Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Dying might not be so bad. It was living that had broken him. Taken from his family at eight years old, vowed to celibacy before he understood what the word meant, and sold to the highest bidder time after time. His sword had eaten the blood of so many enemies that he felt today was no more than reparation. As the hooded figure came to his side he looked into its compassionate eyes.
“Am I dead?”
“Nearly. Say farewell to your loved ones.”
The Knight spoke the saddest three words under all the stars.
“I have nobody.”
Then he died.

Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

The Elevator by Sam Kates is the first part of his The Elevator Series

Matt steps into the elevator, wanting only to reach his workspace, and coffee, on the Sixth Floor. Three more people enter and the elevator ascends. Another dreary day in the office, they think. Until the door slides open…
What greets Matt drives all thoughts of coffee from his mind, for he isn’t faced with the drab office he is expecting, but a sun-drenched land of exotic scents. And danger.

The colour of the sky as I trudged to the office should have warned me that it would be no ordinary day. All greens and purples and tones of black, like a few-day-old bruise. It was eight-thirty on a spring morning, yet the air was as stilled and dusky as twilight. Birds flocked and muttered, unsure whether to roam or roost. I paused and looked up.
Big mistake. The cloud formation above Claridge House, where I had worked for the past eighteen months, swirled and spiralled, the colours and movement combining with my hangover to make me want to heave.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. And opened them in time to see the flash of lightning fork down onto the roof of Claridge House like the world’s largest spark. I might have imagined the puff of smoke that rose from the roof, but there was no mistaking the sharp smell of ozone or the way the hairs on my neck and back of my hands fizzed and jived and stood to attention.
I waited to see if the building would collapse or burst into flames so that I might turn around and go back to bed. No such luck. Cursing the efficiency of modern lightning conductors, I resumed my trudge to work. My system needed coffee. Badly.

---

The foyer on the ground floor of Claridge House could not have been less prepossessing. Unless perhaps it hosted a service for devil worshippers, complete with goat, chalked pentacle and slaughtered cockerel. Grimy, peeling walls and linoleum floor, a suggestion of eau de cats’ piss and a few doors leading deeper into the building or to the stairwell. I made for the shiny, battered metal door which opened into the lift.
The display panel alongside the two buttons, one with an arrow for ‘up’, the other for ‘down’, showed that the lift was on the Fifth Floor. Muttering under my breath—the lift wasn’t ancient, but not exactly in the prime of youth either; it would take a good thirty seconds to descend five floors—I pressed the ‘up’ button. While I waited, I glanced around furtively, hoping that nobody else would come. The lift car wasn’t large; it felt stuffy and cramped with two people inside. I preferred having it to myself when I was in tip-top shape; with a hangover, the craving for solitude was almost as strong as my need for coffee.
The lift pinged its arrival at the same time as a draught and sudden swell of traffic noise indicated the main entrance to the building had opened behind me. The lift door began to slide sideways in its uncertain, ponderous way. By the time the gap was wide enough for me to step through, the building entrance had opened a second time.

A Second Bite of… Sam Kates

Q.11 What is worse – ignorance or stupidity?
Well, as the saying goes, you can’t fix stupid, whereas ignorance can be alleviated through education. The worst thing of all, to me, is wilful ignorance. And, oh boy, there’s a lot of that about at the moment. Take, for instance, the people who know sod all about virology, yet pontificate about mask-wearing and social distancing on Facebook as if they’re world-renowned experts. “My mate Gary says that wearing masks starves the brain of oxygen and he should know—he works down the hospital. Why, only the other day he had to wheel some poor bugger to the morgue who’d died due to excessive mask-wearing…”

Q.12 Do you have any marketing tips for fellow writers? (Go on – say do some!)
The dreaded M-word. Although my marketing knowledge has increased over the past few years as I’ve struggled to get to grips with it, I’m no expert. If I had to offer a tip, it would be this: try various marketing methods until you hit on one that works for you—there are umpteen methods out there, but not every one will work for every writer.

Q.13 Can you pin down the time when you decided to be a writer? Or have you always written?
It was the mid-nineties when I hadn’t long turned thirty and was beginning to hate my job (I was a lawyer). I had never seriously considered being a fiction writer until then, largely because it seemed such a difficult profession to break into. It still is, but self-publishing has enabled so many of us who have been rejected by the traditional pubishers to nevertheless make a living from what we love.

Q.14 Is there one of your books of which you are more proud than the others? If so, which and why?
I have another completed series of novels—The Elevator trilogy. Dark fantasy with elements of science fiction and horror. It’s difficult to market (that dratted M-word again) because it crosses over genres and—the first novel, The Elevator, in particular—is probably a Marmite book. However, the final book in the trilogy, The Lord of the Dance, is the one I’m most proud of because I think it contains some of my best writing. And I love the Inception-inspired ending.

Q.15 If you could meet one person (alive or dead), who would you choose? And what would you talk about?
I’d need an interpreter since my Aramaic is a little rusty, and it would be on the assumption she’d be willing to engage in an open conversation with me, but I’d opt for Mary Magdalene. I’m not religious, but I think the tale of Jesus Christ is, as the film title says, one of the greatest stories ever told. I would love to sit and chat with her to find out how much of the accepted biblical version of the tale is true. I’m also fascinated by the idea popularised by Dan Brown that she, and not some wooden goblet, is the Holy Grail, and I’d love to dig deeper into that with her.

Q.16 You are going to meet your literary hero and you are told to bring a gift. What do you take?
Beer. I have a few literary heroes and they all are or were, I believe, partial to a drop of ale. I’ve been for a pint in The Eagle and Child pub in Oxford, the pub where C. S. Lewis and Tolkien used to meet to discuss their work—yes, they are two of them. I sat there supping my pint, while the bustle of the lunchtime rush continued unheeded around me, a little awed simply to be in a place they had once frequented together. The other would be a certain S. King, who I hope still enjoys the occasional beer.

Q.17 Who was the first musician/singer to make an impact on your life? And can you remember the song?
The first single I can remember buying myself was in 1974, when I was around nine: ‘Seasons in the Sun’ by Terry Jacks. It would probably be considered overly sentimental now, but it tugs at the heart strings—the singer is dying and saying goodbye to his loved ones. Sniff.

Q.18 Similarly, can you recall the first book that grabbed you by the gonads and shook your world?
I could say any of the Enid Blyton books I devoured as soon as I learned to read—The Faraway Tree, for example—but I had no point of comparison. Instead, I’m going to choose a book I encountered a few years later, by which time I’d been reading far more widely. Our teacher started reading the book to us in class and it blew me away. I ran home and badgered my parents until they bought me my own copy so I could read it at my own pace. When I learned it was part of a series with six other books, I probably peed a little with excitement. (Not really, at least I don’t think so…) Oh, the book: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Q.19 As a writer, what is your ambition?
My ambition as a writer was, at first, simply to be published. Later it became to be able to make some sort of living from writing fiction. I suppose it’s now to make a comfortable living from writing fiction. There is one other, though it’s more a fancy than an ambition since I don’t believe it’s realistic. It’s to see one of my works adapted for the screen—TV or cinema, I’m not fussy—and sit in front of it in a mix of awe and apprehension as to how my words have been interpreted. How utterly amazing would that be.

Q.20 Chips (fries) or pasta?
Since I’m British and a staple of British pub grub (when they’re allowed to open) is lasagne and chips, why not both?

Q.21 What is your favourite tipple?
Beer. And red wine. Not together—it’s too messy.

Sam Kates lives in Wales, a small constituent country of Great Britain and the U.K. Like many of his fellow countrymen, he possesses a fondness for rugby union (though these days only as a spectator) and a good pint of beer. Usually the two go hand in hand.
His tastes in reading and film tend toward the darker side of life and the fantastic. Little surprise, then, that the fiction he writes is usually science fiction and fantasy with a decidedly dark flavour, or outright horror. You can track him down on Twitter or drop by his website and blog.

Mother looked at her figure in some dismay. She wasn’t getting any younger and she certainly wasn’t any thinner. The living things that crawled on her skin had busied themselves to such an extent that their creations now outweighed them. It was puzzling and it also made Mother lopsided and graceless.

She sighed and considered her few options.

Looking around at her brothers and sisters she now understood why they had done what they had.

Sighing she shook like a great dog shedding the living into the void and reassembling the rest. 

Unencumbered now, she carried on her endless journey.

©️Jane Jago 2020

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

“So, you have to tell me, what’s he like? I mean close up? Is he taller than he looks? Shorter? Has he got bad breath and a squint that they filter out? Or is he just like you see him on screen?” Teram was pumping out questions faster than a media interviewer as they hit the glides, and Dog felt as if a heavy weight was pressing on his shoulders.
“Just like he is on screen.” Only colder. But he couldn’t say that out loud. There was so much he had to not say, it made him feel a tight pressure in his head.
He had told Zarshay it made him feel bad, and she had just given him one of those odd smiles of hers.
“You don’t even need to lie, Dog. Just tell the truth of what’s happened. What’s happened, not why.”
She’d made it sound easy. Heila had been even less sympathetic, no surprises there. She had rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh of frustration.
“Oh for— Why all this soul searching? It’s not that hard.You’re an actor — so act.”
But it was Joah’s words which stayed with him. She had gripped his arm and said, “We’re counting on you, and I know you can do it. Don’t worry, you won’t let us down.”
Joah was counting on him. That knowledge made him feel stronger as he followed Teram through the glides; if Joah trusted him, then he could do it. He had to: the thought of letting her down sat like cold vomit in his stomach.

The salvage crew greeted Dog as an old friend, but he knew right away something was different.
“You told them, you bastard,” he hissed into Teram’s ear as the group waved an over-enthusiastic welcome.
Teram gave him an odd look. “Sure, I told them. But only ’cos they were saying how much you looked like Hengast Gethick. These are my bros — people who I trust my life to when we’re out there.” He nodded towards the smudge-covered window.
Dog felt his headache intensifying. This was a new element to the plan, and he’d have to think how to handle it and make adjustments on the wing. The problem was, fast thinking wasn’t Dog’s strong point and never had been.

In the event, it wasn’t as bad as he feared; in fact, it made his task a bit easier. The salvage crew asked all the usual questions he got from fans, but they were less intense. It was almost as if they were seeing him as Dog — himself, the person, and not as Arlan Stude or even as celebrity Hengast Gethick. It was a good feeling and one he hadn’t had for a while.
When it happened, it was so natural Dog found he didn’t even need to act.
“So, what’s with your wrist, Dog?” someone asked.
Two beers down, he was feeling relaxed and lifted his hand to show off the brace he had on his left wrist.
“This?”
“Yeah. I was reading you broke it in another of those accidents keep happening in the studio. “And Heila Camarthy did another floor-kiss over some cable and needed to see a dentist.”
“I heard your floor technician got electrocuted and nearly died.”
“And is it true your production engineer deleted half an episode? That part of the curse too?”
Dog lifted up his other hand and used both to fend off the questions.
“It’s not a curse. Accidents happen.”
“Really? That many in just a few days? People are saying it’s about these aliens. All that stuff about them being able to attack with bad luck. Shit, the next episode even admits it. It’s called ‘Curse of the Kyruku – Part One.’”
Dog barked out a laugh.
“That’s just a story. It’s not real — not a real curse.”
“Really? You could fool me. All of SP social media’s buzzin’ with it — people guessing what’s going to happen next and wondering if we’ll even get to see them aliens. I was all set to put half my savings into building us that real Golden Strand — reckoned I’d be in with a shot at a crew spot and all. But it’s made me think again.”
“You and me both, bro,” Teram said. “I had in mind to buy some sweet shares in that ship’s golden ass, but no way now.”
Shaking his head in disbelief at how easy this was, Dog swilled some more of his drink and let the speculation run riot around him. It was almost as if they wanted there to be a curse.
“What about this latest one? Zarshay Sygma’s gone missing — someone just put out a tweak on Twister.”
Dog thumped his drink down on the table so hard the base cracked.
“What?” His voice was a roar which stunned half the bar into a brief shocked silence. “What’s happened?”
The salvage crew were all gaping at him open-mouthed and he realised that, for them, all this was just some continuation of the storyline. It could be real people being injured, maimed, kidnapped — but to them it was just more Starways Pathfinders. His good mood evaporated, sucked away into the dark vacuum outside the window, and he pushed himself to his feet.
“I gotta go,” he mumbled and, ignoring the protests and expressions of concern, he strode from the bar and hit the glides home.

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1010

If I fall let it be because I climbed too high
If I fail let it be in great endeavour
If I slip let it be because the ice is dry
Let me labour each task and give up never
If I should in my life cry tears of shame
May it be that I tried though it went wrong
I will take the cold shoulder and the blame
If I know in my heart that I stood strong
I will stand at the side of any friend
With our arms linked and facing any fight
I will pledge to be loyal and not bend
And always speak out for what is right
Even so when I’m old and my eyes fail
When my body is unable for the war
May I still be a beacon on on the trail
And still know what thing is worth fighting for

©️jane jago

Min, Jenny and Linda had been walking their dogs through the woods every morning since summer began to bake the land. It was cool under the trees and the dark leaf-mould was soft underfoot, meaning the canines could run to their hearts’ content while the three women ambled through the green-scented shade, chatting as they went.
About halfway round, the path emerged from the woodland to the edge of a bright green meadow with a pebbly-bottomed stream – and peaty grass that was boggy underfoot for most of the year. The women would emerge blinking into the sunlight while the dogs charged into the sparkling water drinking noisily and wallowing like furry hippos.
It was a day so hot that even the woodland felt a bit airless, which meant that the canines had taken even longer than usual in the cool water. The women were just about to call them out when one of Min’s German Shepherds lifted his head and woofed gently. Before the ‘pack’ could be brought to heel there came a sound of crashing in the undergrowth and two teenage girls emerged from the woodland at a gallop. They ran up to Min.
“Aunt Min. Aunt Min.”
“Tiffany. Chardonnay. Whatever is the matter?”
The smaller of the two made a prim mouth. “There’s a man up by the stone gallows. And he’s got his thing out hasn’t he Tiff?”
“Was he having a piss?”
Tiff shook her head.“No. He was just stood there waving his todger at us.”
Min looked at the two faces and saw little sign of upset. No. If truth were to be told the girls looked more excited than worried.
“You two okay?”
“Yeah. We are. We were just surprised.”
“Do you want us to walk you home?”
“No. Thanks. We’re okay. We can cross the next field and get back onto the road. But what are you going to do?”
“We’ll take the dogs up StoneGallows Hill and have a word with whatever they find up there. You tell your dads I’m on it and I’ll pop by and see them later.”
“But will you be all right?” Tiff sounded genuinely concerned.
“Course we will, love. Three women and five dogs should be enough to scare even the most determined flasher.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. Now get along home.”
The teenagers hugged her briefly, before crossing the water meadow and climbing the gate to the next field.
Linda eyed Min narrowly. “We going up StoneGallows then?”
“I am. It’s up to you whether you come or not.”
Jenny elbowed Linda. “Of course we’re coming. I haven’t seen a willie in years.”
Linda snuffled out a laugh. “I still see one occasionally, though I wish I didn’t.”
“At least whatever he’s waving isn’t going to come as any surprise.”
With which comfortable thought they whistled up the dogs and plunged back into the semi-darkness of the wood. For a while they followed their accustomed path, but then they deviated over a granite stile – which involved lifting Linda’s bad-tempered spaniel, Susan – and out of the woods onto springy upland turf. It was a stiffish climb and even when they reached the top of the hill there was little breeze and the brazen sun seemed to be turning the whole sky yellow. The dogs flopped down on the grass and the women looked about them. The stone gallows themselves stood on a rough rocky mound which was currently starred with white fairy flax flowers.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody here now.”
Linda’s rather pointed nose was twitching as she peered shortsightedly about her, and, not for the first time, Min thought how much like a rat she looked.
“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t,” Jenny snapped her fingers and her two Doberman Pinschers came to heel. “Hans. Klaus. Seek.”
They began quartering the ground and Min’s sleek golden shepherds joined in the game. It was Apollo who found something first. He stood stock still pointing at a spot in the grass. His brother Phoenix joined him, as did Klaus and Hans. They stood like statues, and Susan heaved herself up off her fat backside to go and see what they had found. When the fifth member of the pack joined the circle Phoenix lifted his head and howled. The other four joined in, and for a moment the sultry air was filled with spine-tingling howls.
“Our flasher must smell deeply disturbing,” Linda marched over to where the dogs were surrounding a damp patch in the arid earth. “I sincerely hope that isn’t what I think it is.”
“Probably is.” Jenny came and looked down. “Very probably is. Euwww.”
Min snorted.“Whoever he is. He’s gone now. Let’s go home. I have brownies in the larder.”
The mention of food was enough to make Susan lose interest in the damp spot, and once she moved the other dogs abandoned their vigil.
It was a subdued crew that made its way back down into the valley and the cluster of grey stone houses they called home.
But strong tea and rather more brownies than were strictly necessary lifted the mood, with the group breaking up cheerfully enough and promising to meet as usual on the morrow. Min went to see the fathers of Tiffany and Chardonnay, with the upshot of that being Facebook and Twitter posts warning of a possible flasher in the area of the stone gallows.
It was quiet enough for a week or two, but then more people began seeing a black-dressed figure who emanated frustrated sexuality and waved his manhood at passing females. But whoever he was, he was quick on his feet, because two or three of the younger men went out a time or two, and they never caught even a whiff of anybody, which was odd.
Odder still, One-Eyed George, the one remaining career poacher in the vicinity, was actually heard to say that his dogs wouldn’t go up over StoneGallows Hill no matter how he shouted at them.
Min frowned and started to carry her phone with her at all times. She was fairly certain that three old women – with a pack of dogs – really weren’t going to attract the attentions of whoever was frightening young girls. But, as Linda said, fairly certain butters no parsnips.
There was an aura of mounting unease about the village, and the local law enforcement could be seen driving up and down the sunken road that meandered through the valley at random hours of the day and night. Although how they thought that was going to help anyone to apprehend a flasher in the woods…
Matters came to a head on the longest day, when the flasher waved his equipment at a young woman who was out photographing birds. As he leapt from the bushes she lifted her camera and kept a finger on the shutter. The figure hid his eyes from the powerful flash and shambled back into the trees. She lit out at a run. Arriving in the village puffed out but triumphant.
“I’ve got his picture,” she yelled. “Here.”
Walking into the shade of the pub porch she thumbed a control on her camera. The screen showed a burst of shots of the wood. But no flasher.
The birdwatcher stared at her camera.
“But he was there. Right in front of me. Waving his…”
“Willy?”
Min had arrived unobtrusively at the edge of the crowd. She listened with half an ear to the increasingly improbable ‘explanations’ that were being put forward for the flasher-less pictures, before turning round and going home deep in thought.
By lunchtime she had made her decision, and she phoned Linda and Jenny who both agreed to be at her house for a late solstice supper.
It was midnight and a fat moon hung in the sky like a childish drawing. The three women had finished their meal and they now sat around the table in a room lit only by that moon.
Jenny broke the silence. “Are you sure about this Min?”
“No. I’m not sure. But I don’t have any better ideas.”
Linda looked at her own hands where they lay on the table. “I thought we agreed never to do this again.”
Min grimaced. “We did. But I refer you to my previous answer.”
“Okay. I’m in.”
“Me too.”
Min reached behind her and picked up a bundle from the window seat. She unrolled it to disclose a deck of cards, and a silver bell. Jenny put the bell in the centre of the table and the three women laid their hands palm down on the polished wood. The hands made a circle and as the last little finger touched its neighbour the bell on the table rang. Linda closed her eyes.
“We ask that whatever is haunting StoneGallows Hill be returned to the light.”
“We ask in humble gratitude.”
“We ask in sisterhood.”
The air in the room thickened making it hard to breathe. While each of the women felt sweat stand on her forehead. And each felt a compulsion to move her hands. But they resisted and the bell rang again.
On StoneGallows Hill the moonlight fractured and there came the sound of a creaking rope. The body that hung from the gallows swung from side to side in a nonexistent wind, and the empty holes that were once his eyes shed tears of blood. On the arm of the gallows a raven sat preening its feathers.
“Caw,” it said harshly as the light stuttered again before the body and the big black bird disappeared.
In Min’s sitting room, Linda slumped onto the table.
“It’s done,” she whispered as the pack of cards cut itself and the hanged man lay face-up on the polished mahogany in the moonlight.
It’s a matter of record that the StoneGallows Hill flasher was never seen again.

© jane jago 2020

It is strange how at January’s end
We all stop trying to pretend
That we’ll be super fit
Or we’ll size-down our kit
And resolution‘s no longer a trend…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jacintha Farquhar here again. Slightly the worse for life but still able to muster a thought or two. 

Rather bewildered by two sad females thinking their readership might benefit from my rather robust advice – particularly considering the sad steaming ordure my only offspring thinks of as his magnum opus. (There are times when he is very like the sad excuse for a human being who fathered him on one distinctly unmemorable ouzo-fuelled night. Unfortunately.) But if people have faith in you, you are kind of obligated to do your best. 

Today’s lesson concerns the thing most badly written about of all. If you discount lerv (which one may dabble in at a later date).

Life Lessons for Writers – Five: Lovemaking

The awful remembrance of just how large was my hangover on the morning after Moons was conceived, and the equally awful recollection, after much rummaging about in the grey matter, of how small and uninteresting was his father’s penis dragged my consciousness round to the elephant that sits in the corner of most rooms. 

Sex.

Okay. 

Let’s deal with the givens first. A sexually mature couple – whatever their gender or orientation is liable to dabble. Accept it and decide how you are going to deal.

You have options.

1. The drawn curtain
2. A peep between the sheets
3. Erotica 
4. Porn

Before you decide which avenue to investigate there are a couple of ground rules you will ignore at your peril. 

First. Before you set finger to keyboard, have a proper think about the age and experience of your protagonists. A pair of virgins is unlikely to leap straight into wildly imaginative sexcapades. The likelihood is that you will, if you choose not to gloss over the whole thing, be describing awkward fumbling, embarrassment and a very short-lived experience. Conversely, a forty-year old libertine is unlikely to be unmanned by a pair of blue eyes.

Second. Do. Your. Research. If you have any specific practices in mind, read them up, and establish both the physical possibility and the likelihood of such an act occurring between your chosen couple. 

Third. Avoid bandwagons. However many shades of whatever colour has been done already. Leave it alone….

And finally – do at least try sex before you attempt to write about it. Ideally you should try what you intend to write about, but I’m guessing that is unlikely amongst the assorted virgins, snowflakes, and prudes who are likely to be reading this. Porn sites are your friend.

Returning to our quartet of options…

It is my contention that in most cases only A and B are practicable alternatives. Most of your readers will be perfectly well aware that Tab A fits into Slot B so description of the mechanics is at best superfluous, and at worst cringeworthy. Be warned.

Let’s look at some examples…

Example A wherein it is pretty obvious what is going to occur but we the bedroom door is closed before anything actually happens.

He laughed and scooped me into a very satisfactory embrace.

“Who’s a clever girl then?”

“Me. And would there be a reward in it?”

His grin turned naughty, and we forgot all about our hosts and their problems.

Example B which is a little more descriptive 

I dropped my bottom onto his lap and I knew what his problem was. He had a most impressive erection. I wriggled my backside, feeling the responsive jerk. He grabbed me by the shoulders.

“You better stop doing that unless you mean it.” he said very quietly. 

I smiled into his eyes and wriggled some more.

As to C and D. Well they are more chacun a son gout. And to be bleakly honest if you need my advice you have neither the experience nor the balls to write them.

Now push off and get some experience of something that isn’t missionary position with the lights off….

Buggy-Bot was a game, and a very popular one. You controlled a little buggy exploring the surface of an alien world and if the aliens came to close you would shoot them so the buggy could continue its journey of exploration.

Those consistent in reaching the highest scores for accuracy and control, might become one of the very few who got to play the secret levels. These looked a bit different and when the aliens died their bodies didn’t disappear, they stayed there, bleeding yellow blood. But the mission of the buggy was to explore this new world for science…

E.M. Swift-Hook

I came abruptly awake, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Sunlight? I thought. Just hold on one minute. It was November and I lived in London. Where the smegg was the sunlight in that equation? I sat up carefully and looked about me. Not London. Definitely not London. Instead I seemed to be in a sort of leafy bower in the crown of an oak tree. 
“Chloe,” I said to myself, “you definitely ain’t in Kansas.”
I was dressed in some teenage boy’s idea of heroine/princess-in-need-of-a-knight garb. It was skintight and sort of snakeskin-ish with a teeny weeny skirt and hopelessly impractical sandals. I also had rather a lot of blonde curls and a whole heap more chest than I had any use for. Whoever had given me this avatar wasn’t playing by the rules at all. I sighed and set about braiding the hair into something more sensible while I had a think.
Evidently someone was messing about with my head, and I could even hazard a guess who. But that was for later. For now there was stuff to be done and decisions to be made.
First job was to confirm my suspicions. I blinked slowly twice and, sure enough, a set of Virtual Goggles activated. 
“Status.”
The answering voice was scratchily unfriendly. Which was wrong on a lot of levels, not the least of which is that VG is designed to be absolutely neutral. I stopped trying to figure it out and listened carefully.
“Single female. Fighting skills: -2. Magic: -1.  Charisma: -10. Weaponry: one dagger one short sword.”
Which was mostly bullcrap. Even if this was a new Game my skill levels were far above those. But I chose not to react. Instead I determined to use any advantages I might have.
“Boots.” I said firmly.
Nothing happened so I spoke again. 
“I requested boots. I am entitled to one request. I want a pair of sensible leather boots.”
The boots appeared on my feet although I sensed a certain reluctance on the part of the hive mind. Somebody was certainly smegging about with this Game. But they were in for a nasty surprise. 
“Location.”
“Information classified above player level.”
I grinned. We’d see about that. Later. But for now.
“Locator devices.”
The quiet lasted about thirty seconds then the voice replied (sounding as reluctant as it’s possible for an algorithm to sound). “Beacons in. Left sleeve. Handle of dagger. Cloak. Backpack.”
I blinked slowly three times and closed the goggles. 
By the position of the sun it took me the best part of an hour to find all the beacons. I stuck them one by one into the bark of the tree before taking off my boots and climbing quietly down to the forest floor. I put the boots back on and looked for a suitable tree to hide in while I considered my options. The first two possibles were too possible – screaming trap with every wave of their leafy branches. The third candidate was a gnarled and elderly specimen of undefined species, but it looked climb-able and wasted no energy on allurement. I went up, climbing lightly and using my real world skills to move this stupidly pulchritudinous avatar in the most energy-efficient way.
“Rule infringement.” The voice in my ear was harsh and judgmental. I ignored it and kept on climbing.
Once seated in the crown of the tree I opened the VG. 
“You have infringed the rules. You will lose your…”
“No rule was infringed,” I snapped out. “It is permissible to endow your avatar with your real-world skills.”
“Climbing is not in your real world skill set.”
“Says?”
The silence went on rather a long time before the AI got back to me. And when it did, it sounded like the words were dust and ashes in its insubstantial throat.
“Apologies. Data was corrupted.”

From ‘Rules of Engagement’ by Jane Jago one of nineteen Game Lit stories by as many authors in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.  All profits from the Rise and Rescue anthologies go to support wildlife devastated by the Australian wildfires.