“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

For Caer the days that followed the caravan’s visit to the mithan plateau were tense. His Zoukai spent most of their time spread out across the countryside watching for signs of any others who may have visited the mithan and followed the tracks left by Alexa’s caravan. They had turned over a small camp of outlaws and seen off a better armed group of brigands, leaving their bodies staked by the roadside. But so far there was nothing to suggest they were being tracked by anyone who had seen them leave the road and visit the mithan.
Caer had done what he could before they left the crash site to make it seem as though there had been nothing of value taken from the wreck. But Zoukai and caravansi were seldom fools and with the possibility of great wealth, the slightest suspicion could be enough to persuade a greedy caravansi that they were worth attacking.
Caer’s position was made more difficult by Alexa, who refused to take any extra precautions in the defence of the caravan, claiming that to do so would merely serve to draw the exact attention to themselves that they wished to avoid. So he took his own precautions and said nothing to Alexa. Then as if that were not enough to keep his thoughts fully occupied, there was also the problem of the Kashlihk.
The night after they had come down from the mithan with the last of the plunder, he had been disturbed whilst eating. The Kashlihk had attacked Zarul. Caer had got to the tent where the offworlder was being kept to find Shevek helping the young Zoukai. The Kashlihk seemed unhurt, lying drugged on the pallet bed. But Zarul was obviously in pain.
It took Caer very little time to be sure that his hurt was not serious, the worst wound having been to his pride.
“He’s mine, Captain.” Zarul hissed angrily. “He attacked me. I claim my blood-right.”
In any other circumstances Caer would have supported Zarul without question, even to the point of defying his Caravansi. But the offworlder was no ordinary slave and Caer knew Alexa would blame him as Captain, if he allowed the death of the offworlder and cost her the loss of his value.
“You have no blood-right,” Caer said coldly. “This man wears no brand.”
Zarul lost his temper. “What does that matter? He is still a slave. He is to be sold in Alfor by the Caravansi.”
“The Captain is right. Zoukai cannot claim blood-right for an unbranded man.”
Shevek’s dry voice seemed to restore Zarul to reason. Caer felt a sudden gratitude to the old horseman. He had not expected any support from that quarter. Honour was a strong point for Shevek.
“Go and get some rest, Zarul,” Caer said quietly. “Someone else can keep guard here.”
“But I have been dishonoured.” Zarul insisted.
“If there was dishonour it was of your own making. This man is sick and weak, he has been drugged well enough to make even a pony sleep for a day. You are Zoukai and if you cannot win a fight with him in that state, you are not worthy of the name.”
Caer’s words made the blood drain from Zarul’s features. His eyes darted to Shevek, but the old Zoukai said nothing and his face was expressionless. Zarul shot a final angry glare of resentment towards Caer, then spun around and stormed out of the tent.
“His blood will cool, but the hate will not,” Shevek predicted.
“He is a fool,” Caer snapped.
The crisis past, Caer realised he had allowed his own anger to show, which made him angry at himself. Shevek looked at him thoughtfully.
“With respect, my Captain, he is young and wisdom does not sit upon youthful shoulders. You stood by the letter of Zoukai honour, but Zarul by its heart.”
“Are you saying I was wrong?” Caer demanded. “You were quick enough to agree with me.”
“You are my Captain and the right was yours by the letter of honour,” Shevek reassured him. “But Zarul was not wrong. This man is a slave, branded or not, and he is kashlihk. You may have saved him for the Caravansi this time, but if this happens again all the Zoukai will think as Zarul and then you will have to have him killed no matter what price may be lost to the Caravansi.”
The old Zoukai was right. Caer knew he might be able to face down Zarul but word would soon spread and there would be a lot of ill feeling if it was felt that their Captain was not upholding his Zoukai’s honour.
“It will not happen again,” he said with finality. “The Kashlihk will be kept chained until he is trained to obedience.”
Shevek nodded his approval.
“Your will, my Captain, but this man will not break to the whip. He will wear whatever chains you put on him until we reach Alfor.”
At the time Caer had not believed him. He had broken even the most stubborn of slaves to his will in the past and saw no reason this one would not be the same. But as the days had past Shevek’s words took on the ring of prophecy.
To begin with, once he had regained consciousness, Caer had made the Kashlihk walk with the caravan, tethered to a wagon to keep up his fitness. It was a long way to Alfor and the Captain wanted his prize to be in prime condition when they got there. But the man had shown too much spirit and once had come close to freeing himself, so now he rode in the wagon again, securely chained and cared for by the herb woman and the slave girl from Keran who could speak his outlandish tongue. The Kashlihk was only permitted to exercise once the caravan had halted and Caer could supervise him personally. Unlike the other slaves he did not fear the Zoukai or cower before the whip and sometimes Caer was forced to wonder if he even valued his own life.
In these tense and difficult days Caer’s only relief was to be with Alexa. The Caravansi had summoned him to her pavilion on their first night at the mithan and every night since, seeming never to tire of his body. She did not speak to him of the day’s affairs and would cover his lips if he spoke of them, running her hands over his flesh, seeking his most intimate and pleasurable places and whispering words of intent, until he no longer cared what might happen and had no thoughts beyond her and the moments they were together.
Zoukai made jokes about those captains who became lovers to their caravansi, but then most such caravansi were aged men grown bored of their slave-girls. No one joked about Caer’s visits to Alexa’s pavilion, their eyes would follow him enviously and even the older ones seemed to see it as a mark of special distinction. In truth, Caer did not really care what they might think. Rolling on the furs her breasts cupped in his hands, Alexa was his woman and not his Caravansi and he would have killed any man who spoke slightingly of her or himself for it.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

An offered hand, a welcoming smile
A grin that says I like your style
A word of kindness in an unkind place
On days of sorrow, a shared embrace
While on the good days booze and laughter
Rambunctious joy that lifts the rafters
Or quiet walks to breathe the air
Not talking, but just being there
Though night falls fast, and most things end
‘Til my last breath you’ll be my friend

©️Jane Jago

Namaste you wonderful, desirable and aspiring individual! This bijou blog is here to help you achieve your best ever ‘you’. Here, I offer my help and assistance in reshaping your shape and doctoring your decor internally and externally, to bring your lifestyle into line with your aspirations.

Eating

Eating is a profound experience. It is about bringing the nourishment from the outside world and drawing it deep within your own body to provide yourself with the nutrients and energy that enable you to live as your best ever you.
There will be many places you can read about what you should and should not eat and why, but this blog is not concerned with the basics of nutrition. it is not for me to tell you what you should and should not allow to pass down the sacred descent into the temple of your digestive system.
But there is much need to consider and very little ever spoken about the best way to consume your chosen food.
For most of us, any adventure away from the standard stainless steel cutlery sets of our youth, might begin by mastering – or failing to master – the use of chopsticks. This is, indeed, a step in the right direction.
Why?
Because you are not putting metal in your mouth.
Metal is a wonderful substance for making external items such as rings and pendants, anklets and bangles – but it is not something that should ever be introduced within the body except under extreme medical necessity. The healthy body should be, and remain, metal free at all times.
And that means avoiding metal in all your food preparation as well as the eating of it. The metal will not resonate well with the meal and can cause all kinds of issues.
The transition may be a difficult one for many and I would seriously consider a stage in which you resort to wooden spoons for eating before you achieve the final, fantastic, liberation of eating as natures always intended we should – with our fingers.
Please be aware that once you have adopted this lifestyle change you will notice the impact on your social life immediately. You will come to discern who are your true friends and who are simply lingering at your side in the hope of basking in a little of your glory. Cast aside those who cast you off and ignore their tweets about how disgusting you are to have as a dinner guest. You know you are living your best life and that is what matters.

Namaste!
Lucida the Lambent Lifestyle Coach

It was to be the battle to end all battles and the enemy seemed to fill the horizon. The soldier took a photograph from the breast pocket of his battledress jacket. He looked at it for a second before tenderly kissing that beloved face.
Half a world away, his young wife felt that kiss as she laboured to bring his son into the world. She was comforted.
Three hours later as she held her newborn babe to her breast, she felt those lips again. This time, though, she heard a longed for voice.
“Sorry, love,” it said.
And she knew.

©Jane Jago

As the spring slid into summer, Jenny found herself very much enjoying Mike’s undemanding company and looking forward to what became regular dates at Luigi’s by the river. He never pushed her boundaries, seeming content to get to know each other and giggle a lot. He turned out to have an almost inexhaustible fund of stories about his eclectic band of mates from his schooldays at Gordonstoun. They ranged, as far as Jenny could stop laughing enough to compute, from a horny-handed giant who worked as a trouble shooter for an oil company to a waspishly camp film maker named Will whose hysterical emails were not to be read whilst drinking.
On the surface Mike was an amiable bumbler who lived only to amuse, although it was obvious that he had to be brighter than he chose to appear. He was a doctor of medicine and you don’t get those letters after your name as a prize for being thick. The other thing that gave a lie to ‘big thick Mike’ was the shadow of sorrow that clouded his eyes when he didn’t think she was looking. Half of her wanted to see if she could dig out the root of his troubles and maybe even help. But the half life had kicked hard bade her mind her own business.
Jenny was a bit surprised to find out that Mike and her irrepressible lump of a brother had become fast friends, but unphased by the information that her mum had added him to the list of large young men she thought needed feeding up.
Broaching the subject at the end of one evening she raised an eyebrow. “Have you told Mum we are seeing each other?”
“No. I didn’t figure it was mine to tell. Though I sometimes wish…”
Jenny felt a brush of guilt. “Sorry Mike. I will tell them. Soon.”
He smiled. “No bother. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Then he handed her into her taxi and was gone.

On a breathless evening in August they sat at what had become their usual table with not even a breath of a breeze to fan their hot cheeks. Jenny had her hair piled high on her head, to keep her neck as cool as possible and on impulse she had pushed the ‘pencil’ in the haphazard pile of hair. She knew Mike had noticed because his eyes warmed, but he said nothing.
Their meal was over, but they had foregone cappuccino in favour of icy-cold limoncellos. As they watched the river slip past them in the moonlight, Jenny felt bold enough to talk about more than generalities.
“Mike. Where do you go when you leave here on a Saturday night? I’m pretty sure you don’t drive home. So…”
“There’s a Travelodge out by the motorway. I get a room there. Leave the car, and taxi in and back.”
For some reason she was groping around the edges of understanding, that made Jenny feel guilty. So she fixed him with a stern look. “What a waste of money, when I have a perfectly good spare room, and a parking space.”
He smiled, but his eyes were sombre. “Think before you make offers like that, Jenny. You might hate having me in your personal space.”
“I won’t. I trust you. Although I do have a question.” She stopped speaking, suddenly back in that place where asking the wrong questions called for punishment.
Mike seemed to understand her predicament. “It’s okay. You could never ask me anything that would make me angry.”
Jenny felt her eyes fill with tears. “That’s it. That’s the question. How is it that you understand me so well?”
“Before I moved to the South Hams, I worked in Bristol. I did six months in a unit that specialises in treating victims of spousal abuse…”
Jenny tasted the burn of bitterness and gall in her throat. Another betrayal, another wound on top of so many. When would she learn?
“So then,” she said, and her voice sounded thin and sour in her ears. “Does that make me a ‘case’ for Doctor Mike? Or perhaps I’m to become a pity fuck.”
“Stop that, Jenny. That’s unfair and unkind. You mean more to me than that. And you know it.” His voice was kind, but implacable, and for a moment Jenny teetered on the edge of being afraid enough to run away.
If he had tried to touch her she was sure she would have fallen to pieces like a broken doll, but he didn’t, he just leaned back in his chair and gave her the space she needed to regulate her mind. For quite a while she could neither speak nor move, but his monumental patience was hugely calming, although the bleakness of his eyes revealed how deeply she had hurt him. When she reached out an unsteady hand he put his warm fingers around it.
“Sorry. That was a pretty shitty accusation to throw at you,” she whispered.
He smiled his kind, reassuring smile and gestured to a passing waiter.
“Two large brandies please, and a plate of hazelnut gianduiotti.”
Jenny concentrated on her own breathing until the brandy and chocolates came. She managed to lift her glass to her mouth and take a sip or two, before picking up a chocolate and nibbling it.

Jenny is the latest book from Jane Jago