As brothers went Edgar wasn’t so bad, but right now Gwytha wanted to strangle him with his own hair. She would have left the room but the craftsman who was making the King’s chess set was sculpting her likeness, so she had to sit still and endure the pontification.

She waited for Edgar’s turn to experience the boredom of sitting still. It never came – the thane being far too busy. While the sculptor worked from memory, she plotted.

“Craftsman,” she said sweetly, “Have you forgotten my brother’s overlarge teeth?”

“No ma’am, I shall be sure to include them.”

Gwytha smiled.

©️jj 2019

There was something to be said for being a prince. It brought respect from the masses, but it also carried a weight of expectations that it was hard to maintain. Of course, many princes had wealth, land and a kingdom to inherit, not just the title of ‘prince’. Prince Rulondo wished he had more than just the title. But being the fifth son of a very healthy and long-lived family meant he was never likely to do so.

Thus, on his twenty-first birthday he had announced to his family that he intended to seek his fortune and find his own princess. Eyes were dabbed, hugs exchanged and hands waved as he left, but he had the distinct impression there was a certain amount of relief as well. One less prince to consider in an over-princed kingdom.

In fact, Rulondo had no real intention of finding a princess. He loved playing the flute and had always wanted to be a travelling musician. So his plan was to ride a few kingdoms down the road, then get changed into the humble outfit he had packed in his saddlebags, hide his shiny armour and become ‘Borsrin the Bard’.

But then he saw the dragon.

Rulondo had heard tales of how playing the right tune could calm the most ferocious beast. He took out his flute and set it to his lips. There was only one problem. He had no idea what any of those tunes were and he had certainly never heard of any that charmed a dragon.

Uncertain as to what he should play, Rulondo realised that the dragon was actually addressing him. That was very perplexing. Never in any tale or legend or ballad had he heard of the dragon actually talking to someone in such a familiar way.

“Ho! Sirrah!” he called. “Who art thou that thou dare’st address a prince in such a mien?”

He thought that sounded much the way one should speak to a dragon. Fortunately, the dragon was distracted by the arrival of a knight errant, shouting something about rescuing a fair maiden

Seeing the new arrival, Rulondo felt relief. It was no longer his princely duty to do the dragon thing. He could wholeheartedly bard it now! His flute gripped between his teeth, he unstrapped his armour, hurled the heavy pieces into the air and laughed with joy as his muscular torso rippled naked in the sun.

He snatched up the bardly outfit from his saddlebag,  shook it out so the gold, red, emerald and turquoise diamonds of fabric, glimmered in the sunlight, before swirling it around and shrugging his way into it – easing the flute through the neck hole with care. Then, standing up in the saddle and balancing on one leg, he began to play a glorious rendition of ‘Summer is a cumin in’ – breaking off to add loud ‘cuckoos’ at appropriate moments.

It didn’t help much. The dragon still attacked the knight errant. With the expected consequences.

Seeing the slain one, the recently barded Rulondo, began playing a funereal dirge. His eyes fixed on a rather comely young lady who had taken the opportunity to escape from the dragon’s den,  and was coming towards him holding a bottle – or two of said dragon’s collection of fine liquors…

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rulondo said and smiled winningly. He took the bottle holding it in one hand and his other muscular arm encircling the maiden.

“I’m Borsrin the Bard. Delighted to meet you. Shall we ride off, seek our fortunes and live free and happy lives unconstrained by the conventions that society would impose upon us?”

And that is exactly what they did…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Mother told them that two-legs were unstable, but they thought she was joking. They hadn’t had the chance to study any. Until the day a whole bunch of them turned up in the next field. 

They banged a big stick into the ground and while some of them made horrible noises with squeezing and blowing and banging things, some others capered around the stick crying aloud.

Doris turned to Deirdre and shook her head.

“Mooooo-st peculiar.”

“Mooooo-ther do say they gets bit by gadflies this time o’ year”

Doris belched up a wad of grass and chewed.

©️jj 2019

The Rabid Readers Review Thrill Kings: The Size Of Minneapolis Upright by Rik Ty

Sometimes even though you look at a book that is a bit out of the usual way of things and think ‘I might like that’, but something about the commitment stays your finger from clicking to purchase.

It’s for books like that short reads are the perfect introduction.

Thrill Kings: The Size Of Minneapolis Upright by Rik Ty is a really good introduction to his Thrill Kings Fragmented Sky. It is a short read which places you instantly into the Thrill Kings World, introduces you to Nonstop, an interdimensional rescue worker, who is tasked with making sure all the people in an area of Missouri are safely out of the way so the inter-dimensional invader – ‘the size of Minneapolis upright’ – can be returned to where it came.

In a short, tension-packed read, with superb worldbuilding, Rik Ty takes the reader into his world and makes the visit meaningful. By the end you will know if you want to make that commitment to his series, and my guess is that for most who love well-written sci-fi with tight action and cool concepts, the answer is going to be ‘yes’.

Oh yes – stars… 4.5 rounded up to 5!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Fast read. Fast review. 

This book is very well written, and the action is slick, fast and believable. The author is skilled at building his world in such a way that you ‘get’ it even in a short story without the need for info dumps or tedious exposition.

A cool concept, quick read where punchy prose serves to highlight the ideas fuelling the tale.

This is a very good entry into The Thrill Kings series, and it may well draw you further into Nonstop’s world…. 

Jane Jago

Lucie found Granddad in the garden. He was sitting on the bench opposite a bed of scarlet poppies. There were tears running down his seamed, brown cheeks.

Lucie scrambled into his lap. “Aw Gramps, doncha cry.”

The old man hugged her. “Not really crying lovely. More remembering. There was poppies like them when we went back to the battlefields to do the decent thing by the bones of the dead.”

Lucie thought for a moment then climbed down, and touched a flower with a gentle finger.

“You have to remember,” she said slowly, “but they wouldn’t want you to cry.”

©️jj 2019

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Start Writing A Book – The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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.

Bernard extruded his eyes and adjudged it safe to move. Sliding along the green highway, he hummed a mollusc tune as his pseudopodium left its characteristic trail behind him. With a bit of luck he would make it to the cabbage patch before the afternoon sun made it too dangerous for a small, slimy person to move.

He was doing well until he got cocky and neglected to look before he rounded the garden shed.

The blackbird was on him before he had chance to tuck in his head and pretend to be a pebble.

“Oh fuck,” he said bitterly.

©️jj 2019

Time, the winding river, runs to the eternal sea
Leaves us stranded on its banks as on through all it flows
It sweeps away what was not and what is meant to be
And none can dam its waters as ever on it goes.

It brings the look of wonder to each new child’s face
It sets the heart racing in a lover’s brimming breast
It carries those who fight so hard to win the rat race
It brings the poet inspiration in moments blessed.

I sit beside the river and record all that I see
The highs and lows, the smiles, the tears, the joy and the pain
I paint word pictures of how those moments seem to me
As the river brings them by, then takes them off again.

There is so much it brings me that I can only try.
So lay my pen beside me when the river’s run me dry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Defeat was always a bitter cup from which to have to swallow, but Kahina Sarava determined from the first that it should not define her.
True, she now had to endure exile in the grand house she liked the least of all she owned. It was a sprawling, over-ornate residence built in the heart of great natural beauty and originally intended as a place where she could entertain and impress the powers of Central. It suited her political enemies to have her there, isolated and cut off from any place of influence. But, it was not entirely without benefit. Freed from the endless need to joust for political advantage, she had considerably more time for some of the other things that mattered. Such as pursuing her lifetime’s work: Future Data.
So she stood, back straight, defying her age as the fussily dressed man climbed from his vehicle and walked the short distance to where she waited in front of the main door to her house. The security people who flanked her on either side, guards set to both protect and contain her, stiffened visibly as her visitor approached.
“Garn, what a delight to see you.” She had been expecting him. Though when the brief message informing her of a visitor had come through earlier that day, his name had not been mentioned. “I think this must be the first time we’ve had a get together since you arrested me. What would bring you all the way from Central to visit me in person? I am sure you could gloat quite adequately over link.”
He was a big man in many uses of the word, and it amused her to make him feel uncomfortable. There was little enough by way of human entertainment for her here and no small responsibility for her incarceration rested on his shoulders.
“Right,” he said, and she could see he was sweating despite the temperature being pleasantly cool. “Maybe we could go in and talk somewhere a little more private.”
“I can offer you anything here, except privacy.” She made an elegant gesture with her hands, unfolding them to indicate the attentive security detail. “I am not permitted that even when I sleep. My link connections are watched and my conversations monitored.”
Garn Jecks seemed unperturbed, but then his mind was not very flexible. If he had arrived with a fixed idea of some objective he wished to achieve, that would be both the full extent and narrow focus of his thinking. Laser like — if a laser were some solid substance and not fluid photons. Such inability to embrace the broadest view whilst still keeping the details in sight irritated Kahina. Her own mind suffered no such limitations, and she tolerated it poorly in others.
“I will make the necessary arrangements,” he told her. Matching actions to words, he turned to issue brief orders to the security detail, then added more by link to the invisible watchers who controlled the remote monitoring of her residence. They all moved quickly to obey, but then he was their supreme commander, the man in charge of the Coalition Security Force.
A short time later, Kahina found herself sitting in her favourite room, ambianced to remind her of her mother’s study with shelves of books and curios, heavy looping curtains at the windows and the antique wooden desk. She had chosen not to occupy the desk, Jecks wasn’t someone who would be in the slightest bit intimidated by her doing so. Instead, she sat in one of the comfortable, deep-cushioned chairs set either side of a beautifully carved and inlaid table. Jecks sat opposite her having just dismissed the last of his entourage. He was visibly discomfited. Kahina played the perfect hostess.
“Can I offer you any refreshments? It’s not the shortest of hops here from Central.”
“Right. It’s not. But thank you, no. I’m a bit pressed for time.”
She couldn’t resist another dig.
“I am fully accessible by link, you know.”
Jecks didn’t trouble to answer that. His preoccupation was blinding him and Kahina wondered if the poor man was even aware how much that showed.
“There has been a — a development.”
“A development?”
He almost squirmed.
“I have just received some information which has brought into question our previous conclusions regarding the Future Data project.”
Kahina considered feigning surprise.
“Oh?”
Jecks looked as if he had swallowed something that settled ill in his stomach. For a moment, he glared at her.
“So you already knew.”
She didn’t trouble to reply, instead allowing her expression to reflect the untroubled confidence she was feeling. Jecks muttered something under his breath then started pulling up a remote screen of what appeared to be some security surveillance. Not the best quality and from a static camera, but when he zoomed the image and froze it, the result was perfectly clear.
“Oh dear,” Kahina said gently. “How very embarrassing for you. I wonder what you plan to do about that?”
Jecks pulled at his neckline as if it were too close about his throat.
“It’s not what you…”
“Oh, but I rather think it is.” The first taste of victory after such a bitter defeat and three years of exile was so sweet. She leaned forward, unable to suppress her delight and not caring that it showed. “I rather think you need me again.”
Jecks physically recoiled from her.
“Kahina, I — “
“Var Sarava,” she corrected him. He looked as though she had slapped him hard across the face and Kahina smiled. “You are of course quite right. I knew already. Or should I be more accurate and say that Future Data informed me of there being a high probability that those two would resurface in this timeframe.”
“Then you know why I came.” Jecks sounded defeated now, resigned to some inevitable and inescapable fate. Which, Kahina supposed, was not too far from the truth of things.
“Of course I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m not a mind reader. Future Data may inform me what is likely to occur, but it’s not yet capable of attributing motive to the behaviours it predicts. Why did you come?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, but Ilke Dray suggested…” Jecks stopped himself and took a breath instead. Wise man. Kahina could feel the pressure of her fingers closing into tight claws.
“How is dear Ilke these days?” Then she lifted a forbidding hand, forcing the fingers to uncurl, as Jecks opened his mouth to tell her. “No. I really don’t want to know. I’m sure she will be going about her busy little life in her busy little way. And of course you don’t need to tell me why you are here, that much is obvious. What I want to know is what do you have to offer me in exchange for my assistance at this time?”
Jecks wore the look of a man being asked to sell his mother.
“Var Sarava, you can’t seriously intend to turn the security of the Coalition into an auction?”
“Why not? I have what you need, and you can procure it nowhere else. That would seem to me the basis of a price negotiation. I am sure you have authorisation to offer me something or you wouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t reverse the decision of the courts. I can’t turn back the clock and restore your good name. I can’t undo what has happened.” He sounded quite upset about it too.
Kahina got to her feet as gracefully as her age allowed and crossed the room to the antique desk. She loved the smooth feel of the polished wood as she slid her hand beneath it to release a secret catch. It was a wonderfully archaic hiding place. She slipped the data stick into her hand and turned back to Jecks, holding it up for him to see.
“This is everything you need to know to deal with them — if you are willing to pay the price I ask.”
“I’m not authorised to offer you anything.” He sounded in pain.
“Then it’s good that I’m not asking you for any ‘thing’. I have only one demand to make.”
“The head of Ilke Dray?” Jecks suggested, his voice slightly strangled. And, for a moment, Kahina had to wonder if he was being serious. Perhaps he was.
“I have no idea what I might do with such a completely vacuous item,” she told him. “No. I couldn’t care less about Ilke. And the price I’m going to ask isn’t unduly expensive. I merely need to know you will pay it when the time comes.”
“What is it?”
“I want Durban Chola.”
She wasn’t sure if it was relief or appalled amusement that motivated his response. “Chola? What the…? I mean, why?”
“I really rather think that’s my business, don’t you?”
Jecks looked as though he was being forced to swallow a large, irregularly shaped solid object.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I think we can do that.”
It was that easy.
Crossing back to the chairs, she settled herself comfortably again before holding out the data stick to Jecks. He took it as if it were a sacred relic, then busied himself with his links for a few moments as he prepared it to read. She could tell when he had done so. His expression shifted. Hardened.
“This contains nothing. Just two names.”
“That is more than enough for now, I assure you. If you were intelligent enough it would be all you needed, but I am quite aware you will be returning to ask me for further guidance.” It was why she felt so confident that he would pay her price in the end.
Jecks was frowning as if trying to read some deeper meaning into what he had been given.
“One is someone I know quite well and I can see the sense in it, they’ve worked on this before — but who in the name of all sanity is Halkom Dugsdall?”
Kahina, her objective achieved, sat back serenely and smiled.

E.M. Swift-Hook

If you would like to keep reading you can snag a copy of Iconoclast:Mistrust and Treason which is half-price on Kindle this weekend.

The banks of the lake were ablaze with colour and the sheer yellowness of the flag irises seemed to have stolen some of the sunlight and painted it in the grass.

Gillian usually walked with her head down, watching her own small feet and avoiding eye contact with anybody else in the park. But today the sheer beauty tempted her out of her shell, and she smiled at the sandy-haired boy with the scruffy terrier. He smiled back, and his little dog brought her a stick to throw.

A year later she carried yellow irises in her wedding bouquet.

©️jj 2019