Some words seem much neglected
Such as galumphing and hirsute
And pedagogue and ortanique
(That is a sort of fruit).
And then there’s words like eldritch
And others of such feral fame
Preternatural, numinous
Are just two that I could name

And in the world of nature
So many words have wilted now
Like bosky, glebe and moiley
(That is a sort of cow).
Yet if I should then apricate
And rain falls from the welkin blue
I might get wet, yet still enjoy
The petrichor with you.

Mayhap tis serendipity
That English can record
Words like nithing and guerdon
(That’s a sort of reward).
But I am otiose today
And so will close this posy
And take my scapegrace self to reave
A potation we call rosy.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I’m not talking about those sensible mummies who feed their offspring regularly on kiddy-sized helpings of regular food.
Oh no. I have an entirely different target for today’s outpouring of old woman spleen.
I’m after the Boden-clad middle-class yummies (and their dungaree-wearing sisters) whose obsession with germs leads them to follow their poor unfortunate offspring about the place armed with antibacterial sprays, wipes and liquids.
We’re not talking about normal cleanliness here, we are dealing with the unnatural idea that little Harpic and Parasol will immediately die if allowed to so much as inhale the air fifty feet from a dog (or within three miles of a smoker).
To illustrate my point, as it’s only shop, our village boasts a rather upmarket deli which sells (in addition to quinoa, avocado and gluten free cider) hugely expensive sheep-milk ice cream. This shop is the natural gathering place for the Jemima and Felicity brigade (which is gradually replacing its Range Rovers with electric alternatives—unless there is a pony, in which case the off-road ability of the RR is essential), who drag out the Bugaboo and Thule strollers and clog the shop with their loud voices and the screaming of their immaculately dressed fanny fruit. After shopping, the chattering classes often congregate on the piece of scrubby grass and dog faeces the parish council laughingly calls a village green, with ice cream. Pots for mummies and cones for the accessories.
Which has what to do with obsessive hygiene?
This. Which I have witnessed with my own eyes.
Ice cream cones get a bit drippy in toddler hands and sensible mothers remove them from chubby fists, lick off the dribbles, and give the cones back before the young become apoplectic. But not this lot. No. They take the cones away and Wipe Them With Antibacterial Wipes before giving them back to their poor unfortunate sprigs.
What the heck is all that about?
I have no idea why that is even an idea.
Any more than I know why every surface on which the unfortunate children so much as sit is clammy, and redolent of whichever make of disinfectant Mama favours.
IMO it’s a pretty unhealthy state of affairs and may well result in kids with poorly developed immune systems and multiple allergies.
But what do I know?
Not a lot. Though you might want to ponder the following before dashing for the Dettol (other equally aromatic antibacterial substances are available).
You must be aware of the theory that the Queen thinks the world smells of fresh paint. What about a complementary hypothesis that there is a whole generation of upcoming middle class children who think all food tastes of antibacterial wipe…

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Writing’s enrichment indeed
It fulfils one of those inner needs
And reading‘s the same
Being good for the brain
Take these actions your psyche to feed.

Jane Jago

Raising a hand for the others to wait, the woman and her bearded companion kneed their horses gently forwards into the moonlight. The woman spoke, her voice light and contemptuous. ‘If it isn’t my old friend the Archdruid. One wonders what business is so fraught with peril that the chosen of the goddess needs the protection of a pair of Paladin knights.’
The bony old man didn’t choose to reply, but the Paladins bowed.
The younger one put up his visor and replied, his voice a pale copy of the ironic tones of the dark-haired woman. ‘One might also wonder what brings a lady warrior with an armed escort to the sacred grove on this of all nights. It is my hope that it means no evil to the Archdruid, as we have a contract to protect him.’
His companion put up his own visor and turned to look at the lady, his eyes burning red in the bloodless face of a golem. He bowed again, then turned to his companion. ‘Don’t be any stupider than you can help, my friend. This is not a lady to be spoken to with disrespect.’
‘Silence golem. Who is in charge of this detail?’
‘That depends on your perspective. According to your uncle, you are. But according to the Council, who rather outrank one knight, even if he is treasurer, I am. This was thought to be an easy job, and I’m supposed to make sure you do it properly, and return home safe.’

While he had been speaking the golem moved his horse closer to the Archdruid, and, moving with the superhuman speed of his kind, he reached over and bashed the bony old man over the head with one mailed fist. The Archdruid slumped over his horse’s neck, quite unconscious.

‘What are you doing?’ his companion almost screamed.
‘Saving the old fool’s life. He was building a forbidden spell and if I hadn’t stopped him, the elf over there in the darkness would have shot him dead.’
‘What elf? What spell? Who are these people?’
The golem looked at his companion with barely concealed irritation in his scarlet eyes. ‘What do you know of the Chaos Lords?’
The young knight closed his eyes, concentrated hard, then repeated as if learned by rote: ‘That they are set over the worlds in order to ensure that the fates of humankind pass according to certain rules, and that they come among us when dark forces seek to interfere with the course of history.’ He opened his eyes and looked at his companion in puzzlement. ‘But what does that have to do with meeting a woman in the sacred grove at Samhain?’
The golem groaned. ‘Use your eyes, fool. The woman you have just insulted is the High Lady of Chaos herself. She could obliterate you with a word. Beside her is her consort. In the shadows are their sons, called in this world Strength and Fortitude. Alongside them is an Elf Lord, with an arrow aimed at your stupid heart. And if you think your armour will protect you, then you are a bigger fool than even I thought. Your family may have paid for all sorts of charms of protection for your armour, but nothing is proof against an elf arrow.’
The young knight swallowed audibly, and when he spoke his voice had risen a couple of octaves, making him sound even younger. ‘Oh. I didn’t know that. What are we supposed to do now?’
The golem groaned again. Then it raised its sword high into the sky and muttered a few words. At once an irritable voice could be heard echoing around the clearing ‘Yes. What? This had better be urgent. It’s supper time.’
‘Golem D10/1 reporting. Have just encountered Chaos Lords in Sacred Grove. Orders?’
‘Cooperate with Chaos Lords, of course. Who is with you?’
‘Newly knighted Sir Amyas.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Yes my lord.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Well do your best D10/1, and try to keep the treasurer’s nephew alive if you possibly can.’ The voice disappeared as abruptly as it had started.

Jane Jago

“The form you need is over there.” The man behind the counter pointed to a wall of pigeon holes full of forms. “And no, you can’t apply online, only on the proper form.”

Rosie wheeled herself away across the Welfare Office and studied the bank of forms. None had a label saying ‘Disabled’ or anything like.

Another client reached up and took a form from an unmarked section on the top tier and handed it to Rosie.

“They keep them up there so wheelchair folk can’t reach them, and unlabelled so anyone else who might need one gives up looking.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

“What’s this one?” Shaldre picked up one of the vials of genetic material which had rolled out of the old storage cylinder and ended up by her feet.
Hepestin shrugged. “Just because I’m a researcher in ancient genetics doesn’t grant me magical powers to read ancient DNA.”
Shaldre picked up the vial in her servo-gauntlet. Of all the things they had found in this long-abandoned human colony, this collection of genetic samples which the labels hinted might even come from Earth itself, was the most exciting discovery her archaeological team had yet uncovered.
Churn Hepestin had been assigned to the team at the last minute to explore any interesting genetic variants in the traces they might discover from the crops these colonists had been growing. Which considering this find of a sealed cache of genetic samples, was serendipity. Originally, Shaldre had not really expected to have much use for her.
“Might they be viable?” she asked, still peering into the vial.
Hepestin was packing the other vials into a secure portable containment chamber and held out her claw for the one Shaldre was studying.
“Unlikely.”
“But you could try?” Shaldre asked, as she parted with the vial despite an odd reluctance to do so.
“The funding could stretch to that.”
Some rotations later Shaldre was looking into the eyes of the sweetest creature she had ever seen, holding it carefully in two of her arms. They had done some research in the colony database so she had some idea of what this was and what its kind had meant to long lost humanity.
“Hello Dog,” Shaldre said gently. “I think you and I are going to be good friends.”

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Is writing inherently risky?
Is that why it makes me feel frisky?
When the dragons and knights
Get into a fight
Should I duck so the bullets will miss me?

Jane Jago

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…

The unknown woman smiled vacantly, a perfect political smile. “What I am saying, is that we can’t afford to take any risks around the issue. If it were to turn out that some obscure aspects of the theoretical predictions had retained an ongoing residual relevance to reality and we had not taken any action, the consequences could be unhelpful for the Coalition.”
Her words left a distinct chill in the air behind them.
“Unhelpful?” Grim echoed, not sure what degree of hazard that was really suggesting.
“Yes. Extremely unhelpful, in fact.” The woman’s voice was as toneless as an AI announcement. “It could lead to the coalescing of a number of anti-establishment elements in a manner that might even pose potential issues in our overall security management.”
Which made it all as clear as mud. Grim wondered if it was a prerequisite for political life to have mastered the fine art of using language to obscure whilst appearing to clarify.
“You mean, something a bit like The Legacy?” Cista Tyran asked, frowning. She must have played this game before.
“Right. Like — but not the same as,” Jecks said, brusquely. “In fact — just possibly even worse.”
There was another chilly silence, but this one was stark. Grim found it hard to imagine anything much worse than the terrorist attacks of The Legacy and he was pretty sure the others were just as uncomfortable at the idea.
“So — if that is all you need me for?” The unknown woman was getting to her feet, the same politely vacant political smile still in place. Rather than making an attempt to detain her, Jecks rose too.
“Right. Of course. Thank you so much for coming. I will show you the way out, Var Dray,” he said. Then he seemed to remember there were two others present and looked at Grim and Cista Tyran with a scowl as if resenting their presence. “If you two would like to review the material, for now. I’ll return to complete your briefing in a short while.”
The door slid closed behind them and for a few moments the silence grew awkward, as Cista Tyran pulled up some remote screens and plastered the walls with images of the two men they had been considering. Then she looked round at Grim.
“Guess this means we will be working together.”
Nightmare.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Don’t start out with the thought you will fail.
Lest your words become skinny and pale.
Feed them a diet.
Of confidence – try it.
And you may find the truth in your tale.

Jane Jago

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago