It’s been a few years together
And we’ve picked up some shite on the way
We have weathered all sorts of weather
We’ve seen blue skies and black skies and grey
We’ve had the odd trouble along the road
And some pretty spectacular fights
But I wouldn’t swap you for your weight in gold
Even though that sounds awfully trite
We can number our wrinkles one by one
And the white strands in our hair
But no one can take away the fun
And the way you have always been there
I guess you know what I would say
If push turned into shove
We’ve had some lovely nights and days
And you’ve always been my love

©️ Jane Jago 2018

I can’t hear you any more. You are too far away now. For a long time I could hear you singing as you walked away from me. Now all there is is the wind soughing in the trees and that’s such a sad sound that I go inside and shut the door. I run my fingers over the smooth planed wood of the table and imagine it’s your skin under my hand. The dog lifts her silky head and catches my tears in her fur, standing patiently as I cry out the hurt of you leaving.

I mustn’t do this. I must not. I scrub my hands over my hot cheeks feeling the wetness with my fingertips.

What a mess. What a lonely mess. All I can hear now is my own breathing. All I can feel now is the cold lump in my chest where I used to have a heart. All I can do is bury my face in your pillow and inhale the smell of your frost crisped hair.

It has been the most part of a day now and the sky is tinted as red as my blood. I am so frozen that I do not even hear the opening of the door, I do not feel the cold breath of wind against my hot cheeks, I do not sense another person coming to stand behind me. It isn’t until a pair of arms comes around me from behind that I think I start to breathe again.

I turn and hide my face in the prickly wool of your jumper.
“You came back.” The creaky scratchy little voice barely sounds like me.
Your calloused palms cup my face, and I see the tears on your cheeks as I feel them on my own.
“I belong here,” you say, and the sky no longer smells of blood, and the dog goes back to her basket.

I feel in my soul that you will manage to leave me one day. But not today. And that’s enough.

©️ Jane Jago 2017

No matter if you travel ever so far away
Beyond the furthest shore,
Or on to what strange places your steps may one day stray
In ever seeking more.
No matter how many worlds you seize, for greed and gains,
On which your flags unfurl.
Always still, so deep within your mind, your home remains
A sacred, precious pearl.

E.M. Swift-Hook

My hands find my clothes where I left them and get out of there as fast as I can get them on, not even close to comfortable until I’m alone on the highway home.

It’s pretty much a straight shot back to Taylor’s, and I’m there in about half an hour.

“How’d it go?” Taylor asks when I come into the bedroom, his voice thick with sleep.

I flinch at that. “Not much of a deep sleeper, are you?”

“Not while you’re out eating,” he says. “Anyone I know?”

“Know any drug dealers?” I ask, fluffing out my hair.

“Depends,” he says, propping up on an elbow. “Does that include pharmaceutical reps?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

“Good,” I say with a yawn. “I need to take a shower.”

He pillows back down. “See you when you get out.”

Going into the shower, I put it on extra-hot, my mind wandering back to that creepazoid guy who grabbed my breast. Yes, that was rude-ass, but not completely unexpected for an orgy room. Why am I reacting this way?

Maybe it was because I was sitting on a dead guy. That must be it.

Get a grip, Eyrtena.

I dry myself off and brush my teeth, then pop two Dramamine and down a couple gulps of Pepto Bismol right from the bottle. One thing Walgreen’s doesn’t carry is a cure for bad tummy from eating crummy souls.

Returning to the bed, I turn off the light and spoon with Taylor, kissing the back of his neck.

“Did the Dramamine help?” he asks.

“Not really.”

He sighs. “I wish you didn’t have to eat bad chaktal.”

“I have to eat, and the alternative is to hurt good people — I can’t do that,” I tell him, caressing his arm. “Never again. This way, at least I feel like I can take some bad people off the street.”

He turns around to face me, pulling my naked leg over his, causing a skip in my heartbeat. “Soon you won’t have to, and then…” he says, tickling the back of my knee.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” I tell him, unable to keep the hesitation out of my voice.

He laughs. “If you had so little confidence, why did you let me sample you, month after month, for a year?”

That isn’t it. My hand goes absently to the vivisection sites on my thigh, two inch-square cubes’ worth, which of course are now unblemished skin and muscle… having eaten, I heal like Wolverine. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I can heal in moments what it would take a human months to heal, if they heal at all. They’re so limited.

There’s also immortal life: When eternity is yours, eighty or so years is nothing. Who would choose that really?

Me, maybe. I don’t know.

I press my lips to his, letting it linger a bit before withdrawing to my side with a sigh. “Do you mind if we talk about this more tomorrow? I’m suddenly very tired.”

“Of course,” he says, with a hint of disappointment, but he doesn’t press. That’s a lot of why I love him. “Good night, love,” he says, and rolls over to his side, much the way I found him when I first came in.

I pull the blanket up, and snuggle into my pillow, with my palm pressed against Taylor’s back.

His chaktal always tastes of honeysuckle and newly mown grass, and now that I’ve eaten and I’m safe, it’s comforting — and it relaxes me. As sleep overtakes him, sexual desire dissipating, it retreats into his body until I can’t sense it anymore.

Holy shit, I realize, reclaiming my hand from Taylor’s back as if from a hot plate. That guy at the club, he had no chaktal — that’s what’s been bugging me. That’s not possible — no one could be in that room who wasn’t dead, or…

An Incubus.

It was an Incubus.

And somehow, I swear it — he knew me.

You can find out more about Edward Buatois and his writing on his website.

(1) What do you feel is the most significant technological development that has happened in your lifetime so far?

The Internet, bar none. It represents humanity’s third great age –– first was the invention of writing, second the invention of books, and third the invention of the internet. An entire book (ebook!) could be written on it. Entire industries have sprung up, and more will be invented tomorrow… cell phones really, social media, true direct-to-consumer sales such as Amazon and eBay. Not to mention those sites’ impact on brick-and-mortar… Amazon versus Borders, Netflix versus Blockbuster. Social media has changed how we interact, and not always in good ways… people sitting next to each other texting other people all night is one example. More worrisome is it’s also allowed us to balkanize into political fiefdoms where people relate only to people and ideas they already agree with and eschew contact with those we don’t, and thereby maintain their ignorance. The internet’s greatest irony is that the most important social/information sharing tool ever invented may have as its chief impact its ability to get people to stop talking to each other and to discourage exposure to new ideas.

(2) If you could have been on any space mission so far, which would it have been?

I actually had to think about that one. Even the more glamorous space missions… most of them take years to come to fruition, and then the payoff, while spectacular, can be short-lived. For example, the gravity-wave detector, which for the first time measured/confirmed Einstein’s theories about them when two neutron stars collided. REALLY long lead-up, VERY short event. Of course an obvious one for sheer thrill is any moon landing. I’d do that one for sheer fun and wonder, though the discovery payoff, while spectacular, was for the most part “look what we did” and not much groundbreaking in terms of actual science done compared to other endeavors. Of existing space missions, I think the Galileo mission to Jupiter and its moons would be the one I’d want to be on, given the possibility that they could harbor life, and they’re so different, each one of them. So interesting to see other destinies, other possibilities. A close second is the study of extrasolar planetary systems for the same reason… it’s fascinating that we have not found a single system so far that looks anything like ours, not even in the number and distribution of planets. Maybe we ARE special.

(3) What is your main motivation to write speculative fiction?

I’d call what I do Urban Fantasy and/or SciFi/Fantasy. The short answer is that I generally find ordinary people boring. I like to give ordinary people extraordinary abilities and ask what they would do with it. My most recent fantasy WIP is Eyrtena, a woman who craves love except that she’s a Succubus who steals the souls of everyone she loves… a built-in tension between what she wants and what she is. Or the dispossessed teen who accidentally pulls a female Elf to our Earth through a portal, along with an evil wizard… now it’s on him to learn how to do magic before the evil wizard destroys our world: that kid’s going to have to grow up fast. Longer answer: Some might do speculative fiction to imagine possible worlds, and that’s great, I love those stories. Me, it’s about the human element: We’re all on a journey to find our place in the world, figure out who we are and become comfortable in our own skin. (Almost) all of my stories one way or another tend to be about that.

Edward Buatois is an unpublished writer in the science fiction/fantasy genre. He’s written a number of short stories and is working on two novels, both in the urban fantasy realm. He recently discovered the infinite possibilities of writing for anthologies, and has committed to writing one in fantasy and one, as a stretch goal, in forbidden romance. He likes to write stories about ordinary characters with extraordinary abilities and how they deal with them; influences are Jumper, by Robert Jordan; Waiting in the Wings, by Melissa Brayden; and Heartsick, by Chelsea Cain.

Part Two: The Lovers

CHAPTER FIVE

And so it began.
Anna and Sam started meeting, quietly and secretly, like star-crossed teenagers. At first it was a stolen afternoon, then an evening at a pub in the country, then a weekend in a cottage in Cornwall, and so on. They begun to like each other a great deal, but life had made both very careful, and they were taking things slowly. They talked incessantly, and Anna found out that Sam was coming out of a particularly vicious divorce, that he was a very dedicated doctor, that he was hugely prone to the giggles, and that he envied her for having a dog. In his turn, Sam discovered that Anna was a spinster of the parish of nowhere in particular because she and Bonnie were living a truly nomadic life, and that she hid a truly silly sense of humour under a cool exterior. He also noticed, with an inward laugh, that she wasn’t telling Patsy Cracksman about them.

In spite of this one incidence of reticence on Anna’s part, they spoke on the phone almost every day, and met whenever Sam’s work schedule allowed. Physically, though, they hadn’t progressed beyond a few kisses and cuddles and Anna began to wonder if they ever would.

Then, after months of gentle courtship, one Sunday lunchtime they were sitting in the garden of a very nice pub on the banks of the Thames.
“It’s our anniversary next week,” Sam said.
“Anniversary?”
“Have you no romance in your soul, woman? It will be a year since you gave me your number.”
“Oh. I guess it will. Is that an anniversary?”
He smiled gently.
“Of course it is,” he said, “and I’d like us to celebrate.”
Then he took her hand and looked her straight between the eyes.
“That’s why I’ve got something, no two somethings, I need to ask you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not necessarily. Or at least I hope not. But it could be important. I’m assuming the fact that I’m mixed race doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Never think about it, I just enjoy the wonderful colour of your skin.”
He smiled gratefully into her eyes.
“Now the really hard one. Do you want children?”
“Oh Sam. I did once. But it wasn’t ever going to happen.”
He looked puzzled and she ploughed along bravely. “I’m infertile.”
“Me too. That’s why my wife divorced me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I bet that hurt.”
“In some ways. In others the divorce was a bit of a relief. But I’ll tell you all about it some other time. What I need to know now is whether you would think about sleeping with me.”
She blushed rosily.
“To be perfectly honest with you, I find myself thinking about it at the most inopportune times.”
He grinned.
“Me too. Wanna celebrate our anniversary with some hot sex?”
“I think I’d like that a lot.”
“Want a trip somewhere romantic? Paris? Rome?”
“No. What I’d really like is for you, me and Bonnie to take off in the camper.”
“I’d like that too. I’ve got a full list this week, and I’m on call for most of the weekend, but then I have a week off. We could meet somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Well.There’s this pub with a camping field. It’s just off the Cotswolds tourism radar. Good food. Good walking. Friendly. I could book you a pitch.”
“Please.”
“I can get there on Sunday evening. I’ll book you in and see you there. I’ll email directions.”
“Bossy. But just this once…”
“Look, Anna, I’m not pushing you. I still won’t automatically expect anything but companionship. You know I fancy you, and I think that’s mutual, but I’m not a user.”
“Didn’t think you were. Wouldn’t have kept on seeing you if I thought that. No. I’m as curious as you to see where this goes.”
His laugh was lazy and sexy.
“Back at you. This could be all sorts of fun.”
“Oh indeed,” Anna heard herself almost purring and quickly pulled herself back to practicalities. “Sunday night. Will you have eaten?”
“I’ll pick up a burger or something on the way.”
“No you will not. Like lasagne?”
“Love it.”
“Right then. That’s settled. I’ll have lasagne and good red wine waiting for you.”
“Oh woman. You certainly know how to make a tempting offer.”
“I’m trying.”
“It’s a date then.”
“It is, now eat your nice lunch.”
He laughed. “Yes mommy.”

The rest of the afternoon went by happily, and when Sam walked Anna and Bonnie to the station to catch their train back to where the camper awaited them he kissed her hungrily.
“Until next Sunday,” he almost growled.
She put a hand to his cheek.
“Can’t come too soon for me. Take care of yourself.”
As the train pulled away she leaned out of the window, waving like a besotted teenager.

Jane Jago

Though I’m old, I am not such a fool
As much of the modern gene pool
I don’t need to be told
That ice will be cold
Or detergent’s not food as a rule

© jane jago 2018

When Francesca met Richard they were predisposed by fate to like each other – even though neither of them know it at the time. They were both blandly handsome, both successful, both good-humoured if a little humourless, and both laboured under the disadvantage of unimaginative parents who bestowed on their offspring the sort of names more sensibly found in burlesque than high finance.

Richard (Rich to his very few friends) Dripping was an investment banker. He was a whizz kid and a high flyer, if rather more risk averse than his peers, who was tipped for an early seat on the board of the private bank for whom he worked. Francesca (no diminutives please, the name is Francesca) Phaart was a tax accountant whose forensically detail-orientated carefulness had already earned her a junior partnership and made her not a few enemies.

Quite who thought it might be funny to introduce them to each other is rather lost in the mists of time, although the best guess is an undeniably louche specimen rejoicing in the cognomen Francis Ffotheringham, who was rather in the habit of collecting people with odd names. In the end, of course, it matters not who did the deed because some puckish deity somewhere had decreed that they should not only meet but that they should also fall in love.

For a couple of months Francesca and Rich met every weekend, discovering mutual tastes, mutual interests, and mutual dislikes enough to persuade them that they were well on the way to becoming a serious item. With this in mind, Francesca took Richard to her family home in the Cotswolds, where her parents were favourably impressed by the rather stolid young man on whom their daughter’s fancy had lighted. Their only private caveat was his name. As Papa Phaart remarked to his lady wife in the privacy of their wide, white bed:
“Seems a reasonable sort of a chap, but I’m pretty sure he won’t make the top of the tree with a damned silly name like Dripping.”
His wife nodded wisely and passed him a digestive biscuit.

Two weeks later, Richard and Francesca were on an aeroplane heading for the glass and steel tower in New York which Mr Dripping, the second Mrs Dripping, and Richard’s young half siblings called home. By and large, the visit was a success, with the New York Drippings united in approval of Francesca’s bland blonde handsomeness and her placid uncomplaining nature. The entire family accompanied the young couple to the airport and waved them off with smiling fondness. However, once they were through the departures gate the whole American contingent burst into raucous laughter.
“Phaart. Francesca Phaart.” Papa Dripping was holding his sides and the young Drippings were actually rolling around on the floor of the concourse.
“It’s a very good job,” the second Mrs Dripping opined genially, “that Richard inherited his mother’s sense of humour”.
“The lady doesn’t have a sense of humour,” Dripping senior expostulated.
“Precisely.”

But none of this hilarity was apparent to either Richard or Francesca who sailed serenely towards the next phase of their relationship without a care in the world.

In due course, a reputable jeweller was visited and a diamond of suitable size was purchased. The young couple hosted a dinner party at a fashionable restaurant to celebrate their engagement, and Francesca moved into Richard’s home in leafy Richmond.

Certainly, Francesca was well aware that her name caused a great deal of ribaldry among those she mentally dismissed as the uneducated, but she could see no humour in it herself and nor could she quite understand why certain of her acquaintance seemed to think Richard’s surname a source of ill-bred sniggers.

She might have carried on in blissful ignorance, had she not been placed in a position where she could not avoid overhearing a conversation between two female interns at her place of work. She was in one of the stalls in the female restroom, in fact she was about to emerge, when the sound of two sets of clicking heels stopped her in her tracks.
“…madam Phaart,” the voice was loaded with spite, “and I suppose she thinks that becoming Mrs Dripping will make her less of a household joke”.
“You should watch your mouth,” the other voice was quieter and more refined. “You don’t know who might overhear you.”
“I don’t care. Can’t she even see it?”

See what? Francesca wondered. But she was disturbed enough to mention it to Richard over dinner that night. He shook his head bemusedly.
“I don’t know, dear. Does it worry you?”
Francesca shook her fair head.
“Not really. I suspect it was just more vulgarity.”

And that might have been the end of that had not the bank chairman called Richard into his inner sanctum. They were closeted together for the best part of an hour before the older man wrung Richard’s hand.
“You will think about it then, Richard?”
“I’ll do better than that sir. I will get onto it immediately.”

That night he spoke seriously to Francesca.
“It has been put to me that a seat on the board of the bank is being kept warm for me.”
She looked at his heavily handsome face and felt a glow of pride.
“However, there is a stipulation. It is felt that the name Dripping is unsuitable to elevation to the board.”
“Oh. So what will you do?”
“Choose another. With your assistance, my dear.”
“I don’t think it much matters what. Other than Phaart.”
He smiled his complete understanding.
“I am quite drawn to Smith.”

And so it was that, after a bit of legal sleight of hand, Francesca and Richard became Mr and Mrs Smith and enjoyed many years of happy, if unexciting, marriage.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

Dear People Who Read This,

This is Jacintha Farquhar and I’m the unfortunate mother of Moons – that’s the twonk who usually writes this blog thing for you and always signs himself Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. He wrote a truly dreadful book once called “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and peed himself with excitement (and I am not being metaphorical) when it rose to one million on the Amazon ‘in store’ sales listing. He’d just bought a copy I think.

Anyway, Moons isn’t writing his thing this week because he’s in bed with man flu. Which, now I come to think of it, is probably the manliest thing the miserable little squit has ever laidclaim to in his life. Be that as it may, I even offered to lend him my tablet so he didn’t have to go into that pokey stinking coal-hole he normally writes in and could do so in bed. But he turned me down saying his creative muse was mocking him or some such delirious crap. Honestly, there are days I wonder if they made a mistake at the hospital and I’ve had to bring up some other poor cow’s freak of an offspring. More likely it was that terrible school his sperm-donor insisted he went to. It was all cold showers, canings and stiff upper lips – and stiff other parts too, from what I could tell.

Sec. Bear with. Need a refill.

That’s better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I’m supposed to be doing something about how to write. Moons gave me his notes, but I used them as a coaster and the ink’s gone smudgy with the advocaat. So, you lot will just have to put up with my thoughts instead. I mean, you read his shite week after week so you can’t be very discriminating. Fact is most of you won’t even notice it’s not Moons.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 21: The Write Way

So you really want to know how to write a book?

S’easy. Pick up your frikking metaphorical pen and write the sucker. I remember that some poncey author or another was once asked how he wrote and the big festering gobshite replied ‘one word at a time’. Ha bloody ha ha! Who’s a clever asshole then?

But there is a grain of truth in. You can read enormous amounts of pretentious shite about courting muses, and engaging with your characters, and story arcs, and much other meaningless birdcrap. But as far as I can see that is about as likely to result in a bestseller as any of the puerile stratagems employed by my sad excuse for a son.

Basically, find a rattling good story and tell it. Sprinkle it with the most perverse sex you can imagine. Add a goodly dollop of blood and gore. And don’t forget the happy ever after.

Job done.

Consider this. The horrendous old bat Moons moons over (in a literary way) managed to churn out over 700 of her sickly tales in between interfering in the lives of anybody who would listen to her. By my reckoning, that means anybody should be able to knock out two or three a week. You will be wealthy by Christmas.

Or maybe not.  

Who knows? Who cares?

Coffee time now so you’re on your own. If you get really unlucky, Moons will be back next week.

Go on, piss off then. I’ve said all I’m going to say.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Having slept most of the day away, Phil woke late in the afternoon feeling as though he’d had his first decent sleep since Libby’s passing. Pulling on jeans and a sweater after a shower, he contemplated whether or not he felt any different. Over a coffee and sandwich in the kitchen, he decided to head out to the park to get some fresh air and see if anything had changed.

The air was still, but the carpet of fallen leaves was heavier than it had been the day before.

Perched on her favorite swing, Phil thought about Libby and his conversation with her last night. He definitely felt as though he had found some resolution. Talking to her and sitting with her had calmed him so that, while he still missed her desperately, the heaving sobs of the past week had given way to the gentler grief of deep sighs and languid tears.

He shuddered as a chill crawled across his skin like an icy spider. Weird. He shifted on the swing, looking around to see if the breeze had picked up, but everything was still. The silence struck him as odd – there was no sound of birds or small animals, nor was there any sign of anyone else hanging around, yet he was aware of a distinct impression that he was no longer alone.

You wimp. You’d think if you were going to get creeped out, it would have happened last night when you were sitting in the graveyard. Don’t be so pathetic. 

He waited a while to see if the strange sensations passed, but it only seemed to intensify the more he thought about it. When he could no longer resist the urge to shiver, he decided it was time to head home.

This quietness is really weird. It’s like I’m in some kind of bubble. It’s just not—

Phil jumped when the street light above him fritzed out with a loud pop, leaving him in dim shadows. You are so weak, he admonished himself as he quickened his pace. It’s a coincidence. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the light come back on. Not even realising that he was already running, he let out an involuntary yelp as the next light went out overhead, too.

 ***

 Phil’s father looked up as his son burst through the front door, slammed it behind him and leaned against it, breathing raggedly.

“Phil? What the hell happened?”

“Dad… something weird is going on. The lights went off, and I had this creepy feeling, and—”

“You need a decent feed and some sleep. Staying out all night and moping around all day isn’t doing you any good.”

“No, this is something else. It’s spooky.”

“Spooky? Son, spooky stuff isn’t real. It’s kids’ play at Halloween. Don’t let a couple of bumps in the night mess with your head.”

“Dad, listen. Last night I went to talk to Libby. I sat by her grave all night and—“

“No wonder you’re flipping out. You should eat something and head for bed.”

It was useless to argue. His father was the most stubbornly logical person he knew.

“Come on, son. I can hear the bacon in the fridge calling to us.” Laughing at his lame joke, Phil’s father headed to the kitchen.

For more from Joanne Van Leerdam find her on Facebook or at Wordy Nerd Bird, Wordy Nerd Bird Writes or The Book Squirrel.