From time to time pieces of my writing will appear here.
They could be excerpts from existing projects, ideas for new ones or just bits I’m trying out.

Do you frequent buses as I do? If so, have you noticed that faint lingering smell of piss? Despite this buses have been a life-long joy for me, though not presumably for the olfactorily sensitive. As a child my favourite was the green bus. Where I lived the red buses served the town while the green buses plumbed the depths of the surrounding countryside where we ventured to visit relatives. In the days of front-engined buses the heater was at the front of the cabin behind the driver. On green buses the heater was circular, like a steering wheel, and there I would stand for the whole journey, swaying as I guided the bus along twisting lanes, enjoying the breeze in my face of musty, overheated air. These days I enter the bus through an automatic door at the front, not hop on via the rear platform. I place my pass on a sensor next to the driver rather than sitting awaiting the conductor and his ticket machine, clutching my penny tightly in my sweaty palm. Upstairs the air is clean, the roof spotless rather than a smoke-filled atmosphere and nicotine stains. There is no exciting steering wheel heater where a young child might stoke their imagination but for an ageing writer there are the priceless snippets of overheard conversation and so I still find joy in buses. Despite the faint smell of piss. 

My babe, beautiful, blue. 

Sired in violence, born in blood. 

Never suckled, held in tears.

Unwanted, but never unloved. 

My pregnancy was not remarked upon. I wonder if anyone noticed. I gave birth alone. I grieved alone, mended alone. Then I took my stillborn baby girl onto the heathland outside of the Caer and buried her there alone. I dug her grave with my bare hands and laid her to rest beneath the heather.

In my mind she will always be Heather.

My babe.

Brigid’s lament
From arthur’s women
(C) barry silsby

Wheatley’s new adventure provisionally titled “Wheatley over a barrel” is under way.

Just a taster below…

Wheatley sat in the snug bar of the Sudeley arms sipping at a glass of Cognac which Simon the barman had poured as soon as the detective entered the public house. He was gazing at the mirror advertising Tamplin’s Ales when the door opened and a deep female voice said, “Ah Wheatley, I see you are well into my personal bottle of extremely expensive cognac already.”

            “I try paying for it Doctor Buchanan,” said a defensive Wheatley, “but the barman always refuses, usually saying something insulting about ‘not on a rozzer’s wages’.”

            “I don’t want you to pay for it man, just piqued you didn’t get one for me while you were at it. Ah, here he comes at last.” This final statement was to the barman who was hustling through the door with a large half-filled brandy glass in his hand.

            “Sorry Dr Barbara; that lot in there kept me so busy I hardly noticed you come in.”

            “Kept you gossiping more like. Now get me another one of these, a small one for the Detective Constable, then make yourself scarce. We have confidential business to discuss. You do realise that you have ruined my weekend? I should be riding to hounds by now.”

            It took Wheatley a second or two to realise that Dr Buchanan had dismissed the barman and that the weekend remark was addressed to him.

            “I’m sorry that a poor woman dying in suspicious circumstances and being disposed of like a piece of rubbish has ruined you watching a defenceless animal being torn apart,” said Wheatley. Then, realising that he had spoken angrily, rudely and, unlike him, without thinking, began to apologise. But Dr Buchanan seemed not to have taken offence.

            “It’s not about the bloody fox. Don’t care if we catch one or not. It’s the thrill of the chase, the howl of the hounds, the sensation of speed, the exhilaration of a well-muscled hunter thundering beneath your thighs. You don’t know what you’re missing Detective.”

            Mercifully for Wheatley, the barman entered at that point and the doctor turned to him.

            “Reinforcements at last. About time you got here, Simon, my glass has been empty for days. Now close the door behind you, the Detective and I have a murder to discuss.”

            “Murder?” asked Wheatley as the barman left, shutting the Snug Bar door gently behind him.

            “Oh yes, definitely murder,” said the doctor.

To celebrate the Solstice I am sharing an excerpt from “Arthur’s Women” which is set at Stonehenge, called ‘the Wheel’ in the book.

(c) Barry Silsby 2020

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Myrddin.

I could only nod, awe-struck as I was.

“Do you see those three stones in the centre of the road?” he continued, “On midsummer’s morn the sun will rise above them, shine through the gateway and illuminate the centre of the wheel.”

“How, Lord?” I asked. 

“Well, the sun is at its highest…”

“No, Lord,” I interrupted, “How is it possible to have built that? Surely the work of the gods for no man, not even the Romans, could make such a wonder.”

“No-one knows how it was planned or how it was built. It has been here for as long as man can remember and at the Summer and Winter solstices it is a place of great power,” replied Myrddin, “and it is there, at the midsummer sunrise, that the pen Dragan will be reborn.”