Tag Archives: writing


Be More You

Just a little something I ran up today. I intend to make a lot of creativity films in the coming months. Just limbering up.

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Posted by on October 18, 2013 in Creative Genius


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Just do the job


It’s important your writing does the job it was made for. I was reminded of this recently reading about the writing of the classic monologue “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God”. J. Milton Hayes is quoted as saying:

“I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours, but I had it all planned out. It isn’t poetry and it does not pretend to be, but it does what it sets out to do. It appeals to the imagination from the start: those colours, green and yellow, create an atmosphere. Then India, everyone has his own idea of India. Don’t tell the public too much. Strike chords. It is no use describing a house; the reader will fix the scene in some spot he knows himself. All you’ve got to say is ‘India’ and a man sees something. Then play on his susceptibilities.”

Here for your amusement and entertainment I submit to you the full text of the original 1911 dramatic monologue. Bonus points if you can make anything using this as a basis, a novel, an animation, a piece of musical theatre . . . go nuts. Let your creativity free.


The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
by J. Milton Hayes

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as “Mad Carew” by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel’s daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying “That’s from Mad Carew,”
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn’t take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he’d chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro’ the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp’ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
‘Twas the “Vengeance of the Little Yellow God.”

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.


Phil South is a creative life trainer at Unified Field

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Posted by on February 26, 2013 in Creative Genius


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Sense your life for true creative power

607px-Shiva_Bangalore_If you know me well you totally get that I have a sciencey side and a philosophical side. I love science and read books on science for entertainment, and I also study psychology, hypnotherapy, counselling, NLP, mysticism, culture and spirituality on an ongoing basis as a part of my work.

Now hey, I’m not one of those tinfoil hats who browbeat strangers on the bus about knowing Jesus or Jung or Buddha, or how alien government secret societies control your mind or how science and religion are polar opposites. Nothing so loony. At the same time I freely promote the idea that there is more to life than meets the eye or the brain, to anyone that asks me what I think. It’s my own personal take on life, and 90% of the time what I believe or don’t has little or no relevance to everyday conversation.

Besides I’ve always been suspicious of people who tell you too freely what they believe. Believers or Non-believers who are too verbal about their faith or lack of it always strike me as answering a question I didn’t ask, of perhaps protesting too much. I always thought it was more important to convince yourself of what you believe, not everyone else around you. But that’s just me, and I digress.

At this time of year there is a lot of pondering, a lot of inward looking, even for those who have no specific faith or creed, and I’m sure this is true of you too. The end of the year makes you review the year past and postulate about the year coming. Its a way of processing events and preparing for the new ones coming down the track.

Rather than start doing syrupy Christmas messages, although I am a sap about the holiday season and unabashedly so, I thought I would go for some deeper thoughts about creativity and ways to prime yourself for creative success in the coming year. Now, the sorts of things I am about to discuss can seem a little leftfield to some and I realise that it’s possible that these kinds of thoughts could be misconstrued as spooky or mystical.

It’s true if that’s your bent you can read a lot into such things and if that’s your leaning there can be milage in doing so. But that’s not the whole message, intent or engine behind what I’m suggesting. You can do this whatever you know to be the truth of life, and I think you’ll notice that once you do these things they will mesh seamlessly with your lifestyle or personal beliefs.

Okay enough preamble. How can you program yourself for success and creative outpourings over the coming year. This is my gift to you this holiday season, my entire philosophy in a nutshell. Use it wisely, or ignore it, or keep it safe for reading again once you’ve digested it a little bit – the choice is yours. I don’t mind what you do with it, but please at least do me the respect of reading it just the once with an open mind. Who knows you might notice how easy it is to wander outside your comfort zone in complete safety. That’s nice, because it means you trust me. That is your gift to me.

1. See – Visualise
Do you ever stop for a while and try to visualise your successful project coming to fruition? I know it might sound foolish but it’s a very powerful tool which people have a tendency to overlook because it seems too simple. There are many disciplines which promote visualisation as a primary tool for change and growth. In areas as diverse as art and creativity, body building, medicine, sports, psychology, and even business there is a lot of evidence to suggest that creative visualisation programs the mind better than any kind of therapy, training, coaching or any kind of verbal preparation. Your brain is a computer which runs on images. Feed it programs it can process. Visualise the project you have in mind, even sometimes before you fully know what it is. Relax and close your eyes and see the project being completed and see yourself enjoying the process. You will be amazed at how programming your brain in this way improves your success rate.

2. Hear – Silence
A crucial thing people don’t have nearly enough of is peace and quiet. The tendency these days is to never go longer than a few minutes without some kind of input, usually sound or noise. What are people so afraid of? Boredom? Silence itself? It’s like the modern equivalent of monsters under the bed or in the closet in the dark. The way people act you would think that silence is a fearsome monster to be thwarted by noise at all times. Some people even sleep listening to music or the radio. When is your brain ever going to rest? How can you create anything if you are constantly receiving input? Take even as little as 10-20 minutes a day to sit and contemplate nothing. Seriously, try it. Any thoughts that enter your head, brush them lightly aside and empty your mind. Only once your mind is empty can you fill it again from your creative reserves.

3. Feel – Trust
Trust your instincts. Instinct is a powerful human tool which reminds us of our animal past. We have so saturated ourselves with noise that we can’t hear our own voice within telling us what to do, making suggestions or giving us ideas. We need to retrain to listen to the voice of our own unconscious. But more than that we need to learn to trust our true instincts uncoloured by our prejudices and ideas about who we think we should want to be. Sometimes we are not our true authentic selves but a version of ourselves which we would like to pretend to be to the outside world. Only by trusting your instincts often and having those instincts validated will teach us that we can trust our own voice.

4. Smell – Sensitise
Don’t bombard yourself with sensory input, try to detoxify yourself from the fact that everything in 21st Century life is turned up to 11. TV is too loud, food is too fatty and salty, the Internet is always on and you will never read it all or experience everything. This constant barrage of input will over time desensitise you to the subtleties of life, of your senses. If you dull your senses by overpowering them then how can you experience the full beauty and range of your actual life? Consider some kind of detox like a juice fast. If I were you I would get a juicer and juice fruit and vegetables and live mostly off that for a few days. You will find soon that everything tastes so much richer and more gorgeous and over time you begin to crave healthier foods. This can not only be good for your health but radical breaks from your routine resensitise you to life. If you experience life you can write about it, paint pictures, write songs etc. which pass that richness of experience on to others.

5. Taste – Savour
And finally for goodness sake enjoy yourself. Don’t just scarf life down like it was fast food, take a moment to roll it around your mouth before you swallow. Chew things over a little before you digest them. Start to notice things about yourself and your environment which you like and don’t like and be honest about that to yourself. Make sure your life is the way you’d like it. Someone who is unhappy in life is a poor creator, their stories are full of prejudice and hatred, their art is expressing discomfort and emotions and thoughts coloured by their lack of authenticity in life. Take the time to figure out who you are and what you want. Don’t just go along with what’s going on because you don’t have time or can’t be bothered to change or be assertive about what you desire. Taste your life.

There you have it. This is my gift to you this holiday season, the bulk of my philosophy in a brief. As I say it’s up to your what you do with this. Use it wisely or use it unwisely, the choice is yours. I promise you even doing just one of these things will expand your creative options and ensure a positive new year . . . whatever your beliefs.

My beliefs? They, my holiday season friend, are a closely guarded secret. 🙂

Happy holidays, and if I don’t see you before have a glorious time.


Phil South is a creative life trainer at


Posted by on December 13, 2012 in Creative Genius


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My Creative Camera Project

Click here to see the full project

I just posted this project to the MAKE:PROJECTS site and I urge you to go read it. It tells the story of how I turned an old camera in to a lend for my DSLR. What does this have to do with writing? Well as I’ve said before this isn’t just a writing blog anymore it’s about creativity in all its forms. But if you wanted a writers take-away from this it’s this:

Make something from what you have around you. True creativity comes form being able to use what you have to hand and not being able to use the excuse that you can’t work because you don;t have proper materials.

Make something every day, regardless of the fact it might not be entirely related to your projects in hand. If you’re making, you are learning, if you are learning then your mind is getting more complex. A more complex mind is a creative mind.


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Posted by on November 15, 2012 in Creative Genius


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The Rule of Two – Infographic

I had a lot of fun doing this, I hope you have a lot of fun reading it.

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Posted by on November 1, 2012 in Creative Genius


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Artist to writer, making the switch

I recently got a great email from Mike, a student of mine, asking a very interesting and provocative question.

“I have a question about creativity that I imagine you could explore for a blog post – for years I was an artist and now I’m trying to be a writer. But I’m having transitioning problems! My ideas, no matter what the intended medium, usually come fully or pretty-much-fully formed. But, I’m used to having an idea for a concept or narrative present itself visually, and I’m really struggling translating the visual idea/story into a verbal/prose one. It seems I’m lacking some of the patience needed to spend days describing with words, what would have taken (only!) hours to draw. Using words to describe the scene instead of pencil lines, if you will.

“Have you come across this transitioning trouble before when dealing with multiple outlets of creativity?”

My answer was as follows. Art and writing have a lot in common. You start from general shapes and work backwards to specifics. You sketch in the broad outlines of what you are intending, based on an internal vision of what you are trying to create. You flesh out the lines and add shading and colour, and continue until nothing can be added and nothing taken away to match the perfect internal vision. It’s the same with writing.

You write little pieces of prose, which sketch out the overall shape of the piece, each one a piece of the puzzle, and gradually as you add more and more they achieve a weight or momentum of their own. You keep adding and taking away words until they are all connected, and nothing can be added or taken away, and it matches your perfect vision of what the story should be.

The difference with writing, depending on the length of the form you are going for, is that a single image or scene is not the full story. You have to imagine a series of scenes telling a story from a human perspective. You have to outline the characters and fill them in with colour, or telling details about their specific motives and concerns, and take this series of images or visions to a conclusion. Art is mostly single images which tell a fragment of a story, leaving the rest implied or at the discretion of the viewer to supply. It’s the same with writing, except you need to supply more mental images and suggestive detail and a sequence of such events to make up an entire story.

Thanks Mike for a great question. I hope that helps. If you have any questions about creativity by all means emulate Mike and email me and I will be delighted to respond.


Thanks for all of you who were so complimentary about the Red Riding Hood series so far, I am going to work on the last two but blog in between as it’s way too long between posts if I try and do them all in a line and I have lots of things to bring to you before then. If you would like to join my newsletter on this link, I will send you monthly updates containing tips about enhancing your creativity, no katter what your area of creative outlet.

Meantime I should mention that my course WRITING FIT is the only complete 8 hour audio course to understand your needs as a creative writer and give you the tools to enhance them, permanently. The only writing course which confirms what you always thought was true.

Warm regards from the Unified Field creativity labs,

until next time



Posted by on September 25, 2012 in Creative Genius


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How to write like… Ian Fleming

Riding Hood After
7 Fairy Tale Pastiches – part 5

Fifth in a series of 7 Pastiches of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of my favourite authors. Use these to help you enhance your creativity, become a successful writer and be more happy and fulfilled in your creative life.

This time around I bring you a further retelling of the Red Riding Hood story, drawn from the original text LITTLE RED CAP by the Brothers Grimm and in the style of one of my boyhood favourites, Ian Flaming. I am such a huge Bond nut, it was hard not to do this one first, but I paced myself. I wanted to put a lot into this one. Afterwards I shall give you the matching commentary as to how it was done, and so on for all 7 stories. I hope you enjoy it, but be warned this one is a gritty spy story modelled around the gritty spy stories of Ian Lancaster Fleming. So there is death, sex (or at least the hint of it) and then a bit more death. Ok, pay attention double er . . . I mean, introducing Commander John Bane.

5: Wolf’s Bane (after Ian Fleming)

Commander John Bane carefully slipped the compact and powerful Zeiss Victory binoculars out of the pocket of his new black Berghaus backpack and pressed them against his eyes, smoothly turning the ribbed focus wheel with his index finger to bring the cabin into view. The air was intoxicatingly scented with pine sap, and all around him in the velvety darkness small animals hurried around looking for late night meals in the dusk. He was fully covered in fitted, black clothing and was lying very still. Lying so still in fact that the scurrying fauna ignored him, one or two of the unidentified creatures even running over his legs in their evening haste.

The girl was in there, he felt sure of it, and her grandmother too perhaps . . . Although, he noted with calm professionalism that the single matter-of-fact gunshot he heard on his approach might suggest at least one of them was already dead.


His journey to the Swiss German border was swift, having only started a mere 18 hours earlier in London. The head of Department OS9 had called him to an urgent personal briefing in her office. She was a brisk former Admiral and although occasionally betraying a liking for him in her motherly gaze, was quick to stifle any notions of favouritism or coziness with him by being extra curt and businesslike. So, as always at these meetings she pretended not to care about him, and he did her the respect of pretending not to notice.

“Commander Bane, good, please sit down. I’d offer you a drink, but you can’t get comfortable, you have a plane to catch. You’re booked on the next Lufthansa flight to Stuttgart.” She briefed him on the situation quickly while handing him a dossier to read on the plane.

A Swiss courier, Heidi Rotkapp, had inadvertently seen something she shouldn’t have on her last trip into Germany and had been promptly kidnapped. She’d been snatched at her grandmother’s house in the Black Forest, by Lake Constance in Baden-Württemberg on the Swiss German border. Intelligence indicated it was most likely a man they had been after for some time, a former Bulgarian secret service operative called Anton Schlecht-Wolf. He was most definitely a person of interest.

Bane’s eyebrows had gone up at the mention of that name. The Admiral saw the look. “I thought you’d be pleased. This is the first time we’ve seen him in years. I’d say don’t lose him again . . . but, you want that more than I.”

Schlecht-Wolf was the man responsible for the limp Bane tried to cover up at all his physical exams over the past few years. The Wolf was a nasty piece of work, kidnapping, extortion, and even some say cannibalism, although Bane thought that last was a rumour spread by the man himself to accentuate his myth.

Bane had almost captured or killed him in Siena, Italy, but Schlecht-Wolf had escaped by sticking a bowie knife two inches into Bane’s thigh and jumping out of a fifth story window into a glass conservatory. His body was never found, and Bane suffered months of painful surgery and physical therapy to get back into shape and on active duty.

The tiny triangular tip of the blade had chipped off against his femur and was still lodged in the muscle somewhere causing him a painful reminder of Schlecht-Wolf whenever he ran or jumped. The recovery from the shame of letting the bastard slip through his fingers was going to be much longer although, by the sound of it, relief was at hand.


On the flight, breathing the cool conditioned air and sipping a large Maker’s Mark bourbon on the rocks, Bane enjoyed several moments of private pleasure at the thought of finally drawing a line under that particular case. And in his luggage, authorised by his department for international travel, he had just the tools draw that line, and draw it in blood.

His standard issue Browning L9A1 Pistol, special issue Osprey body armour (light and thin enough to fit under any clothing), and most important a special purchase just for this trip, an exquisite hand made Bowie knife by Scottish knife maker James Noble.

The stewardess who served him was blonde, tall and slim. Delightfully not too slim, he noted with a grin as she turned to walk away from him. Her name was Fanny, a pretty name which of course carried no double entendre in Germany or Switzerland. He hoped sincerely she hadn’t caught his slight flicker of amusement when he read it from her name badge. She was clearly flirting with him. When giving back his Euros in change for his drink, she had held her other hand gently under his. Her touch was cool and soft.

Later before landing she had paused on her way up the aisle, checking baggage was stowed for approach, and she had asked him if everything was okay. As she did so she made a show of checking his seat belt, totally unnecessary as it was already firmly secured. Her head was close enough to his face for him to smell her hair and the warm scent of the perfume rising from her neck. Her hair smelled deliciously of almonds and the perfume he recognised immediately as Cefiro by Floris of Jermyn Street. So, an Anglophile and expensive tastes too? That all boded very well. She smiled and moved on, but it wasn’t till he unhooked the belt after landing that he found the slip of paper with her Stuttgart phone number written on it. A bold move, and one which had probably broken a tenet or two of the doubtless strict Lufthansa company policies, but in this case she had judged correctly that he would be receptive. He tucked it in his breast pocket and got off the plane.

As he breezed through customs he was in a good mood, and as collected his bags he refocussed with difficulty on the matter in hand. There would after all, he grinned to himself, be plenty of time for Fanny some other time.


The temperature on the forest floor by the lake was dropping rapidly, and Bane snapped the poppers on the high jacket collar and pulled the black woollen ski mask over his face. He looked at the cabin windows through the Zeiss binoculars once more, finding them all lit, but as if through thick curtains. That would be useful later. It was getting colder, and he saw the first plume of a newly lit fire emerging from the rustic chimney stack. It was time.

Slowly and without a sound he picked his way down the slope, making good use of the soft soled black hunting moccasins he wore to minimise any cracking of twigs. He planted his feet quickly but carefully, on patches of the forest floor with minimal twigs and leaves. The evening dew had softened the leaves so there was very little rustling as he approached the cabin. His clothing was soft and tightly fastened to him, so there was no noise from it as he moved, and he listened very carefully to the ambient sounds and made sure any noise he made was well below the noise of the forest. In this manner he traversed smoothly across the clearing towards a woodpile near to the North East wall of the cabin.

He almost tripped over a pile of groceries and a broken wicker basket in the driveway on his way to it, but saw them in time and hopped over them without breaking his stride. He crouched by the woodpile and looked around. He couldn’t be seen from inside unless he stood up. He took this moment to check his equipment. Gun in its holster on his right hip, safety off and one round quietly racked into the chamber. Knife in its buckskin sheath on the back of his left hip . . .

Light flooded over the top of the woodpile. Someone was checking the windows. Had he racked the gun too loudly? There was a voice momentarily, deep, very close, expressing boredom in Bulgarian. Then the light folded back into darkness. He had to move.

He pulled the Browning and went around the house, clearing the corners professionally in case there was a guard outside. Nobody. At the back door he soft checked the handle, turning it very slowly, finding it locked, but also noticed it was freshly screwed shut around the door frame. Hmm. They were taking no chances. Only way in or out was round the front. Fair enough. Front it is.


Inside the house Heidi Rotkapp watched the back door handle at the end of the kitchen turning on its slow rotation and back. Someone was here! Could it be someone to rescue her.

She was duct taped to a chair and the shoulder of her red dress was torn, revealing the top of her brassiere and several large bruises. She looked from the kitchen back into the room and watched the large man Schlecht-Wolf and his two thugs sitting by the fire they just lit. They were drinking vodka and talking in what she assumed was Russian or maybe Polish. Languages never were her strong suit. Her native language was German and although her English was perfect, learned when she went up to Oxford, she knew no other languages well enough to know what they were saying.

It seemed they were unaware of the movement of the door handle and continued to chat amiably. One of them, the giant with the crew cut, had just checked the window again, not because he heard something but just for something to do, it appeared. He had just risen up slowly and ambled over to it, eyes on her her all the way across the room. As he drew the curtain the boss man, Schlecht-Wolf, had said something that sounded like a kind of query, accompanied by eyebrow raises. “Az sŭm tolkova skuchno” the giant had replied under his breath. That didn’t sound like Russian.

The brute had shrugged and ambled back across the room, again keeping his eyes on her as he did so, only dropping them to his friends again as he sat down. He was an ugly man, well over six feet tall, stubbled hair covering a flat topped cranium which looked like a helmet, heavy brows and a thick nose with a wide mouth with thick lips.

The other two men were equally ugly. The smaller one looked as though he had been crushed by gravity, squat like a troll or a gnome. He had slightly prissily trimmed hair, almost too meticulously coiffured, and one droopy eye slightly bigger than the other giving him a permanently quizzical expression. Whereas the giant’s voice was deep and booming, the gnome has a lisping and slightly rasping high voice. She could see his larger eye was surrounded by angry purple, and couldn’t resist a slight smile about that.

But the ugliest of all was the boss, the Wolf man, Anton Schlecht-Wolf. Wiry dark hair culminating in thick mutton chop whiskers, browless, dark, beady eyes and a wet, gaping mouth filled with widely spaced, pointed teeth. He was big, not tall, but bulky, like a weightlifter. The ease with which he bossed around his two goons bespoke a concealed violence and cruelty which he kept under the surface. He used this evil aura to control anyone who displeased him. It came off him like a warm breeze of suppressed anger all the time. He slapped the goons playfully and they actually flinched as they laughed, as if to reassure him they were not a threat. Classic dog behaviour, she thought to herself.

To her however Schlecht-Wolf had been creepily calm and pleasant, from the moment they grabbed her outside the house and brought her inside. The calmness was jarring and it added to the horror of the man. Anyone who looked the way he did and radiated those palpable waves of violent intent, and yet was uniformly civilised and cultured in his manner set up a sort of confusion in the mind. It was one of his tools, the joy of playing with people’s minds, clearly one of his fetishes.

At first they had sat her in a chair by the kitchen door and brought her a cup of tea. It was unsettling but pleasant. Then at one point later on, after much careful and polite questioning, the Wolf man apologised, patted her gently on the knee and deliberately moved away with his back to her. He made a big show of it, starting to put wood in the grate in preparation for a fire, as if accidentally ignoring her for a moment. It was then the goons got to work on her.

They bound her roughly to the chair with tape and started slapping and poking her, at first almost jovially, then harder and still harder till her face grew as red as her dress. Then they took it in turns to set about her, the giant punching and slapping her with his huge ham hands, the gnome painfully pinching nerve clusters in her arms and legs with a kind of cruel glee. The giant seemed bored and professional, knowing how hard to hit to cause immense pain but little lasting damage. The gnome was feverish in his work for some reason, growing agitated, and each time he touched her she could feel he wanted to do more, to go further, to cause more pain and actual harm. To tear her flesh rather than just pinch at it excruciatingly.

Then finally he snapped, like an angry child, and he brought his quivering sweaty toad face close to hers so she could smell his stale fishy breath. He grabbed the sleeve of her dress and with a high scream of rage and frustration tore the sleeve clean off, cutting the soft part of her elbow as it parted across it. He began to stuff the sleeve into her mouth and she screamed through it. The giant looked over to Schlecht-Wolf for instructions, and the Wolf man paused then nodded slightly. The giant grabbed the gnome by his shoulders and lifted him from his feet as easily as one might pick up a child. The gnome shrieked and kicked, but almost casually the giant slammed him up against the wall so hard it jerked all the breath out of the squat figure, and then dropped him to the floor in a heap. The giant rubbed his hands on his trousers and turned back to Heidi. He took the cloth, surprisingly gently, from her mouth and tearing a strip of the material, bound the cut on her elbow. Then he stood aside to await further orders.

At first the gnome was stunned and disoriented but then he had roared and launched himself at the giant. The giant didn’t move until the last second. He grabbed the gnome by his throat and holding him up in the air he punched him in the eye with his giant ham fist, dashing him to the ground, where he finally lay still. Schlecht-Wolf muttered in English, “ok enough”. He walked right over to Heidi and spoke to her very softly, right into her ear so she had to strain to hear him. “Listen very carefully . . .” The he had fired his gun right next to her other ear. Her ear was still deaf and slightly ringing even an hour later.

So the torturing and the fighting had stopped eventually and the giant had picked up the fallen gnome, roused him back to consciousness and poured him a glass of vodka which he grudgingly accepted. The gnome’s tone was apologetic. They laughed a little and began to talk. After that they had seemed to lose interest in her. Perhaps they were resting and they would go at her again later. They would probably not let her sleep and wake her every hour or so through the night for more beatings. She suspected the gnome would not be allowed to touch her after his outburst, so she braced herself for the giant’s full attentions.

That is until the door handle moved. Until that happened she had become resigned to the fact she was not going to make it out of the cabin alive. But now someone was there, and they were being very discreet. Perhaps they would rescue her after all?


Outside, Bane was ready. He took a small object the size of an apple out of his pocket, prepared it and threw it as far as he could towards the rear of the house. The grenade went off seconds later, giving him just enough time to run to the front door and wrench it open. The back windows in the house shattered from the force of the explosion, but the heavy curtains prevented the glass from shredding everyone in the room. Heidi was screaming. The noise was so loud and shocking that no eyes were on the front door when John Bane slid into the room, feet planted and firing crisply, putting a bullet in the back of the gnome’s neck and the giant’s shoulder.

Before he could fire again Schlecht-Wolf turned fast and twin muzzle flashes in the air previewed the arrival of a couple of closely grouped .45 bullets in the centre of Bane’s chest, sending him crashing backwards through the flimsy dividing door into the bedroom. Silence fell, punctuated only by the giant’s painful curses, the reverberation of the girl’s scream and the odd tiny tinkle of falling glass.

Schlecht-Wolf looked down at the gnome. Large hole in his neck, blood pooling fast. Dead for certain. The giant was hissing Slavic obscenities and clutching his shoulder, but then composed himself, gritting his teeth and looking to Schlecht-Wolf for directions. Schlecht-Wolf nodded to the empty bedroom door, and cursing and puffing, entered the darkened kitchen pulling Heidi on her chair along with him. He stood there in the gloom watching the giant move cautiously into the bedroom. Heidi also stared. It was so quiet. What was happening?

Suddenly a thud, a grunt and sharp crack followed by a scream. The giant fell back through the doorway clutching an arm bent at an eccentric angle. As if in slow motion, standing on his chest as he fell was a man, dressed entirely in black, riding the giant down to the floor like a lumberjack on a falling tree. When they hit the floor the man trod down hard with a twist and the giant was still. Schlecht-Wolf fired wildly three times but missed. He stopped firing and the dark figure rose and levelled his own gun.

Schlecht-Wolf grabbed Heidi by the neck but kept the gun fixed on Bane. Heidi could hear him trying to slow his breathing. Finally Schlecht-Wolf spoke, almost conversationally. “Body armour, Commander Bane? That’s not very sporting.”

“This isn’t sport, Schlecht-Wolf, this is war. And you are my prisoner.” Heidi could see Bane’s blue grey eyes in the slit in his ski mask, his voice was level and convincingly cruel.

Schlecht-Wolf coughed. “The only one of us with a mrŭsna kurva . . . uh sorry dirty whore as a prisoner here is, er, me. Ms Rotkapp has not been very shall we say forthcoming about what she knows, so after I have finished with you I shall continue our conversation until she does. And she WILL!” he wrenched at her neck causing her to punctuate his speech with a yelp.

Bane shouted. “You’re not leaving this cabin, Schlecht-Wolf. You’re not getting away . . .”

“. . . a second time?” Schlecht-Wolf interrupted and then laughed, wetly. “Yes, Heidi, you see Commander Bane and I know each other quite well, I’ve beaten him before, you see. Now you get to watch while I do it again . . .”

He tensed and straightened his arm as if to fire, but Heidi suddenly drove her feet into the floor hurling them both hard into the heavy back door. Schlecht-Wolf’s grip on her neck loosened and she pushed forwards shouting with the effort, flinging herself with the chair to the ground. As she hit the floor she looked up to see Bane propel himself forwards tearing the ski mask from his head as he went and clutching at something at his left side. He brought it to the front as he collided with the Wolf man.

Schlecht-Wolf opened his eyes in time to see Bane’s face very close and feeling the impact of his body on his. How had he closed the gap so fast? Then he noticed a cold feeling spreading through him, realising with a small pang of regret it must be a knife in his chest. He looked up into Bane’s eyes, which were flaring with triumph. “Not today, Mr Wolf,” said Bane quietly, as Anton Schlecht-Wolf’s world went dark.


Bane had checked Grandmother Rotkapp’s ancient dusty Mercedes for fuel and was going to drive Heidi to the local village hospital. She was badly bruised and shaken although it seemed she was basically okay. Physically at least. But she should see a doctor just in case.

When he came back inside she was sitting on one of the chairs by the fire. Her dark red hair was catching the firelight and her deep blue eyes were large and searching. He put his gun on the table and sat beside her, touching her forearm and hand. Her pale lightly freckled skin was so soft he could hardly feel it under his fingertips. Her voice, steady at first, was accented with German, but her English was flawless.

“Fortunately my grandmother was away when I arrived or they would have caught her too. You know? They were waiting for me . . . I had no supplies and decided to walk to the village to get food . . . and so I was coming back with groceries, some wine and cake for grandma. And then they . . .” she stopped speaking and bowed her head, tears of relief finally flooding her eyes. “Thank you” she said in a whisper.

“No” he said, “Thank you. If you hadn’t acted I’d never have got him. You took action and that took a lot of guts.”

She lay her head against him. Bane comforted her, but his attention was elsewhere. His chest burned, the body armour spread the impact of the .45 bullets but his chest would be bruised for weeks. The giant had grabbed him by the throat, but he’d broken the huge arm with the butt of his Browning and drop kicked him out of the door. Most of these aches and pains were familiar to him and would heal, experience told him that. Nothing a shower, some freshly laundered clothes and large bourbon wouldn’t fix.

But there was another sensation, an old familiar ache, and one that for the first time he welcomed. The tiny triangle of steel glowing painfully in his thigh muscle, reminding him of Anton Schlecht-Wolf for the very last time.


Writing like Fleming is easy if you’ve read as many of his books as I have, but the key is sensual detail. Fleming was a well known lover of sensation, experiences, places, food and women. And these details were always very precise. He also knew what he considered to be the best of everything, and strove to discover it for whatever application he had; shampoo, watches, typewriters, clothes, food, coffee, you name it. What the best was, and why it was so darn good.

He also travelled extensively in Europe and the far east, knew America well, and used these travels in his work. But mostly he was a sensual writer and his prose is laced with the language of the senses, the touch of things, the smell, the taste, the light, and the sounds. Infuse your work with these details and almost instantly you are writing like Ian Fleming.


Oh and I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, The Wealthy Writer by Nick Daws and Ruth Barringham is truly wonderful book, containing a lot of insider information I wish I’d known before I tried making a living writing online. As I’ve said before Nick is one of the few writing coaches whose work I really respect, and on the strength of this work, Ruth is also one of my new favourite teachers. Most other ebook writers give you a 50 page cut and paste fest full of decent but unoriginal material and charge the earth. In my experience Nick does the exact opposite of that. This book is no exception, a huge 259 pages of densely packed professional advice to get you on the road to being a professional, and yes, wealthy writer. To purchase your own little piece of heaven follow this link. You won’t regret it.

Many thanks, be well and if you have any questions about this blog or the course please don’t hesitate to contact me, I’ll be very happy to help.



Posted by on August 29, 2012 in Creative Genius


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