Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
For life is a basket of fruit
Sometimes bitter, or sharp – or a hoot
Be it all ripe and sweet
Or too sour to eat
You get all different sorts as your loot.
Eleanor Swift-Hook
Alas, all good things must come to an end and summer’s siren song that lured me to Hellenic shores is silenced. So I shall leave you with these final poetic thoughts as I return to colder climes and inevitable autumn…
Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To wake me up at half-past three?
On what distant motorway
Did you begin your ride that day?
On what tarmac didst you roll
From whence came you my sleep to troll?
And what hard shoulder fast depart
Could twist your manifold apart?
So that the popping of the sound
Could so reverberate around?
What did hammer your bike chain
To make it thunder in the rain?
What did make you choose my road
To burden with your heavy load?
When the stars – or sparks more like,
Flew from the tailpipe of your bike,
Did you wonder what fell fate
Left you back-firing by my gate?
Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To blast me up at half-past three?
I wondered, lonely and so proud
My thoughts so high, oe’r window sills
When all at once I was endowed
With views through neighbour’s curtain frills.
I glimpsed the barest hint of skin
As through my bedroom blinds I’d peek.
To speculate who was within
The electoral roll didst seek.
I glimpsed again and flesh did see
That lofted oe’r sleek curves and tan
But then Mama did answer me:
“Moons? That new neighbour? It’s a man.”
So yet I peer the blinds between
And linger on the vision there
The secret seer, sight unseen
So it’s a man? I could not care!
There once was a plumber who was so crappy
And the name of the plumber was Mister Happy
He sent round a man for a hundred pound
Who didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground
Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you
He started a job then he went away
And the water ran down the walls all day
And when he returned he looked in your eye
And said your problem was not I
Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you
He’s never on time and he’s never at home
And nobody ever answers the phone
The only thing that is not late
Is the bloody bill that’s right on date
Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you
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…
Moth wilted like a flower in autumn, but before either Mandrake or I could get to her, the grizzled fighter lifted his hand and gently touched her hair.
“Will you draw strength from one whose gratitude knows no bounds?”
She leaned into him and I felt her grow stronger with every breath.
Outside, the lioness had finished her trawl through the memories of her mate. As far as I could see she was about as pissed off as it’s possible to be without killing someone – and I wouldn’t have bet on all the players in the drama getting away with whole skins.
Mandrake must have thought the same, because he grinned a vicious grin. “Right now, I’m very glad I’m not a lion.”
Lady Lyon stepped forward and stood at the edge of the top step.
“I am embarrassed and I am angry. I will do what I can to make reparation.”
To my internal amusement, Purslane elected herself spokesdragon.
“Perhaps we might awaken sleeping beauty there and ask it some searching questions.”
“Indeed we might. I will have our gaoler bring silver manacles and secure it before it is awoken.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Mandrake muttered and I understood by his tone that he was rather pleased by Purslane’s boldness. He kissed my face and spoke proudly in my head. ‘I trained her, and what a fine dragon she has become.’
A half-were with a vaguely leonine face and rather a lot of bodily hair appeared carrying a set of wrist and ankle chains. He wore heavy leather gloves but even then he only breathed easily when he had chained the female and was able to step away. I felt the poor creature’s pain, but knew it was not mine to heal.
Purslane winced. “We dragons forget how painful silver is to most lycanthropes. I have often wondered why we are not so affected.”
Moth looked soberly at her. “Must never touch silver in dragon form. Never.”
“A dragon touched by silver when flying is likely to fall from the sky,” Mandrake explained. “We pay for being able to deal with silver in human form by being the most vulnerable of all when we ride our beasts.”
I recognised the lurch in my stomach as fear for my beloved, and I rode the pain.
Purslane swallowed audibly. “I am not sure I needed to know that.”
Moth flew to her shoulder. “Did need to know. Friend of Mothwing must take care. Now wake up creature.”
Lady Lyon pulled the dart from beauty’s neck and Purslane’s second dart landed alongside the first wound.
“Antidote should work quite quickly.”
It was only a couple of minutes until the creature stirred. Lady Lyon rolled it onto its side and we watched as the face it wore sort of melted, leaving something that hovered somewhere on the not human spectrum, but I wasn’t sure where.
Moth hissed. “Is face-borrower. Bad creature. Can copy humans. Is stupid but has much malice. Will be servant of something powerful. Creature mustn’t see Mothwing.”
She contracted herself until she could fit into Mandrake’s pocket and disappeared.
Meanwhile the counterfeit lioness writhed and wriggled in its bonds. It snapped, snarled and swore foully, vowing vengeance on all about it. Wulfric put up with its behaviour for about two minutes before striding over and wrapping a hard hand about the now less lovely neck. He squeezed and it became still and quiet.
“You see how it is,” he snarled. “This can be hard or easy. I doesn’t matter to me which you choose. What say you?”
He loosened his grip slightly.
“Easy,” it muttered grudgingly.
“I didn’t hear you.”
His hand must have tightened slightly, because the creature spoke louder and with an edge of panic to its voice.
“I said easy. I choose easy.”
Wulfric took his hand away.
“Right then. Talk.”
“Will answers buy my life?”
Lady Lyon snarled. “No. But truth may buy you an easy death.”
The creature seemed to sink into itself. “What would you have me say?”
“Shall we start with who sent you here?”
“My master is…”
The air around the creature shimmered and grew opaque. The smell that emanated from the fog was nauseatingly rotten. While I retched and tried to hold my breath, the face-borrower fought desperately to get away, but to no avail. It screamed once, high and agonised before the life left its body. A sardonic laugh cut the air, and I was chilled to my bones by the feeling of unalloyed malice, before whatever it was that had done the killing was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
I was beyond angry at casual killing and the manipulation of living creatures without a touch of conscience or empathy, but I had more pressing matters to deal with; my dragon companions were about to lose control.
Mandrake was right on the edge of assuming dragon form, as were all the wing. I felt powerless against their need to hunt the killing thing, but Moth was strong. She struggled out of her hiding place and flew to my shoulder.
“Dragons hold,” she cried in a voice that seemed too large to come from her body. “Be still and await the orders of your Wing Leader.”
I could feel her urging me to go to Mandrake and grasp his hands. I held on as strongly as I was able and poured my love into him through our joined hands. For a few seconds his palms felt scaly and his fingers spasmed as if they were growing claws, but he pulled back from the chasm.
“Dragons stand down,” he ordered and the power in his voice rocked me to my toes.
As the atmosphere around us eased he leaned down and kissed Moth’s curls.
“Thank you,” he said
Moth preened herself. “I did brave.”
“You did indeed. You pulled us back from making a horrible mistake.”
“It was a hard. But now I will ask my sisters if any have smelled that sending.”
I hate it when Moth talks to her fae sisters as it makes my head ache and my stomach churn. Mandrake took me in his arms and I suffered through a mercifully short communication.
Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow
They said she was too young. Too inexperienced. That she was an untried Wiccan who would never succeed in such an endeavour. But they underestimated her determination to carry on her beloved grandmother’s work.
A single tear ran down her face as she picked up grandmother’s wand and stroked it lovingly. She closed her eyes and drew the necessary serenity about her.
Lifting the wand to her face she opened her eyes and blew gently.
The air about her filled with the delicate beauty of hope, joy, laughter and happiness. The bubbles flew gently away, bearing dreams for sleeping children.
Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.
Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…
In a space station on Gallifrey
They contacted humans today
They heard what we said
And looked into our heads
And decided to just walk away
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
Em heard footsteps and Agnes grinned at her with the sort of evil anticipation that might have earned a clip across the earhole – if there had been time. But given the imminent appearance of their new seventh, Em contented herself by snarking at her oldest friend.
When the door opened Em at least had the satisfaction of winning the private bet she had with herself about what Ginny would choose to wear.
“Come in and sit yourself down.”
She waved Ginny to a chair and Agnes sat opposite her. Em poured Bloody Marys for the three of them, keeping the glasses hidden from view while she added an unconventional ingredient to the one she put in front of Ginny.
“Bottoms up,” Agnes said cheerily, downing half her drink in one gulp.
Ginny Cropper seemed less keen, stirring the thick red mixture with its accompanying celery stick and looking about her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Do you not care for Bloody Mary?” Em took a slug of her own drink and gave Ginny her least threatening stare.
Ginny stared back then seemed to reach some sort of a decision. “Oh well,” she muttered, “in for a penny.”
She all but upended the glass over her nose, draining every last drop before she crunched the celery.
“Seems to me that I’m being led someplace, and I find I don’t much care so long as somebody feeds me.”
Em went over to the Aga and took three plates of food out of the warming oven. The plates held large slices of tortilla with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms on the side. There was also a dish of bacon and a basket of warm rolls. The three of them set to with good appetites.
They had about cleared their plates, when Ginny broke the quiet with a tiny, genteel belch. “Oops. Sorry about that, but I think it’s been twenty years since I had anything other than granola and almond milk for breakfast.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Would somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Em found herself feeling the tiniest tad of respect for an odd, wispy female who was far away from what she had any hope of understanding, but was keeping her chin up.
“Yes. I suppose somebody does owe you an explanation. But where to begin? How much do you remember about last night?”
“I remember following the vicar into church. I knew he was after the bats. I remember him screaming at me and pushing me to the ground. And I think I remember a rabbit – but that might just be a consequence of hitting my head on a stone floor.”
Agnes took over with a smoothness that Em could see wasn’t lost on Ginny. “We were about a minute behind you. Or Em was. I’m too fat to run. The vicar completely lost it, and he shot you in the neck. When we had subdued him sufficiently to be able to look at you, your heart had stopped…”
“That’s perfectly possible. I have suffered with a vagal arrhythmia for most of my life. I’m just glad there’s a defibrillator in the village. Who shocked me back to life?”
“There is a defibrillator in the foyer of the village hall,” Agnes said, “but nobody thought of that. Em Fed you with her own blood…”
There was an appalled silence.
“Fed me? Blood? Shot in the neck?” For a second Em thought Ginny teetered on the verge of hysteria, and her fingers reached for the scar where the pellet had been. She flinched, but made a visible effort to hold herself together. After a moment she said in a small voice: “Is this some sort of Twilight thing?”
Em’s respect was growing. “Sort of,” she admitted. “But the difference is we’re real.”
Ginny studied her hands for a moment then gave Em a glare. “Okay, if I buy this, and I’m still deciding whether I do or not, what was in the Bloody Mary? The moment I drank it I felt as if I saw a lot of things clearer, and I also felt physically stronger than I have for years.”
Agnes chortled.
“Shut up Agnes.” Em ducked her head to disguise her own amusement. “Well, Ginny, it was a Bloody Mary. A real one. Yours just contained a thimbleful of blood. A drop from each of your six sisters to welcome you to our seven.” She watched Ginny’s face carefully as she dropped the last piece of the puzzle into place. “Virginia Cropper, vampire. How does that sound to you?”
Ginny shook her head as if to clear it. “Would you mind saying that again?”
“Virginia Cropper. Vampire.” Em and Agnes spoke together.
Ginny dropped her head into her hands then looked up with an exasperated expression. “But I’m a vegetarian… Doesn’t there have to be a joke in there somewhere?”
Agnes was obviously making up her own jokes, so Em leaned over and clipped her smartly over the ear before she could share them.
Part 18 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Growing older does not have to weigh
If you throw out your scales one fine day
Tell yourself you don’t mind
A spreading behind
And you’re going to be happy that way
Eleanor Swift-Hook
Today one visited Delphi and the Temple of Apollo. One feels closer to the primal essence of human civilisation in such a place and the enigmatic words spoken by the Pythia remind one much of the purity of concept expressed in Haiku…
The white purity
Of my poetical soul
Illuminatus
A flower petal
Weighted down under raindrops
Visceral delight
I despicable
Fighting hourly temptation
Scratching succubus
They landed on the phone wire
Perched, like feathered fruit
On the slender branch
Of a man-made tree.
A hundred tiny voices
Calling to the sky
A raucous caucus
Vibrating the air.
Sudden silence, like nightfall.
Stillness on the wire
Waiting for a sign
Hushed breath in each breast.
Abrupt – the flutter, fluster,
Flap and fly up high
Shape the swoop above
Vanish over the horizon of rooftops.
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