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

Silly Rules

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for health and safety. I lived in a time when if you got your fingers cut off by a machine you were working with because your employer was too much the tight-wad to have proper guards fitted, it was all on you.

But things can go too far.

One of my friends, who can’t get around like she used to, has a carer in most days and they are most obliging and helpful, she tells me.

Except when she asked if one, a strapping young thing in her mid-twenties, would be kind enough to stand on a step ladder and get a meter reading for her.

No.

She hadn’t done the training. She was due to have it next week.

So. My fellow octogenarian, wobbly on her feet, went up the step ladder herself. 

Said carer reported back on the stepladder training. Apparently they were not even allowed to step on a step ladder during it as they hadn’t been trained – health and safety, you know…

Tales From The Pirate’s Cove is the latest anthology from Inklings Press – and it’s all about pirates. Now you might think that’s all the Jolly Roger flying, people walking the plank, treasure maps and all of that – and there certainly is some of that, but we threw the gates wide open for submissions. As long as it could be understood to be about pirates in some fashion, we considered it. That brought us such a… forgive me for saying it… treasure trove of stories. There’s space pirates, time pirates, cosmic horror pirates and more. There really are some great stories in there – it’s an absolute pleasure to be alongside them. It’s out now, on Amazon.

The beginning of ‘To The End of the World’ by Leo McBride

A tale of cosmic horror and pirates on an island that should not be…

She ran, and I followed.
Up the path she went, laughing as she skipped ahead of me, while I struggled behind with my pack and my sword. On she went as I faltered, around the bend and out of sight. Still, I gave chase, following the sound of her laughter.
She was waiting for me at the top of the hill, standing in a small cemetery with a view out across the sunset ocean. I gasped, partly from the climb, partly from the beauty before me.
“It’s wasted on the dead, isn’t it, Ben?” she said, folding her arms as she watched me approaching.
I shrugged. “Everything is wasted on the dead, Kate.”
I tossed my pack to the side by the entrance to the cemetery as I entered. High above somewhere, a raven cawed.
“I thought you were never going to catch up,” she said, a smile on her lips and fire in her eyes as I approached.
“You always did run further and faster than me,” I growled.
She laughed. “That or you’re just getting out of shape. Too much rum, Ben?”
“Is there such a thing as too much rum?” I asked as I reached her and scooped her into my arms. We kissed roughly there in the sunset.
She broke the kiss, her fingers pulling at the ties on my shirt. “Still, you followed me, Ben.”
“I always will,” I said.
“Always?” she asked as she pulled off the shirt.
“Always.” I kissed her again, my fingers in the dark curls of her hair.
“Until the end of the world?”
I smiled at her, at the wild look in her eyes. She broke away, peeling off her own shirt. Her skin glowed in the evening sun.
“Aye,” I said, “until the end of the world.”
And she pulled me down, down beside the dead, down into her embrace, sealing a deal I didn’t know I was making.

A Bite of… Leo McBride

Q1: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

You know, there’s probably a chunk of truth in this. I’ve always used writing and fiction as escapism. As a kid, it was roleplaying games that got me away from a world that wasn’t always that nice to be in. I’d still be playing those if there was a local group! Writing was part of that too, an outgrowth of writing for scenarios for friends. These days it’s probably less about therapy really but certainly it is an outlet for that escapism and creativity all at once. Plus it’s darn fun.

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I’m going to fudge a little on this question by saying yes and, um, maybe? Look, the world has all shades of belief and sexual orientation so if you want your book to be representative of the world, then yes, you want to include it. But if you’re going to do it, make sure you do it right. I’d say worse than exclusion is inclusion but getting the details wrong, that’s misrepresenting those communities. As for the maybe, well, sometimes a book isn’t about the world as it is, and there might be very specific reasons not to include certain aspects of that world in the story. Always worth asking the question, though – why are you picking certain beliefs, orientations, nationalities, cultures and so on and not others, what is it that shapes those choices? It can make a big difference – look for example at the kinds of cultures in Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea series that consciously moved things away from the very white European kind of fantasy of its day. As ever, it’s all about what choices the author feels suits their book, but asking yourself why you’re making those choices can challenge you to make the book better.

Q3. Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

Well… I kill everyone in my books so survival chances are better in this one! Plus there’s more rum and beaches nearby here.

Leo McBride is a writer of speculative fiction – spanning the fields of horror, science fiction and fantasy. A journalist for more than 20 years, he is based in The Bahamas where he is an editor for the country’s leading newspaper.
He has published several ebooks – although Quartet is the first of his own writing. He has also been published in other anthologies from Inklings Press.
You can find out more about his work on his blog, and follow him on Twitter and Facebook.

“But Mum. Teacher says the dead can rise.”

“No hon, he said given a very specific set of circumstances they could possibly leave their graves…”

Mum looked sternly at the twins.

“He also said the risen dead would last less than a breath out of their earthy beds.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about?”

“Not a thing.”

“And all that stuff about rocks having consciousness?”

Mum stopped the car and rotated her head to look into the back seat.

“Well we know that’s bollocks, don’t we.”

As one child the twins nodded.

“So they haven’t rumbled us then?”

Mum laughed.

©️jj 2020

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

After everyone had gone, Em picked up the phone and called the young man who had so enjoyed the batshit madness of the vicar. The phone was picked up at once, but she found herself speaking to a young woman with an attitude problem.
“I don’t know where you got this number, madam, but Tristram is far too busy to be bothered with random callers.”
“I got the number because he gave me his card. Now just be a good girl and put him on the line.”
“I can’t do that. Tristram only takes calls between eleven and midday.”
Em sighed. “He told me to call at any time. I do a rather nice line in batshit crazy vicars.”
“Oh are you Mrs Van der Velt?”
“No. I’m Emmeline Vanderbilt.”
This took a bit of processing but eventually got Em passed to the man himself.
“Sorry for the delay.” He apologised perfunctorily. “What can I do for you?”
“You can answer a question to start with.”
“Fire away.”
“Is Ronald Dump newsworthy?”
“Depends what he is doing. Opening another of his dreadful leisure facilities is nasty but not news.”
“I’m rather hoping for not opening and consequently losing his shit in public.”
“For even a chance of that happening I’ll have a camera crew wherever whenever.”
“Right. So can you have the dim bird, who I assume must be pulchritudinous in the extreme to keep her job, put me straight through when I call because there may not be too much notice.”
His laughter sounded genuinely amused. “Pulchritudinous isn’t a word one normally hears used in conversation around here. Although it perfectly describes Amanda.”
He stopped speaking and Em could hear scrabbling in the background.
“Sorry,” this time he even sounded it. “There’s no good trying to get anything as revolutionary as putting someone straight through into Amanda’s head. You can text this number and I’ll get right back to you.” He reeled off a string of figures and Em wrote them down.
“Okay. I’ll call you if I can make this happen.”
“I look forward to that call. And. Mrs Vanderbilt. Good hunting.”
Em put the phone down, thinking how the idea of discomfiting Dump seemed to be able to bring together the most diverse of people – the unprincipled and deeply selfish Tristram, and Ginny, the newest and most PC of vampires, being a case in point. Whatever. There was no time for wool gathering – she had a tenants association to sort and an unprincipled lawyer to contact.
By the time she was done, Agnes’ army of granddaughters and great-nieces had mined the seam of council paperwork to some effect. The email was long, rambling and informative. There was indeed a planning application on the books. It postulated an eighteen-hole golf course, a boutique hotel, a restaurant, a range of holiday homes, and a range of shops. Access was, of course, to involve the demolition of the housing association properties.
None of that surprised Em. What was surprising, though, was that the applicant (and the owner of the land) was quoted as being DumpCorp.
“Got you you bastard.”
Em’s smile, could she but have seen it, was a feral thing. She called Agnes.
“You still got a girl in the Land Registry?”
“My great-great niece, Morwenna.”
“Right. I need to know two things. Has Harmful Gums actually sold his land to DumpCorp? Also has the housing association done, or tried to do, anything with the land the estate sits on?”
Em could almost hear Agnes thinking. “Okay. Can do. But I may not be able to get hold of her until tomorrow. What has just come in. From Jamelia. Is a full copy of the agreement the tenants have with the housing association.”
“Good. That was what Ishmael wanted.”
“Em! You have never called in Ishmael.”
“Why not? He’s a very good lawyer and just as slippery as anybody they might have.”
“But Ishmael is a demon.”
“So are most of the legal profession.”
Agnes sighed and Em could picture her throwing up her hands in despair. “Okay. Have it your own way. But who is paying him? As if I didn’t already know.”
Em put the phone down and made herself a cup of blood tea. When she got back, Agnes was still talking. Erasmus stood beside the phone with his face arranged as close to a smile as a bat can get.
He spoke in Em’s head. “Nothing new. Except that she wonders how DumpCorp expected to get away with downright illegality.”
“Me too.”
“In a moment I will tell you. For now, finish your conversation with Agnes.”
Placating Agnes took a good ten minutes and left Em feeling worn and scratchy. She had also committed to an emergency Nest meet the following day to discuss the problem and to introduce their new sister.
“Why do I listen to her, Erasmus? I mean she wears plastic clogs and loud floral printed smocks. Her idea of tasteful is chintz and shag pile. And she eats takeaway burgers…”
Erasmus actually chuckled. “You listen to her, Emmeline, because she is your oldest friend and she has always had your back no matter what. But now. Do you want to hear what the vespertilian community knows about DumpCorp?”
“I’m all ears.”
He sighed. “That is a singularly inept piece of human phraseology. But I digress. DumpCorp expects to get away with overt law breaking for a number of reasons. One. It always has. Two. It effectively owns two High Court judges and a Law Lord. Three. It will have its fall guys lined up. Probably Harmsley-Gunn, the chair of the county council, and your local MP.”
Em sat down with a bump. “That’s masterly Erasmus. Do they have us beat then?”
“No. Not with the supernatural community against them. This time I reckon the corporation has bitten off more than it can chew.”

Part 25 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

There never was a better time
Nor yet a better place
To make your play, up your game
And thus win every race
Today is always here, but look
Tomorrow comes apace
You need to make your mark right now
Or vanish with no trace.

You can’t procrastinate too long
Time will catch you lazing
Posterity won’t hang around
You’ve got to be amazing
You have to stand out from the crowd
No time to sit a gazing
You’ll be forgot unless the world
Follows the trail you’re blazing.

So then your comet brightly flares
But when it’s course is run
You can’t sit back, relax and chill
Or take time to have fun
You have to keep on pumping up
Keep on, keeping on
Or someone else will steal your place
And your day will be done.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jaz finished working out and, having freshened up after, was disturbed to find someone had apparently stolen his wardrobe – three guesses who – and replaced it with rough, bag-like items of clothing made from plant fibres and animal hair, skin, bone and such like. Part of him was tempted to just walk butt naked into the common room of the ship and demand the return of his proper clothes. It was the kind of response this deserved. But, what the hell. It would only mean another argument with Blondie – which Jaz would inevitably lose on some technicality and the result would be the same.
Teeth gritted, he made himself the sincere promise that as soon as this with Avilon was done he would walk away and never have anything more to do with Durban Chola. He fought his way into the clothing, fingers stumbling, clumsy from ignorance, over the strange fastenings.
The final effect, observed in the mirror, was – interesting. The animal origin of some of the fabrics was something most in the Coalition would have found pretty disgusting, but Jaz had been raised in a place where wearing leather was an accepted necessity and you didn’t ask what animal the skin came from either. Despite the rough fabric and hand-stitching the outfit looked as if it belonged on him.
That would be Chola’s doing. He would have worked from Jaz’s measurements to ensure the final result looked natural. The man was one of the best people he knew at judging to perfection how to dress for any given occasion. At first, Jaz thought him some kind of shallow, artsy, fashionista. But he came to realise it was nothing so trivial or one dimensional. Blondie wasn’t so much fashion conscious as appearance aware: it was all about disguise and not at all about fashion. The blond man knew exactly how to create a look in any setting, to blend in or stand out as he chose and could always create exactly the impression he wanted.
When Jaz finally emerged from his cabin and went into the common room, Chola was also dressed in local style, but much more elegant and perhaps overdone, including a long brown coat with lots of gold wire and orange glittery stones sewn onto it. Jaz half- expected there to be a silent gloat in the blond man’s eyes, that he’d complied without protest. But there was nothing more sinister than critical appraisal, lurking behind a smile of approval – like an artist looking over a nearly finished sculpture.
“I’ll sort those lacings for you in a bit,” he said. “You’ll need to learn how to tie a double bow. But all in all, I think you’ll do as my mute bodyguard.”
“Mute bodyguard?”
“Yes. Not an unknown role here. Some gentlemen of business prefer not to have personal servants in close attendance who might be able to share privileged trade information. And since you can’t speak the language it works. You just have to remember you can’t speak. And on no account remove that hat – the scalp-port would be an instant give away.”
There were times Chola went well beyond careful to the point of being patronising.
“Yeah. I figured,” Jaz said, restraining himself.
“And you really must drink this.”
A mug of tea that smelt like over-spiced mud and shit. Jaz pushed it away as he sat down.
“I’ll pass.”
The blond man shook his head.
“You don’t understand me, Jaz. You must drink it. This contains much of the local biology and biochemistry. It’s a recipe Gernie developed years ago, though I have to say I prefer the flavour of Pan’s – she manages to cover a lot of the bad taste with spices. If you’re going to get ill or have allergies to the prevalent microbes of this world, I’d rather we found out here in Keran where I can nurse you through it, than out in the wide world where it could hit when we could be in some very bad place.”
The thing about Chola – the most annoying and irritating thing about him – was that he was always right. Well, almost always. Jaz drank the tea. It tasted like it smelt – spiced up shit and mud. Bearing in mind what Chola said it contained, Jaz figured the taste probably was pretty close to the reality. Meanwhile, of course, the blond man carried on talking. He loved to talk.
“I did think of trying to pass you off as Zoukai, you would look really good all decked out in their embroidered gear, you wouldn’t even need a hair extension, your hair is naturally long enough to braid and it would allow you to wear as much weaponry as you could cram in. But if anyone saw you on a pony – the illusion wouldn’t last long.”
Zoukai – that was in the third lecture. They were the brotherhood of riders who guarded the trade caravans. Named after some local bird of prey. Jaz was surprised he actually remembered.
“I’m going to be wearing my belt anyway, Blondie. I’ll have all the weaponry I need on that.” It was a cutting edge, military-grade, armaments belt with built-in kinetic shielding and any number of other useful features.
“True. And anyway Zoukai tend to stick with the caravans not go for private hire. But you will still have to learn to ride.”
Jaz finished the tea and forced himself to swallow the dregs before putting the mug back on the table.
“It can’t be that hard – if the locals here can master it, I’m sure I can be as good.”
Chola looked at him with something that could only be deliberately ill-concealed amusement.
“I’m sure you will be – given time.”

From Haruspex:A Walking Shadow a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The old man dribbles
Where his teeth don’t fit
His daughter wipes his chin
And smoothes his hair
A biscuit he nibbles
While his eyes beg her to sit
And smiling she gives in
Beside his cushioned chair
Thank you he tells her
With a lopsided smile
And taking her hand holds it fast
As he rests his cheek on her head
It’s almost as if his old nose smells her
I’m happy when you sit with me a while
Says the old one as he breathes his last
I love you, Dad, was the last thing she ever said

©️jj 2020

An extract from  How To Start Writing A Book brought to you courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

If you tuned in expecting advice from Moons, you are out of luck this week. Instead, you’ve got me again, Jacintha Farquhar, hag of this parish.

All right you load of miserable excuses for human beings who fancy yourself the next Stephen King, pin back your lugholes and be prepared to learn. You are all very keen on writing epic battles and knights in shining armour and all that crap, but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a one of you has ever actually even seen a fight leave alone dirtied your precious pinkies by being involved in that most working class of pastimes that is a bloody good bundle.

Life Lessons for Writers – Two: Fisticuffs

Okay then. Here’s the deal. This week’s lesson is entitled fisticuffs and is intended to give you at least the vestige of an idea about what happens when adult human beings set out to beat the crap out of each other.
First things first. If you want to really understand your knights in shining and their trusty steeds, join a re-enactment society. Get your feet stomped on by something that feels like Mummy’s best le Creuset Marmite, crawl around in mud and snot and tears for a while, watch as the bloke on the horse breaks every bone in his body when he hits the ground from a height of seventeen hands. Then go rewrite your crappy medieval fight. Similarly, should you be romanticising the English Civil War, go join the Sealed Knot and enjoy the delights of a pre-dawn melee on a frozen moor. I’m sure those of you living in the colonies have something similar recreating your own local battles. Want an idea of modern or futuristic combat? Try laser-tag or go paintballing.
The more mundane sort of present-day scuffling is a little more problematic to become personally involved in. For two reasons.

One: there is the potential to get hurt quite badly (and should some middle-class twat turn up and randomly start throwing punches, everybody will forget their grievances with each other and unite to beat the living crap out of him or her).

Two: the real possibility of getting arrested exists.

For the above reasons I have chosen not to suggest you seek personal involvement. Instead, I’ll let you learn from my experience and debunk some of the popular and misguided myths that pepper the writing of the fight virgin.

1. It is extremely difficult to knock somebody out with one punch. And should you manage to do so the chances of having inflicted serious and life-threatening injury are very high.
2. It is almost impossible to punch someone and cause sufficient pain so that your opponent will admit defeat. This is because most people in fights are seriously impaired by drink or drugs and have had their pain threshold raised to somewhere in the stratosphere
3. If you knock somebody down, don’t be thinking that makes them not dangerous. Nine times out of ten they will get up. Fucking furious. If you should ever manage to put an opponent on the floor the only sensible action is to leg it.
4. Please do not ever think that any sense of chivalry can be found in a Saturday Night Special. When they are in the moment, men will hit, men, women, OAPs, cats, dogs, toddlers, their own mothers. You have been warned.
5. Nobody. But nobody walks out of a mass punch-up with their hair/make-up immaculate and their clothes in apple pie order. It. Does. Not. Happen. Participants (even those accounted victorious) will be dirty, bruised, smeared with blood and mucus, and, in the case of the female of the species, inevitably missing one shoe (almost always the left).

So, there we have it Jacintha’s guide to the grim realities of physical combat. Read, learn, inwardly digest and get your fucking act together. Now you have no excuse to get it wrong so go and rewrite that last fight scene and leave me to my prosecco.

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

The phosphorescent sea was so beautiful, even by day, that it defied description, but, when twilight fell, the oceanic sheen also stained the darkening sky with fingers of pulsating light. It was such a sight as to bring even strong men to  tears.

Every day the sea performed her magic, and the extent of her glory grew a little with each dawn. 

People began to swim in the liquid light, coming out of the waves with the wide eyes of children and a glow that looked as if it came from within.

Nobody remembers when the first swimmer grew gills… 

©️jj 2020

“All hail Emperor Sulieman and his Empress Leonore.”
People ran from their homes and businesses to line the streets and stare at their dark emperor in his dented armour and drink in the beauty of the velvet-clad empress.
At the palace, they rode through the wide open gates, and if the empress saw the heads that decorated the walls above the gatehouse she gave no sign. The first sign of any interest came as they progressed through the dragon’s garden.
“Husband,” she said in a wooden little voice, “why is that Drake so chained?”
“He always has been.”
“Always?”
“For a hundred and half a hundred years.”
She frowned. “Then it is past time to strike off his chains.”
“And let him fly away?”
“Whether he flies or does not fly is immaterial. He should not be thus imprisoned.”
Sulieman shrugged. “Very well. I will give the order.”
“And I will stay to see it done.”
She slipped from her horse and went to stand at the dragon’s head. Those who gathered in the garden were later to swear that it was as if the Ivory Empress and the green/gold dragon were communicating on some subliminal level too deep for mere humans to comprehend. But that was much later. Truth to tell nobody saw anything to remark save the straight tall figure of the Empress with one hand on the dragon’s neck as the smiths struck off the chains that held him captive. Once he was free the firedrake inclined his head to the Emperor, almost as equal to equal, before curling himself into the soft grass and closing his eyes.
Sulieman was curious. “Why does he not fly away?”
“On wings unused for more than a hundred years? It will take time before he can fly. If indeed he ever can.”
A shadow passed over Sulieman’s face and he tugged his intricately plaited beard. “I shall be sorry if that is true. Bad enough to be tricked and held prisoner, without being maimed.” He turned his handsome head towards the dragon. “Good firedrake,” he said with extreme formality, “if it should so be that the actions of my father’s father’s father have maimed thee. I would apologise and make such reparation as I can.”
For the first time since his capture the dragon spoke. His voice was like the crackle of flames around the Yuletide fire and it made one think of woodsmoke and autumn. “I think myself unhurt, Magister, it is just to think of whether I wish to go or stay a while and observe.”
Then he shut his mouth and closed his eyes.
Sulieman looked at his Empress. “He can speak, habiiba, why has he never spoken before?”
The Empress sighed. “For the same reason you did not beg your captors for water.”
Sulieman bowed his head. “That is hard hearing, and I feel shame that I had not thought that a firedrake may have his pride too. I should have freed him long since.”
For the first time in their too brief acquaintance, Leonore reached out a hand to her husband. It was a massive step forward and Sulieman smiled.

From ‘The Chained Dragon’ one of the stories and poems in Pulling The Rug III by Jane Jago