The end of an era

No, I'm not quitting blogging. Although I admit, I have been very lax at getting blogs written recently. I will endeavour to do better!

The title of this blog refers to the Word Cloud. Many of you know that I have been a member of this online writing community for a number of years. It was a fabulous place, where writers could find other writers to talk through the technical stuff, get feedback on their writing, make wonderful writing friends, and ultimately celebrate and commiserate with each other on their writing journeys.

You'll notice, perhaps, that I wrote 'was a fabulous place'.

Because the Cloud is no more.

SocialGo have removed support for whichever version of their software the cloud used, and two or three days ago, the cloud disappeared. There were rumours about SocialGo pulling the plug, but no firm dates. I managed to save some of the lovely comments I'd received about some short stories I'd written, but other than that... I couldn't face trawling through years' worth of written material. So I left everything. And hoped.

But to no avail. There is now only a blank screen - and no cloud.

It's disappearance takes with it probably hundreds of blogs. Some which made me laugh, some which made me cry. Some recounted the long, hard road to publication. Some existed to provoke heated discussion about all manner of topics. Some told deeply personal experiences. And others were written purely for fun.

Also lost in the digital ether are the seeds of several published and best selling novels. There are even competition winning short stories, or opening chapters, or flash fiction.

There were conversations between friends. Photographs of memorable moments. Links to useful writing related sites.


All of it has gone - in the blink of an eye.

There is a glimmer of hope... But at the moment, I'm feeling too sad about the cloud. I'll tell you about the new place tomorrow.

The determination gene

Delighted to say that I've got a guest post up on the Writer's Workshop blog today, which tells of my long involvement with these fabulous folk who champion writers at whatever stage of their writing journey they're at. It also mentions the wonderful Cloudies...and quite a bit about how having determination and perseverance pays off in this strange old world of being an author.

You can read it by clicking THIS LINK.

Contrasts - a competition winner

Thought I'd share with you a short piece I wrote back in March, inspired by my trip to India. It was a Cloudie competition entry and it won! 

And yes, it's formatted differently because I've copied and pasted from the Word Cloud site - and it's copied the formatting too! Enjoy.

Madness!

I step out of the way of an oncoming tuctuc, dodge around the bike laden with pomegranates and squeeze into a gap between sari-clad women and a group of young men.

“Mam! Mam! You want?”

“No. Thank you.”

My eyes betray me though, enticed by glittering jewellery and coloured scarves – a richness that comes cheap in terms of rupees.

The jingle of a bell announces sweet treats as the candyfloss seller touts his neon pink wares, the sound quickly drowned out by a near constant cacophony of vehicle horns.

A jolt, deep in my stomach, as I realise I can’t see Mike any more – have I lost him in the crowd? Then I see the heads turning, attracted to the pale skin among the dark.

I’m on the receiving end of a few stares myself. A white woman, here? The crowds press closer and someone grabs my arm.

An old lady, holding the hand of…her daughter? She speaks.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” I smile and she grins a gap-toothed grin, the skin around her eyes wrinkling with pleasure and sun and age.

The crowd shifts, a few steps now instead of a shuffle. I have to catch up.

The woman takes my arm again as I move away. “Goodbye.” A wave and a head wobble.

“Bye.”

We reach the road. The proper road, not the narrow strip of tarmac crowded by stalls. It’s as wide as a dual carriageway, but a free for all for motorbikes, tuctucs, buses, lorries and pedestrians. It’s deafeningly loud, chokes me with exhaust fumes, and has the first ‘green man’ crossing I’ve seen, which no-one pays any attention to. I step into the road and realise - too late - that I’ve misjudged the traffic because the locals stay on the pavement, leaving me to dodge round several buses, a motorbike coming at high speed with three people on it, and an ox cart.

Then it’s down the steps into the church compound, kick off my shoes at the door, and enter the holy place.

It’s not silent – there are still the echoes of distant traffic – but deep quiet descends. It reaches far up into the vaulted ceiling, stretches blessed fingers into the side chapels, and brings men and women to their knees in the nave.

Including me…

And I know that, right here, right now, I am where I am supposed to be, as the turmoil of life slips away.

York 15 : the first instalment.

The Festival of Writing. Every year I wonder whether I should go and this year I wondered even more, because I didn't have anything I felt was 'ready' to take. Even on the way up to York, chatting away to my travel-buddy Imran (who you might remember designed the covers of Granny Rainbow and is in his own right, a fabulously enthusiastic author of several books), I didn't feel particularly excited.

As soon as I stepped through the doors of the Roger Kirk Centre and saw the first of many familiar faces, I started grinning: there was the wonderful Writer's Workshop team booking everyone in, 'leprecaun noir' author Paddy and Nick Sheridan, cloudie friends like Skylark, Raine, John and J.Net, the amazing Debi Alper, agents and authors... The tingle was most definitely back, and as the weekend went on, I was glad I'd decided to make this my fourth year.

Some of you reading this from here on in will wonder what the heck I'm on about, but those Who Were There will understand these snippets from the weekend - some more than others!

"A proper author has an agent." Sam Copeland (just imagine how that went down in an audience which included several successful self-published authors...)

"That shower curtain REALLY loves me!" J.S. Law

"Every writer is full of faith and full of doubt - and self-criticism" and "You become a new writer with every book you start." Nikki French duo, Sean French and Nicky Gerard

"Why, oh why, does the publishing industry treat me like a leopard?" Unknown disgruntled writer

"Readers are bloodhounds for truth and authenticity." Shelley Harris

"Today is Severus Snape Sunday. Because." Julie Cohen

"Success relies on talent, tenacity and timing." Diane Beaumont

"My kidneys are crying!" Competition winner, the morning after the champagne...

"I was woken by The Phantom Noseblower at 6am." Me. (I'd forgotten how thin the walls are in uni halls!)

"They've asked to see the full MS!" Heard from far too many folk to name you all individually. You know who you are, and I'm cheering you on.

I will blog more over the next few days - about the specific workshops, my 1-2-1 feedback, the gala dinner and keynote speakers - because every time I go to York, I learn something. I learn something about myself, about the craft, about the people I spend time with.

This year, I learnt that I still have some fundamental flaws in my approach to storytelling, that I have a recognisable writing style (hereafter to be referred to as Squidge-speak) and that it's more the structure than the voice which means I fail to capture that elusive 'wow' factor.

But that's what York does; it enables, encourages, challenges you to be the best writer you can be. Not necessarily 'best' as in the most successful or well-known - but the best YOU can be.

I'm still trying to be the best I can. I AM moving forwards but I haven't reached the finish line yet, where I can say (like one of the competition winners who'd had multiple MS requests) "I think I get it now...I know how all of this works." One day...

#FOW15

Tomorrow, I'm off to York; Festival of Writing 2015, here I come!

There's always good news after a festival when folk have MS requests or win competitions - but this time there's good news even BEFORE I get there; two cloudie friends have been shortlisted for the Friday Night Live Event, and another has received an email from an agent who is very excited about what my friend submitted for her 1-2-1 session.

I've had the privilege of reading work by all three friends; I shall be rooting for them all and hoping that this festival they'll all get their big break, because every single one of them deserves it.

So what's Squidge hoping to get out of the weekend? Lots of laughter, lots of fun, lots of food... and some idea of whether King Stone is working from the feedback of two rather wonderful book doctors. I want to take away lots of fresh approaches to my writing. I want to see a certain agent and tell her that the question she asked in my 1-2-1 last year - did I believe in StarMark enough to rework it - spurred me on to do exactly that and I ended up with a contract for my first children's novel. I want to hear how the killer leprecaun author's doing a year on, and talk Terry Pratchett with someone who's never read him... And I want to meet a very special pooch and his very special owners.

I will try to blog over the course of the festival, but the posts'll be short and sweet - there's always so much else to do!

Whatever you're up to, have a great weekend - I'll see you when I get back.

x

Inky Inspirations

Sorry - not posted for a few days as I've been away!

To make up for it, here's me, guest-blogging, over on the lovely Jody Klaire's Inky Inspirations, talking about all things writing-y and a few bits and pieces on top.

Enjoy - oh, and normal service will resume on the Scribbles as soon as I can wrest the laptop from the kids...

So much to tell you...

The last week or so has passed by in a bit of a blur. There's been so much happening!

Wednesday 4th March: Author visit to Holywell School.

I had a fantastic time with two Year 3 classes at Holywell, looking at the essential ingredients of a Granny Rainbow story and then helping the children to come up with their own ideas for a Granny story. We focused on the idea of something being lost; working out what it was, who'd lost it, why was it such a problem that it was lost, and most importantly, what was Granny going to do to help find it?

Getting to grips with the digital whiteboard...and the essentials
of a Granny Rainbow story

I don't know what had just been suggested, but I look pretty shocked at the thought!
And for some reason I can't seem to write straight...

My personal favourite was the lost tiara...which just happened to be stuck to the Lady Larabelle Loolilace's wig, so when she lost her wig - and the tiara - she couldn't go to the posh party she'd been invited to because actually, she was as bald as a coot in real life! Second favourite was the lost penguins - or was it the treasure chest? SO many ideas! In fact it was hard to stop the children from coming up with more and more ideas and actually settle down to writing the outline of the story they'd be penning...

It was a really special visit, because Holywell was my primary school...and here I was, forty odd years later, returning to spend time with a fresh generation of students.

Thursday 5th March: World Book Day.

A planned author visit had to unfortunately be cancelled, so instead I bagged up a copy of Granny Rainbow as a World Book Day gift and left it in a playground in Queen's Park. I've done something similar with the Lonely Bouquet - left a bunch of flowers for someone to find and take home, so I was hoping the same principle would work with a book.

I don't know whether anyone picked it up - when I passed back that way later in the morning, the book was still there and being studiously ignored by the parents present, in spite of the invitation inside the bag to 'Take me Home!' Hope someone's enjoying it...

Friday 6th March: Lords and Ladies at the Manor.

A group of Cloudies had booked a Manor House in Oxfordshire for the weekend, with the intention of writing, hearing other's work and getting to know some of the folk who are recognised only by an electric persona on the Word Cloud. 

We had a blast! Quite a few more Cloudies arrived on Saturday to spend the day with us (I ran a short writing exercise in the afternoon, there was a table tennis compeition, a bring-and-share lunch) and a few of the day visitors stopped overnight. We drank wine (and champagne for those who took part in The Great Fizz competition of reading work to an audience), ate very well, sang songs until the wee small hours, wore tiaras and top hats (as befits a Lord or Lady of the Manor) and made lots of new friends.

Lady Squidge of the Manor...complete with tiara.

The weirdest thing was reading a Granny Rainbow story to an audience of adults instead of to children...

I came home exhausted but happy on the Monday and started to thrash out some words and ideas on Ani's story.

Tuesday 10th March: Proof Pick-up!

I picked up the proof of More Granny Rainbow. There are some glitches with the cover, as I realised there is a fundamental design flaw (of my own making) which needs to be addressed. So I shan't be launching just yet... The inside pages are looking pretty flippin' good though - I didn't see any typos at all. I'll leave finding them up to the eagle-eyed reader...

Wednesday 11th March: Painting Text



I'm involved at the moment in a passionart project - eight town centre churches are creating a piece of artwork depicting a part of the Easter story, which will be displayed outside the churches from Palm Sunday through to Easter Monday. The one I'm involved with is the seven sayings of Jesus from the cross, on a 4 by 3 metre banner. I spent most of Weds (and Thursday and part of Friday) painting the text onto the speech bubbles...



Then we had a NIBS meeting - the Nanpantan Improving Body of Scribblers writing group. Four of us wrote off-the-cuff about what we wanted to see more of or less of in the world; combined three trinkets (chosen from a selection) into a piece of prose; and then considered what we would include in a time capsule to represent ourselves and our lives. There were some rather poignant pieces written, which brought a tear to my eye...

Thursday 12th March.  RIP Sir Terry Pratchett

I cried.

Sir Terry's Discworld books are my absolute favourite thing to read. I have a shelf filled almost entirely with Discworld...there are a few titles missing still, but in time I am determined to have the full set.

To know that I will never read about Vimes or Carrot again, hear the witches own particular brand of wisdom, or find out what C.M.O.T Dibbler's latest money-making scheme is, makes me unbearably sad.

And only Sir Terry could have written the end of his own story as he did, with Death coming to take him for a walk.

I hope Sir Terry finds what he was expecting in the black desert...

Illustration by the very talented Mat Sadler

Friday 13th March: Comic Relief

I was auctioning off a copy of Granny Rainbow for Red Nose Day; I'd drawn red noses on all the illustrations and the front cover. I am delighted to say that the top bid was £30 - £30! - and I decided to double that. Hence a whopping £60 will be winging its way to Comic Relief HQ and Red Nose Granny to Birmingham, to a very special librarian.

And I think that's us all caught up! Normal blogging service will be resumed...assuming I have something interesting to tell you!

More Granny Rainbow - The Cover Reveal!

As I'm away on a writing weekend with some fabulous Cloudie friends from Friday and unlikely to be blogging until I get back, (when I'll tell you all about what we got up to while staying at The Manor; I'm going to be a Lady for the weekend!) I thought I'd share with you the cover of More Granny Rainbow:

I feel Publication Day approaching... *squeee!*

The Watch Box Project.

As I'm away at the mo, I thought I'd leave you a story to sink your teeth into. 

This one was created last year for a peer-judged competition over on The Word Cloud. We had to choose two places. Mine were Sardinia (my most favourite place to holiday) and Ankh-Morpork, from Pratchett's Discworld. Which was fine - until the challenge expanded; we had to get from A to B.

It was at this point I realised I'd put myself in a VERY difficult position. How the heck was I going to get from a real place to a fictional one? It took me ages and ages and ages to work it out, but in the end I came up with a solution. 

The following could be best be described as my first attempt at fan-fic, which I have since discovered that Sir Terry never reads and does not approve of particularly. That being so, I will probably never submit it for publication, so decided to post it here on the Scribbles instead. I hope Sir Terry will forgive me... and if you are a fan of Discworld, I hope you will, too. 

PS. With apologies to fans of a certain popular TV series too...

The Watch Box Project.

Commander Vimes stood in his usual spot in front of the desk, staring just a little to the left and slightly above the Patrician’s head.             

               

Lord Vetinari sighed and steepled his fingers. “It’s an experiment, Commander. To have refreshment and relief facilities stationed at intervals throughout the city. I’m sure you’re aware that it’ll save your men from having to return to the Watch houses quite so frequently.” He looked pointedly at the Commander. “Or the Mended Drum.”

“Yessir.” Vimes kept staring at the same spot. “Only problem is, sir, it’s a bloody stupid idea.”

The Oblong Office suddenly felt a lot colder.

“Do expand on that theory, Commander.”

Vimes took a deep breath and started ticking off on his fingers. “One. It’s going to cost a helluva lot to make the number of boxes you want. Two. The good folk of the city have taken a liking to the refreshments we stocked the first box with. And no, it didn’t matter whether the refreshments were rat-on-a-stick, slumpie or Mr Dibbler’s finest sausage-inna-bun. They broke in and nicked it all. Have you any idea, sir, how crabby a hungry Watchman can get? And three, certain bright sparks have cottoned on to the fact that you can lock a member of the Watch inside the box, tip it up and cover him in the relief.”

"Ah, yes. Perhaps it was a mistake to run the pilot scheme in the Shades.” Vetinari sniffed, almost imperceptibly. “Has Constable Goldhammer managed to get rid of the smell yet?”

“Not quite.” Vimes finally allowed himself to meet the Patrician’s eye. He’d made sure there was plenty of hot water available, but even after an hour in the bath - with the most aromatic of Lady Sybil’s floral oils to mask the unsavoury odours which had been introduced to the station house - the unfortunate dwarf had been banished to the basement. At least Igor wouldn’t mind either of the overpowering scents which now clung like treacle to Constable Goldhammer.

Vetinari picked up the newspaper he’d set aside when Vimes arrived. It looked as though he was only halfway through the crossword. “I’m sure the novelty – and the smell - will wear off, given time. Try a second box in a different location. Don’t let me detain you, Commander.”

*

Ankh-Morpork’s Finest eyed the box suspiciously. It had been painted a rather fetching shade of dark blue and had a blue glass lantern on the roof, currently unlit.

Corporal Nobbs shook his head. “It don’t seem right, sarge, the Commander making us stay put in one place for our whole shift.”

Fred Colon sighed heavily. “Things are changin’, Nobby. Gone are the days we ’ad to decide, all watchman-like, whether trouble was worth takin’ notice of or not and root it out.”

“So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for it to come to us?”

Fred thought hard for a moment. You could almost see the cogs turning. “I reckon so. If trouble’s happening somewhere else, it ain’t our fault if we’re not there to help. Instead, we can have a nice quiet cup of tea and some of Mrs Colon’s biscuits.” He rattled the cake tin to emphasise the point. “We’ll keep the peace on this patch and let the coppers in the other boxes look after the trouble on theirs.”

Nobby brightened. “Shall we go and ’ave a look inside then, sarge?”

“You go in, Nobby. I’ll keep an eye on things out here.” Fred prided himself on keeping an eye on things. That way, you saw trouble coming – and could run in the opposite direction. 

There was the sound of a door opening behind him. Then silence.

"Er, sarge? Did the wizards have anything to do with this box idea?” Nobby sounded decidedly worried.

“Not as far as I know,” Fred rumbled. “Lord Vetinari wouldn’t hold with that.”

“Only…” Nobby gestured towards the open door, “it’s bigger on the inside than the outside, sarge!”

Fred looked inside. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he walked slowly around the blue box, pausing in front of the open door.

“Ah, well… that’ll be an ill-oooshun, Nobby. You know, like when they got the conjuror in at the Pink Pussycat Club.”

“Oh yeah…I remember that riot,” Nobby said fondly, his eyes glazing over. The clients of the Pink Pussycat had become understandably agitated when their favourite performer, Dilys Twirlee, vanished from a cabinet on stage. Demands for her immediate return had meant that the conjuror had been forced to reveal his secrets. And then leave the magic circle in shame a week later.

Fred squeezed his massive girth through the doorway. “There’ll be a kettle somewhere in this ill-oooshun, Nobby. Fancy a cuppa?”

While his sergeant hunted the equipment, Nobby inspected a large hexagonal table in the centre of the room. From it, a lighted column rose almost to the ceiling.  

“I’m stumped, Nobby,” Fred said eventually. “Can’t find a kettle anywhere.”

“What’s the point of havin’ all this fancy stuff then, sarge? All these knobs and lights and things?” Nobby waved a hand over the console. “What good are these to a copper when he wants a decent cup of tea?”

“Per’aps there’s an instruction manual, Nobby. We’ve jus’ got to…”

“Hullo? Hullo? Is someone there?” A flat square, suspended above the table, suddenly lit up with the image of a long-faced young man. “Oh good-o! You got in!”

Fred and Nobby froze.

The young man frowned. “Good Lord! Where in the universe did the Tardis take herself off to?” His face enlarged in the square until only a single eye was visible, hugely magnified. “I’ve seen some species in my time, but you’re a new one on me. What are you?”

Nobby, realising he was the object of the eye’s attention, pulled off the smartest salute he could muster. “Corporal Nobby Nobbs of the Ankh-Morpork Watch, sir! Certified human, sir!”

"Human. Are you sure?” The eye shrank back to normal size as the rest of the face reappeared. “If you say so…I wonder… can you do me a favour? I’m in a spot of trouble.”

Nobby pulled off another salute, so sharp, he nearly cut himself. “Trouble’s what we’re good at. Ain’t that right, sarge?”

“Er…yeah, but…” Fred visibly expanded with self-importance and puffed his chest out. It almost achieved the same girth as his stomach. “We need to know who we’re dealing with first.”

“Oh – you mean me? Well, I’m The Doctor.”

“One of Doctor Lawn’s doctors? From the Lady Sybil?”

“Lady Syb-? No, no, no. I’m The Doctor. The Doctor.” The face beamed down at the bemused coppers. “But I’m on holiday at the moment, so I’m not doctoring. Problem is, the Tardis decided she didn’t want a vacation. She upped and offed without me. I can’t bring her back from here, so I need someone to do it for me. Looks like it’ll have to be you.”

A look was exchanged between the coppers. A look that passed judgement on the young man’s mental acuity and found it wanting.

Fred cleared his throat. “This…Tardis. Can you give me a description of the lady, sir?”

“She’s no lady! Well, not in the way I think you mean, though I suppose she is normally perfectly well behaved… You’re inside her, man! She’s my ship.”

“Ship?” Fred stared at face beaming at him from the screen. “But there are no sails.”

“She doesn’t need them. All you have to do is twiddle a few dials and flick a few switches and she’ll end up here with me. Well, you will if she’ll let you,” the Doctor added in an undertone.

Nobby tugged Fred’s sleeve. “I’m not so sure about this, sarge," he whispered. "I reckon he’s a bit…” The corporal’s finger twirled next to his temple.

“Let’s find out,” Fred whispered back. Straightening his helmet, he addressed the screen in his best sergeant’s voice. “Of course we’ll bring the Tardis to you.”  

The Doctor flicked his hair out of his eyes, grinned and slapped a peculiar red hat with a tassel onto his head. “Right – here’s what you do…”

*

Foul Ole Ron had seen and heard many things in his time, but the strange thrumming noise was a new one on him. It seemed to be coming from the blue box standing at the end of the street. As he watched, the lamp on the roof started to flash and the box faded in and out of his vision until it disappeared completely.

“Buggrit! Millenium hand and shrimp, I told ’em,” Ron muttered.

*

“And here you are!” The Doctor’s face had disappeared from the screen, appearing instead at the open door of the Tardis. He leapt inside and ran straight to where Nobby had just released the particle gravitator lever and Fred was winding down the distance dial. “Oh, you beauties! You’ve brought her back to me!” He spun round, pausing as the lights dimmed. “Now then, I know you were sulking, but I needed a holiday.”

To the watchmen, he appeared to be addressing thin air.

“I think you’ll like it here, I really do,” the young man continued, patting the console. “Sand, sea and sun…just what the Doctor ordered.” He grinned as the lights brightened again. “That’s my girl. Now – where are my helpers?”

A green light shone in Nobby’s face; the Doctor was pointing a long thin cylinder at him. “Hmm. Definitely human.” The green light vanished and the object that made it disappeared back into the pocket from whence it came. “Now…gentlemen. Care to join me on the beach?” The Doctor almost danced through the door.

As soon as Fred stepped outside, his feet sank into golden sand and sweat broke out on his forehead from the sun which beat down on his helmet. Stretching out in front of him was an endless expanse of clear blue sky which met a curve – definitely a curve - of turquoise water. He looked at Nobby, who was grinning like a monkey. “Where are we? Quirm? How did we get to Quirm?”

“Quirm? Never heard of it.” The Doctor whipped off his hat. “We’re in Sardinia!” He kicked off his shoes and began to roll his trouser legs up. “Last one in’s a…”

Whatever the last one was going to be, they never found out.

“Sarge – look!”

Fred glanced in the direction of the corporal’s pointing finger. “Good gods,” he muttered weakly.

To be fair, he’d seen Mrs Colon without her stockings on once or twice. He’d also witnessed the young ladies in their working clothes at the Pink Pussycat Club, though he’d spent most of the visit trying not to look. But the ladies here…well. Fred had never seen quite so much of the opposite sex before.

“I’m goin’ in for a dip, sarge. You coming?” Nobby – who’d divested himself of his uniform and was now dressed only in his unmentionables – sprinted towards the water. There was a splash and the corporal disappeared.

Fred took a deep breath.

“Corporal Nobbs!” he bellowed as soon as Nobby resurfaced, glistening and grinning. “You are an officer of the Ankh-Morpork Watch and still on duty, wherever we are! Get your uniform back on this instant!”

“Aw, sarge…”

“We can’t be ’aving a holiday, Nobby.” Fred frowned “Ankh-Morpork needs us. We’ve got the Doctor his box back and we ought to be getting home.”

“You don’t have to, you know.” The Doctor looked up from the sandcastle he was making. “You can spend as long as you like here, then I’ll take you back and no-one will even know you’ve been gone.” He turned his attention back to the bright yellow bucket he’d packed with sand, upended it and proceeded to smack it with a small blue spade. “By the way, I never asked – which planet do you come from?”

“Planet? Discworld o’ course,” Fred said. “Where did you think we were from?”

“Weeell, I did wonder if you were from the Dungeon Dimensions when I saw your friend. But Discworld…isn’t that the one on the back of the giant turtle and the elephants? Think I visited a few aeons ago. Nice place. You’re on Earth at the moment.”

“But how…”

“The Tardis is a clever old girl – travels in space and time.” The Doctor gave the bucket a twist and lifted it away, revealing a compact mound of sand. Then he stuck a small green flag in the top of it and looked up at the sergeant. “Kick your sandals off and feel the sand between your toes for a bit. It’ll be alright.”

*

Foul Ole Ron had just reached the corner of the street when the thrumming sound began again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the blue box fade in and out before reappearing, more solidly it seemed, than before. A door opened in its side and two members of the Watch stepped out.

“Buggrit,” Ron muttered darkly and hurried off to catch up with his Smell.

*

The Doctor was grinning at the watchmen from the door.

“There you go! Back where and when you started from, give or take a couple of minutes, after a lovely day at the seaside. Thanks again for getting me out of a pickle – it’s good to be back with the Tardis. Isn’t it, old girl?” He patted the door affectionately. “Right! Must be off. Daleks to sort out and fishfingers to fry!”

When the thrumming stopped, silence fell. There was nothing to show the box had ever stood on the cobbles.

    

“Did we just dream all that, Nobby?” Fred asked slowly.

“Dunno. S’pose we could have. But if we dreamt it, your nose wouldn’t be sunburnt and I wouldn’t ’ave sand in my unmentionables.”

"What the wizards wouldn’t give for that box,” Fred said thoughtfully. “I reckon it was a good job it was us what found it, Nobby, or else-”

A heavy rumbling drowned out the rest of his words. Rolling down the street on the back of a cart was a blue box, accompanied by the shining Captain Carrot and the lumbering form of Corporal Detritus.

“You’re here already? Good. Keen to try out your Watch box, Fred?” Carrot said, jumping down. “Let’s get it down and you can try it out for size.”

Five minutes later, Detritus had troll-handled the box to its final resting place and Carrot dropped the keys into Fred’s sweaty palm. 

  

“Open it up, then.” 

Sergeant Colon couldn’t get rid of the keys quick enough. “You do it, Nobby.” 

“Fair bit smaller than the other one, sarge. Def’nately a kettle inside. No knobs or levers. And no Doctor.”

“What ‘other one’? And why would you need a doctor, Nobby?” Carrot said.

“Er…sarge…not sure you’re goin’ to fit in ’ere…it’s a bit tight even for me.”

*

The Patrician waved a copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times at Vimes, who was trying very hard to suppress his feelings.

“And Mr de Worde just happened to walk along at the precise moment that Sergeant Colon got stuck in the door of the Watch box?”

“He was taking a constitutional, I believe.”

There was the hint of a raised eyebrow from the Patrician. “Indeed. Along with Mr Chriek the iconographer, and a notebook. I suppose that to build the boxes large enough to accommodate the sergeant or any of our trollish Watch members would be a waste of civic monies and take up too much room on the streets?”

“I’ve heard discussions to that effect, sir. Be much cheaper to keep sending them to the Drum. Sir.” The grin was much too close to the surface now – it was threatening to break free.

The newspaper slapped onto the desk. “Very well. Do away with the boxes then, and keep your watchmen moving, Commander. In the interests of law-abiding citizens throughout the city.”

“Thank you, sir.” Vimes turned and marched towards the door. As he reached for the handle, the Patrician called out to him.

“Oh – and Commander? If ever a police box appears on the streets of the city again – do make sure to send The Doctor my best wishes.”

A little bit of flash...A Desperate Wish

Haven't posted much fiction for a while but last month, I had a go at The Word Cloud monthly competition for the first time in months. The theme was 'once upon a time...' and the story had to open with those words, include something magical, and be a 'told' story. It appealed to my storytelling nature - after all, Granny Rainbow is full of 'told' stories - so I thought I'd share what I wrote with you. Enjoy!

Once upon a time…but which time, exactly? There are times of then, of now, and of yet to come…

Then there are other times.

In such an other time, when the ganderbuss trees were in blossom and the river rushed green from snowmelt, a sickly babe’s incessant wailing sent her mother, the Queen, half-mad.

“How I wish the child was mute!” the Queen cried.

Which would have been as effective as a prample-juice poultice for a pimple, had not the western wind been blowing northwards that evening. And when THAT happens, wishes come true…

The baby was struck dumb.

Wracked with guilt, the Queen sought out the finest of fairies, the whitest of witches -sometimes the blackest of them, too - to undo the damage. Until…

“She will speak only when she must,” the Hag of Hogarth croaked. “The wish was made in desperation. Only in desperation can it be broken.”

The princess grew. When she was hurt, she sobbed: silently. When happy, her body shook with laughter: silently. When angry, she stamped her foot and frowned, but could not give vent to her feelings with the words she wanted to speak.

Until she learned her letters. Then, her pencil fair flew across the page, the previously unvoiced conversations pouring out onto paper.

Happy that - at last - her daughter could communicate, the Queen stopped searching for a way to break the bindings of her wish.

One autumn morn, when a waterfall of russet leaves was falling and the princess had reached her sixteenth silent year, a traveller arrived at the palace.

“My gift will make the princess speak,” he told the Queen. “All I ask is for her hand in marriage when she does.”

The Queen studied the young man with the long black beard. He stood as much chance of succeeding as the others before him, which was none. 

And so the young man handed over his gift: a pen.

The princess took it up with a smile and wrote her thanks.  

What appeared on the page was not ‘Thank you’, but 'Buggity plopbasket.'

The princess’s eyes widened. She tried again.

Plippetty stinkrabbit.

And again.

Noddlebum twiddletty.

The mountain of discarded paper grew, covered in flackery muppetburger…jubeelious mickettyflop…pustulous creppittyho…

The pen was bewitched! But when the princess tried to throw it away - horror of horrors - it was stuck fast to her hand! No amount of tugging or pulling could release it. Her only means of communication had been snatched away - what cruelty was this?

Without thought, the princess opened her mouth. “Help!” she whispered.

The pen disappeared with a bang and a flash of green flame as the wish was broken. The princess found her voice, married the young man and if, sometimes, he wished for a moment’s peace from her chatter thereafter, he never showed it.

Least of all when his wife whispered ‘I love you’ in his ear.