Sunday lunch, and Caroline carefully masticated her roast lamb and over-cooked vegetables whilst attempting to tune out the carefully genteel tones of her mother-in-law, Marjorie, as she treated them to her own version of the Sunday sermon. Today it was immigrants. And the EU, of course. But that was a blessed relief from child care ‘hints’ and open criticism of the way she and her sister-in-law dressed, spoke, and, one very memorable Sunday indeed, even how they smelled.

‘Yaddah, Yaddah’ she thought as she tried to push the two-hour journey home, with its inevitable sugar-induced tantrums and car sickness, to the back of her mind. She must have been doing quite well, because she was dragged back to the world of serviettes and Sunday best china by a derisive snort from her left-hand neighbour. She turned a polite face to her husband’s younger brother, who wagged his head at her. Tuning back into the Sunday homily she realised why even he was pissed off. Marjorie was busily assuring her grandchildren that of course the going rate for the tooth fairy had gone up in line with inflation. About five pounds per tooth would be fair, she thought.

Caroline sighed inwardly and decided she couldn’t face any more lunch. She put her knife and fork down and fished about in her head for something uncontroversial to say.

Before she had a chance to speak, and in an almost unheard of break from the rigidly enforced etiquette which normally prevailed, her husband leaned across from his seat on the other side of the table and whispered in her ear.
‘Never mind the bloody tooth fairy. I’d rather like there to be a Shut up Mother fairy.’
In a rare moment of whimsy Caroline grinned at him. ‘You never know, there might be. But you have to invite her in.’
He grinned back at her, though the lines of tension that bracketed his mouth from the moment they arrived at his mother’s house until the moment they left were still etched into his skin. ‘I do, don’t I? Very well.’ He closed his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Shut up Mother fairy, I most humbly invite you into this house.’
He sat back in his chair, and the air filled with mocking laughter. At the head of the table Marjorie’s mouth kept right on moving, but now she no longer made a sound…

Jane Jago

Poems of puppy Fozzie Jago as he is exploring and experiencing the world!

I wishes I had
A opposable fum
For picking me teefs
An scratching me bum
For gripping a pencil
When I does me sums
For pouring a drink
Of de-lish-ious rum
Or opening tins
Of pedigree chum
An’ Foz would not need
A bossy humum
If he only has
A opposable fum

Jane Jago

Bonjour mes estudas

It is I, bestselling author and all-round excellent human being, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Here to pass on the fruits of my intellect to those lesser beings – such as yourselves – who struggle through the dilemmas of life, love and literature.

Today we have a question from Ian (is it only I who has noticed what a plain and boring cognomen is Ian?).

Dear Ivy,

Is there a reason I struggle to feel immersed in present tense writing? What, if any, are the pros to writing the seldom appreciated tense when past is available and most prefer it?

Your Adoring Fan,

Ian.

My very dear Ian,

This is the sort of question that exposes the ignorance of one’s little students to the glare of the public eye. One does not, silly boy, write in tense. One writes intensely. When the Muse sits on one’s shoulder and whispers his seduction into one’s shell-like ear one does not allow the constraints of grammar to befoul the flow of beautiful prose from one’s metaphorical pen. One cares not whether one’s protagonist speaks pastly, presently, or futuristically. It matters not. The outpouring of one’s artistic sensibilities will carry the reader of taste along on the flood tide of emotion and adoration.

Good writing, has it not been often said, is timeless. So do not concern yourself with whether the events written are here and now, now and then or soon to be. Ignore the trite distinctions that are mere verb forms and peer more deeply into the flowering blossom of prose. The present is the immortal now and as such is a fitting medium for the more discerning artistes of the literary world. Those who prefer the most opulent and rare of words to cluster in their paragraphs and for whom the tawdry details most lesser authors need to observe are become merely optional as they have grown beyond them.

Oh no, my dear little Ian, immersion in writings should not be a function of tense, person, or voice. Should you fail in your endeavours to understand the writing you are drawn to, there are but two possible reasons for this miserable failure. The first possibility is that you are in the hands of a writer who cannot handle their chosen means of communication. The second, sadly, is that there is a lack in you.

I hope, whilst yet fearing it likely, the latter is not the case, and that you will eventually find an author whose sensibilities march alongside your own. One who will fully immerse you in the embracing sensuality of their prose regardless of tense, gender, sexuality, or language.

Yours with gently reproving affection,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Take this exclusive opportunity to explore the mysteries of the zodiac through the wisdom of the esoterically enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid than the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

The whistle and flap of swan wings
And morning mist
The sharp piping cries of moorhens
The wild goose hiss
A fisherman sits in silence
Awaiting a bite
While all around the frost flowers
Steal the light
The crunch of booted feet
On gravel under
As slowly now the sun draws
Haze asunder
The tiniest streaks of blue
Across the sky
And all the while the swans
Fly noisily by

Jane Jago

Dying to be Cured is set in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. Dai and Julia take on a fight against institutional corruption whilst dealing with the demands of family, friendship and domestic crises.

Dai launched into an explanation of their morning. By the end, Julia was feeling truly grim, and it must have shown in her face as Dai was frowning with concern. 

“What is it love?”

“You aren’t going to like this, but…”

“What am I not going to like now?” He sounded weary, but also wary and angry.

Bryn put a hand on his forearm. 

“Remember, Bard. Didn’t we agree that whatever we have to deal with, it being Roman doesn’t make it Domina Julia’s fault?”

For a long moment nobody spoke, then Dai shook his head.

“We did. Sorry. I was just about to get bang out of line. Again.”

Julia, being too used to the pain of Dai’s anti-Roman outbursts, was surprised to find how much Bryn’s championship affected her. She smiled at him and stiffened her spine.

“You still might… We are going to have to tread very softly indeed. This is a temple sacred to the cult of the Divine Diocletian. That is one of the key foundations of the current Emperor’s right to rule. It has real power. And if we are not careful we could wind up getting told to turn a blind eye. It’s happened before.”

The men looked at her in glum silence. It was Bryn who found his voice first.

“What would happen,” he asked, “if we were ordered to keep our noses out?”

Julia favoured him with a sudden street urchin grin. “We’d have to investigate quietly.”

Dai just looked at her for a moment before leaning over the table to kiss her on both cheeks.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be investigating too noisily now.”

“Stealth might be better. We need to hack into the computers at that temple. And we need to do so pretty bloody quickly.”

“That sounds like something you could do.”

“Probably. Very probably. Unless, of course, some irrumator has already erased the relevant files.”

Bryn wrinkled his brow. “I didn’t think you could ever really erase stuff from computers.”

“You can’t. Not if an investigator is in the same room with the computer. But you can certainly bury it deep enough to stop it being found remotely.” Julia sighed. “All of which means I should get right on it. You two go and look into some sheep stealing or something and keep out of my hair.”

Three hours later, and Julia was about to admit defeat. Oh, it had been laughably easy to get into the computer systems of the temple, and she had found out some pretty interesting stuff, like just exactly how much money the ‘cures’ had raked in over the previous two years. She could even see the places where somebody had simply chopped out clumps of information. But she couldn’t scrape off the top layer to find out what had been scrubbed without alerting even the most simple minded of computer operators to the hack.

Just as she was contemplating throwing her laptop at the wall, she got her much needed break. Somebody in the complex decided to send a belated birthday message to his mother, allowing Julia a nanosecond of access. That nanosecond was enough as she had already set up the data-capture to grab all the outgoing mails held on the computer. The information went back almost five years, presumably the amount of time that computer had been in use. 

And there it was – an unarguable connection. Somebody had been in the habit of sending regular emails to  Zirri Yedder. A man called Fabian Thrace, who his other emails revealed to be head of security in the place.

Interestingly there had been no emails sent out by Thrace to anyone since the same day as Yedder had his appointment at the temple, although prior to that he had sent out a number every day. Julia hummed a satisfied little hum before delving into the life and times of Fabian Thrace, who turned out to be the third son of a Citizen cloth merchant from Eboracum. He had served with the army then retired to take on various security roles. He was still listed as being head of security at the Temple of the Divine Diocletian in Canovium. 

“So,” Julia mused aloud, “what is the head of temple security doing in correspondence with a dirt-digging journalist?”

“It’s got me beat,” the voice from behind her was both lazily amused and unfeasibly basso profundo. 

Julia rounded on the man mountain that was Edbert her personal bodyguard.

“Spado. Will you stop creeping up on me like that…”

He grunted. Then brightened perceptibly. 

“We could always have a nosey round and see what we can find out.”

“The old paid assassin’s ploy?”

“Well. From what you have on screen about him nobody would be surprised to find assassins on his tail.” 

Julia thought for a moment then shook her head.

“Can’t do it, though, can we? Our faces may not be known, but I’m darned sure the Submagistratus’ miniature wife and her huge bodyguard are already a matter of local folklore. Together we’d stand out a mile.”

Edbert grimaced. “Well, you ain’t going in without me.”

“No. So you have to go. But not alone. Take Gallus. He’s almost as unprincipled as you.”

Gallus was the decanus of a small detachment of Praetorians who had been sent with Dai from Londinium to help him establish his authority.

“I resent that. That Praetorian cunnus is nowhere near as unprincipled as I am.”

As an attempt to lighten Julia’s mood it succeeded as well as anything could, and she grinned a wry grin. 

“You scoop up Gallus and head out to Canovium. Take a wrist unit so I can contact you. I will find Dai and bring him up to speed.”

Edbert was gone almost before she had finished speaking. She looked at the mountainous hole in the air where he had been and sighed before whistling for her wolfhounds Canis and Lupo.

Dying to be Cured by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook first appeared in Gods of Clay: A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then you’ve long passed your prime
You’re not going to have a good time
It just isn’t right
That you spent last night
Doing something that should be a crime!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Father brought Alib to the Temple, where the boy sat cross-legged on the floor and watched a procession of sweet-faced young nuns making their obeisance to the Idol. As each passed she dropped something into a huge glass jar.

Alib felt the torment of the girls as they dropped their offerings into the shining vessel. Each gift made a high, sweet note as it passed the neck of the glass.

He touched Father’s sleeve.
“What do they offer?”
“Time, my son, each offers a moment of her life.”
“And why do they look so sad?”
“The pain of rending a moment from yourself.”
Alib nodded.
“May anyone make such an offering?”
“They may.”
“Then may I?”
“If you will. I cannot say no.”
Alib made his obeisance to his father and joined the line of worshippers.

He looked very small, but his back was straight, and his eyes were clear, and the priests let him pass. As he approached the bottle of time his lips could be seen to be moving as if in prayer.

Instead of dropping something into the bottle, Alib threw himself through the wide neck of the glass. For a nanosecond nothing happened, and then the vessel burst, filling The Temple with shards of glass and high keening music.

A voice from the very earth lamented. And then there was silence. Alib walked back to his father, with glass sparkling in his hair and the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes filling his eyes.

Jane Jago

Poems of puppy Fozzie Jago as he is exploring and experiencing the world!

I wants to go down the field some more
Where the grass is wet and high
And cows goes moo and sheeps says baa
And I doesn’t understand why

Jane Jago

Hola niños.

In a spirit of kindness and the immolation of self upon the altar of mutual aid and comfort, one has undertaken to answer literary questions posed by one’s students and their little friends.

This particular problem is one that faces many of us as we strive to draw inspiration from the people around us. I have often found myself wondering if my next door neighbour has yet realised that he has been immortalised in my pen portrait of the evil villain in Chapter Thirteen of ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

Dear Ivy,
How do I include my annoying mother-in-law as a murder victim in my next novel without risking a divorce?
Thanking you for your kind attention.
Penny.

This is an absolutely spiffing question Pennykins. The answer is, of course, a matter of complete simplicity to a mind as great as one’s own…

Describe the lady in every irritating little detail.

Enumerate her most revolting habits. Show the reader how she speaks, snores, breaks wind, misunderstands, and annoys. Detail her physicality, how she dresses, and how her voice sounds. Because she will NEVER recognise herself, and her offspring will equally not ever connect their beloved mother with the horror depicted in your prose. You are absolutely safe. Kill her off. With impunity. Or with whatever blunt, or sharp, instrument pleases you. Those who dislike her will recognise the old beldame and applaud your perspicacity. Her loved ones will never catch the reference.

Oh, and be sure to include the statement at the front of your book that all names, characters and events in the story are fictitious and that no identification with actual persons (living or deceased), is intended or should be inferred. Then even the law is on your side.

Win. Win.

Until the next…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.