Some Personal Thoughts On Flash (Fiction)

Image from Flash Gordon Returns! My big blonde crush
Friday July 31 2020, 12.01am, The Times

Flash! Ah-aaah! Yes, I think the film's barmy and brilliant, but that's not what this post's really about...

On this site, I've often posted short stories that have come about as a result of a writing prompt. (The 'Free Fiction' page will take you to a list of links if you've not read any of them before.)

I've always called them 'flash fiction' as they are quick to read - though not necessarily to write - and most of them have a definite beginning, middle and end as you'd expect from any story.

I entered a piece into a flash competition recently - it's been longlisted and I'm waiting to hear whether it gets any further - so I must be doing something right? But I have to admit that, when I read competition-winning flash, my confidence in my ability to write it usually takes a nosedive.

Does it sound awful to say that I don't understand some of these winning entries? I read one recently that appeared - to me - to be a random putting-together of unrelated sentences. I had no idea what the story was. It felt as though the author was trying to be really 'literary' and in doing so, the story (whatever it was) was hidden so deeply in the prose that I couldn't find it. It had been shortlisted with  others - the majority of which I found equally as confusing to make sense of.

Now I'm certainly not dissing flash fiction as a form; there is very definitely an art to writing a story in very few words that still has impact and takes the reader on a journey. I actually enjoy the challenge of condensing the essence of a story into 500, 250, 100, even 50, words. Every single word needs to earn its place, there needs to be a story although it may not be slap-you-in-the-face obvious, and the ending often lies rather more open-ended than you'd get in a novel, hinting at possibilities rather than drawing a definite line under the action. It's very, VERY different to writing a novel.

I'm no expert, either - though there are plenty of other authors who are. 

When I do compare my own flash pieces to those of other authors - especially to those that are long- or short-listed - most of the time mine feel too simple. I'm not sure how they could ever stand out in a field of poetic prose and deeply hidden plot. I mean, I realise I must've caught the judges' eye for some reason to have been longlisted with the current piece, but it's still on the surface a very simply written story. I can tell you that I think it's good, because it's clever in its structure, but the language is simple and there's no attempt to hide the story as it moves through from start to finish. 

Of course in any competition, however good your piece is, it needs to connect with the reader/judge. If it doesn't - for whatever reason - then you probably won't be placed. Sometimes, you get lucky, other times not. 

I think I'm coming round to the idea that I have to write flash in the way I can, not in the way I can't - that I essentially have to keep in mind the voice I want the piece to have, and that my natural style leads to a simpler prose compared to other authors. I need to embrace that I am a different kind of author. And I musn't try too hard to be something I'm not, making sure to work to my strengths rather than focusing on my perceived weaknesses. 

Then, when I read the flash of others and perhaps don't understand their particular nuances, I have to remind myself to stop making comparisons. I need to accept that each author knows what they were aiming to achieve, and sometimes the reader/judge will get it, sometimes they won't. Either way, it's probably less a reflection on the author and more on me as the reader.

I'll keep writing flash of course - it keeps the old brain ticking over with new ideas - and submitting to competitions, but only if the piece feels really, really good to me. 

A Tale of Two Versions

As every author knows, you often end up with multiple versions of a novel's manuscript on your computer. Mine go something like this;

Version 1 is the really rough one. Often doesn't have much formatting in it, no speech marks, sometimes notes instead of proper sentences.

Version 2 is the first polish. Fills out the story, gets formatted, looks much more 'proper'. Usually ends up hanging together as a story much better. 

Version 3 is often the 'voice' version, where I really get into my character's head and often rewrite sections from their point of view. It's really where the story comes alive, and often the one that gets sent to beta readers - or the publisher if I'm feeling really confident about it.

Well...

You remember I had a bit of a rough time just before Tilda #2 was published and launched? (It went great, by the way - a few issues that others might like to learn from, but I'll blog about that another time).  I was working on Version 3 of Tilda #3. I'd found a few glitches and worked out some issues, but took a break from the third novel to give Tilda and the Mines of Pergatt a really good start.

After the launch, I picked Tilda #3 back up - and realised that, although I had begun working on a third version, at some point I'd switched to Version 2 of Tilda #3 to continue working on. 

This means I now have a beginning of Tilda #3, Version 3 that's been tightened and put into Tilda's voice, and a middle of Tilda #3, Version 2, that's had the same treatment. 

You'd think it would be simple to fix - just combine the two bits of the different versions and carry on, yeah? 

Nope. 

Cos when I was working on Version 2 more recently, I was grappling with some issues that had implications for the earlier part of the novel - and I went back in Version 2 to change them. This makes it VERY complicated to use Word's combine/compare function, and I decided not to go down that route for fear of complicating matters even further.

I'm left with two versions of the same novel, neither of which is the most up-to-date on its own.

This has resulted in me printing out a hard copy of Version 3 and transferring any sections I changed in that to Version 2 on the computer, mainly because Version 2 is the larger file which suggests there is more content in it. The result is Tilda #3, Version 4. 

It is slow, painstaking work to correct. Every now and again I come across a section and I don't know which version has the most recent changes in it - both sound OK. As a result, Version 4 - in places - has ended up with something entirely different again. Hopefully it'll all come together in the end. 

I'm just thankful I realised before I sent anything off to the publisher... 

Half a polished novel, anyone? 

At least I don't have this many versions on the go...

Books that helped me write

As NaNoWriMo approaches (which I don't do...I've done NaNoEdMo previously!) I thought it might be a good time to share with you some of the books on writing I've used, which have made a difference in how I write.

The oldest one is this:

Seems a bit of a weird one, but my granny gave me it, to go with the typewriter I had as a child. The typewriter was a turquoise Petite Super International typewriter, just like this one, (image found on Adventures in Mattressland) and I spent many happy hours typing up little stories for myself on thin, cream paper.

Granny reckoned I ought to learn how to type properly, so I tried to teach myself the right way to do it. My sister, who trained as a secretary, would probably say that what I do on a computer keyboard bears no resemblance to the proper way to touch-type, but I have got fingers that are speedier, I'm sure, than if I'd never read the book...

Next one:

This book is laugh out loud funny. As the blurb says; 

'There are many ways prospective authors routinely sabotage their own work. But why leave it ti guesswork? Misstep by misstep, How Not to Write a Novel shows how you can ensure that your manuscript never rises above the level of unpublishable drivel... Alternatively, you can use it to identify the most common mistakes, avoid them and actually write a book that works.'  

When I started reading it, I'd have a mental check list and be thinking 'I don't do that' and 'thank goodness I'm not this bad!' but then - uh-oh! I'd come to a section and feel squirmy because I recognised something I WAS doing...which I quickly put right. 

On my kindle:

My kindle has a section, dedication to writing books. Let me take you through the ones I found most useful...

Nicola Morgan's How to Write a Great Synopsis is essential. There are exercises you can do to really pinpoint what your book is about. (Her blog, Help! I Need a Publisher is also full of fantastic advice which I've dipped into now and again.)

Stephen King, On Writing. Nuff said. Though I have to say I'm not a fan of his writing, I do respect the advice he gives.

Les Edgerton. Finding Your Voice was an enormous breakthrough for me. Reading this book showed me my natural writing style, and it was the point at which I started to write the way that suited me, rather than trying to write how I thought I ought to. Equally, Hooked is a fabulous insight into how to get your reader...well, hooked! 

Chuck Wendig is full of writing advice - and the first bit of his advice for spending 30 Days in the Word Mines is - 'You can do this. Trust me.' It's written in typical Chuck style, which is often sweary and goes off at a tangent! (Just like his blog...)

Then there's THAT book. 

                                

No, I'm not going to post a picture of it or tell you what it is. Suffice to say that it is a book which, when I read it, was so full of rookie errors, it annoyed the heck out me. Yet it had been published. It wasn't the story itself that annoyed me - that was actually really original - but the writing. I can remember thinking, thank goodness I don't write that badly. (At that time, I still had a long way to go before I was published myself, so it was a bit 'pot-calling-the-kettle-black' if I'm honest. Not proud of that.) Yet it is still what I turn to and read a few pages of when the infamous doubt demons strike, to remind myself I can write. And not too badly, either. Sounds horrible of me, doesn't it? But in a strange way, it helps.

And last, but not least, there's Anne Lamott, gifted to me by a friend who is also a writer and Christian, like me and Anne.

I suppose I'd call this an holistic approach to writing. Because we don't write in isolation - it's part of our lives, and we have to wrap people, places, jobs, worries and everything else around the compulsion that drives many of us to write. It's a very honest account of a writer's life. It includes the things we don't talk about or admit to - like jealousy, pride, depression, deadlines and all sorts of things. You know the ones - they tend to be glossed over or hidden away when we're putting on the brave face that congratulates our friends who've had success, or we receive another rejection for our own beloved manuscript. It's a refreshing read. But that leads me on to this:

You're right, it's not a book. It's a picture, another gift from a friend. I've not put it up yet, because I wasn't sure where to put it...until I looked for my Anne Lamott book to be able to write this blog, and the picture was with it.

You know the saying 'How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.' Well, Anne says writing a book needs to be taken 'bird by bird', a saying based upon the time her brother had to complete a school project on birds; he was so overwhelmed by the prospect, their father told him to tackle it 'bird by bird'... ie step by step.

Look at the picture again. On the first branch is one bird, the next down has two, and so on and so on until there's a whole branch full of them. Suddenly, the picture isn't just something nice to look at, it's a visual reminder of Anne's writing advice, to take it all step by step.

So there you go - the books that have helped me most in my writing, and why.

What about you? What writing advice books made a difference to your writing? Do let me know, because it's never too late to pick up a few more hints and tips on how to improve!

The Crystal Keeper’s Daughter.

After a couple of weeks of not feeling very well at all (lovely new term bugs!) I finally am feeling well enough to sit down and get to grips with the WIP again. 

I'm about three chapters in, so things WILL change, but I thought I might be brave and post a chunk on the Scribbles, to mark the point at which I'm trying to be more disciplined about the writing of it. Y'see over the summer I've done all the notebooky stuff during snatched moments - the bashing out a story and getting it straight in my head and questions and playing with the shape of Zanni's story. 

This - the first draft - marks the start of the 'telling it to a reader' version instead of the 'telling it to myself' one. As such, it is raw; raw, untested, and liable to be cut if I look back in six months' time and decide that the story started in the wrong place. It might therefore be the only place this bit'll ever be published...

Be interested to know what you think.

“All out! All out for Lorisam if you please!”

            Zanni groaned and stretched. “Why’s he yelling, when there’s only two of us?”

            “I daresay he doesn’t get the chance to do it very often. Few people come this far into the mountains.” Pa shot a glance at Zanni over the top of his glasses. “At least it’s not dark yet.”

            “No.”

            Zanni was glad of it; too many of their travelling days had ended with night drawing in and the inside of the carriage being plunged into the kind of darkness which had brought the fear flooding back…

            The door opened and Stefan poked his head inside. “Here we go, sir and miss. All ready to be fed and watered and bedded down?” He held out a hand to Zanni, as he always did.

            Zanni ignored it and jumped down, wincing at the stiffness in her legs. She needed a good long walk, that’s what she needed, but she wasn’t going to get it today. The sun was already low in the sky and long shadows were creeping down the rocky slopes above them. She shivered. Better to get inside, sharpish. But inside where?

            As she took stock of her surroundings, Zanni realised they couldn’t possibly be in Lorisam. She stared at the plain square house in front of her that was tiled with grey slates and patterned with dark timbers. It looked in need of a lick of paint, some clean windows, and the faded sign swinging above the door needed oiling. The only sign of life was provided by a few scrawny chickens scratching in the dirt; there wasn’t a single other building – or person, apart from themselves - in sight.

            “Um, Stefan? This isn’t Lorisam, is it?”

            “Nope. It’s the Fox and Rooster.”

            “So why have we stopped here?”

            “Cos it’s the last place to get bed and board before Lorisam, which is another day’s travel away.” Stefan thumbed towards a point much higher up the mountain.

            “Another day?” Zanni whirled round as Pa stepped out of the carriage behind her. “Oh, Pa!”

            He’d taken off his glasses and now he rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was tired. “It’s only one more day, Zanni. Surely you can put up with one more day in the coach?”

            “You won’t have to.” Stefan said. “It’s mules and pack horses from here on. Terrain’s too steep for carriages and definitely not wide enough when you reach the Stoppers. Not easy to get to Lorisam. That’s why no-one ever goes there. Excepting yourselves o’ course. You’re going.”

            A slow smile spread across Pa’s face. “We are, aren’t we?”

            Zanni sighed; if only they weren’t.

            “Ah, well, people has their reasons I suppose. Me, I’m heading back down after I’ve dropped you off.” Stefan shook his head and added in an undertone, “Gives me the shivers when the stones light up.”

            Zanni’s ears pricked up. “When what lights up?”

            But Stefan didn’t answer. He’d leapt up onto the carriage and was untying the bags and trunks.

            “Doesn’t look too bad, does it?” Pa said.

            Zanni couldn’t agree. They’d stayed in many different lodgings over the course of two weeks on the road, but even the worst of them had looked better than this at first sight.  

            “And anyway, it’s only for one night,” Pa continued. He did up the buttons on his coat and smoothed his hair flat. “Shall we go in? Get some dinner? I could eat a horse.” He walked towards the building, picking his way between the chickens at his feet.

            Zanni’s shoulders drooped. “Careful what you wish for, Pa. By the look of it, horse might actually be on the menu,” she muttered as she followed him.

            Inside was worse than outside - dirty floor, stained tables, mismatched chairs - lit and wreathed in oily smoke from a handful of cracked lanterns. A dog with half its fur missing slunk under one of the tables as Zanni hurried over to the low counter where Pa was heading.

            As they approached, the man sitting behind the counter eased his bulk off the stool, setting his enormous gut wobbling.

            Zanni’s eyes were drawn to a large area of pasty white flesh, exposed thanks to several missing buttons on the man’s shirt. “Uurgh!” She shuddered and looked instead at the man’s face. It was soft and round and reminded her of a ball of dough, into which two currant eyes had been pressed above a long drooping moustache. And – oh, goodness – were those bits of food caught up in the moustache?

            “Welcome ter the Fox an’ Rooster. I’m Reg. I own this place.” Reg studied them as he scratched an armpit. “Mek yersel’s at home.”

            “Thank you…Reg. I’m sure we’ll be most comfortable here.” Pa caught Zanni’s eye and his own widened above a fixed smile.  

            “Yer’ll want some dinner?” This time Reg poked a finger in his ear and waggled it around. “An’ a coupla beds?” He pulled the finger out again.

            Oh, don’t let him look, don’t let him– Zanni closed her eyes.

            “Just for the one night, if you’d be so kind,” she heard Pa say. “Tomorrow, we–”

            “Alise!”

            Reg’s bellow cut Pa off and startled Zanni into opening her eyes. A hatch she hadn’t noticed in the wall behind Reg banged open. A face appeared in the hole.

            “What?” Alise screamed.

            Reg nodded in the direction of his clients. “Stew. Twice.”

            Zanni had a brief glimpse of matted hair, a sweaty brow and crooked teeth before Alise slammed the hatch shut again. There was the muffled sound of pots and pans clattering and banging behind it.

            Reg sniffed loudly. “Drink?”

            Pa eyed the barrels lined up behind the counter. There weren’t many. “Dark ale for me and a watered wine for my daughter, please. We’ll just wait over there, shall we?” He took Zanni’s elbow and steered her towards a table by the wall. 

            Zanni sat on her wobbly chair in the pool of yellow lamplight and tried not to touch the table top. She’d probably stick to it if she did.

            “This is nice, isn’t it?” Pa said brightly as Reg banged a battered metal tankard in front of him and a chipped glass in front of Zanni.

            Zanni waited until he was out of earshot before she answered. “No, Pa. It’s not. Tell me again why we had to come here.”

             Pa reeled off his well-rehearsed list again, ticking them off on his fingers. “One, the business wasn’t doing so well.”

            That much was true. How could someone call himself a crystal seller when he couldn’t bear to part with most of the crystals that he was supposed to sell? Zanni had often wondered how Pa ever made any money at all.

            “Two, it was an opportunity too good to miss.”

            Zanni frowned. “Well, yes, but I still don’t understand how no-one else applied for the Crystal Keeper job. I mean, you know a lot about crystals for sure, but there are plenty of real experts at the Institut. Why didn’t they get considered?” Her eyes narrowed when Pa refused to meet her eye. “Pa? What aren’t you telling me?”

            He took a swallow of his beer before he answered. “I might have… er… skewed things in my favour a little.”

            “How?”

            Pa leaned across the table as though worried about being overheard. “I happened to be in the Institut when the advert went up on the vacancies board. I took it down as soon as I read it so no-one else would see it.”

            “You did what? Oh, Pa!” Zanni rubbed her forehead. She had a headache building.

            “And three,” Pa continued, taking Zanni’s free hand in his as he spoke. “Three, I could take you away from your so-called friends.”   

            “Oh. That.” Zanni put her other hand over Pa’s and squeezed gently. “As long as I’ve a lantern at night and I don’t go into small dark places alone, I’m fine. Honest.” She managed half a smile.

            “Are you sure? You had the dream just two nights ago. I worry that–”

            Two bowls thumped onto the table, narrowly missing Zanni and Pa’s joined hands.

            “Stew. Lamb an’ brains.”

            Zanni’s stomach tightened as she stared into the bowl. Floating in the thick brown gravy were several pink, wrinkled… “Brains?” she whispered.

            Alise rolled her eyes. “Not real ones. Dumplings, covered in pink cheese. House special.” She dug deep in the pocket of her apron and pulled out an assortment of cutlery and what looked like half a loaf. She selected a couple of knives and forks and dropped them on the table with the bread. “Enjoy.”

            As soon as Alise’s back turned, Zanni used her coat sleeve to wipe her cutlery. Then she poked the pink lumps with her clean knife, still suspicious.

            Pa wasn’t so cautious. He tucked his handkerchief under his chin with a flourish, speared a chunk of what Zanni really hoped was meat, and popped it into his mouth with apparent pleasure.

            “Mm-mmmm.” He chewed, swallowed, and gestured at Zanni with his fork. “Eat. It’s delicious.”

            Zanni nibbled a tiny piece of dumpling. Pa was right – it was good. With more enthusiasm she tucked into the melt-in-your-mouth, meaty stew. Eventually she wiped the last drop of thick rich gravy from her bowl with a particularly cheesy bit of dumpling, leaned back in her chair and sighed in contentment. “At least we know the food’s going to be good here.”

            “Hmm?”

            Pa was distracted, his gaze falling somewhere over Zanni’s shoulder. He appeared to be looking out of the window, so she swivelled in her chair to look too.

            The view outside was somewhat obscured, but even through the mucky glass Zanni could see a strange green glow. Her stomach clenched tight. “Pa? Pa, what is it?”

            “I think…yes…it must be…” Pa stood up quickly and almost ran across the room. He flung the door open and paused there for a moment before turning back to Zanni. “It is! Come and see.” And without another word he disappeared into the darkness.

            Zanni’s heart thudded against her ribs as slowly – so very slowly – she stood. He wanted her to follow him, outside? Into the dark? But he knew–

            Pa’s face appeared in the doorway. “Are you coming, Zanni? You simply have to see this.”                   She couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him that she’d forgotten the fear while she was inside, near the lamp. That the very thought of going outside had filled her head with the memories, that her chest had tightened so she couldn’t breathe, she could see nothing but the blackness and–

            Her hands were snatched up, held uncomfortably tight.

            “Breathe! Breathe, Zanni. I’m here. I never thought…Zanni? Look at me. Look at me, it’s alright.”

            Pa’s frightened face appeared out of the blackness and Zanni gulped in a breath.

            “That’s it. Breathe. Slowly, in…out…”

            Pa’s half-smile, half-frown filled Zanni’s vision. She fought to take another breath, then another. After what felt like a lifetime her heart settled in her chest and the fear shrank back into the place where she tried to keep it locked away.

            Pa’s face relaxed. “That’s my girl. Better?”

            She managed a nod.

            “Good.” Pa let go of one of one of her hands and threaded the other through the crook of his arm. “Now, I didn’t tell you everything because I wanted it to be a surprise. Being the Crystal Keeper in Lorisam means looking after some special crystals. They do something quite amazing which means that the place is never in darkness.”

            While he’d been speaking, Pa had gently drawn Zanni across the room and to the door. At the threshold her feet froze and she pulled him to a halt.

            Pa smiled and patted her hand. “I’m with you. It’s safe. Trust me.”

            Could she do it? Step into the darkness outside? The sick feeling in the pit of stomach was still there, the fear still looming, ready to overwhelm her. But she had Pa with her, didn’t she… Trembling like a leaf in a breeze, Zanni gripped Pa’s arm really tight, took a deep breath and forced her feet to move.

            “That’s it. Well done. Now, the best view is from over here.” Pa led Zanni to the side of the building and pointed. “Look. Up there.”

            At first, all she could see was inky blue sky, dotted with twinkling diamonds. Then she made out the silhouette of the mountain, a deeper shadow against the blue, patterned in one area with regular patterns of light. Was that Lorisam? But before she could ask she saw the glow underneath what she assumed was their destination, a long band of bright green light stretching across the mountain.

            “What is that?” she whispered.

            Pa’s voice came out of the darkness. “It’s the Crystal Forest, Zanni. That’s what I’m here to look after.”

            “A forest? Of crystals? But it’s glowing. Green.” Zanni couldn’t stop staring. “It’s beautiful.”

            “And it glows like this every night.”

            “So…it’s never really dark here?”

            Pa kissed the top of her head. “Night time here is tinged with green. Always.”

            Zanni looked up at Pa, but his face was in shadow. “Did you know about this when you took the advert down?”

            “There might have been something written about it. I can’t quite remember.”

            So that’s why he’d moved them both so far away. Reason number four – the job came with light up crystals that meant he thought she didn’t have to be afraid of the dark. Would it work? Well it hadn’t so far. Zanni could feel her palms sweating and wanted nothing more to get back inside, in the light.

            “Right.” Pa gave her hand a squeeze. “Bed, I think. We’ve another day of travel tomorrow and it’ll be an early start.”

            A sudden thought hit Zanni as they walked back inside. “Pa, I can still have my night lantern, can’t I? I mean, the green glow doesn’t reach down here and…”

            “Of course. In fact, I might ask for one myself.” Pa grinned. “Let’s see what Reg can find, eh?”

            Up in her room, Zanni took one last look out of the window at the green glow. No wonder Pa was excited by the prospect of his new job. Then she set the dented night lantern which Reg had grudgingly found for her on the bedside table and climbed into bed. She lay on her side and stared at the flickering light. Would it be enough to keep the fear locked away for another night?

            “Please, don’t let me have The Dream again,” she whispered, and shut her eyes.

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.”