining foam then tear off a small piece of toilet tissue and press it against the cut until the blood starts to congeal. I put on my linen suit. Good! My Round Table pin is in the left lapel. It's important to be seen to be supporting charities and you never know where you're going to meet another member. As my father used to say, before he abandoned us, it's not what you know, it's who you know! I boot up the laptop and check the presentation again. If I can win this project it'll really make me, I'll have arrived, earned my place at the top table! Yep, I've put together a first class presentation as usual. The phone rings.

"Hello, Mr James, your car has arrived."

"Thank you, I'll be down in five minutes." The lift doors open and a porter is there to take my laptop case. The Raj Palace hotel reception is bustling with tourists and businessmen, a cacophony of accents and colour. A party of perhaps a dozen Buddhist monks in orange robes catches my eye. One of them arrests my gaze and approaches me holding out a camera.

"You take photo please?" he smiles.

"I don't have time." I step around him and make my way to the Concierge's desk followed by my eager porter. A pretty young woman with long black hair, brown eyes and wearing a turquoise sari is waiting by the desk.

"Mr James?"

"My name is James Carter, yes."

"Welcome to Delhi Mr James. I am Sarvari, Mr Rao's personal assistant. Mr Rao is very, very much looking forward to meeting you. Our car is outside, this way please." Sarvari opens the back door of a black Mercedes and smiles. I settle into the sumptuous grey leather and look round to check that my laptop bag has been taken by the driver and put in the boot. She and the driver take the front seats and as we set off a tall Sikh hotel doorman salutes us.

We turn left out of the hotel gates and after a few hundred yards reach a junction with a main road. The driver begins blowing his horn and edges out into the traffic. A blue bus with many passengers clinging onto the outside lets us in. I have never seen anything like it; three wheeled yellow and green rickshaws jostle with cars, lorries and motorcycles, everyone hooting. I notice that all the lorries and buses although covered in Sanskrit writing have a large notice on the back saying "Horn Please!" We are passed by a motorcycle carrying a family of five, no six. Only the father is wearing a crash helmet.

"Mr James, the traffic is very good today and I think we will be at the office in very, very good time. I believe this is your first visit to India, yes?"

"Yes, although I hope to spend a lot of time here when we win the contract." She smiles.

At a junction a woman with a baby in her arms gets up from a carpet of filthy cardboard underneath the flyover for the Metro and begins working her way down the queue of traffic with hand outstretched. A few people drop coins into her hand and I am grateful for the tinted glass, I don't think she can see me.

"I am sorry about this Mr James; the police really should do something about these beggars. It is making a very very bad advertisement for India. What must you think?"

"Oh don't worry; it's much the same in England you know, just a lot colder." Thankfully the traffic starts to move again. Yes, India is the place to be. There seem to be construction sites on every street. The place is booming. We pass markets and shopping malls, garages, apartment blocks and shanty towns where hovels are built from corrugated iron and plastic sheeting. With some amusement I notice that they are all clustered around electricity pylons and have plugged themselves in, because through gaps in the sheeting I glimpse a television flickering. They do all right. Everywhere dogs seem to be running around barking. A horse drawn cart seems to be out of control and is losing much of its load of cardboard. Then my vision begins to blur.

It's quite sudden. Traffic comes to an abrupt halt. The white apartment building on the right is shaking, cracking and then falling. Dust rises and concrete blocks are tumbling and rolling across the road in front. Jesus, is it a bomb, earthquake? What the hell is happening?

"Oh Mr James, come, come quickly it is an earthquake. Very very bad. It is not safe. The Connaught Hotel is just over there, very nice hotel and new. We will be safe there. Come quickly!"

I follow Sarvari and notice that the driver stays with the car. Good, at least my laptop should be safe.

The Connaught Hotel towers up through the swirling dust, a black glass and steel triumph of modern engineering over nature. I follow Sarvari up some steps and through the rotating door. The cool air makes me shiver, just for a second. She leads me to the lounge area and we sit in leather armchairs around a large coffee table. A waiter approaches her at once and she addresses him in Hindi. She turns and smiles at me.

"Would you like coffee or tea Mr James? I'm afraid we may be stuck here a little while until the road is cleared. I will phone Mr Rao and explain. Perhaps some cake too?"

"Er, yes coffee would be nice. I need something to wake me up; I must be dreaming." Sarvari says a few more words to the waiter who bows and walks away. Then she takes a Blackberry out of her handbag and makes a call. I walk over to the window which has a panoramic view across the chaos. The apartment building is split in two. One part is rubble spewing out over the remnants of a wall and across the road; the other part is still standing like a five story open dolls house. All of life is there, kitchens with tables, fridges and cookers; bedrooms, some with double beds and some smaller ones with bunk beds; bathrooms; dining rooms; lounges. Many of the lounges have shrines to one Hindu god or another. Where are they today I wonder? Movement catches my eye. Some men are scrambling over the rubble with a ladder. They are making their way towards half a stairwell and I can see two children sitting a few steps up from a twenty foot gap before the staircase begins again.

"Mr Rao says that you must not worry Mr James. He will find time to see you today as he very much wants to hear about your experience with the power plants in China. He is very sorry that you have been so inconvenienced by this terrible earthquake. It is quite the worst one to hit Delhi in fifty years they are saying on the news."

"That is kind of him, but look ... I think I ought to go and see if I can help."

"Oh no Mr James, that is a very bad idea. It isn't safe! The police and the army will be here very very soon, I'm sure. They will deal with it. Ah look here is our coffee! Thank you Gupta! And look you see there, there is a digger coming. The road will be cleared soon. You just enjoy your coffee Mr James!"

Sarvari is right, a tracked, back acting excavator is moving across the rubble, looks like a Caterpillar 320C. The men have reached the children now and they are being handed down the ladder. What if there are people under the rubble? The Cat will crush them for sure.

"No I really think I should go and help. There's no sign of the police or army or anything." I turn and walk towards the door but there's a tug on my right arm. Her hand slides down my arm and I feel the pressure of her soft flesh in my hand.

"You must stay here Mr James. The road will be clear soon and Mr Rao is expecting us. What about your beautiful suit and shoes?"

"Perhaps you're right, I don't want... oh what are they doing with the bloody thing now? They'll have the rest of that apartment down if they start digging there!" I drop her hand and rush outside. The swish of the revolving door shuts out the calm coolness of the hotel. The morning heat of Delhi in June assaults me, then the noise. Many more people are rushing around now. Men and women are screaming, calling out names. The digger is scratching away at the rubble, its engine revving with the effort. I scramble across the rubble to it. "Stop!" I bang on the cab window then cross and un-cross my arms in a signal to stop. The driver looks at me blankly. "Does anyone here speak English?" I plead, looking around. There is a second's lull in the screaming then it starts again. "E-N-G-L-I-S-H? Does anyone speak English?"

"Sir, yes sir I am speaking English."

Oh thank God! A short fat man is clambering towards

"Look we must listen for people under here," I say pointing down and cupping my ear. "Can you make people quiet and get that digger turned off so that we can listen for people?"

"Sir, yes I am following you. I will try." He turns to go and I grab his hand.

"What is your name? I am James."

"Mr James Sir, yes my name is Alam. I will make quiet and then we will listen."

With an energy and surefootedness which belie his age and build, Alam is rushing around shouting, pointing and cupping his ear. Gradually the noise disperses. There is no such thing as silence in Delhi I have learnt, but as the digger engine stops this gets close to it. I kneel down in the rubble and press my ear into a gap. Nothing! I look up and all around me men, women and children are doing the same. I choose another spot and listen intently. Still nothing! Then there is a shout and everyone is making their way towards a teenage girl who is waving. I get there first, lie down and push my head into a gap in the rubble. Nothing at first, but now I can hear breathing.

"Hello, can you hear me? Keep calm we'll get you out." I start scrabbling at the blocks, broken furniture, shards of glass. Around me people are doing the same. We work as one. When a large block is uncovered hands appear around me and we lift. Then I see a foot. It's in a woman's shoe, a red shoe decorated with beads. Now I see a leg through a ripped sari streaked with blood. As we uncover more I see that the leg must be broken in a dozen places. Hands are working their way along the line of her body. Another large block is lifted to uncover her head. Oh God, that doesn't look good. I feel her neck for a pulse but feel nothing. I check my own neck to remind myself where the pulse should be. Mine is pounding like a piling rig. I check again for her pulse, but nothing. I can still hear breathing though, and now sobbing too.

"Alam, can we lift her now please?" We all gently lift together and curled up tight beneath her broken body is a child. The child's eyes blink and the gentle sobbing turns to screaming as it takes in the scene and its dead mother. The child's screams echo off the memory of my screams from a lifetime ago, cut short by the clout of my father's hand before he slammed the front door on my childhood for ever. A wall collapses inside me too and something breaks through. It rises slowly at first, slowly but insistently, then welling up through my stomach and chest, spurting, flowing, choking me, drowning me, I gasp for breath but there are only tears. Great, huge, marbles of tears that haven't seen the light of day for years roll down my dusty cheeks. I lift my hands to my face and see the shreds of skin and blood from tearing at blocks and splinters and broken glass. The tears collect my blood and drip onto the lifeless body beneath me, mixing with her blood and flesh and bone. I am aware of the screaming child being handed back down a chain of helping hands. Then Alam puts his arm around me.

"Sir, Mr James, there must be more. We must keep listening, keep digging. There must be more Mr James, there must be more!"

About the author

David West was a civil engineer who, having had a text book published in 2010, is now trying to turn his newly discovered discipline of writing three hundred words a day into something creative. There Must Be More was written for an assignment on the Open University's A215 Creative Writing course, and published in an anthology called Something Hidden by Bridgehouse Publishing. He is writing The Sir Anthony Standen Adventures, currently a series of four, with the fifth in progress.

It reminded me how powerful a first draft can be. A short story or novel isn’t the same as a letter to a friend (usually), but one thing you can say about an informal letter is that it's written as if you were speaking directly to the reader. Your ‘voice’ is threaded through the whole thing, direct and uncensored.

We writers can spend decades trying to find our ‘voice’. Perhaps we should look at our letters with all their idiosyncrasies and informalities. We might find our authentic voices right there, though I also remember how someone, admiring the spontaneity in a well-known author’s work, received the reply: ‘Yes, it’s taken me years to become that spontaneous.’

What would happen if we began all our stories with: ‘Dear Jane,’? We could always cross it out later.

What better, when someone reads your work, for them to feel like a friend being addressed personally, and to think: ‘thanks for your lovely story’?

Jeff Phelps

Box of Tricks

Jeff Phelps

I was hooked. It is a nostalgic 1960s seaside tale with a set of endearing characters in a coming of age story that drew me straight in -- Sarah Broadhurst ― The Bookseller

ONE    

The first thing we heard was laughter, then the slamming of taxi doors. So it was pretty obvious they’d finally arrived – the Rodney Cooper Light Opera Company. From inside Vi’s boarding house I could tell it was like they were the opera, even if they weren’t actually doing it at the time. You could hear the noise following them round. I wouldn’t have been surprised if an orchestra had come out of the taxi with them.

My Auntie Vi, who was in the kitchen, walked down the hall when she heard them, trying to take her pinny off as she went. But somebody had already pushed the front door open and was standing in the hall singing, ‘Coo-ee’ at the top of her voice. ‘Coo-ee. Vi? Anyone at home?’

This was a pretty stupid question. There was always someone at home in Vi’s boarding house, the front door was open and there was Vi coming down the hall. Even my cousin Ray had crawled out of his pit and come to the top of the stairs rubbing his eyes. Quarter past eleven on his day off was early for him.

I stood in the hall like someone waiting to be overwhelmed by a giant wave. The Coo-ee woman had a fake fur coat and bangles that slid up and down one elegant, freckled arm when she talked. ‘Oh, my god, Vi, you look fantastic. What have you been doing with yourself?’ she said. She squeezed her and let her go again like she was a sponge.

This was hard to take because Vi was only a little woman and her face was tight and screwed up from years of scrubbing floors and shopping and cooking and looking after the place with only a bit of help from her mother, Nanny, and a lot of hindrance from Ray. To me she always looked the same. She still had that ingrained smell of disinfectant and spud peelings.

Then the rest of them were in the hall, filling it up. I counted five not including Vi, and an increasing flow of luggage. It was as if they were on a stage that was too small for them, jostling for the middle in case they fell off it. There were two youngish women called Maisie and Irene and, hovering near the door, a bloke with winkle picker shoes and a pleasant face. He reached through and shook Vi’s hand. ‘Alastair,’ he said and laughed nervously.

Charles was at the front, of course. Auntie Vi kept a framed photo of Charles on the sideboard in the kitchen. In the photo Charles was done up as Koko out of the Mikado. It was a real close-up of his face. It had been powdered white. His lips were dark and his eyes had been extended with slanted pencil lines. He had his hair pulled back under a little hat and wore a tunic with a Chinese collar. Handwritten in the bottom corner of the photo were the words, ‘To Vi with love as always’ and a squiggle which said ‘Charles’ and three neat kisses, all in black ink. So I recognised Charles as soon as I saw him. Except for his hair. Now there was no hat to restrain it, it sprang up round his head like a halo, the colour of a baby orang-utan. It contrasted with his bushy grey eyebrows.

Charles waited until the noise had died down before he held his arms out to Vi. She came and put her arms inside his coat which he had draped round his shoulders in a way that made me think he was just waiting for someone to take it off for him – some dresser or whatever they had in theatres.  ‘How are you, my Violet?’ he asked in a voice as sharp as a gramophone needle.

‘Glad to see you, Charles. At last. Just pleased to see you all.’ She only came up to the level of the purple handkerchief in the top pocket of his shirt.

Box of Tricks (Tindal Street Press) is available as an e-book from Amazon or from World of Books & other online book stores.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Box-Tricks-Jeff-Phelps/dp/095564769X

‘That’s true. He was a good man. There are too few of them. Some think they are righteous, and good, but they are not,’ Daniel replied. ‘You have heard of Martin Luther, I take it?’

‘We recently inherited a dog called Luther. But I can’t say I’ve heard of Martin Luther. Is he a wine merchant?’ Antonio asked. Daniel and Edith both laughed, almost choking on their wine. It took some coughing and slaps on the back before Daniel could speak again.

‘Oh, that was funny. Martin Luther has been dead for more than sixty years. He was a priest, who split from the Catholic Church and was a leader of the Protestant reformation. Luther came here to Frankfurt. We suffered, and he saw it. I read what he wrote. “They are compelled to wear yellow rings on their coats. They have no houses of their own, only furniture. They can only lend money at great hazard.” That is what he wrote.’

‘So he was sympathetic to the Jews,’ Antonio said.

‘Briefly. He was trying to convert us to Lutheranism, and when we wouldn’t reject the faith of our fathers and mothers, this is what he said: “Burn the synagogues and the Jewish ghettoes!” He was no William of Orange.’

‘Maria, we should think of a new name for the dog.’

‘If he’ll answer to it,’ Maria said. ‘Why is there this intolerance of Jews, Daniel? And why don’t you move somewhere else? You must have a homeland. I thought the Jews came from Judea.’

‘Yes, we had a homeland, and it was the Kingdom of Judah. But then the Muslims, invaded, followed by the crusaders. As refugees, we were driven to flee our homeland. We settled all over Europe, but the masses did not welcome us. We had our uses. Jews are considered to be excellent organisers, physicians, financiers, and lawyers, so we have been useful to kings and emperors.’

‘So why are the masses intolerant?’

‘Because of the masses,’ Daniel said, smiling. Maria and Antonio looked puzzled. ‘Forgive me, you don’t have a monopoly on jokes. Masses as in Catholic mass. The gospels didn’t give the Jews a sympathetic account concerning the crucifixion. Well, not the gospels that got included in your bible, anyway. It’s a bit much coming from the Roman Catholics, don’t you think? Roman soldiers arrested Christ, who was a Jew, by the way. It was Roman soldiers who nailed him to the cross. Does anyone think the Rabbis had as much say in events as those who had conquered our land?’ He paused, but Maria and Antonio didn’t know what to say. Edith spoke.

‘Your wine is wonderful. Is your vineyard near here?’

‘No. It’s in Frascati,’ Antonio replied.

‘Where is that?’ Edith asked.

‘It’s, er, it’s about twenty miles from Rome.’

‘And those in the galley behind them. That’ll be here in another ten minutes,’ he said, crouching down and taking aim. They dispatched three more pirates in the fifteen strokes of the oars that it took the galley to pull alongside. Anthony felt something hit his back, and he turned to see his swords that François had slid across the deck. He reached for them, passed one to Maria, and unsheathed the other. Anthony stood up, just in time to parry the scimitar slash of a Moor, as he leapt onto Maia’s deck. He parried two more blows before lunging and feeling the tip of his sword parting ribs. He pulled his sword from the crumpling assailant and thrust it into the side of the nearest of two Moors, who were pushing Maria back as she frantically parried their blows. He tried to pull his sword free, but the Moor was falling at an awkward angle, and dragged Anthony down with him. As he tugged at his sword, he saw a shadow on the deck. He turned to see the pirate captain raise his scimitar. Anthony’s hand was trapped under the dead weight of his last kill, and he was powerless to protect himself. He closed his eyes as he saw the blade slashing down at him. Instead of darkness, there was a rifle crack and silence. His attacker crumpled, an expression of surprise on his face. Maria had just lanced her adversary and stared at the companionway. Anthony turned and saw Anne, still pointing a rifle, smoke trailing from its muzzle.

Excerpt from The Suggested Assassin by David West, available on Amazon

https://www.davidvswest.co.uk/

Excerpt from 1^st year introductory History Lecture.

“…So as we can see it has been conclusively proved that the collapse of 20^th-21^st century civilisation can be traced directly back to the disappearance of Milk Men. “

The breakdown of society started immediately upon their abolition ( circa 1979 ) and the seizure of Services by Criminal gangs, the privatisation of compassion & the out sourcing of hope,  – which lead inevitably to  – homelessness, inflation, plague, addiction, famine, Envy, self-importance, despair, economic collapse, family breakdown & many other social ills, culminating in children amusing themselves by stabbing each other to death.

Prior to this period, as unofficial social workers, Milkmen & Milkwomen, would befriend their customers: -  keep an eye on them, ( watch out for bottles mounting up on the doorstep ) change light bulbs, keep tabs on Ne’erdowells and generally maintain the wellbeing of society.

Similarly other working class ‘Prefects’ who kept society functioning also disappeared, ie: bus conductors & window cleaners  ( un-afraid of heights & ladders ) etc.

Conductors for example were the Captains of their bus – their word was law - after they were phased out lone bus drivers ended up in bullet proof cabs !...

Thankfully after the devastation of ‘The Spillage ’ of 2029,

Our enlightened Milk Based regime was established by our glorious leader The Milk Monitor, civil society was restored to order by his heroic, Milkmen of Human Kindness.

Now that peace, order & contentment have been established, we graze on the bounteous generosity of the Milkmen Of Human kindness & their daily soothing deliveries.

So let us raise our glasses & salute our great leader,

Humphrey the First  –  The Milk Monitor !

…Melksham - the town where Condensed Milk was invented.

‘These gentlemen are here to ask you a few questions, Galileo. They act with the authority of the pope. This is Sir Anthony Standen, and this is Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone. I shall leave you now. You know where I am if you need me.’

‘Yes, yes, let me see, there are two chairs here somewhere.’ As Galileo stood up, Anthony noticed that he was a good three inches taller than Hugh. Hugh was an inch taller than Anthony, who was, himself, a couple of inches taller than average. He was also broad in the chest and powerfully built. He had piercing, enquiring eyes, and a long, straggly beard. He took a lute and a pair of brass calipers from the seat of a chair, and brushed a pile of books to one side with his foot, to make room for it in front of his desk. He took a wooden model from the seat of another chair. ‘This is the model for a horse-powered pump I am working on,’ he explained, as he put it on top of a stack of books and placed the second chair in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down. What is it you want to discuss?’

Excerpt from Fire and Earth by David West, available on Amazon

https://www.davidvswest.co.uk/