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

Aries.
The snowball. Yes. There is a star sign out there that is attracted to eggy drinks with the texture of snot…

Taurus.
Vodka and coke. The bull has no taste at all for alcohol but very much enjoys the sensation of being as drunk as an artilleryman.

Gemini.
Hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallow. The addition of Tia Maria often produces amusing results.

Cancer.
Craft beer. Preferably one with a ‘witty’ name. There is very little that amuses a crab more than sidling up to the bar and ordering two pints of Sweaty Scrotum.

Leo.
Leos will generally drink whatever you put in front of them. But. On no account do shots with a Leo. They get very growly.

Virgo.
This sign is a devotee of the mocktail (pauses to allow nausea to pass). The favourite? By no coincidence. A Virgin Mary.

Libra.
Complicated cocktails with many ingredients that have to be carefully calibrated. Or Jägerbombs, on which they rapidly become spitefully mathematical.

Scorpio.
A pint of anything normally served in shot glasses. And they will drink you under the table before stealing your wallet and drawing a penis on your face with indelible pen.

Sagittarius.
This sign is oddly old fashioned when it comes to booze – being firmly stick in the 1960s. The Harvey Wallbanger is considered by Saggitarians to be the height of sophistication, even if it does taste like cough medicine.

Capricorn.
The goat likes little more than a pint of Guinness, unless it’s two pints of Guinness with a packet of crisps (chips to colonials) and a pickled egg.

Aquarius.
Don’t even… Well if we must. English wine or locally made beer. Both of which, ideally, should be delivered to the front door by a horny-handed son of the soil driving a Citroen Dyan.

Pisces.
If you wondered where all the world’s Prosecco had gone. Blame Pisceans who drink it on girls’ nights. Males of this sign like a nice bottle of red with assorted cheeses.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Forthcoming
Spring bounds
Leaping
Loping
Loving

Life returning
Spring sounds
Singing
Ringing
Bringing

Rain Falling
Spring pounds
Soaking
Blowing
Growing

Sun shining
Spring grounds
Bursting
Thrusting
Blooming

E.M. Swift-Hook

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Two – Reparation (part one)

As soon as the bus disappeared around a sweeping bend I felt the snowbird feathers settle around me. At the same time something cool and sweet-smelling was wiped over my face and neck. Moth cleaned me with care and once I was sure my eyes were clear I looked into her worried face.
“I’m okay, Moth. But I’ll see that wolf at hell gates.”
“We see him there.” My partner’s eyes were fierce. “Can sit up, beloved?”
I sat, and she cleaned my hair and neck.
“Whatever he thinking?”
“Oh. He always wanted to mark me somehow. But I wouldn’t let him. I never quite trusted his motives. Turns out I was right.”
Moth showed her teeth. “I put tracker on the bus.”
“Thank you, my love.”
Her smile grew more genuine. “Beloved is entirely welcome. What now?”
“I need food so I can make the change.”
The fairy put a hand in her pocket and pulled out a cube of ambrosia which she popped into my mouth.
“More?”
“Please. I need to put on a lot of flesh.”
“Going for big one?”
“Yes, sweet fae. The biggest.”
She kept feeding me, and I felt the beginnings of the change pushing lumps and bumps and bulges into my skin.
“One more and I’m there.”
She fed me one more cube.
“I’m there. Can you call for reinforcements while I do the thing? And, Moth, better tell them to hurry or there may be nothing left to mop up.”
After which I lost the impetus to speak, as the business of making the change took up all my attention. Becoming a fire-breathing monster isn’t a sinecure even for a Shifter as old and experienced as me. It must be done carefully, as the skipping of any one of a thousand tiny steps could spell disaster. You don’t want a wing malfunction when you are hundreds of feet above the earth, any more than you want a leak in a fireproof tube so that you cook your own innards. It pays to concentrate.
When I was satisfied that I had the body right I took a moment or two to adjust myself to dragonish thoughts and appetites. When I opened my eyes I was surprised to find Moth was no longer alone. We were surrounded by dragons. A full squadron – or as dragons have it a wing – in my estimation surrounded us. I knew their wingleader by reputation, and I was grateful that the Queen had sent us her best – although I’d know why we merited such consideration before I moved an inch.
As always, Moth knew my mind. She came to my side and laid her hand on my neck. “They say,” she explained, “dragons lost two queens in egg and some drones. Majesty is angry. Was at agency when I call for help.”
“Okay. That makes sense as long as we have the chain of command worked out.”
The wingleader bowed his handsome head and the facets of his eyes whirled appreciation of my draconic form. “The wing is yours to lead my lady.”
“Thank you….” I thought hard. “Mandrake.”
He bowed his head, both pleased and humbled that I had remembered his name. He would have been happier if he had known my name in return, but only Moth holds that secret. However, he seemed a decent beast, and intelligent, so he didn’t hold it against me.
“What is the plan?”
I hadn’t actually got as far as planning, but I was sure Moth would have at least an idea. With her body resting against my foot the mind link was possible and I could see the outline of a viable plan of action.
“We have a tracking device on the bus carrying the females, which we believe will rejoin the bus full of males before both reach their destination. When we find their lair we will see how to proceed.”
Mandrake smiled a dragonish smile. “At least some must survive to face human justice, I suppose.”
“Yes. Pain us though that might.”
Moth poked me hard in the brain.
‘No eating.’
My dragon appetites rebelled, but Moth anchored me to reality and I beat down the desire for blood.
“It will,” I forced my lips to say, “be unfortunate if too many miscreants get eaten.”
I heard Moth sigh and silently promised her that I would control myself.
It didn’t feel like she believed me too much. I couldn’t actually reassure her and I felt sorry about that, but being a dragon, however temporarily, brings its own set of problems.
Moth made herself as big as possible and took her seat between the ridges of my neck. I spread my wings and she carolled her joy to be flying together. Once we were all airborne the dragon wing formed a rough arrow formation with me in front.
‘Are you in touch with the tracker?’
‘Of course,’ the laughing confidence in Moth’s mind voice strengthened me.
‘Direct me then, my dear one.’
She took the metaphorical reins and as our company gained height my heart lifted too.
‘I always forget the joy of flying.’
‘Me never,’ but Moth sounded as happy as I felt. ‘We shall enjoy the only bit of this day that is comfortable?’
I swung on a wingtip in obedience to the unspoken directions that filled one part of my mind. Below us the road meandered like a yellowish snake in the somehow grimy snow. We soon sighted the bus barrelling along at a pace that gave the lie to its general air of age and decrepitude, and once we were assured of being on its tail I whistled – in that dragonish pitch that is above the hearing range even of wolves – for more height.
‘We don’t want anybody cottoning on to the idea of being followed, do we?’

Jane Jago

Somewhere high in some mountains near you lives the Oracle…

It was evening, and all day there had been a steady stream of visitors with questions that varied from the inane to the life-changing. Watson thought the old woman must be exhausted but her eyes were still bird bright and once she had eaten the soup he heated in the modern kitchen hidden in the holy caverns she seemed fine.
“Do you feel it, Watson?”
“Feel what?”
“A certain unease in the air.”
“No. But I wouldn’t. I’m not an oracle.”
“And you believe I am?” She cackled with unsuppressed mirth.
When he first arrived her combativeness rendered him speechless, but he had learned better.
“Sometimes you are a true oracle. Others you are as fake as a television evangelist.”
“A fair answer.”
She sat in silence for quite some time and he wondered if she had finished talking for the day. He was about to leave her in peace when she held up a black-nailed hand.
“I used to be married, you know. But it was on the skids by the time I came here. The bastard thought he’d shoved all his debt onto me. Until I disappeared, then his creditors moved their attention back to him. He wound up without a pot to piss in.”
“Did he ever find you?”
“Eventually. By which time he’d found a wealthy widow to leech on. But he still wanted revenge. Came up here with a flick knife and a bad attitude. But a sawn-off trumps a tidgy knife and he had to run away with his tail between his legs.”
She laughed her wheezing laugh.
“And the best of it? His wealthy ‘wife’ wasn’t happy about bigamy. She bought him from me and now he does what he’s told. Or else…”
She lapsed into a doze and her young ghost writer felt a moment of pity for a mere man who tangled with the pile of rags and malice that comprised the oracle at her worst. He was wondering why he tolerated her when the bell on the pathway rang a single sharp note. Picking up the remains of their shared meal he hiked to his usual viewpoint.
The sunset was staining the mountain almost blood red, and for a moment he thought the hair of the woman who climbed wearily onto the plateau was a trick of that light. But it wasn’t. The woman was every teenager’s wet dream from the red polish on her toenails to the scarlet curls that tumbled down her back.
She looked at the oracle and smiled a slow, mean smile.
“You don’t look all that much to me.”
“I could say the same about you. If I was interested enough.”
The redhead hissed. “You should care, old woman. I owe you a bad turn and I always pay my debts.”
“I don’t remember doing anything to any painted Jezebel. But I’m getting old and forgetful. Remind me.”
“You cost me a soft billet and a nice farm. Now I’m stuck with a passenger and nobody wanting to step up to the plate.”
“Do you say the the father of what’s in your belly refuses to acknowledge it?”
The redhead opened her mouth, but whatever she had been going to say was interrupted by a groan from the mountain and a gentle undulation of the earth where she stood. She squeaked and twisted her hands together. Looking at the oracle, she made a sort of mewing noise and her face paled until the circles of rouge on her cheeks stood out like paint on a circus doll.
The oracle spoke and her voice filled the air with the sound of flapping wings.
“Come out of your concealment cowardly creature. Lest the mountain grind you to dust.”
The man who crawled over the edge of the escarpment wore a sharp suit and held a pistol in one hand.
“Take your wife and the child in her belly and go. While you still have the option. You came to cheat and lie your way into a comfortable fortune. But you chose the wrong town. Begone.”
“Old bitch,” he screamed. “Breathe your last.”
But he couldn’t squeeze the trigger, his hand shook too much. Something in the oracle’s basilisk gaze broke what little courage he had and he turned and ran, dropping the pistol as he went.
The redhead looked at his retreating figure and spat on the ground.
“Spineless cretin.”
The oracle laughed. “You got his number now, right enough.”
“Yup. That’n isn’t gonna be any manner of use to anyone. I reckon I’ll do better on my own.” She showed her teeth. “I guess I owe you a good turn now, old mother.”
“Let’s call it quits then. And if you ever need a job there’s always a mountain looking for an oracle with the balls to run a long con.”
The redhead laughed and turned away. At the top of the path she turned her head.
“Maybe one day.”

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

There is no greater writing gift
Than giving those who sigh a lift
No better use of word or craft
Than beating sorrow with a laugh
There’s no better plot nor ploy
Than that our work will bring you joy
I have no literary aspiration
Save to bring smiles by my creation

Jane Jago

This is a book one read under protest. One morning at breakfast one was attempting to explain to the mater that literary affection must be pure and unsullied, it must not mirror life. If it did, it would be unpleasantly sweaty and redolent of bodily fluids.

Around halfway through one’s peroration, she got up from the table, temporarily abandoning a plate of greasy egg and sausage to scrabble around in the escritoire that leans drunkenly in one corner of the breakfast room. She returned to the table bringing with her a torn and dogeared paperback with which she proceeded to beat one about the head.

“This is a proper exploration of human emotion. Read it and for f***’s sake learn something. There will be questions later.”

Adjudging discretion the better part of valour. One read it.

My Review

A plain female child grows into a plain woman. Somehow she catches the eye of a man. Who turns out to be married. Then she runs away. Then she goes back

End of story.

Honestly, gentle reader, it does nothing for one. The heroine lacks romance, beauty, allure, etcetera. Although the hero is quite exciting, I suppose. But if one’s distaff parent hadn’t insisted….

Star rating. One out of five. Plus a half for a slightly sexy hero.

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.

It was his grandmother’s final wish, formalised in her will:

And to Mungo, I bequeath the contents of my safety deposit box, provided he keeps his word to me and marries within the year.

Mungo, the eldest son of a duke and in his thirties, hadn’t shown interest in marriage, although often seen with various celebrity women but now speculation mounted.

A year after his grandmother’s funeral, at a private ceremony, Mungo married his secret commoner lover of many years. The ring, his grandmother’s, had been in the lockbox.

Mungo proudly introduced his new husband to the family soon after.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

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

Aries. 

This sign sheepishly admits to being peopled by lovers of light opera and Europop.

Favourite tune: Fernando by Abba

Taurus.

Slow and stately, this sign is fond of Germanic opera of the sort that takes most of a day to listen to.

Favourite tune: Welch’ wunderbar Erwarten  from Das Liebesverbot

Gemini.

Any kind of a duet will suit Gemini. The soppier and more romantic the better.

Favourite tune: Save Your Love by Renee and Renato 

Cancer.

In spite of the characteristic sideways scuttle of this most crepuscular of signs they are drawn to the musical excitement of the female marching band.

Favourite tune: Congratulations – played on the xylophone 

Leo.

Lions are creatures that deeply value their sleep therefore any lullaby will do.

Favourite tune: O mio babbino caro

Virgo.

The primness of the Virgo psyche is perfectly matched by the innocence of nineteen fifties popular music.

Favourite tune: Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen By The Sea, by Max Bygraves

Libra.

Weighing up the relative merits of styles of music has been a Libran preoccupation for many years culminating in a passion for Amazonian nose flute terpsichory.

Favourite tune: Anything nasal

Scorpio.

The Scorpio affinity with fast motorcycles, black leather and bad boy sex means that nothing but rock will do.

Favourite tune: Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf  

Sagittarius.

The Sagittarian equineness predisposes them to the enjoyment of intensely rhythmic music. Notably that of Germanic extraction.

Favourite tune: A Walk in the Black Forest by Horst Jankowski

Capricorn.

Capricorn is the rock and roll sign, and the zodiacal goat can be pacified in almost any situation by the application of Elvis Presley.

Favourite tune: Jailhouse Rock by the above gentleman

Aquarius.

Aquarians like smooth flowing watering music. 

Favourite tune: Orinoco Flow by Enya

Pisces.

Pisceans have surprisingly catholic musical tastes. They will listen to anything as long as it is loud and immersive.

Favourite tune: Brown Sugar by The Rolling Stones

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Today our amble took us to the tops
Where yellow gorse like honey spikes the air
Below, the grumbling tractors tend their crops
Up here the land is quiet, wide and bare
And no one walks this pitted granite street
Except we two beneath a hazy sky
It almost seems that ours are the first feet
And, looking outwards, ours are the first eyes
The turf, now coarse and springy, bears no sound
Until a calling kestrel silence splinters
A sudden breeze comes spinning round and round
An echo of the killing wind of winter 

Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter One – Taken (part two)

After an appreciable time Seth spoke. “It really is dead. Just leave it where it is and get the rest back on the bus.”
I heard the sound of a gun being cocked and hoped whoever would at least go for a head shot. The sound of a blow was much louder than the metallic click.
“What the frag do you think you are doing you motherfragger?” Seth sounded furious.
“Jest making sure it’s dead.”
“Well don’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if we leave it where it is and how it is, somebody is going to find it and it’ll be easy to reckon it froze to death somehow. You stick a bullet in it and they gotta investigate.”
“Oh. I guess.” The voice was grudging, then it changed to thickly lustful. “Can I just?”
“No. For frag’s sake it’s only a kid. Leave it. Find a willing one from the rest. And get the bloody females back on the bus right now. We wasted enough time on a deader. The males are already half an hour ahead, and now it’s started snowing again.”
I smiled internally at being described as a child. I’m actually somewhere around eight hundred years old, but I’m slim, soft skinned and peachy enough to easily be mistaken for a teenager – unless you look into my eyes.
While the hustle and bustle of departure went on around me the snow fell, at first lightly but it soon became a blinding blizzard. I was beginning to think I really might freeze to death beside this rough road when I felt a touch on my skin. I was being wrapped in something that looked like snow – only it wasn’t it was snowbird feathers warm from the sun. My bond partner, Moth, had found me and I called down silent blessings on her tiny head. As my body came back from the edge of freezing, I watched the loading of the bus through half closed eyes. It was time to gather evidence.
I used my camera implant to photograph Seth, his stupid companion, another hefty guy with a rifle, the plant, the bus and as many of the females as I could.
The engine started, and after a moment or two belching noxious fumes the bus moved away. It didn’t seem to me to be moving fast enough and I idly wondered if the engine might be sick. But then my brain woke up. The bus was waiting for someone. The question was who? Moth had obviously come to the same conclusion, because I couldn’t see, hear, or smell her. He broke out of the woods in his animal form: the biggest wolf I had ever seen. As soon as his feet hit the rutted tarmac he made the change. There wasn’t a break his stride as the grey wolf became a lean, tanned human. Naked and as fine as he could be. He leapt into the cab of the bus, as I took the necessary photographs of the one who betrayed his own.
I knew he would be unable to leave without assuring himself I was really dead and so did Moth as the snowbird quilt disappeared. The cold was almost harder to bear this time and my head swam. What dragged me back from the edge of oblivion was the knowledge that the double-dealing bastard would have won if I let my hold on my faculties slip. I dragged my mind back to pinpoint sharpness and held breath. Just in time as somebody jumped lightly out of the bus and walked over to where I lay in the snow. I could feel the cold burn of his eyes and I knew if I looked up I would be skewered by their blueness. However, I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Eventually he spoke, and the voice that had seduced a thousand women had lost none of its potency, but I was armoured by anger and all I could hear was the treachery that underlay his beauty.
“I guess you really are dead. In which case.”
Some instinct forewarned me what the tiny sound of a zipper portended and I composed myself. The stream of urine was at least warm as he directed it over my face. When he had finished he laughed although it was a harsh, tearing sound that held no amusement.
“You always said you’d kill me before I scent marked you. Seems like I killed you instead.”
I heard him turn away as the acrid smell of him filled my nostrils. I mentally added his name to the list of those who wouldn’t see the next dawn. I didn’t dare open my eyes as the sockets were filled with piss, but I the sound of him whistling as he walked away pierced me like a Toledo blade.

Jane Jago