The singing sands
Entice you on
With miles of gold
And a silver song
But though enchanting
Is their tune
Feet dance unheeding
To their doom
The singing sands
Of foul renown
Call out to fools
And suck them down

©️jj 2020

Friday the Thirteenth! 

Who’s afraid of Freddy Krueger then? Lights a fag from the stub of the last one and sneers. 

Look at yourselves will you. Frightening yourselves shitless about a random date and a fictional monster. 

Get a grip!

Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day. 

To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….

So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.

Stop watching horror films if you don’t have the balls to realise they are fiction. 

Don’t be looking for lucky items of clothing, just put your adult panties on and get on with the day.

Do not walk around with your fingers crossed. You will only wind up hurting yourself.

Put the bloody rabbit foot down. It isn’t lucky for f***’s sake. The poor bloody rabbit is dead.

To cut a possibly very long rant a little shorter here is the bottom line.

Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.

Again I say crap.

If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

Piss off. I’ve said all I’m going to say and you are annoying me now.

Happy Friday suckers!

The wooden bedstead had been in the family for more generations than anyone knew. Almost as long as the rambling farmhouse which each generation had rebuilt and extended to suit its needs.

The bedstead had been the place where family members had been conceived, come into this world and eventually left it. The old stained oak headboard bearing the marks of usage like proud scars.

But all things change eventually.

The latest generation thought the old bedstead too chunky, dark and unfashionable. So they replaced it with a stylish pine bed from Ikea – and had a bonfire in the garden.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Spado’ is a common insult in Dai and Julia’s world. Means literally ‘eunuch’, metaphorically ‘stupid fool’…

        That evening when he arrived home from work, Julia thought Dai looked weary, and she guessed at a difficult case. She was about to try and pry the problem out of him when fate intervened.
       Aelwen had picked up a word to add to ‘Dada’, ‘Mama’, ‘Dog’, and ‘Uned’. When Dai bent to pick her up she held out her little arms and carolled delightedly.
       “Spado, spado, spado.”
       Julia laughed until she all but cried and Dai wasn’t much better.
       “Where did she pick up that little gem?” he asked.
       “She and Luned were out in the garden taking the air when one of the apprentice boys fell off a ladder. He wasn’t hurt, but he fell into Cookie’s herb garden and that was about the least offensive thing she called him. They all thought Aelwen asleep. But. As you can hear. And she enunciates it so clearly. Luned and Cookie are mortified.”
       She watched the tension seep out of Dai’s shoulders and felt grateful for that, deciding to leave the thumbscrews for a later occasion. Instead, she watched indulgently as Dai and his daughter lost themselves in some rough and tumble and tickles. When she judged the baby to have had sufficient excitement she held up a hand.
       “If you and your potty-mouthed daughter are quite finished, I’ll get Cookie to serve some food.”
       Dai threw Aelwen up in the air and caught her expertly. “Lead us to it.”
       As they sat down at the table, Cookie brought bowls of savoury stew, with fresh bread, yellow butter, and sharp local cheese. Once she was sure Aelwen’s portion was properly cool, Julia put the bowl in front of her and a small spoon in one chubby hand.
       “Eat monster,” she said lovingly.
       Aelwen obliged, albeit with a lot of noise and splashing.
       “Look at her,” Dai said proudly, “not quite a year old and already feeding herself.”
       “And Merch – who is kindly cleaning the floor under her high chair.”

From Dying on the Streets the 8th Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on our YouTube channel.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Tights

That’s ‘panty-hose’ for those of you who live on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

I have never, in all my years on this earth, ever managed to get a pair on comfortably. 

Either one of the legs is twisted thereby cutting off the blood supply from the crotch down. Or there is a twist somewhere in the middle which results in a peculiar looking pattern and blue toes. Or the body bit is so long that it is necessary to pull it up over the boobs resulting in a Quasimodo-like silhouette. Or, worst of all, the bloody things crawl up your bum where they act like cheese wire.

And – as for having a wee…

When the youngest son of a minor banking dynasty wanted a wife, the plain-faced and dumpy daughter of a middle-ranking merchant was deemed more than good enough for him.
But. By the time he was forty he was the richest man in the city. 
A subtle campaign begun. Fat old men dropped sugared words in his ears, and fragrant young women breathed adultery in his nostrils. 
None of the city’s merchants and bankers could believe that he might not wish for divorce and a toothsome young bride, so they threw their daughters and sisters into his path like sacrificial lambs. 
He bore it stoically, until he found one young madam pink and naked in his counting house very early one morning. The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to repudiate his wife and children and marry the girl immediately, but he wasn’t a gentleman so he had her wrapped in a horse blanket and escorted back to her father’s house before foreclosing on the mortgages he held on the family’s vineyards and hill farms. 
That put a stop to the most outrageously obvious behaviours but not, sadly, to the ambitions of the owners of young unmarried daughters.
The whispering against his wife began soon after it became obvious nothing else would move the wealthy banker. At first it was subtle enough to be ignored. But when he heard that it said that she had a number of lovers he stormed home in righteous anger. 
He found his wife serenely engaged in her stillroom.
“Why are they doing this to us?”
“Doing what in particular?”
“Blackening your name now..”
His wife smiled her sweet smile and pressed his shoulder.
“Because I’m not good enough for you.”
He swore, before taking her small work roughened hands in his. 
“But don’t they understand that I love you?”
“How would they? Most of them love only money, and position, and showing off to the world. How would they understand the happiness of our home?”
He groaned but had to admit the truth of what she said.
“That is as maybe. But there has to be a way to stop this constant drip, drip, dripping. Before I do something regrettable.”
“I’m sure there is. We just have to think.”
Obscurely comforted the banker went back to his place of business, while his wife carried on bottling cordial and thought very hard.
By the time her husband came home for his supper she had the seed of an idea. When he had finished his food and was sitting by the fire with a stoup of ale in his hand she broached the subject.
“My dear. How many of the noble families in the city owe you money?”
“Without my books I don’t know precisely. But I suspect the answer is all of them. Why do you ask?”
She smiled. A secret folded sort of a smile. “I have been thinking about our little problem. I was wondering how the great and good of this city might react if there was a rumour set abroad that you were considering foreclosing on the mortgages of one or more families as you suspect them of speaking mischief against you…”
He stared at her, then started to laugh. “With extreme fear my love. But how would one set such a rumour afoot?”
“Among the women. I have only to drop a word or two in the ears of one or two of the less discreet of my acquaintance and the thing is done.”
He put his silver tankard down and came to kneel in front of her chair. “Will that be sufficient for them to leave us alone, do you think?”
“It is my hope. But if not we will have to decide who we dislike most and ruin him…”
He threw his head back and laughed delightedly.
“You have the right of it my dearest. You set your rumour about and I will drop hints that I might be acquiring a rather nice country property or two in the near future.”
His wife smiled demurely. “I never fancied a country house. But I wouldn’t mind a bigger garden.”
“If we don’t have to foreclose on anybody I’ll just buy you a house with what you want.” 
“Another child?”
With a roar of delight, the banker dragged his by now laughing wife into his arms. “Come to bed hussy. I must prove myself more manly than your lovers.”
And so he did, and he only had to foreclose on three mortgages before he and his family were left alone to enjoy the finest house in all the city and the happiest of families.

© jane jago

It was a tragedy.

The planet, some of whose inhabitants they knew from the scant remaining records had called ‘Earth’, was no longer capable of supporting life.

When they found the cache of cryogenic capsules most were clearly no longer viable, but one remained that was. Taking the last frozen survivor from the long dead world, they left and went home, hoping they might learn much from the ancient sleeper.

It was many rotations later before they could revive their discovery. So there was great excitement and anticipation when the ancient one woke, stretched, shook itself thoroughly and said ‘Woof’.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The expression of compassion on her companion’s face made her realise that she was not dissembling with her usual skill and that her thoughts must be plain on her face. Fortunately, he was her friend as well as the most senior member of her council. Her hand was still clenched tightly on the letter he had given her, its heavy seals broken, neatly splitting the arrogant emblem of Qabal Vyazin – a fist in a plate-metal gauntlet, holding aloft a sword on which had been speared a crown. Harkera’s crown, she had thought, when reading the domineering demands within.
“I am sorry, Morvyn,” she said sincerely. “There has been so much happening over these last few days and now this.”
The man nodded with understanding.
“It has been a testing time for us all and so much more for you as Regent,” he agreed. “In eight generations nothing like this has been received by any Harkeran ruler. And yet now it is you, a widow, someone who has no blood-claim to the crown in your own right, who is being called upon to deal with a declaration of war.”
She knew he said it to show he felt it was unfair, not to suggest he had no faith in her ability and looked away from him, her eyes dropping demurely as if in agreement. He could not know that she had been trained from birth to deal with this day. She unfolded the vellum in her hands and read the text again.
His most excellent and puissant Highness, the Most Honoured Qabal Vyazin, Overlord of the Western Continent and protector of all the Free Cities of Temsevar, demanded the submission of his loyal vassal, the Lady Karlynne Roussal, Princess of the Realm of Harkera and all her family, together with all the Castellans and Vavasors of Harkera. She was required to present herself within one moon at the Overlord’s loyal city of Tabruth, together with all the nobles of Harkera, to make due submission to the Overlord and to affirm their loyalty and vassalage to him by blood-oath. In addition, she was required to bring with her in chains, the rebellious traitor Jariq Zarengor, who was known to be sheltering in Harkera under false pretences. She was also required to bring an appropriate bridal train and the Harkeran regalia of office and prepare herself for the honour of marriage with the Most Honoured Nariz Vyazin, Castellan of Telpus, the only son and sole heir of the Most Honoured Overlord…
“How old is Nariz?” she asked quietly.
“Four or five summers I believe – and is reportedly a sickly child. For all his potency as a warrior, Qabal has not proved so capable of fathering offspring – there are even rumours that the child is not his but was sired by one of his commanders.” Morvyn tactfully refrained from mentioning which one, but Jaelya had heard the same stories.
“A child of five and Karlynne more than twice his age.” With an angry gesture, she flung the vile letter down. In a matter of days her whole world had changed. Lynaz was taken and Tabruth, for all the Castellan had spoken fine words of resistance and alliance, had surrendered without a fight as soon as Vyazin’s army appeared on the horizon, whilst Kharzabad had accommodated before it was even threatened. Their reward was being allowed to keep power with client status to Qabal. The cities of the Tanist alliance were fighting amongst themselves and now Harkera stood alone.
For a moment Jaelya felt the weight of the burden upon her shoulders as something physical. What hope was there for Harkera against such power? But the image in her mind was of Karlynne, gently reared into the free-thinking, liberal Harkeran high-culture, alone and at the mercy of the harsh, barbaric court of Qabal Vyazin.
Morvyn might have read her thoughts.
“The wedding won’t happen. The Dewan will support you in refusing to allow it. I promise you that.” His voice dropped a little. “It will mean war of course, but we have expected that all along.”

From Times of Change the second part of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can also listen to this on YouTube.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Stupid Names for Coffee

I can get my head around espresso and cappuccino, but what are the other seven hundred and forty three things on the bloody menu?

I don’t know. I don’t care. I have no wish to be enlightened.

When you come to take my coffee order and I say I would like a large cup of black coffee with a small jug of cold milk on the side, just nod.

Do not. If you want the big fat tip it is my habit to leave, laugh gently and say.

“Oh you mean an Ameicano with a chilly side.’

I know what I mean….

Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre writer and an old hand at NaNoWriMo. In her books you can escape the everyday with the time travel action adventure series Druid’s Portal, science fiction and fantasy stories or tranquil scenes for relaxation. Discover worlds where the heroines don’t wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way.

(1) This is not your first rodeo with NaNoWriMo, why do you do it?

At first, I did it for the challenge and experience. Now I do it because it gives me a good space in which to focus on writing. Once published, it is easy to get distracted by marketing, sales, social media and the like and get substantially less actual writing done. At least with a Nano done, I have a draft to edit and a story told.

(2) What is the best part of doing NaNoWriMo?

I still find the best part is the focus on creativity. It’s a time when I do think about the one book intensely, and I find the plot unfolds more readily than if I was writing each day. The book comes alive for me, and it is enthralling.

(3) What is the hardest aspect of taking part in NaNoWriMo?

When I have been doing something else before, or been unwell, or need to finish something non Nano during the month. My focus is blunted, and I don’t enter the creative zone. Then writing becomes a torment. I have powered through it, but I never like what I write during these times. Sometimes it can be salvaged, but I have given up early in later years rather than burn myself out.

(4) What has happened with the book(s) you have written in a previous NaNoWriMo?

One became the second Druids Portal. Others are still waiting more editing and eventual publishing. One fantasy fan fiction homage won’t see the light of day due to copyright issues, and a gardening book became too much work to progress further. Generally, I’ll need a bit of work to finish them (I usually write through December to do this) and then editing etc.

(5) What project are you working on this year?

I am planning on completing the Druids Portal series, with a book and a half to do. I have been researching ancient Britain of late to get ideas and plotlines so I can finish, finally. It will be lovely in subsequent years to write something entirely new.

(6) Finally, what advice would you have for those attempting it for the first time?

I have written a short booklet for those attempting Nano – it’s permanently free as a thank you to the NaNo community. So people are of course welcome to download that! I think it is important to think about your writing self and mental state. Does the thought of so much pressure worry you? Would you feel terrible if you failed? Only one in six participants do succeed, so it isn’t an easy task if it’s not your thing. However, if you need a push to write, then the support on the nano forums and writing groups is great. There is no penalty for failure either, so you can try and see how it goes, and even starting will probably teach you a lot about your writing style. Plotter or pantser? Slow and steady or a book a month?
For the first time it is good to organise yourself and your physical environment. Clean the house, cook and freeze meals, stock the pantry, Christmas shop, and warn your family. Take time for exercise. Make time for family during the month. Organise your time to write in a dead space – commuting, TV watching etc can be swapped for writing without locking yourself away. 1,667 words don’t take all day to write, or they shouldn’t.
I would also advise some sort of rough plan. Some events, a map, characters, even a bit of dialogue. A bit of preparation can help even a pantster on days when you get a bit stuck.
When writing, you are not supposed to edit. I do find re reading and correcting spelling from the previous day is enough to get me back into the groove. Leave a few notes to yourself on ideas for the next scene is also helpful. If you need to research something not vital to the plot, make a note (highlight the text to find it again) so you don’t get sucked into the wormhole of the internet. Leave social media until the day’s words are done.
And good luck!

You can find Cindy Tomamichel on Facebook, Twitter and her own website or even sign up for her newsletter. Writers struggling with social media and platform building can get some practical organization help in The Organized Author book or find more author services from Cindy at her Organized Author website.