As he left the players’ camp the night sky was overcast, heavy with pregnant clouds. Before he had gone more than a few paces further, the snow was falling again. The dwelling he sought was in the grim, poverty-wracked, suburbs, pressed against the walls of Tabruth and nestled in the corner of a row of four lean-to shacks which shared a common bond of odour and ordure. In the dark and shrouded by snow, one could not see the extreme of poverty that they represented and could mistake the crude buildings for some semblance of reasonable shelter.
Someone had welcomed their livestock into the family rooms below so that they could keep warm for the night. Ignoring the sharp bark of a dog, Avilon spoke a single word to a figure watching from the shadows and then slipped into the hovel and found it lit badly by a thin-wicked oil lamp and heated poorly by an inadequate fire, fuelled by dried dung. Thus lived most of the free-folk of Temsevar – and thus thousands of the youngest and oldest would die each year during the long and relentless winter moons, of too much cold and too little food.
The smoky room contained three ponies as well as two of the three men who remained to Avilon from the six he had brought with him to Tabruth. They were playing dice by the leering light of the fire, but at his entrance, both had reached for the pistols they carried; his voice stopped them.
“Yanis, what are you doing still here?” he demanded, his voice cutting with anger. “You should be half way to Cressida by now.”
One of the two men stood up, looking uneasy.
“I sent Farran instead. He has family to look for back home. His wife is with child. I have no one to worry for me and -” his voice trailed into silence beneath the intense stare of his commander.
“Really?” Avilon contained his anger, but his voice sounded colder than the blizzard winds. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you I might have had a reason for wanting you to go and Farran to stay?”
Even in the poor light, he could see that Yanis had lost colour. “Farran knows the mountains – ”
“As well as you do?” Avilon provided, cutting across the other man like a whiplash. “Let us hope then that you know Tabruth as well as he – unlikely as he was born and raised here and you have never more than visited.”
Yanis was pinned to the spot by Avilon’s glare.
“I’m sorry – I –” he began.
“No. I am the one who is sorry,” Avilon told him, but with no sense of any apology. “Sorry I trusted you and sorry I made the mistake of expecting my orders to be obeyed. Now let’s see if you can obey this one – get out in the cold and relieve Col.”
The other man left wordlessly and Avilon crossed to the small ladder that separated the sleeping loft from the living area of the hovel. He had not slept in the last two days and saw little prospect of getting much sleep tonight, but if he was going to keep operating effectively he needed to snatch at least some rest. The rough blankets did not do much to abet the fire below in terms of generating warmth, but blocked out a little more of the ice-banked wind which was blowing through the loft as if the roof and walls did not exist. Forcing his mind into neutral and pulling his awareness from the biting cold, he took himself into a sleep state.

From Transgressor: Dues of Blood, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

When Duggie indicated he wanted a garden of his own, Mama gave him a tiny plot beside the sandpit. He grew a giant sunflower and some stinging nettles. Next spring, he was four years old and still stubbornly inarticulate. The doctors wanted to send him to a clinic in Switzerland for ‘therapy’. Mama shooed them away.

“Leave him. He is growing stronger by the day. He will speak when he is ready.”

They planted his garden together and he watered it daily.

When it was a blaze of colour he pulled on her hand.

“Look Mama,” he said, “pansies.” 

©️jj 2019

Buenos Dias!

It is indeed I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, writer, agony aunt and astrologer to the famously credulous.  The renowned author of the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One had been racking one’s cranium for a topic for this week’s tutorial (yes, even I sometimes find inspiration needs to pursued vigorously), when a question from Claire prompted one to consider the vital importance of symbols and symbolism to those who would create literature.

Even that bastion of unthinking vulgarity, that outpost of alien mindset, that epitome of hard-handed hard-headedness, that creature one calls Mater has in the recesses of her underused and underdeveloped brain a vestigial understanding of the importance of symbols. Only last week, she was watching some interminably boring panel programme sur le téléviseur, upon which the current Archbishop of somewhere was being castigated about yet another cover-up of ecclesiastical child abuse. Mater looked across the room at me and smiled a twisted smile.

“Moons,” she said a thought sadly. “Moons. If that churchman was to have worn his episcopal regalia, instead of sitting there like a mouse in a poorly fitting lounge suit, I reckon most of them oiks would’ve been a lot more respectful. It’s the symbols of office doncha know.” Then she refilled her gin and Guinness and no more was said.

But that brief moment of lucidity is proof, if proof were needed that the power of symbols reaches deep into the psyche – even of those as sunk into alcoholism and depravity as one’s unlovely parent.

However. En avant.

How To Start Writing A Book: The Write Symbols

When one seeks to create literary magic one needs many tools at one’s disposal. Not the least of which is the noble quest. A device by which your hero may be dispatched wherever your imagination chooses in search of some artefact or some creature without which the story can progress no further. But what does that have to do with symbols, do I hear you cry? Yes, of course, I do as your tiny crania cannot hope to make the leaps of understanding that come to one’s mind as easily and gently as a bluebottle lands on a plate of rotting meat.

Of course, the noble quest is to do with symbolism. It is one of the most symbolic of all the storylines.

First. The quest itself is a metaphor (or symbol) for the struggles that beset all humans from cradle to grave.

Second. Your hero’s solid helpmeet – uplifted from the lower orders to become his right hand – is symbolic of the common clay’s need for a god to worship and of the need gods have for worshippers.

Third. Whatever or whoever is searched for, the vicissitudes of the search are the symbolic harbingers of events in human life which must be overcome with stoicism and bravery. Tempting though hysteria and Tia Maria may be.

And finally. That which is sought is the most powerful symbol of all. It symbolises human love and human endeavour. It shows us the beauty that may be found in the depths of the human soul as we try ever harder and climb ever higher in our quest for perfect beauty.

Some common symbols explained
The dragon. Strength, coldness, avarice, and sex.
The virgin. Unattainability, truth, and the desire for sex.  
Water to cross. The struggle to be loved, and the desire for sex.
A cup or grail. The thirst for knowledge, and the desire for sex.
A dove. Hope and sex.
A raven. Despair and sex.
A knife. Cutting the thread that binds a child to its mother, or sex.

One could continue almost infinitely, but I am sure you are following by now.

So, my bambinos, choose your symbols with care and write them with delicacy.

Until next. Do not have nightmares and ecrit bon.

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.

Castle Dhu perched on a high promontory, and from a distance it looked as if it floated in the treetops. Travellers might take the winding road to the base of its towers, but those who lived nearby wouldn’t dare. 

It was midsummer when the strolling players rolled into town. After a successful few days, the prettiest of the dancers lost a drunken bet and set her feet on the path to the castle.

She was never seen in the world again, but those who dared look noticed the castle now sported curtains, and flowers, and bright bunting on the walls.

©️jj 2019

Old men, who were young men once
Can scarcely bear the memory
And yet they come to witness stand
For those who died for liberty
Old and frail they cry hard tears
As sound and smell scrape down the years
Old men, who were young men then
And to these beaches came
Where snipers and artillery
Killed friend and foe the same
Old and frail, in life’s December
Whose courage asks that we remember
Those whose tale was never told
And on these beaches grew not old

©jj 2019

The day that a patronising little shit of a TV presenter told our heroine she had won a ‘life-changing’ amount of money was a good day. Firstly because she likes winning, and secondly because the aforementioned patronising bastard had his hand on her ass as he said it, thereby giving her the excuse to haul off and belt him one. It was a good punch, leaving him winded and retching. And the best of it was that the cameras were still rolling. But that’s at the end of the story. It would be better to start somewhere nearer the beginning

Messing around with the iPad can be injurious to your health and no more so than the day Jen Evans came across an advert for a new game show. ‘Little physical exertion’ it said ‘but contestants will need good general knowledge and nerves of steel.’ She passed the pad to her long-time partner Adam, who laughed.
“Nerves of titanium, more like” he grinned. “Whyn’t you apply?”
She did. On a whim. And promptly forgot about it.

An email asking for more details about her caused Jen and Adam great hilarity as they vied with each other to be more and more outrageous whilst remaining more or less within the boundaries of truth.
“They won’t” she said cheerfully “be wanting a forty-year-old woman with attitude.”
He grinned. “No. Maybe not. Most don’t. Ain’t you glad I do!”
“Ditto, smart arse.”

Surprise hardly comes close to their reaction – actually the pair of them giggled like schoolgirls – when a bulky envelope arrived in the post. It contained all sorts of information leaflets and an invitation to attend an elimination weekend somewhere in the Brecon Beacons. As most of the leaflets were about extreme sports, she declined the kind offer.
“Creepy bastards” she said brightly as they walked to the Post Office with her somewhat brisk letter of refusal.
It turned out that not only were the people behind the concept creepy, they were also convoluted, because refusing the offered weekend was the way to pass the first round of eliminations. Jen got a letter, a few days after her ‘stuff it’ missive, offering a place at the next round of eliminations in southern Spain. She gave the letter to Adam, who read it twice: once quickly and once carefully. He put the paper down.
“I dunno what to think. But you might be getting close to being chosen, so you’d better decide whether you want to do it or not.”
“No. Not specially. I think I’ll just duck out now.”
“Okay.”
She stuffed the letter back in its envelope with a post it note saying ‘thanks but no thanks’ and returned it from whence it came.
“Thank fuck that’s over.”

Nothing happened for a couple months, so it came as a complete surprise to get an email asking if some people from the production company could come visit.
“It’s your call.” Adam looked at her over his reading glasses.
“No then.”
But they came anyway.

It was a lovely May morning when Jen noticed the shiny new Range Rover parking opposite and wondered idly who had so far lost their way as to find themselves in the one-cat hamlet she called home. She didn’t have to wonder for long, as two people climbed out of the car and scurried across the road, knocking importantly on the front door of her house.
It was one of the cleaning lady’s days, so she opened the door. The uninvited visitors took a couple steps back at the sight of the mountain of muscle and tattoos that was Albany Brown. To do them justice they recovered fast, and the man surged forward with one hand outstretched. Mrs B ignored the hand and stared down at them.
“We’re from One Thick Monkey Productions” the man said in rather forced tones. “Here to see Jennifer Evans.”
Mrs B shut the door in their faces and came to find Jen.
“Will I let them in, ask what they want, or tell them to piss off?”
Leo was hugely amused. “Ask what they want.”
She rolled back to the door and opened it a crack.
“Ms Evans wants to know what you are here for.”
The man turned a smile of blinding whiteness on her.
“We’re here to persuade her to become a contestant in our newest venture. A global game show like nothing that has ever been before.”
He made to walk in, but the door was firmly slammed shut.
“You hear that?”
“Yes.”
“You want I should let them in?”
“No.”

A couple of hours later Adam found Jen weeding in the back garden. He wobbled his eyebrows.
“They aren’t going to go away, you know.”
“They have to go some time…”
He grinned wickedly. “Not unless you chase them away with the twelve bore.”
“What d’you suggest Clever Dick.”
“Let them in. Listen politely.”
She snarled at him and he just grinned wider.
“Okay. You win. Invite them in. But no offer of refreshment. And if they want the john it’s the one out back.”
“We’re agreed on that” he smirked evilly and sloped off to the Range Rover, returning a couple of minutes later with the dubious duo in tow.
Mrs B decided to join in the fun, and leaned against the kitchen wall with her arms folded across her impressively corseted chest.
Jen was brisk. “Sit. You have ten minutes.”
Mister Corporate started fiddling about in his briefcase.
“Nine minutes thirty seconds.”
He looked up with a hint of panic his eyes before he continued his frantic scrabbling. It was noticeable that his female companion was having trouble keeping a straight face.
“What you lost?” Mrs B showed her gold tooth in a grin.
“The contract Ms Evans needs to sign. It’s not here,” Mister Corporate declared dramatically “Caroline. Go and search the car.”
Jen looked at his hair gel and his revolting tie and felt her gorge rise.
“It must have been you left it behind,” she said. “Whyn’t you go fetch it?”
“Because she’s a girl,” he spluttered. Then he bethought himself and tried for a charming smile.
Jen sneered.
“Tell you what, you pop out and sit in the car and let us girls have a nice chat.”
He opened his mouth again and both Jen and Mrs B glared at him. For a moment there was an impasse then he shrugged his shoulders and left. Adam grinned at his departing back.
“You haven’t made a friend there.”
“That’s fine. I’m not running for election.”
The girl, Caroline, smiled.
“I’m not sure I should thank you for that. He’ll have his vengeance.”
“Not if you get him first.”
I could see her thinking about that one, then a slow, vicious grin spread across her rather plain face. She sat up straight.
“Okay. How long do I have to pitch this thing to you?”
“Not long. I bore easily.”
It was boring. Very boring. But Caroline stuck to her guns. In the end the flood of words wore Jen down sufficiently so that she agreed to read information pack, promising to let the production company know by the end of the week.
Caroline went out and climbed into the Range Rover. A stony faced corporate man started the engine and the car pulled away. Jen put the pack of paper on the table and grinned her three-cornered grin.
“You’re gonna do it aren’t you?” Adam asked.
“Very probably.”
“Because?”
“Two reasons. One. It starts just after you go to Saudi for six months and even if I get right to the end it finishes just as you get back. Two. The buggers see me as canon fodder. I’d kinda like to prove them wrong.”
“Three. You didn’t like Mister Corporate a bit. However you did quite like his sidekick.”
“True. What’d you think.”
“I think it might amuse you while I’m gainfully employed for the last time. So fine. But. No risks. I’ll have your promise.”
“Physical risks?”
“Yeah. I’d not expect you to get through a day without rocking somebody’s boat.”
He grinned and hugged her. She hugged back.
“Looks like I’m going to sign up for Mind Games then don’t it?”
“It does.”

Two months passed and Adam finished his secondment in England. Jen packed his bags for him, and took him to Heathrow, where he boarded a flight to his last ever assignment. In Saudi Arabia.

Jen went home and shut up the cottage before presenting herself at Bristol airport early one Sunday morning. She wore combats and carried a very small bag. The brainless bird who signed her in looked at her luggage with something akin to pity.
“That all you have?’
“No. But the rest is invisible.”

© Jane Jago 2017

If he lived to be six months old, Gizmo thought he would never understand humans. When he made noise they shushed him, and if he got wet they wiped him before he went indoors. So what was happening here?

The big human made farting noises while something big and red grew tall on the grass. Then Gizmo watched tame water come into the red thing through a worm. It was odd. But now…

Now the small humans were in the tame water screaming like fighting cats.

Gizmo found a patch of sunlight away from the wet screaming and fell asleep.

©️jj 2019

These are the cobbles
The paved pathway of your life
Mourn each stone unturned.

These are the strong bones,
The skeleton of your life,
Each one shapes your form.

These are the waters
The ebb and flow of your life
The tides of tears shed.

These are the zephyrs
The very breath of your life
Soft hope-bearing winds.

These are the embers
The sustenance of your life
The courageous flame.

These are the moments
The measurement of your life
Each a priceless gem.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

This is a story that hit me right between the eyes.
I always remember the first time I saw Mumsie crying. She was standing there with tears flowing from her eyes and holding a knife in her hand. At the time I was, mayhap, still a mere young teen but aware enough in the ways of the world to know that a weeping parent must mean an extreme of emotion and a knife gripped in one hand could only mean one thing. She was going to murder Daddy.
I ran into the room shrieking in my piping soprano voice (I was a late developer), begging her to put down the knife. She glared at me through red-rimmed eyes and stabbed the point into the chopping board.
“Oh for fuck’s sake Moons, I’m just chopping the sodding onions. Go and do something useful. Or do something – anything! Here!” and she grabbed a book from the shelf beside her and hurled it at me. The corner of the book hit me between the eyes causing a bruise that lasted several days and after I had redeemed it and found a solitary corner of the lounge, I read it.

So. My review.

This is a book written by a Frenchman who clearly should have been born English as it is the most translated book in the French language. Had he been born English it would have needed less translating.
The story is very sweet and cloying.
An airman crashes in the desert and for some unbeknownst reason meets a small boy who is suffering from delusions of grandeur. Instead of telling the clearly deranged infant to leave him alone, our hero befriends him and has to listen to a load of unbelievable tales about life on other planets.
There is a fox in it too.
I never understood the point of it.
Nil stars.

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.