You can listen to this on YouTube.

One will openly admit that one much prefers to read literature that has stood the test of time over that which is, so to say, fly-by-night literature from origins suspect and with no listed publisher willing to put their name on the colophon. One speaks, of course, of that dubious fraternity the ‘indie authorhood’.

But, one hears a baffled disciple murmur in perplexed tones, did not you, dear mentor, belong to that brave band of scribes who carve their own initials in the hall of publishing fame?

Ah, yes, indeed that is so. But one needs to be clear about the difference between one’s own sterling achievements and those who simply upload whatever dross they may have vomited over their keyboards in grunge ridden attics, whilst no doubt intoxicated by substances which one would struggle to pronounce as chemical formulae. The average ‘indie author’, dear reader who writes, is not worth the time of day. It is only the elite, the creme-de-la-best, such as your beloved pedagogue oneself, who shine brightly out from the pallid throng and thus are worthy of consideration as serious producers of literature.

So you may imagine one’s consternation when Mumsie returned from a holiday in some distant corner of darkest America, clutching a tome she had signed by some random author having purchased it at a garage sale or some such from all one could fathom. She seemed keener to discuss the beer she had been offered (Widmer Brothers drop top amber ale) and which she vowed went well with the Pernod and advocaat she always carries in her hip flask, than the author who proffered both beer and book.

“Read this,” she snapped and thrust the volume in ones face so one was confronted by a pair of glowing eyes. Not hers, these were on the cover of the book.”It puts the tosh you write in real perspective.”

Of course, one could not refuse such a challenge and so I did read.

My Review of Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

A police officer has a mental breakdown which explains why he sees things and believes the deluded young lady he encounters can work magic. A lot of people die and the policeman takes ever further leave of his senses. If one had been his superior one would have definitely fired him!

The best part is a brief glimpse inside the British Museum.

Three stars. One for the book and two for the cover with those dangerous-looking glowing eyes which was perfect for terrorising Mumsie, when lit from below and left on a table as she came in drunk. One can still hear the shriek in fond memory.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

(Contrary to the opinion expressed by that moronic son of mine Moons here, Hunting Darkness is a tense, supernatural thriller by Ian Bristow and that beer was very good. Cheers, Ian! – Ed. Jacintha Farquhar)

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.

Gosh, he thought, she’s pretty. They never said she would be pretty. That made it more difficult.

It’s not hard to deal with a man, or one of the creatures that crawl out of the abyss. But the execution of a young and pretty woman wasn’t what he signed up for.

He watched her through the sight of his laser rifle, entranced by both her prettiness and her attitude as she sneered at the city. Too proud to allow himself to choke, he slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

Pffft…

It was a comfort that she still looked pretty.

©jane jago

From ‘When Julia Met Edbert’ in Dying to be Friends by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Julia went into the hut and unloaded her food bag, before setting up the hut’s unreliably shielded coms link, thus making sure the place looked inhabited to a casual eye. She carried the rest of her belongings to a broad-trucked oak tree where she dropped the bag on the ground. Several trips, and a good deal of climbing, later she was satisfied with her arboreal nest. She sat in an accommodating fork right at the centre of the crown of the tree. She was barefoot, with two gel mattresses under her and a carefully woven twiggy roof over her head. She opened a self-heating food pouch with a momentary longing for the thick, tasty stew she had abandoned below. But, then again, stew laced with sleeping drugs…
Thanking her lucky stars that it was Augustus not December, she leaned against the rough tree trunk and closed her eyes. She must have drifted off to sleep because she was startled into wakefulness by the sound of coarse masculine voices speaking in a language that was definitely not Latin.
“Well, here’s the hut. Where’s the woman?”
“She can’t be far. Her stuff’s here.”
“It is indeed. So we wait. Khulan. You and the boy tether the northman and the hounds.”
At the sound of the coarse male voice speaking the Mongol tongue, Julia felt herself regressing to a twelve-year-old girl. A girl taken prisoner by Mongols and beaten half to death for disobedience before they tied her to a wooden bar and took turns raping her. She had been sure they were going to kill her, and they may well have done so had not a half a century of Legionaries arrived in the nick of time. She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but she still had nightmares – particularly about one Chingis, who had been amusing himself with a ligature about her throat in the moments before he met his demise.
She dragged her mind back to the here and now, peering cautiously around a branch. Right below her, a small man was tying a blond giant to the very tree on which she sat. The blond had his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck by which he was being secured to the huge trunk. Additionally, another man was tying two thin grey dogs to another tree, cruelly tightly. When they had done that, they picketed half a dozen sturdy, short-legged ponies, carefully choosing the less rich grass at the forest edge.
Julia held her breath, not moving a muscle, until a loud voice called from inside the hut.
“There’s a big pot of bantan here, and the woman won’t have any use for it. I’ve heated it. We may as well eat.”
The two braided Mongols cantered back towards the hut and Julia let out a careful breath. It seemed like she might be about to have a stroke of luck.
She dropped an acorn on the head of the man tied beneath her. He looked up incuriously, but his eyes widened when he realised there was a woman in the tree. Julia put a finger to her lips and smiled down. The big man nodded then allowed his head to drop back onto his chest.

E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

You are old, let me just make it clear
That even your knitting is queer
You should knit baby clothes
To warm tiny toes
Not merkins in purple cashmere

© jane jago

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

abotu (noun) – tribe of directionally challenged nomads

amind (noun) – the inability to think

beign (noun) – colour between beige and green often seen in the cardigans of off-duty geography teachers

bif (adjective) – descriptive of overweight men on gymnasium equipment

cotrive (verb) – cooperative toe sucking

doign (noun) – in architecture a big fat lump of stone serving no apparent purpose

ealier (comparative adjective) – of fish, longer

ewere (noun) – computer savvy half wolf

godness (noun) – pagan deity known for shortness of temper and thick ankles

irrlevent (adjective) – of authors motivated by angst and poverty

migth (noun) – biting insect similar to the Scottish midge, but native to the underwear of skinny women

myslef (noun) – small supernatural being with chronic anxiety

ne4ed (adjective) – being in possession of four knees

otu (noun) – Zimbabwean marsupial subsisting on beer and rich tea biscuits

presetner (noun) – woman on daytime TV who sits on the sofa next to an oily creep without cringing

pruruent (adjective) – of porridge being flavoured with prunes

shulk (verb) – to remove the calloused skin from the feet by means of a handy cheese grater

someoen (adjective) – of dogs or women, fond of an afternoon nap and liable to bite if rudely awoken

terhe (noun) – language spoken by the inhabitants of a small island in the North Sea whose attempts to enlarge the gene pool have led to some unfortunate encounters with irritated marsupials

zomie (noun) – a zed list homie

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

She awoke in a strange body. Hurting and being carried by a being that smelled unpleasantly of mammal flesh and its own exertions.

“Do you reckon her a virgin?”

“I dunno. But her won’t be.”

The coarse sounds were what she was beginning to be aware of as laughter. 

Not too much later she was dropped onto something yielding.

“Now us waits for her to wake up.”

She opened her eyes. Two hairy creatures looked down at her. One held her throat and the other lifted her single garment. It was to be their last action under earth’s pitiless sun…
©jane jago

From The Fated Sky, part one of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The hooves of his ponies clattered lightly past the plaza as they trotted up towards the Castle Hill. Alfor on the morning after the Fair, was like a party when all the guests had gone home. Durban found it slightly depressing and he was glad to be leaving himself.
A voice hailed him from the steps of the Temple of the Gods and he was not at all surprised. He stopped his pony and waited whilst a stooped figure came slowly down the steps and crossed towards him. It was an elderly woman, her face half hidden beneath the hood of her cowl, her body bent and shapeless in its robes. She laid one hand on his bridle and looked up at him with clear blue eyes that held no trace of the ravages of age. For once Durban felt no desire to smile. He sat quite still, whilst the pack ponies shifted restlessly behind him.
“I suppose you have come to tell me not to do it.” His voice sounded even to his own ears like that of a petulant child and the old woman smiled gently.
“Should I tell the wind not to blow, or the sun not to rise? Your nature is to act as you should do.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To offer you a gift.” Durban felt uncomfortable beneath the calm blue gaze, exposed and vulnerable as if his very thoughts were open to being read.
“I have all I need,” he said sulkily.
“I am sure you do. But a man who tries to yoke and drive wild stallions needs more than a good whip and a steady hand.”
She could read his thoughts, curse her. He shifted his gaze to stare deliberately at the slowly brightening skyline.
“You should be pleased,” he said, his voice stiff with resentment. “It’s what you want after all.”
He heard a strange sound and realised that she was laughing at him.
“My dear child, whatever gave you the idea you could act otherwise?”
“Just say your piece and let me go. I’m expected at the castle.”
“Very well, I do not seek to delay you. But my gift is of knowledge – so perhaps you would prefer to pay for it? Shall we settle on a favour in the future?”
His eyes were drawn back to hers by her tone and he read a far from gentle mockery in the vivid blue depth and felt a slight sick sense of claustrophobia.
“Please –” he began, but the words choked in his throat and he felt himself incapable of movement of any kind.
Be warned, the voice seemed to come from within him. You think your fiery steeds an even match, but one is stronger than you know – strong enough to break the traces and trample you beneath its cutting hooves and what then, my brave charioteer?
“What should I do?” he heard his own voice although he had not willed it, but could not tell if he had spoken the question in words or thoughts.
Use the reins lightly and spare the whip. If it is racing its team-mate, it will not notice the direction it runs, nor mark the distance covered. And when the race is done you will bring him to me.
The voice stopped and Durban became aware of the first sounds of the city stirring to meet the new day. He blinked and found himself frowning at the woman.
“Why do you do these things to me?” he asked, to his own ears sounding half plaintive child and half frightened man.
The old lady smiled with the serenity of youth.
“Because you are my gift to Temsevar and it never hurts you to remember now and again that whilst you make the puppets dance, your own strings are tied to my fingers.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

You are old so you shouldn’t bedazzle
You should be both faded and frazzled
It shouldn’t be you
With a Harley (brand new)
And a Swarovski Crystal vajazzle

© jane jago

An excerpt from ‘Bodies in the Graveyard’ one of the short stories in Tales from Suburbia by Claire Buss.

Shep barked loudly, straining at his collar. With the leash tucked awkwardly under his armpit George Fennyweather’s cold fingers fumbled with the mobile phone. He’d always had difficulty using the blasted thing. Finally, he managed the dial the numbers.
‘101, how can I help.’
A young woman answered the call. She sounded brisk and efficient; George began to feel better – here was somebody who knew what they were doing. He hushed Shep, bringing him to heel.
‘Good morning miss.’ George patted the head of his faithful friend, glad of the warmth the dog radiated next to his leg. ‘I appear to have found a dead body.’
‘Are you sure the person is dead, sir?’
‘Well,’ George peered down at the body on the ground before him, noting the blue tinge to its lips and the unseeing eyes open to the sky above. ‘I haven’t made any investigations, it’s more of an observation.’
‘It’s important that you check for a pulse, sir. Do you understand?’
‘Right, if you think it’s best.’  George pushed Shep to one side gently and bent low over the body. Ignoring his knees screaming in protest, he gingerly pressed two fingers to the neck of the corpse. He sighed heavily, pulling himself up to standing. ‘It’s as I expected, miss, there’s no pulse.’
‘Okay sir, thank you. I need you to tell me where you are.’
‘Yes, of course. Shep!’  George pulled his dog away from investigating the corpse any further. ‘I’m in the graveyard – Barking Abbey graveyard.’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
‘Is this a joke, sir? Wasting police time is a serious offence.’
George pulled himself up a little straighter. ‘I’ll have you know young lady, that George Fennyweather is neither a liar nor a time waster.’ He breathed heavily out of his nose in indignation.
‘Of course, sir. I’m sending a patrol out to your location as we speak. It’s vitally important that you stay where you are.’
George could already hear the wailing siren in the distance. At his age he wouldn’t get very far so he might as well stay where he was. There could be a cup of tea in it for him at the very least.
‘I understand.  Do I need to do anything else?’ asked George, eyeing up the stonework of a nearby tomb. It looked like it might make a decent enough perch for a little while.
‘No ,sir. Just stay with the body and try not to contaminate the scene further.’
‘Right you are then.’ George didn’t really know what to say now, he rubbed his nose. ‘Would it be alright if I finished the call? It’s just that I’m pay as you go and I’m on a fixed income you know.’

A Bite of… Claire Buss

Q1: What is the best thing about living in suburbia? 

The best thing is the green spaces, I like a bit of nature on my doorstep. Plus all the gossip – you’d be amazed what goes on in the suburbs! 

Q2: If you weren’t a writer what other art or craft would you love to pursue? 

I’d love to be able to draw. I can imagine wonderful creatures and places in my head, but the limits of my artistic ability are rather badly drawn stickmen. I always wanted to do art at school but got shunted into history and latin instead. At least I didn’t have to take geography. But yes, artistic ability please.

Q3: Is cheesecake really cake?

Look, let’s get down to business. It has a biscuit base that was smashed up and held together by butter. Somewhere, along the line, sugar was added. Popular cheesecake topping? Strawberries and/or chocolate. If you’re trying to tell me that is not a cake then you’re probably one of those salad eaters, aren’t you? Go on, away with you. 

Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake. You can find all her books on Amazon, share her thoughts on her blog, follow her on Facebook and stalk her on Twitter. 

The moorland ridge was exposed to the elements but if Keris wanted to sleep dry she needed to keep walking.

The track finally dropped into the valley, where the houses were deserted and the roofs open to the sky. 

She really had been away too long.

The place where she was born and raised was no more. And where was her mother? Her sisters?

The wind stole her heartbroken cry, tossing it like candyfloss into the stormy sky. 

“Daughter.”

Keris couldn’t believe her ears, but she followed the wind into the sucking mud where her mother’s hands pulled her down.

©jj 2019