The clouds all roll like breakers ‘cross the ocean of the sky
White horses a-chasing greys, with dapples running by
The thunderheads, black stallions a-gallop with the gale
As howls the call of the banshee storm bringing sleet and hail.

The trees bend low before the wind, which makes like autumn spring
As leaves and twigs and buds and flowers they rip away and fling
The hollow roar of taunting gusts, the pounding of the rain
The water from the river floods the fields and drowns the lane.

The fingers of the tempest from the roofs rips slates free
Vital pylons are brought down by gusts of o’er eighty
The human world turned upsidedown as wounded nature ranges
Unseasonal and more extreme, and still the climate changes…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Hola niños.

In a spirit of kindness and the immolation of self upon the altar of mutual aid and comfort, one has undertaken to answer literary questions posed by one’s students and their little friends.

This particular problem is one that faces many of us as we strive to draw inspiration from the people around us. I have often found myself wondering if my next door neighbour has yet realised that he has been immortalised in my pen portrait of the evil villain in Chapter Thirteen of ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

Dear Ivy,
How do I include my annoying mother-in-law as a murder victim in my next novel without risking a divorce?
Thanking you for your kind attention.
Penny.

This is an absolutely spiffing question Pennykins. The answer is, of course, a matter of complete simplicity to a mind as great as one’s own…

Describe the lady in every irritating little detail.

Enumerate her most revolting habits. Show the reader how she speaks, snores, breaks wind, misunderstands, and annoys. Detail her physicality, how she dresses, and how her voice sounds. Because she will NEVER recognise herself, and her offspring will equally not ever connect their beloved mother with the horror depicted in your prose. You are absolutely safe. Kill her off. With impunity. Or with whatever blunt, or sharp, instrument pleases you. Those who dislike her will recognise the old beldame and applaud your perspicacity. Her loved ones will never catch the reference.

Oh, and be sure to include the statement at the front of your book that all names, characters and events in the story are fictitious and that no identification with actual persons (living or deceased), is intended or should be inferred. Then even the law is on your side.

Win. Win.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a literary problem you may avail yourself of one’s wisdom by posting to my Facebook presence.

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Sana stopped walking to work along the main street.
They’d be there. Men and women. Silent, hostile glares or shouting abuse.
“Come here! I’ve got some letters to post.” Laughter.
“I bet you wear that cos you’re an ugly cow underneath it.”
“Why don’t you return to your own country?”
“We don’t want your sort here.”
“Terrorist! 
Like they thought it their right and she should be ashamed.
She daren’t shout back or tell them how she felt.
Persecuted.
Vilified.
Furious.
Women had been attacked for that – even killed.
So Sana walked an extra mile to work to avoid them.

E.M. Swift-Hook

When he reached the top of the steps he was met by a sweet-faced acolyte carrying a lantern.
“Good sir,” she said with gentle politeness, “our lady awaits you in the garden, may I escort you thither?”
He bowed floridly.
“That would be my pleasure.” His eyes rested on the girl’s smooth brown throat and the modest swell of her breasts. He thought he might come back one day for a bite of this tasty little morsel. But he followed her quietly enough, clasping his hands behind his back and emptying his mind of carnal thoughts.
The garden to which he was conducted was walled, and accessed via a green-painted wooden door. The acolyte curtseyed and gestured for him to enter. Once he was inside, the girl closed the door quietly behind him, before making the sign to ward off evil.
“Faugh,” she said, “he even smells of Her Majesty’s malice.”

Inside the garden, M’a’tsu found himself walking along a narrow grassy path beside a burbling stream. It wasn’t a comfortable walk as, although the path was lit with little twinkling star-like lights, the dragon had to bend his head to avoid the spiky undersides of the gunnera leaves that formed a green tunnel. When he stepped out into the moonlight he found himself blinking for a second in the brightness.
The princess was sitting on a velvety bank that was starred with tiny flowers which filled the air with a fugitive sweet fragrance. She turned her eyes to look at him, and the silver light picked out a sombre darkness in their depths that gave even M’a’tsu pause. His normally facile tongue deserted him for a moment and he stood in silence.
“Come and have a seat.”
She patted the grass and he walked towards her feeling the springy turf under his bare toes. It was still warm from the afternoon sun and the pleasure of it underfoot was almost sexual. The dragon smiled internally and regained his equilibrium. He couldn’t believe how his prey was playing into his hands. He sat down, at a careful distance from the princess. His eyes took in the long line of the princess’ neck and he allowed himself to think about his hands around that white skin as he despoiled her. The thought gave him great pleasure, but he kept his smile bland and avuncular. Or he thought he did. What he couldn’t see, or understand, was how the magic of the goddess’s garden revealed his innermost self to the gaze of his companion.
Her wide-set night-dark eyes, on the other hand, gave away nothing of what she was thinking. Banishing her inner revulsion, Tia smiled with shy modesty.
“Now then, my lord dragon, would you mind explaining why you are here?”
He gave her his shifted form’s most disarming smile and edged a little closer. “Truly, lady. I believe Her Majesty only seeks your happiness.”
“That is a change of heart since the last messenger who informed me that my lady mother had disinherited me and never wished to hear my name again.”

An extract from The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

A limerick’s good as a pet
I doesn’t need feeding, and yet
It will come to your aid
When you’re sad or afraid 
And I’ve never been bit by one yet

©️jj

The door opened with such force that it bounced back off the wall, and Hywel stomped in. His face was puce and he was waving a sheet of paper. Seemingly unable to speak he threw the paper on the table in front of Julia.
She read it and could feel the blood draining from her own face. It was an official complaint that the family of one Hywel Llewellyn, non-citizen, had been observed to be visiting a sub aquila residence without due authorisation.
The Villa Papaverus was not their own house, it was the residence that went with Dai’s job as Submagistratus and was owned by Rome. As such it was designated sub aquila which meant only Roman citizens and those non-citizens employed to work there were legally permitted inside.
“Oh merda,” she said softly. “I never even thought of that. Dai hates having that wretched eagle above our door.”
She passed the paper to Caudinus who read it swiftly then sighed.
“I am so sorry, I should have seen that coming. As I didn’t, I shall have to investigate.”
Hywel made a noise like a cat that has just had its fur stroked backwards,
“Sorry? Sorry that me and my entire family are being criminalised by your filthy Roman rules?”
Caudinus looked at him severely. “Hush man. Be glad I didn’t officially hear you say that. As I said, I do have to investigate. So will you just be quiet and let me think. Or is shouting and blustering at a pregnant woman something you think a good idea?”
Hywel subsided slightly.
“If this goes through the fine will take most of my livelihood for the last quarter.”
“Oh it’s worse than that,” Caudinus said his expression grim. “The fine would be the lightest of penalties. If it were deemed to have been done in deliberate defiance of Roman authority it could be counted as treason. And this complaint names you, your wife Enya and your step-mother, Olwen.”
Julia felt sick. Dai’s mother, sister-in-law and brother were being placed in real peril through someone’s spite.
“Treason?” Hywel echoed, his tone hollow and slumped into a chair, the fire and fury suddenly deserting him. Treason always carried the death sentence –  a humiliating and agonising death in the arena.
Caudinus swept the printed emails into a pile and got to his feet.
“Yes, treason. But if I have anything to do with it, it won’t come to that and I will make sure you are issued with passes under my authority so there is not a problem ongoing.”
“Isn’t there something you can do to dismiss this?” Julia asked, “It is your legal jurisdiction after all.”
Caudinus pulled a face. “It will depend on the nature of the complaint and who the complainant is. It could go over my head to provincial level and those damnable bureaucrats in Augusta Treverorum.”  He touched Julia lightly on the shoulder. “You mustn’t worry about this, you hear me?” His tone was stern. She mustered a smile more for his benefit than because she felt reassured. “And you come with me Llewellyn, I need to get some details from you, if you can guard your tongue enough to manage a trip to Viriconium with me?”
Hywel struggled to his feet looking shamefaced and anxious.
“Uh – yes. I’m sorry, dominus. I know it’s not your fault.  I’m sorry, Julia too – it’s just that…”
Julia held out her arms and Hywel walked into them to receive a quick hug.
“It’s alright,” she said, letting him go, “but for Enya and Olwen’s sake and the children, you have to keep a lid on your anger over this.”
Hywel nodded and Julia felt a little more hopeful when Caudinus dropped her a wink over his head. A short time later she saw Caudinus’ hovercar gliding along the driveway.

An extract from Dying for a Vacation, by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Sara stopped walking to work along the main street.
They’d be there. Men. Blocking her path or following her, cat calling and wolf-whistles.
“Wow! Nice tits!”  
“I’ll give you a hand with those big…” pause for effect, “bags!” Laughter.
“Give us a smile, you’d look so pretty if you smiled.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“What’s your number?”
Like they thought it their right and she should be flattered!
She daren’t shout back or tell them how she felt.
Diminished.
Objectified.
Furious.
Women had been attacked for that – even killed.
So Sara walked an extra mile to work to avoid them.

E.M. Swift-Hook

They rode in silence through the streets of Alfor. The townsfolk moving quickly aside to let the Warlord and his entourage pass and then standing to watch as they went by. Some cheered half-heartedly, but most had sombre faces. Durban nodded and grinned at people he knew and caught a small wineskin thrown to him by one, a gorgeously dressed young man, whom he rewarded with an extravagant blown kiss. But he was fully aware of the dark and hostile glares which were directed at the man beside him.
Then someone yelled from the back of the crowd: “Gut the murdering bastard!”
And like a flame touched to dry tinder an ugly murmur spread quickly and rose, as the braver or more foolish amongst them, hurled abuse at Jariq.
“Baby-butcher!”
“Rapist!”
“Murderer!”
The voices seemed torn at random from the seething heart of the throng, as though the bitter hatred had swelled up and found tongue through a few individuals who spoke for them all. Durban glanced curiously at Jariq, who was riding stiffly in the saddle, his face set and his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. Only the slight tightness of his lips betrayed his feelings.
“I never realised you were so popular,” Durban observed in an undertone. “Does this happen often?”
The Vavasor’s lips curved now into the grim travesty of a smile.
“Only in Terzibrand – I did not think to hear it in Alfor.”
“Don’t you think you should silence them?”
Jariq gave a brittle laugh.
“What’s the point? They’d only shout louder next time.”
“Your men are getting angry.”
It was true. The outriders of Jariq’s elite troupe were eying the crowd to pick out the source of the shouting and throwing appealing looks towards the Vavasor, eager to avenge the insults to their commander in blood. Then a stone flew out of the throng to glance off the Vavasor’s burnished metal vambrace. As Durban watched, he saw something within Jariq snap like a brittle twig and the Vavasor reined in his pony so sharply that it reared up in protest.
“Death of the gods,” he roared. “Must I put up with this cowardly babble?”
The crowd grew oddly quiet and the Warlord’s entourage ground to a jumbled halt behind them. They were about level with the entrance to the plaza and a knot of Zoukai had joined the throng. Durban felt the exultation of a master playwright, watching the first performance of his prize production. He had stopped his own pony a few paces behind the Vavasor, leaving Jariq alone centre stage, trembling with rage. His mount was now sidestepping nervously beneath him, its stubby ears flattened against its head. His words could incite a riot or initiate a massacre and at that moment Jariq looked quite prepared to do either or both. He took a breath and raised his voice to reach to the back of the crowd.
“The Fair is over. The entertainers are gone. Is this how you must now amuse yourselves? Bringing shame on your city and your Castellan by insulting the Most Honoured One, Qabal Vyazin and his retinue? Go back to your homes and your daily business. Be grateful that your sons and daughters do not know the meaning of war. Be grateful that the Warlord protects the people of his kinfolk and will stand between you and an army of conquest when the time comes.
“Only a foolish man will set a lapdog to guard his house. If you want protection for your children and your trade, you need men of spirit, men of war and not gelded eunuchs.”
His eyes raked the crowd as he spoke, challenging and defiant and Durban could see none brave enough to meet his gaze.
“Ride on!” Jariq’s voice rang out incisively and the Warlord’s escort resumed its interrupted passage through the city.

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

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

When a gal from the WI
Was asked why the glint in her eye
She replied with a grin
That it isn’t a sin
To put plenty of gin in your pies

©️jj

The Afterlife of Alice Watkins by Matilda Scotney is a time travel novel with an alien twist. You don’t always go to heaven when you die. Alice didn’t, she found herself on a space station orbiting Saturn five hundred years into the future!

Alice walked alongside Kelly. Although she had only been walking since this morning, it seemed a good deal longer. She said as much.
“That’s because you’ve been walking for the last year, but always in the full calliper. We aren’t going to take any chances for no other reason than you believe you can do it.”
“Walking for a year? Why can’t I remember?”
“It takes years for hearts to grow and attaching them once again takes many surgeries. After you woke from stasis, you were placed on the life prosthesis and even after Dr Clere grew your organs and they became fully functional, you stayed in a semi-catatonic state, despite having normal neurological responses and bodily functions; well, normal apart from the fact you weren’t ageing. You continued to challenge medical reasoning, but Dr Grossmith decided to proceed as if you were awake. And that meant getting you moving.”
“If I’m dreaming, I can understand that my daughter’s not here. I don’t always dream of my family.”
“You aren’t dreaming.”
“Then I’m dead.”
“You aren’t dead either, or dying, not anymore.”
“I was once dying and now I’m alive?” Alice didn’t expect answers to these questions, she was only making statements to help her sift through the vast amount of information she received that morning.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“How old was I when I died?”
“29, but you weren’t dead.”
“I’m almost 65.”
“You were 29 and close to death when your uncle placed you in stasis.”
“No, I’m almost 65.”
“No, you were born in 2098.”
“I was born in 1951.”
“Definitely 2098, we retrieved the information from your chip.”
“I microchipped my cat.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I mean only dogs and cats were microchipped.”
“Principal Hardy summarised his conversation with you.”
Alice stopped walking, stepping to the side to let other people pass. Kelly stood beside her and waited. Any information could mean a breakthrough. “I worked in a bakery as a casual before I got married, then I never worked again.”
“You were a scientist. Several university records from your time have survived which referenced you. If we are to go by the information found, you were a biochemist and part of a research team studying cellular and molecular biology. There was no personal data about where you lived and so forth.”
“The records must be wrong Kelly. I don’t even know what a biochemist is, and those other things, I have no idea what they are.”
“They’re not wrong, Alice, and in the mess, you asked if Dr Clere was a molecular physiologist.”
“I don’t remember,” Alice had a vague recollection of a conversation she’d overheard in the mess, but it was indistinct. “Tell me about Alexis again.”
“After you’re settled in, I’ll tell you the story again.”
“Ok.”

A Bite of… Matilda Scotney 

1. Tell us about how you write: Where do you write and what is your favourite time to do so?

I usually sit on the sofa with my laptop. It is easier for the dog to sit close to me that way!  I have an array of tables and a bookcase to keep my notebooks close by. I’ll write all day from dawn onwards, but I find early morning the best for inspiration. Like most writers, characters keep me awake at night!

2.  If you knew you were going to have to go and live in a universe you’ve created for this story, what one item would you want to take with you and why?

My specs. That way I can see what I created.

3. What is your favourite fast food and why?

Fish and chips, because it’s the only fast food I like, and I wouldn’t cook it at home because I don’t like the smell of fish!

Matilda Scotney  is a former professional singer and actor.  She realised age was catching up when offered the part of the ancient, grey-haired Granny in a stage production of The Addams Family. She decided then she had matured enough (physically and mentally) to give away theatre and turn to her other passion: writing, specifically, science fiction and even more specifically, time travel and space opera. She is a complete Star Wars nerd!  Star Wars (and Star Trek) sparked a fascination in her for building worlds and civilisations, creating characters and watching their story unfold…

You can follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads and her own website.