“You are,” she said, “a remarkably patient person.”
He grinned. “There are some things in life that are worth patience.”
“But what about if I’m not one of them?”
“Then I have lost nothing, because I’m enjoying your company immensely.”
“But what if I can’t? I mean never. Kissing and cuddling and stuff ”
Mike turned his hand over on the table so that it was beneath hers and their hands rested palm to palm. He offered her a gentle smile.
“Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,” he said gently.
The sweetness of that pierced Jenny’s armour in a way she didn’t think was possible any more. She awaited his next move warily.
It was a mark of the man that he made no attempt to press home any advantage that he may have accrued. Instead he pushed the plate or chocolates towards Jenny.
“You going to eat any more or will I have them make you up a doggy bag to take home?”
“Doggy bag, please. I might like to eat them in bed with a cup of hot milk.”
“Then you shall.”
His smile was a complicated thing, but warm and comforting too.
“Thank you, Mike.”
He leaned across the table. “Don’t thank me, just be comfortable with me.”
Almost of its own free will her hand came up to briefly touch his cheek. “I’m beginning to think I won’t be comfortable without you.”
He signalled for the bill and Jenny phoned her usual cab company. As he walked her to the end of the road she looked up at him and put on her best hard girl face. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me any more.”
“Silly woman. How about lunch tomorrow?”
“Only if you come to mine, and I cook for you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay then. Come as soon as your hotel throws you out.” She scrabbled in her bag and handed him a card. “Here’s the address.”
She got into the waiting taxi and left him looking down at the little piece of pasteboard as if she had given him the world.

Jenny got up early the next morning and spent a happy hour in her shining kitchen before she sat herself down to a breakfast of brown toast and honey.
Her phone bleeped and she saw it was a text from Mike. She felt something sour in her gut at the idea he might be cancelling their lunch date.
Is half eleven too early? What can I bring?
She found herself smiling mistily as her thumbs flew. Time is fine. Just bring yourself.
With the answer sent, she went back to her interrupted breakfast, but not before mentally chiding herself as a silly cow to even think about getting attached to another man.
Putting that aside as irrelevant for now, she ran down the road to the mini-market where she bought certain necessities for a traditional roast dinner.
By half-past eleven all was in readiness and Jenny had even managed to shower and change into a very becoming flowered silky dress. Right on time, she heard the sound of a car being parked outside her gates.
Unwilling to admit, even to herself, how much she was looking forward to seeing a man she had seen only the night before, Jenny resisted the impulse to run to the front door. Instead she waited for his knock.
When it came, she trod lightly to the door to find Mike had stepped back and was eyeing the little house appreciatively. He had his hands behind his back, and when he saw Jenny he stepped forwards.
“Pretty house and pretty lady.”
He took a very attractive bouquet of simple garden flowers from behind his back and presented it with a half bow. Jenny chose to ignore the ‘pretty lady’ comment, instead focusing on the flowers in her hands.
“Oh. How lovely. However did you?”
He grinned with exaggerated pride. “Internet. Last night. Independent florist down on the quay. I described you and she made the bouquet.”
Jenny felt herself blush, uneasy at the idea of the implied compliment, but Mike carried on speaking as if nothing had happened.
“Told her you were a country girl at heart, and as prickly as a briar rose.”
It felt to Jenny as if he would always know what to say to ease her over the rocks of her crippling memories, which left the overriding worry of for how long she could trespass on his patience and kindness.

Jenny is the latest book from Jane Jago

“It must be a terrible place to live,” Oliver observed as the documentary went on, “I mean, having a social score based on who you’re friends with and what you buy, determining whether you can get a train ticket.”

Krista nodded agreement and finished leaving a bad rating for the delivery driver. He’d been five minutes late. Some pathetic excuse about traffic. “Just glad we live in the free West.” Her fit-watch vibrated and she sighed. “I’ll have to leave you to it. If I don’t get enough steps done today they’ll cancel my health insurance – or quadruple the price.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Brenda pouted and lifted the cream cake with tongs, before dropping it into a box.
“No, I meant that one. The one beside it. The one with the bigger cherry.”
Biting back a retort, she carefully returned the original cake to the display plate and picked up the one requested. There were days she thought she’d go insane if it weren’t for VRP.
End of the working day and she walked through the rain, half her attention on trying to avoid being splashed by passing cars or treading in too many puddles, but the rest already lost in anticipation of what was to come.
An ordinary looking house in an ordinary suburban street, Brenda slid her keycard into its lock and stepped inside.
“Hey Brenda? Who you doing this evening?”
Jake was getting changed, struggling a little to get into the skin-tight VRP suit. Getting her own suit out of her locker, Brenda thought for a moment.
“Fallon Stardasher,” she said decisively.
“Oh cool, I’ll go for Cyber Cheetah then – that’ll work well.”
A few minutes later, suited up, virtual reality headsets donned, the two set out to save the world – again.

E.M. Swift-Hook

She loved him. It was that simple. Plain, dumpy Annie loved her handsome husband.
So why was she crying as she peeled potatoes?
She gave an unladylike sniff as he breezed through the door bringing an earthy smell and a hint of snow. He came up behind her and nuzzled her neck.
Annie turned into his embrace and allowed herself to be seduced by his kiss.
He took her hand and slid something shiny on her finger.
“Diamonds last forever,” he smiled down into her bemused eyes. “And that’s about how long I’ll love you.”
He kissed her tears away…

©Jane Jago

The tattooed face broke into an ugly snarl, as the spearhead nearly grazed one shoulder of its owner’s powerful frame. He lunged forward, the double-headed axe swinging and the crowd yelled as he claimed his kill, severing the arm of the spear-wielding warrior at the shoulder in a fountain of scarlet and removing his head with a backswing, as effortlessly as a chef might slice through a soft cheese.
It was a very popular kill. This animal, who had the fighting-name ‘Therloon’, had been the new darling of the Alfor crowds since he had arrived in the arena a couple of moons after the Fair. He was of the nomadic folk from the Eastern Continent and had their renowned tenacity and powerful build combined with a flair for the theatrical and a spectacular viciousness that was all his own. Playing to the crowd like the professional he was, Therloon swung his axe around his head and roared, his face contoured into a hideous grin which must have been visible even to those who stood furthest from the edge of the arena. The crowd responded to his signature salute and roared his name.
The powerful Easterner turned to where one opponent remained facing him. The smaller man held his sturdy frame prepared, the curving sword he gripped in one hand looked as frail as a blade of grass against the life-harvesting scythe of Therloon’s whirling axe. But the crowd expected good sport before they had their final glut of blood. For this was no ordinary combat unfolding before them and the money that rode on the outcome of this single bout would have paid the wages of half the troops Qabal Vyazin had been mustering on the outskirts of Tabruth. This was the kind of match that men waited years to see and could only be provided by this, the most prestigious Arena in Temsevar – that of the city of Alfor.
It occurred to Torwyn, watching this display as he ran a hand through his short terracotta-coloured hair, that there were many places better to be than standing less than ten paces away from the axe-wielding maniac and on the wrong side of the high barricades which protected the crowd from the fighting-slaves within.
Facing Therloon, now alone, stood the one they called the Sabre, whom the crowd had just seen defeat his own previous opponent with a classic display of athletic grace and skill. Now, invisible to all except those in the audience closest to where he stood, he shifted his weight very slightly, as if knowing what to expect. The charge, when it came, made him move quickly aside and turn to duck under the axe whilst bringing his own, lighter, blade across to cut at the bigger man’s back. It was not sufficient to do any real damage to his opponent, but enough to gain an appreciative call or two from the crowd and Torwyn could tell it had angered the Easterner.
“Sabre! Sabre!” He evidently had supporters out in strength, probably as many as were there to cheer for Therloon, but then few fighting-slaves were as well-known as the Sabre because few survived six years in the Arena as he had. Few overcame for that long the ever more creative and dangerous demands made on a crowd-pleasing favourite which turned life and death combat into gore-fest theatre or blood-drenched farce.
If it had not been for the coming war this fight would never have been allowed so soon. To end deliberately, the career and crowd-pulling earning power of a top fighting-slave was not a decision made lightly by the lanista of an Arena. More especially when the lanista was well renowned for being a tight-fisted miser, who kept his fighting-slaves in the minimum conditions and invested all his money in crowd-pleasing exhibitions and expensive exotics.
The dance of death continued on the blood-stained sand of the stadium between the unwieldy axe, made agile and serpentine in the hands of the powerful Easterner, and the insubstantial blade of the sword weaving the will of the man who held it. From the first, it had been apparent that the sword was no real match for the heavier weapon with its much longer reach. It was only because the man who held it seemed to possess almost precognitive reactions and a creatively robust athleticism, that the inevitable end was being delayed so long. The tension became palpable and the focus of the two men was absolute. For them, the world had shrunk to the circle of sand and the sweep of feet, hands and weapons.
Normally, the element of drama would have featured far more in any performance by either man. The Easterner was famed for his love of blood and to watch him fight was to watch a butcher at work in a slaughterhouse – but a butcher with a malicious streak of sadism – and the crowd, never sated, loved that. By comparison, the Sabre was known for the humour and finesse he brought to his savagery, playing with his opponents in burlesque ways which would have the crowd fired up with laughter and then stunning them into silence by the breath-taking skill of his acrobatic agility.
Even now, apparently pressed to his limits, Sabre found time to dance a brief step or two with a flower in his teeth, thrown by one of the crowd. It proved to be an expensive crowd-pleaser as the Easterner seized the moment to strike and Sabre, ducking under the blow, raised his own weapon ineffectively to deflect the lethal weight of the axe. It barely turned the heavy slicing blade but at the price of being smashed away from its owner’s grip.
Disarmed, the Sabre dived into a desperate, ground-covering roll that brought him distance from the certain death of Therloon’s backswing, and a few more precious moments of life. But his move was accompanied by the groans and boos of the watching throng. Those who had placed their money on the Sabre were most vocal in their disappointment. The fight was lost and many who had bet on the old favourite knew they would go home the poorer. But the let-down was soon overlaid by a fresh building of anticipation. There remained the catharsis of the kill itself, and Therloon was a master of spectacular, messy killing. That was something to look forward to. The Sabre’s last show would be an essay in violent, agonising death and those he had just robbed of their winnings would enjoy that revenge.

From Dues of Blood part three of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

“There’s many a thing I’ve seen as I wish I could unsee,” the old spacefarer sat at a table in the bar, “Space gribblies, the face of a man about to be put out the airlock without a suit and the final breaths of last living being on a dying world.”

The young man nodded eagerly.

“So tell us about these space gribblies?”

The old spacefarer smacked his lips

“Talking is thirsty work, son, thirsty work.”

Three drinks later, the young man left and the barman wiped the table.

“Not bad for one night,” he observed.“Those youngsters’ll believe anything.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

This all started as something fun to do during covid-19 isolation – to promote positive mental health especially for those isolated… it turned into so much more.
Storytime for Grownups showcases indie and traditionally published authors of various genres and writing styles, becoming a group of authors from a variety of backgrounds, experience, ability and live in many different countries throughout the world.
When the covid-19 lockdowns began around the world, people were isolated in their homes, cut off from their family and friends. Some people were experiencing unemployment for the first time or financial burdens that they were not prepared for, others were overworked, overstretched, and stressed. Many of us lost family, friends, coworkers, neighbours, and the people around us. Everything was uncertain, in many ways, things are still uncertain.
My world didn’t lockdown for quite a long time, I continued to work and move about my world almost as normal. But this was not the case for most others. I watched as the Twitter #WritingCommunity struggled. Too much time, not enough time, nothing was in balance. One day, a Twitter friend said that they had not heard another human voice in weeks, and they really wanted… needed to hear a story, any story, something to take them away from reality, even for a few minutes. So, I read them a story. I recorded it and placed it on my YouTube channel. Then, I read another and another. My Twitter avatar, @Moomii_Moo, played host and gathered the regular morning breakfast group together for stories. The collection of stories grew, some written by myself, Jacqueline Belle, and many stories and poems written by other authors in the Twitter #WritingCommunity.

Here’s just a taste of what you can read in the book or hear on Jaqueline Bell’s YouTube channel:

Owen Owen’s Big Day

It was just past midnight, though the sky seemed extra dark
And all the little steam engines were gathered in the park
Then something broke the silence with a rattle and a creak
The oldest engine cleared his tubes, and he began to speak
“There are not many nights”, he said, “when we are gathered near
So I would tell a tale if you might have the will to hear”
The wheezing and the whistling was no louder than a breeze
And yet a tiny engine whispered, “Will you tell us please?”
“It happened very long ago, my father’s father’s story
When Owen Owen rode the rails to fame and shining glory
He was just an engine, and his livery quite worn
He pulled the ore from down the mine and worked from night to morn
But then one day in winter, he was give a big surprise
His driver and an engineer they fitted him with eyes
Clear and shining brass they were and bright to light the way
And driver said they made the mine as bright as any day
What Owen engine thought of them was never very clear
But those bright eyes they lit the miners way throughout the year
For two days every winter the pit was put to bed
And Owen Owen engine was left peaceful in his shed
He quite enjoyed the rest he felt his heavy toil had bought
And closing down his brassy eyes he sat in happy thought
Until one night when all around the fog was thick and yellow
His rest was interrupted by a fat and jolly fellow
‘Owen Owen’, said the man, ‘I’ve come to ask your aid
I’ve toys to take to children but the reindeer are afraid
They cannot see through this thick murk and fear to break their legs
Will you help us out dear chap? Or do I have to beg?’
And Owen Owen smiled a smile as wide as wide could be
‘Open up the shed’ he said, ‘that’s just the job for me’
And so it came about upon that darkling winter’s night
That Owen Owen guided Santa with his eyes so bright.”
And every engine in the park gave a quiet beep
Before they closed their iron minds and tumbled back to sleep

Jane Jago

A Bite of… Jacqueline Belle

Question one: What inspired you to begin such a massive undertaking?
I had to think about this question for quite a long time before I could give you an answer. I decided that it would be best to tell people ‘Our Story’. Please, come and have a listen.

Question two: You are something of a Renaissance woman – poet and voice artist – where is your first love? And how do you apportion your time?
A Renaissance woman… that is quite a compliment Jane, thank you. I believe that statement is quite accurate. I love to learn and explore and create. When something appears in my mind and if I feel the need to create it, then I will. It doesn’t matter what it is, I will find a way to express my vision. I have many creative projects that I am tinkering with in the background. Some include voice work, some are written, others are musical, many are visual, and some are even tactile. Most of my creations are a combination of the arts and my goal is to stimulate all the senses. I like to think outside the box and follow my own intuition. So, to answer your question… my first love? I simply love to create.

Question three: You are having a dinner party and can invite any three guests (alive or dead). Who would you invite and what would you say to them?
I love a good dinner party! Any three guests for you and I to enjoy? Well, first, I would invite Daniel Lacho from Guru Art Lifestyle Entertainment, because he inspires me nearly every day and I would love for you to meet him. Secondly, I would invite Sir Richard Branson, because I find his innovation, curiosity, and fearlessness fascinating and infectious. Thirdly, I would invite the musician, Sting, because his musical talents are so diverse and creative, and maybe if he fed him something really yummy his would sing something for us.

Jacqueline Belle is also co-producer and narrator for Moomii’s Storytime for Grownups and The Full is a poet, creator, voice artist and an award-winning author with three published poetry collections: When I Walk Upon the Earth, The Collection: a poetic exploration of friendship, love, fantasies, and the soulmate and The Weight of the Universe. Her writing goals are to reach the reader by touching all of their senses. Watch for Jacqueline’s debut novel releasing in 2022. This mystery thriller will give you a taste of something different… sex, violence, beauty, and intrigue. Can these all co-exist? Keep your eye on Jacqueline Belle on Twitter to find out.

Storytime for Grownups is coproduced with Daniel Lacho of Guru Art Lifestyle Entertainment.

The first Abbie heard of them was seven-year-old Porter.
“New neighbours got a Range Rover, Mum.”
“Can’t have.”
“Do.”
“Okay.”
By the time Barry came home from work two Range Rovers were blocking the communal driveway, and that was just the start.
Things were building to a head on the night they heard hysterical screaming. Abbie and Barry ran, to find Mister Neighbour collapsed facedown. He wasn’t breathing, so Abbie started CPR while Barry called triple nine.
Mister recovered, but he never spoke to Abbie or Barry again. It was easier to sell up than say thank you.

©Jane Jago

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

“How dare you invade my landsss and ssslay my sssissstersss,” she hissed.
“Mutton dressed as lamb,” Glory called “You’ve put on weight since I last saw you too. You looked in the mirror lately? Oh no, you can’t have or you’d be full of glass splinters from when it cracked…”
The Lamia Queen drove forward, closing the distance between them, with her hands clawed and long, extended fingernails.
“I’ll get you for that, you vile tongued harridan!”
“Sure you will,” Glory agreed calmly, as the queen swooped towards them. “Call it at every nine percent please, Pew, so we’re ready for the adds, they’ve got a nasty attack but few XP so burn them first soon as they appear then back on the boss – and Milla… be ready.”
Then the fight was joined for real and Milla had a flashing impression of flaming swords, spell effects and shrieks. Until suddenly Glory stopped fighting and stood there with an odd looking smile on her face. Milla swallowed hard. She had a feeling that meant…
A moment later the Lamia Queen shot over towards her, face distorted in fury, clawing fingers extended, Milla found herself frozen to the spot, mouth open, unable even to scream…
“You’ve got a backside like a pregnant hippo, fat cheeks!” Glory’s voice bellowed. The Queen stopped a finger’s reach away from Milla and screamed her wrath as she turned back to Glory and the fight went on. Sinking weakly to the ground, it was all Milla could do to activate her pendant when Pew called to her.
She became dimly aware that the sounds of fighting had stopped and then Pew was beside her, battered and pale but grinning widely. He pulled her to her feet gently and gave her a hug.
“We did it! You were awesome! You should have seen yourself, standing there rock solid, looking so cool. How did you do it, I’d have been terrified.”
Milla wanted to say that she really had been terrified, but no words seemed to want to come, so she just leaned against Pew until she felt alright again.
“I hate to rush you guys, but I’ve got to go in a few and we’ve only got a short time anyway before the Queen respawns to get into the caves do whatever it is we have to do and out again.”
Milla disentangled herself, but kept a firm grip on Pew’s hand.
“Good point,” he said. “We need water breathing pots to access the caverns, you had those Milla.”
Milla nodded and reached for her backpack.
No.
Noooo!
“I.. I don’t have them anymore,” she said in a tiny voice. “I traded my backpack to the griblin.”
Pew looked at her as if she was speaking in a foreign language. Then he turned away, clearly distraught.
“Without water breathing how can we get into the caverns to find String?”
“I know,” Milla said, her heart sinking into her guts. “I mean, I don’t know.”
Glory made a harumphing sound. “Oh for… Milla, you’re wearing a belt of water breathing. It’s got an AOE effect. What is the fracking problem here?”
Milla touched the belt One Eye had given her and looked down at it. The motes of light sparkled and seemed brighter than they had been before. Perhaps because they were so near water?
Pew had turned back and was staring at the belt, then he grabbed Milla’s hand again and ran with her into the lake. There was no gentle slope from the tongue of the beach, two steps in and they were in deep water. But when Milla took in a shocked breath, it was like breathing the sweetest air. Then Glory was beside them, swimming along in her full-plate golden armour, pointing ahead to a dark cave entrance at the bottom of the lake.

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Forsake the dawn and seek the deeper night,
The dark of midnight’s cool, moon-soft caress
Which sets a dusk-kissed breeze against your face.
He weaves wild diamonds from the gem strewn skies
Into a worthy crown of silvered light,
With gentle beams, braids stars in every tress.
From the very vault of deepest space
The last vestige of golden sunlight flies
Gleaming to his hand, so that he might
Reach out and gild with beauty. Then, to bless
The final sacrament of destined grace,
A slender cloud-ribbon enveils your eyes.
Long hidden in the rolling wastes of time
His touch unlocks the reason for your rhyme.

E.M. Swift-Hook