Two Women and Some Books
Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…
If you’re old then I say this to you
There are certain things that you can’t do
You can’t make your lunch
Alcoholic punch
or have a Slow Comfortable Screw!
The Silk Thief, by Claire Buss, is the second full length novel in the Roshaven series.
It was Griff’s funeral. Ned Spinks, Roshaven’s Chief Thief-Catcher, watched from his elevated vantage point on the upper part of the shore as the crowd congregated by the water. He scanned the throng for any suspicious behaviour. A cool sea breeze carried some freshness his way, combating the aroma caused when you get lots of individuals gathering in one place. It gave him small comfort to see such a large turnout, his own grief was too raw.
‘Yor not on the clock now, Boss,’ Jenni the sprite remarked as she nodded a greeting at the Gingerbread folk. Wary of the water, they stood as far from the damaging liquid as they could without removing themselves from the ceremony.
‘Yeah, well, you know, people,’ muttered Ned.
‘Fourteen’s over there.’
Jenni pointed and they both stared at the elegant Imperial gazebo erected upon the Dead Pier. This was the other reason such a great crowd had assembled, and why the air hummed with animated chatter and gossip. The Emperor of Roshaven had recently revealed she was a woman, and this was her first formal event since that announcement. Unfortunate that it was a state funeral.
‘Mhm.’ Ned’s reply was as nonchalant as he could make it. He hadn’t seen Fourteen since they returned from their quest to save love and defeat the Rose Thief. After their triumphant return to the city, Fourteen had been immediately swept up by her administrators, the High Left and High Right. Every time Ned tried to get in to see her, the Highs cited important imperial duties that couldn’t be disturbed. After several tries, Ned had resolved to leave it for a while. He wasn’t certain if it were the Highs or Fourteen that were keeping him away.
‘Sparkly dress,’ commented Jenni.
Ned knew she was trying to get a response from him and his gaze flicked over again to where Fourteen stood, slightly apart from her retinue. Her short black hair framed her face and her silver gown was shining in the sun.
It relieved him when the opportunity came to change the subject as Momma K, Queen of the Fae, glided past bestowing regal smiles upon individual members of the crowd. Ned noticed he didn’t receive one and Jenni had ignored hers.
‘Things not going smoothly at home?’ Ned inquired. Jenni was the eldest of Momma K’s children, but she stayed with him in the city more often than not.
‘S’complicated.’ She was looking over at people on the pier again. ‘Who’s that talking to Norris?’
Ned decided not to push it, families were complicated, and his was no exception. Despite himself, he glanced over again at the dignitaries assembled on the pier. Fourteen was busy greeting some bureaucrat or other. There were representatives from all of Roshaven’s trade partners and a few cities they had not yet connected with. He could make out Fat Norris, otherwise known as the Lower Circle, whose responsibility it was to maintain existing trade agreements and keep them running smoothly while working on establishing new ones. He was talking to a familiar looking man, dressed in blue. Ned squinted and then stiffened.
‘It’s Theo.’
The Silk Thief will be released on 4 June but is available for pre–order right now!
Q1. What do you love most about writing the Roshaven books?
I enjoy letting my imagination go wild but really, it’s the characters in my head telling me what to write. Every time I sit down, I have no idea what’s going to happen next or what kink they’re going to throw into the storyline. It’s why I don’t do a great deal of pre-planning. I am most definitely a discovery writer. The characters are such fun, one day I will have time to write down all the great backstories.
Q2. Have you considered doing any spin-off stories for one of the side characters and if you ever did which one would you most like to do?
You may remember that The Interspecies Poker Tournament is Roshaven Case File 27 which means there will be a further 26 novellas… potentially. I expect to have at least one per member of the thief-catcher team, an origin story if you like. And, of course, Fred. Who wouldn’t want to write a spin-off story about Fred, bless him. Ma Bowl might have a few juicy secrets too. Ooooh the possibilities!
Q3. If you were invited to tea with the Empress, what would you take as a present and why?
Cake. Rose likes cake only she rarely gets to indulge as it’s always sliced up for visitors and she’s usually so busy, she never gets chance to sit down with a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake. She needs more cake in her life.
Claire Buss is an award-winning multi-genre author and poet. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of marketing and administrative roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and expert procrastinator Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. You can follow her on Twitter, Facebook and her own website.
No one really understood why Rowena was so fond of the rose garden, but every day she would walk from her sheltered-home apartment across the busy main road to the park and sit there for a time. Even in winter when the gardeners had pruned the bushes to bare stumps with thorns.
People walking by were sometimes surprised to hear her talking to herself and even laughing.
One morning the gardeners arrived early and saw a young couple sitting on the bench chatting, laughing – then fading away.
Somehow they were not surprised to learn Rowena had died in the night.
Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…
“Hail One Eye Rye!” the Visitor declaimed. “Pray show me your wares, merchant.”
“Oh-Em-Gee, Pew. Don’t tell me you bought the fragging lizard DLC?”
A short dwarven Visitor had pushed his way into the shop, his armour glinting by its own light. The hilt of his sword was a huge fist gripping a gigantic gem.
The ryeshor Visitor shrugged in a most un-ryeshor way. “Yeah. What of it? I want to be the first to unlock the achievements for them.”
“Ha! Like ugliest toon on the server maybe?” The dwarf hawked and spat, then laughed as if that was the most hilarious thing ever. “You see that Pew? These new toon actions are killer.” He hawked and spat a couple more times.
Milla could see One Eye was getting angsty so she grabbed Pewpowerpwnsyou by the arm and pulled him quickly from the shop. He seemed a bit surprised but didn’t resist and to Milla’s immense relief the dwarf followed them out still hawking and spitting. Then he stopped and jumped up and down on the spot a few times.
“They still don’t have one for teabagging though.”
“You’re gross, String.” Pew’s snout wrinkled.
“At your service,” the dwarven Visitor agreed. “But what the frag are you doing here anyway? The new expac is waiting it’s got five new l33t dungeons and this place is just a borefest of old lore backstory. Not even any new quests.”
“There is if you’re a lizard. A whole new quest chain with epic quality rewards.”
The dwarf pulled a face. “Didn’t see anything about that on the forums.”
“Check the discord, numbnuts.”
Milla knew it was rude to interrupt, but she was not hearing anything that seemed important enough to delay the search for Ruffkin. She stepped between the two Visitors.
“Excuse me, but…”
“Figures. They’d be looking to scrape money out of people they just stung for fifty bucks on the expac. What better way to do it? The ratstabs.”
Milla raised her voice.
“I said, excuse me, but my dog is in danger. I’m sure your discussion can wait until after he is safe again.”
Pewpowerpwnsyou stepped back and bowed from the waist.
“Forgive me, fair Milla. My staff is yours to command.”
The dwarf hawked and spat. “What she saying?”
“Oh, you lamer. You don’t even have ryeshor language skills? What a n00b. Peedle off and go play on newbie island, String, it’s about your skill level.”
“I got a better idea,” the dwarf said. “I’m going to alt a ryeshor.”
“What? No. String…”
But the dwarven Visitor had already gone leaving a faint shimmer in the air where he had been standing.
“Oh frag it.” Pew’s crest had fallen so its ridges drooped in pure misery.
“Is that… Is that something bad?” Milla asked. “I mean, it sounds bad: ‘alt a ryeshor’. Maybe we should warn the others.”
Pew’s crest was still down but now he was staring at her with wide eyes.
“How did you..? You can’t…” He broke off and shook his head “No. it’s nothing to worry about. Just String being String. He’s just a PITA.”
“Then please, can we just go find Ruffkin? He must be terrified wherever he is.”
“Sure. I mean…” He cleared his throat and returned to his affected style of speech. ”Forsooth Lady Milla. We will go forth and redeem your noble hound from his cthonic captivity.”
Milla sighed.
“Well, you’re the one with the location spell, so you’ll have to lead the way. Now, please stop talking to me like that and let’s get going.”
“If it is your will fair lady, we will depart post haste and…”
Milla screwed up her snout, spun on her heel and strode away towards the pyramid.
Pew caught up with her by the path to the outer gate. It was open, but guarded by two drakkonettes. They both wore gleaming black breastplates decorated with crossed keys and each was armed with a bladed polearms, decorated with inlays of the same cross-key design. They held their polearms so the shafts extended to block the space where the gate should be, barring passage just as effectively.
As far as Milla had ever heard drakkonettes never came further south than the Wailing Hollows, so seeing two standing guard on this pyramid made no sense. Drakkonettes were not completely unlike ryeshor – apart from having huge leathery wings, no tail, massive jaws, tusks and being almost half as tall again as a fully grown ryeshor. They were also known to be ferocious and these two were not looking friendly. Still, if Ruffkin was on the other side of that gate…
Pew caught her arm and pulled her back.
“You know the aggro range on those?”
Milla blinked. “The..what?”
Pew puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.
“Nevermind. This is really weird. Look, those mobs are a linked encounter. I could burn one of them easy, but two, without heals…”
Milla was beginning to think that the Visitor was something of a coward. If she hadn’t needed his location spell she would have been very tempted to leave him there and go on herself. After all, who said only Visitors could go on ventures? She was on one now, for sure.
“I could talk to them,” she suggested. “They look a bit bored, maybe they’d let us through if we find some entertainment for them?”
“You mean like this is some kind of weird sub-quest? We’re not supposed to fight them?” Pew lifted his hands as if trying to push the world away. “Oh frack, I wish I’d got in on the beta of this or someone had at least put up a walkthrough on the wiki.”
We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.
Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology.
I’ve been on a diet,
But now I am through
Tiramisu, banoffee
I’m coming home to you
I’ve been eating celery
Dining on air stew
Strawberry cheesecake, apple pie
I’m coming home to you
I’ve been counting calories
As I have to do
Sticky toffee caramel
I’m coming home to you
I’m putting the scales away
Cos they make me blue
Tiramisu, banoffee
I’m coming home to you.
Ginny sat back and read over the list one more time.
The Menopause
Disadvantages
hot flushes
depression
weight gain
dry skin
dry hair
hair loss in the places that should have hair
hair gain in the places that shouldn’t
vaginal dryness
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children
Advantages
no more periods (!!)
no more PMS (!!!)
warm in winter
hair less greasy
skin less greasy
fuller figure
female bonding
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children
becoming a vampire
She smiled and deleted the last line. Yes, it was an advantage, if not the advantage but she couldn’t put that in this piece.
The title was buoyantly cheerful:
Virginia Creeper is Back!
It felt good to see that.
Her maiden name was Cropper but from almost as soon as her pithy articles on good living had become popular in the mid-1990s, ‘Virginia Creeper’ was how she had been known.
Her phone broke the peace of the morning with a tinny rendition of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ and she picked it up with reluctance from the white desk and sat back in her chair with a sigh as she answered it. Beyond the rectangle of her laptop’s screen, she could see through the window of her small cottage into the garden where two brownish birds were perched on the bird table, pecking at the wild bird seed she’d put out for them.
“Hello Lucinda, how are you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. More to the point how are you? Burying yourself away in darkest rural England. It can’t be good for you.”
Ginny watched as a larger, black coloured, bird descended on the bird table and the other two flew off. She wondered idly what sort of birds they all were. Sparrows? Starlings? What colour were sparrows supposed to be anyway?
“I think it’s the best thing I’ve done in the last five years,” she answered honestly.
“Are you sure it’s not just another phase of your menopausal depression? I worry about you all alone in the middle of nowhere with all that mud and muck and only yokels and bumpkins for company. You could still come back to London, you know. Keep that place as a holiday let or whatever.”
Ginny groaned.
“I’m not coming back, Lucinda. I love it here.”
“Just think what you’re missing, though.”
Ginny thought.
She had worked her way up the greasy pole from local reporter to tabloid features writer. Then when the internet became truly a ‘thing’ she had been one of the first to migrate online and her blog became essential reading for those looking for lifestyle advice – if the lifestyle was one that was both fashionable and organic.
Then it had all fallen apart.
Small things.
Complaining about the heat when others were cuddling up in warm coats.
Losing her temper once too often. Getting over-merry at a social event where there were too many who mattered. Her boyfriend and partner of the last fifteen years walking out after a pointless row.
Then her appearance started to change.
Her hair started thinning, leaving a noticeable bald patch. Her skin became dry and flaky, so each time she undressed a small snowstorm ensued. She found herself staring at her face in the mirror and thinking a stranger was staring back. It had taken waking each morning with a nameless feeling of dread to make her run to her GP, terrified she was in the grip of some awful illness.
Her GP had been patronising and sanctimonious. It was all perfectly natural, he explained, nothing for her to worry about. She was, the GP revealed, going through the menopause. The GP talked about HRT and Ginny shook her head. There were too many scare stories, she’d even written some of them herself, and in the vulnerable place she was in, taking it seemed too big a step to take.
So she had suffered in silence.
Quite literally.
Everything in her life had ground to a standstill.
Even her cat had moved out and taken up with the man next door.
It had been worse than going through puberty backwards.
She had fled London to avoid everyone she knew. Using almost all her savings to purchase this little cottage and living on the little that remained. One of the reasons she was once more setting finger to keyboard was that steady evaporation of her funds.
“You still there, Ginny? Not done one of you silent withdrawal things again?”
“No. Not even slightly. I was just thinking what I was missing, as you suggested. The endless round of artificial smiles, the false promises, the free samples delivered with cloying fake goodwill and the backstabs and even death threats when I didn’t endorse them. And that’s not to mention the noise, the polluted air, the crushes on the tube and the dreadful traffic. Oh yes, I miss it all so much.”
“Don’t be overdramatic. You know it’s not all like that. There’s the culture, theatre, concerts, first-nights, hobnobbing with all those celebrities – you can’t tell me you don’t miss that?”
“I don’t miss it, Lucinda, not at all. But, FYI, I have decided to revive Virginia Creeper and I have a lot of interest from the broadsheets about me doing a regular feature.”
“Oh?”
Was that a spike of acid, Ginny heard in the single syllable? If anyone had benefited from Ginny’s premature departure it had been Lucinda. Her lacklustre lifestyle pieces had become more popular in the void left when Ginny herself vanished from the scene.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Ginny said, able to do false sincerity with the best of them.
“What is your returning piece going to focus on?”
“Oh this and that. I thought I might tell the story of how I got involved with the local Ladies’ Association.”
“Really? That would be so utterly charming.”
The relief in Lucinda’s tone was almost tangible. Ginny had to smile. That was another thing she didn’t miss about her old life, these cold false friendships required by what they all called ‘networking’.
“Oh yes, I think it will be and maybe a piece on the menopause and how it affected me.”
“I’m sure that will go down well with the Millennials,” Lucinda’s voice had taken on a slightly bored lull. Ginny knew what that meant and started counting down from twenty silently in her head.
“I am so pleased to hear you’re getting back into writing though, it will be good to see your name again in the bylines.”
Fifteen…fourteen…
“And of course if ever you do decide to return to civilization you must come and stay with me and Malcolm…”
Eight…seven…
“And of course keep in touch. I dread to think it, but if I didn’t make these efforts to call you you’d have gone native in that place.”
“Little Botheringham,” Ginny provided helpfully.
Three…two…
“Oh yes. That was it.”
“One…
“Well it’s been nice chatting but I have to go. Some of us have busy lives still. Bye for now.”
The line went dead before Ginny could add her own farewell and she put the phone down on her desk. It wasn’t a bad idea actually, telling the story of how she had come to join the Little Botheringham Ladies’ Association…
From ‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.
I have a cold inside my head
Serious it’s not
But it makes me lay in bed
Drowning in my snot
My mouth is sore
My nose is crusty
My throat on fire
My voice all rusty
I have a cold
That’s really true
Stay back unless I
Pass to you
Social Media
Unlike many octogenarians, Gran here is well up with the youf and that which is laughingly called ‘social’ media. I like to think my Twitter feed is both informative and entertaining, while my Facebook page is a fountain of wisdom and wit. I’m not going to even attempt to teach you how to become a force like me, all I can hope for is to give you some hints about internet security.
Let us consider photographs…
Holidays: tempting though it may be Do Not post photographs of your crew giving it large in Jamaica all over the web. You are only storing up trouble. For every person who enjoys your innocent joy there will be one who thinks you are an entitled bitch who deserves to be taken down a peg and another who reckons your empty house is ripe for being burgled.
Food: nobody gives a flying **** where you are eating, or what you are eating. Stop it. Now.
Selfies: unless you have managed to turn your hair green or you have climbed Everest unassisted, then one a week is more than plenty.
Children: yummies Stop Posting Endless Images of Wheatgerm and Claustrophobia. You are doing the poor little blighters a great disservice. What is cute when you are three will be nothing but an embarrassment when you are thirty-three. Unless you want one of your children to smother you in later life don’t document their lives for all the world to see.
Other content…
Inspirational quotes: just don’t…
Cute memes: these are okay as long as they are reasonably fresh. If you are gonna be the three millionth one to share – don’t
Internet ‘chain letters’: nobody wants to copy and paste stuff no matter how worthy you think it is. Neither do most people want to share unamusingly PC perorations. And as for ‘I think I know which of my friends will share this’ – just send it to them ones then.
And finally…
Remember the internet is the twenty-first century incarnation of the saloon bar. The difference is that saloon bar trolls generally got their clocks cleaned by those they offended. Internet trolls hide behind keyboards and avatars and the like and are probably sitting in their bedrooms dressed only in crunchy underpants and mismatched socks while they criticise your sartorial efforts.
It’s a jungle out there kids, and sometimes even a Kardashian backside ain’t wide enough to deflect the bullets….
It doesn’t matter what you think – this is Granny’s opinion and it’s not up for discussion!
Kitty Gilthorpe never troubled about the weather, she walked her dog, Rolo, every day whether it was sunny or windy, sleeting or scorching, foggy or frosty. Her walking boots lived by the door with her sturdy stick.
Which was why Rolo found the couple stuck in their car in a snowdrift on the way to hospital with no signal for their phones.
Kitty Gilthorpe was born practical. Before you could say ‘got it sorted’ she had them back to her cottage and the babe born on her kitchen floor.
It was a boy and they called him Rolo Gilthorpe Brown.
Sam scooped up child and oxygen cylinder.
“Okay Bill, we’re gonna run. Is that OK? I won’t drop you.”
William nodded, and Sam set off down the stairs as fast as he could safely go. Out of the door they went, and across the grass to the waiting helicopter. Sam ran as fast as he could, silently thanking God for all the hours he spent in the gym. As he reached the chopper, the door opened and he handed his burden into the arms of one of the waiting crewmen. He jumped into the machine, hearing gunfire behind him and felt something sting his shoulder.
“Bastards,” he said. “Anybody else hit?”
“Yeah. One.” Rod said.
“Bad?”
“No. Shoulder. Flesh wound.”
“Okay. I’ll have a look after we’ve settled Bill. You come sit with him and hold him so he’s sitting up. And chat to him. I don’t want him going back to sleep yet.”
“Right. I will. But what about you? Are you hit?”
“Sort of. Just a scrape across the biceps. I’ll spray it and shove a plaster on it.”
He suited action to words, before turning his gaze towards the boss of the jumpsuit men.
“Is there any problem with them shooting at the chopper?”
“Nah. It’s armoured. Even the glass. And they don’t seem to have any serious shooters. Mostly sawn offs, a couple of two-twos and a few handguns.”
“Good. I’ll look at your bloke’s shoulder as soon as. Can you get him out of his jumpsuit?”
“Will do.”
Sam turned his attention to the child in Rod’s lap. He grinned down at him and carefully removed the oxygen mask.
“How you doing Billy Boy?”
“I feel awfully sick.”
“I can give you an injection to stop that.”
He saw William’s involuntarily wince.
“What is it little man? Did they hurt you when they injected you with their drugs?”
“Yes. They hurt me a lot.”
Sam stroked his head.
“Well we won’t give you an injection then. I have some pills, though they won’t work quite as well.”
William studied his face for a moment.
“Will you hurt me if you give me an injection?”
“No. I promise I won’t.”
The little boy held his sleeve.
“Then you can give me a shot. I feel so very sick.”
“That’s a boy.”
Sam took a local anaesthetic spray from his bag and lifted the sleeve of William’s T-shirt. What he saw there made him tighten his mouth.
“That arm looks a bit sore. Is the other one the same?”
“Yes.”
Rod hugged the small figure very tightly and his face was stony. Sam managed a grin for William.
“Leg then?’
William nodded and Sam sprayed the small thigh liberally. Then he prepared the anti-nausea shot. Before William had a chance to flinch the injection was done.
The little boy was jubilant.
“I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Good. So will you trust me enough to let me give you a shot of antibiotics? You are very cold and you might have picked up a bug.”
“Yes. You won’t hurt me.”
Sam swallowed around a big lump in his throat then gave his small patient a shot of penicillin.
“Can somebody open my bag?” he said. “There’s a red jumper in the top, and I need it.”
A hand passed him the soft wool and he pulled it over William’s head.
“Arms through. It’s much too big but it will help to warm you. And now, stick your legs inside this sleeping bag. Better?”
William actually managed a little giggle before rubbing his face in the softness of the sweater.
“It smells like my Daddy and it’s as soft as clouds. Can I go sleep now?”
“You can. Cuddle into uncle Rod and keep nice and snuggly.”
William turned into his uncle’s huge chest and gave a small sigh before falling asleep.
“Sam,” Rod said “this jumper is cashmere.”
“And? That child is cold. No contest. Now I’m going to look at this gunshot wound before the boomer boys get back.”
From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago You can also listen to this on YouTube.
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