Two Women and Some Books
If I tweet
Will my feet
Compete
If I fart
Will the art
Depart
If I sneeze
Will my knees
Freeze
If I poo
What will you
Do
If I twitter
Is the babysitter
Bitter
If I read
Will I need
Feed
If I critique
Will I speak
Greek
If I rhyme
May I waste
Time
© jane jago 2017
Underneath the blanket, the girl was mother naked. She shivered lightly, but whether it was fear or excitement she couldn’t tell. She watched her new master as he walked around the room. He too was naked and the firelight placed on the flat planes of his stomach and the corded muscles in his arms and legs. She swallowed nervously and closed her eyes, peeping through the forest of her eyelashes as he turned and come towards her.
“Do you feign sleep?” his deep rather lazy voice mocked her.
“I feign nothing. I just don’t want to see…”
“See what?”
“See your… Your.”
He laughed, but this time the laughter wasn’t mocking.
“Have you never seen a naked man before?”
“No.”
“Well open your eyes and look.”
She shook her head and screwed her eyes tighter shut.
He put one big hand under her chin.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She opened her eyes and found herself looking into a pair of bright amber orbs. They were amused, but also seemed to her to be understanding of her predicament.
He took his hand from under her chin.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She sat up, clutching the rough blanket to her small breasts.
“I don’t exactly know.”
“Well roughly then.”
She lifted a slender shoulder. “About seventeen,” she hazarded.
“And how close is that likely to be?”
“I’m a slave lord. Nobody takes any notice of what age a slave might be. I started to bleed two summers ago, and they thought about selling my virginity. But then Madam said not. Said to keep me untouched until somebody with money came along.”
He looked into her eyes, and whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.
“Drop the blanket then.”
The girl obeyed and her master’s eyes roamed her smooth pale skin.
“Very pretty,” he said and reached out a hand to caress her throat.
She swallowed and his smile became feral. He bent his head and nipped the tender skin beneath her ear. She drew in a shaky breath and his mouth roamed lower.
Some considerable while later, the girl stirred in her master’s arms. She stretched like a cat and made a small sound in the back of her throat.
“Master,” she said quietly.
He grunted encouragingly.
“Master, what is Eden?”
He sat up and grasped her shoulders.
“What do you know about Eden?”
His hands were biting into her flesh and she flinched, but he did not loosen his grip.
“Eden,” he demanded harshly.
“They brought me here. Madam and the sergeant of your guard. And I heard them. He laughed and touched my face. It’s a waste, he said, she’s a pretty little thing, and he’s destined for Eden.”
He let go of her shoulders and laughed.
“Oh. That’s what he thinks is it? We shall see.”
He rolled over and pinned the not unwilling girl under his heavy body.
After another interval, he lay on his back, with the girl draped across his body. He ran a hand down her spine.
“Will you help me?”
She lifted her face and smiled down at him.
“If I can.”
“Oh. You can. But you will need to be brave.”
“I think I can be brave. What do you need?”
“I need the sergeant in here.”
“Will he come if I start screaming?”
“He will. But then…”
“But then what?”
“Then I have to kill him.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“And there is a bit more to it. I will need to paint some symbols on your body with his blood. And make love to you whilst you are painted.”
She shrugged and showed him her small, white teeth.
And then she started screaming.
The door burst open and the sergeant rushed in with his sword drawn. The girl stood up, giving him a view of her white nakedness. Her master kicked the door shut and his knife took the sergeant beneath his chin cutting the arteries in his throat. The girl dropped a heavy bar into slots in the door and turned to watch the soldier with bright pitiless eyes.
“Does Death not worry you, little one?”
“I’m a slave. I’ve seen death all my life. How should it worry me?”
The man dipped his finger in the pulsing red blood and began to paint the girl’s naked body with oddly disturbing symbols.
When he had finished he tumbled her to the mattress and took her roughly. At the moment when her eyes became blind in her own ecstasy he slipped his long, thin knife between her ribs.
“Eden” he cried in a great voice, and when the girl’s spirit left her body he saw for an instant a white and golden angel who took that spirit in his corded arms and ascended into the light.
The master dressed himself meditatively and slipped out of the window into the ever thickening darkness of the night.
© jane jago 2017
After a most satisfactory hug, which included a wildly wagging dog, the four of them sat down to Anna’s boeuf bourguignon with softly creamed potatoes, followed by ice cream with chocolate fudge sauce. At the end of the meal, the grown-ups got coffee, and Bill had a mug of warm milk. He patted his little round tummy.
“Thank you Anna, that was lovely. I was very hungry.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. When we’ve had a bit of a sit, you can take Bonnie into the garden for her wees, then we’ll pack the camper and be off. It’s past your bedtime you know.”
“How is that? It isn’t even dark. Your clock must be wrong.”
Anna and Sam drunk their coffee, while Rod explained about the north, with its long days in summer and short ones in winter. Bill was particularly enchanted by the thought of the very far north and twenty-four hour daylight in the summer.
“I don’t really understand it, but it’s most interesting. I’d like to see a night where it stayed day.”
“Well, you shall then. I’ll bring you to see some friends of mine who live at a place called Lerwick on an island called Shetland. They have a daughter of about your age and she can show you all sorts of wild creatures. Would you like that?”
“Oh. I would. I would.”
“Then it’s a done deal.”
Soon after that, they got up from the table and made ready to leave. Bonnie got her play in the garden before Sam, Rod and Anna donned cotton tracksuit trousers and loose tops. “We can sleep and drive in these,” Sam explained. “But you aren’t driving, so Anna has some jammies for you.”
“Good. I was wondering what I was going to wear in bed. Grampa Cracksman sleeps in his vest and pants, but Mummy says that’s unsanitary. Can I have my softy jumper in bed with me?”
“You can,” Anna said. “And Bonnie, and one of us.”
“Oh that sounds fun. Which one of you?”
“We will take it in turns. It will be Rod first.”
Rod looked as if he was about to argue, then changed his mind and yawned hugely. He grinned at Bill.
“You better not snore.”
Bill pulled a cheeky face.
“You neither.”
When everyone was ready, they trooped out to the camper. As they were about out of the door, Rod fished in his pocket for something he shoved under the coffee pot on the kitchen table.
“Just a tip for the cleaner,” he said.
“Rod,” Anna sounded a bit scandalised. “That’s a fifty.”
“And?”
“Oh. And nothing, I suppose.”
He laughed and patted her.
“Let’s get this show on the road. I’m shattered. C’mon Bill. What side of the bed do you want?”
“Me and Bonnie would like inside, please.’
“Good enough. If you want to make wees in the night you wake me up and I’ll help you out of bed. OK?”
“OK.”
By the time Anna and Sam had settled themselves in the camper cab, Rod, Billy and Bonnie were already in bed. Billy had Bonnie by his feet, and was cuddling his cashmere jumper.
“Night Bill.”
“Night Uncle Rod.'”
Billy snuggled his back against his uncle’s side, gave a tiny sigh and was immediately asleep. Rod laid a huge hand gently on the little boy’s head and promptly fell asleep himself.
Anna smiled at Sam.
“I’ll drive first, if you like. Do you need to sleep?”
“Not for a while. I’m not as exhausted as Rod; he had a rough time of it. Worrying about Bill, and holding it together has been hard on him. I had it easier. I was worried and disgusted, but I hadn’t met Bill until we got him out. So I wasn’t as emotionally involved. Until now. You must be pretty wiped out.”
“Not as bad as Rod. He’s a good deal more imaginative than he seems, and he is very, very close to Billy. Me? Life has taught me to hold my emotions in check. Though I expect I’ll have a meltdown after we get the little man home.”
He smiled at her.
“I know. When I think of what could have happened it makes my stomach go cold.”
“Yes. Rod dropped the theory he wasn’t meant to survive in my lap. Do you buy into it?”
“Oh yeah. Not just that, but they intended him to suffer before they ended him. There were all number of nasty things in the room where they had him, plus video equipment to record his suffering. It was vile.”
“Good god. I didn’t know people could be that evil.”
“Oh. They can. I found that out when I was working with Medecins sans Frontiers. I spent two years helping kids who had been rescued from the sex trade. It still leaves a nasty taste. But at least it means I have a good idea of how to look after little Bill.”
“Yes. And thank goodness you do. His parents are hugely grateful.”
“No need. It’s what I do. Though I’m an orthopaedic surgeon by trade, anyone who worked in Thailand can’t help having an interest in children’s health and wellbeing. But talking about Bill’s parents, I do need to talk to them before we get him home.”
“You can call them now, if you like. My phone is on the centre console there. They are in the book as Jim and Pats.”
“I will. Thanks. While those two are very deeply asleep.”
He picked up the phone.
“Hello. Jim Cracksman? I’m Sam Henderson. Bill calls me Doctor Sam. Don’t mention it. But there are a couple of things you need to know before he gets home. First. He just told me how he was taken. Yes. That’s what he said. The au pair. Bitch. Done a runner has she? Oh how surprising. Now. To how Bill is coping. Basically, he’s good, but he will have wobbles. He may seem a bit clingy and babyish for a while, but just cuddle him and accept it. I will wear off. If he needs a cry, you have to let him cry. If he wants to shout and swear a bit, let him do that. If he wants to talk about what happened to him, let him do that too. It’s normal. Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not. Your mother is a wise woman, and she’s right about the others. You do need to tell them. Yes. I know you would rather not, but for Bill’s sake you have to. They need to know that he could be wobbling, and why. School? No. It’s only a month or so till the end of term. If it was me I’d not send him back until September. He’s bright enough for it not to matter. Yeah. I’d be more than willing to keep an eye on him. He’s a great kid. Yes. I’ll see you then.”
You are old, will you please tell me this
When was the last time you were kissed?
It was late Saturday
Having my wicked way
With a body too good to be missed
© jane jago 2017
Bonjour mes enfants,
It is I, the exquisitely lubricious Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Ivy to one’s chums and Moons to one’s deliciously outre Maman. I am, of course, the pen behind that seminal work of imagination and anal rectitude ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and the unimaginably enormous and generous intellect behind this programme of tutorials on the art of putting one’s soul onto paper.
I know you are all in awe of the crystalline perfection of my prose, and the lyrical lusciousness of my verse, and I know deep in my artistic soul that I cannot ever hope to raise the standards of your poverty-stricken scribbling to anywhere near the opalescent splendour of my smallest mark on paper. But it is my sacred mission to teach you little minnows sufficient that you may become sharklettes in the murky ponds of your own miserable literary existences.
With which in mind we shall proceed.
Or, as Mama might say, “Famous last words, Moons. Fucking famous last words.”
You will, of course, be racking your teeny weeny little minds for the reason why the last words in a work can have any importance at all. I shall elucidate, beginning in the world of the moving picture theatre, a podium not dissimilar to the efforts of the literary genius…
Should one pronounce the phrase:
‘It was beauty killed the beast’
all of you will prick up your little ears and a spark will kindle in the dullness of your crania. Upon some basic level, too elementary to be called thought, you will know that ‘King Kong’ is being evoked.
Similarly:
‘tomorrow is another day’
brings to the screen behind the dullness of your eyes the face of Scarlett O’Hara and the flavour of ‘Gone with the Wind’.
Do you begin to discern my meaning?
And so to literary conclusions.
One will admit to being less than a fan of Mister Dickens’ turgid Victorian drama but he did possess the ability to pen an ending that etches itself into the consciousness.
There is no need whatsoever to have read ‘A Tale of two Cities’ to know that it concludes thus:
‘…it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known’
Equally it is true to say that not one in a thousand of those who quote Tiny Tim’s valedictory speech at the end of ‘A Christmas Carol’ will have so much as opened the book. Notwithstanding this fact ‘God bless us. Every one.’ has become just as much a symbol of the festive season as brandy butter and Boxing Day divorce.
Boiled down to its very essence, today’s message is both excruciatingly simple and exquisitely obscure. If your last few words are as strong as Sampson, as sexy as Rod Stewart, and as breathtaking as a sussurating sunset, it matters not a jot what the rest of the endeavour is.
Oh yes, my hopeful scribblers. A memorable last line will enshrine your work in the canon of literary excellence…
Consider your options carefully and remember the final words of my own magnum opus as Fatswhistle lays his heart and his fortune at the feet of Buchtooth:
“Piss off Fats, I’m dying for a crap.”
Craft carefully mes estudas. Next week. The cover….
…I take the book and shove my Marlboros into my pocket with a small red lighter. I see light brown hair hanging over the back of an armchair. Ron Wilson is reading the news on Channel 10. I sit on a couch to the left of the armchair, opposite the windows. I look at a young girl in jeans and a light blue t-shirt. I guess she’s about eighteen or nineteen and when she turns to look at me I see those steel-blue eyes again. She has an oval-shaped face and the eyes are clear like the sky now. She’s slim and wearing black runners. She has a wide mouth with full lips. No lipstick. A black mole above her right eye sticks out and she smiles at me.
‘You recognise me from last night,’ she says. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement. I feel myself blushing and hate it. She smiles again and says, ‘My name is Kelly Landry. How old are you?’
‘Thirty. And my name is Benjamin.’
‘But Ben is okay, right?’
‘Right.’
‘When you looked at me last night I couldn’t quite tell how old you are. You look old around the eyes, some strong lines but you have a young face.’
‘Yeah, I remember you,’ I manage to say.
‘Hey, what’re you reading?’
‘Twelve by Nick McDonnell. Do you know it?’
‘No. Have you read Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami?’
‘Yeah, I have. Um, that’s about the last thing I thought you’d ask me.’
‘I wanted your full attention. Do you know my favourite part of that book is when Midori
gets angry with Toru because he didn’t notice her new haircut? Is that stupid? With all the drama going on that conversation sticks with me, always.’
I look at her for a few long seconds trying to work her out and then say, ‘No, I totally agree. No wait. I need to think about something like that. It’s important.’
Nothing gets said for a minute. Ron Wilson tells us about some bushfires in the Margaret
River region and I say, ‘Have you read Murakami’s After Dark?’
‘Yes. He’s my go-to man at the moment. I went through a Kerouac phase and I carried Girl, Interrupted around with me for a year or so but at the moment it’s Murakami.’
‘Is that the book they based the film with Winona Rider and—?’
‘Yeah, the book is by Sussana Kayson. You’d like it if you like Norwegian Wood. Another
crazy girl.’
‘I’ll try and find it in a bookshop. You should read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest if you
like crazy people and sad stories about them.’
‘I will. I bet you’re surprised you’re talking about all this; you know, about books and things, here in this pub in Geraldton with a skimpy girl.’ She’s made me turn red again but this time it’s because I’m a little ashamed that she could read my mind and how puerile and small-minded my thoughts were.
‘I guess I am. I … by the way how old are you?’
‘By the way I’m twenty-eight. I have to go to work now. You can come and talk to me there if it doesn’t embarrass you.’
‘Maybe not. Say, is there a good beach here? I mean there must be. Somewhere along the
road that runs by the ocean? Come to the beach with me tomorrow.’
‘Alright, I’ll knock on your door. You do know we’re the only two people living here.’ She
gets up and walks out and I see the line of her frilly light blue knickers above the back
waistband of her hipster jeans. I think about the beads of perspiration I saw on her stomach and breasts. Wow. She rocked me. She’s beautiful and smart and her eyes, they seem to change colour with her mood. In the bar, cold and blue but here, talking with me, they became calm and sky blue. I put my feet up on the small coffee table, pretty happy that it’s just the two of us living here. I shake a Marlboro Light out of my soft packet and light up, blow smoke into the roof and smile. She likes, no, she loves books. I butt my cigarette and go downstairs.
Sean O'Leary is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. His fiction, non-fiction and interviews have been published in Quadrant, FourW, Page Seventeen, Bravado, Takahé, Wetink, Famous Reporter and @ www.crimetime.co.uk. He has published two short story collections, 'My Town' and 'Walking'. His novella, 'Drifting' was the winner of 'The Great Novella Search 2016' and was published in September, 2017 by Busybird Publishing.
By the sea, because you can swim in summer and the beach in winter is also great because it is deserted and brilliant for walking. I go to Apollo Bay on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria a couple of times a year and I lived in Bondi Beach for a decade in the 90’s.
Um, I think, Dekker. It is the name of Harrison Ford’s character in Blade Runner, which is one of my all time favourite films. I love the scene where Rutger Hauer dies.
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe...”
Q3. Virtual Reality. I think that this technology is just going to go ballistic. It has good and bad implications. For people with a disability it could change their lives, they could experience things that they never thought possible. It could also hugely change the porn and recreational drug use industries…for better or worse…it’s already here and going to get bigger and wilder, so get ready.
You can catch up with Sean O’Leary on Goodreads and on his website.
Probably the most popular character in Fortune's Fools, this is the first glimpse a reader gets of Durban Chola in Transgressor in The Fated Sky.
Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face.
Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing.
But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road.
“Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of QabalVyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?”
If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.”
Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.”
Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle.
“And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost.
The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile.
“I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.”
Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear.
“I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is doubtless Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner.
Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.
From Transgressor 1: The Fated Sky by E.M. Swift-Hook.
Lying hands, untruthful fingers
Truth may die
Dissembling lingers
Smiling eyes, with hate beneath
Chew through lives
With sharpened teeth
Lying kisses, cold caresses
Love denied
The heart distresses
Lying hands that grip and hold
Steal the warmth
And leave the cold
© jane jago 2017
“You human, you are the problem. A miserable, short life is your just reward for your species treatment of this planet.”
The world has died, murdered by humanity and the Temple never lets those who still live on the Mother, crushed physically and psychologically into the crowded Plena to forget that and forget the guilt debt they owe to Her. Valko Gangleri is a Moderator, a sort of policeman but more along the lines of Judge Dredd, harsh, callous and uncaring – unless he is under the influence of the NOTT drug that unlocks his empathy. When a sequence of murders and the subsequent investigations lead Valko to some disturbing discoveries about himself, the phrase ‘all is not what it seems’ springs to mind in huge neon letters.
This is a dystopian sci-fi set in a post-apocalyptic world – but one in which there seem to have been numerous causes of the final apocalyptic event. It has all the classic hallmarks of the genre – enclosed humanity, uninhabitable world, oppression by a faceless elite that dominate all aspects of life. It also has something unique which only clicks in half-way through the book and from then on expands into strange and unpredictable pathways. Imagine Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil’ meeting ‘Logan’s Run’ and you have a good idea of what to expect.
‘The wind had become Death’s steed: on it rode humanity’s suicide machines, now registering at one part per billion.’
The strength of this book is in its worldbuilding. You get the impression that the author walked the streets and breathed the polluted air himself, making notes and mapping as he went. It is that good. However, sometimes it is also a bit overwhelming and it slows the opening of the book to a very turgid pace. There are frequent digressions to explain how something came about, which are usually handled well, but occasionally the reader is left with a sense of being lectured by an unseen authorial voice.
The characters are very well drawn and engaging, especially Valko and the transformation of his personality is crafted impeccably. The supporting cast is well written too, though I did feel Davidson in his deeds did not live up to what we were continually being told about the man. The pace is never really full on action speed, even in the tensest moment and sometimes slipped to slow.
“Oshi, there have been too many lies – too much manipulation of both our minds.”
For me, the book was too long – and it is a long book. The story doesn’t really get into ‘meaningful’ until the half-way mark. Before that, there is an excessive – possibly obsessive – amount of set-up and world-building IMO. The story itself could have been better told in fewer words, IMO. Although I enjoyed the reading, I will admit to wanting to skip forwards quite often and undoubtedly I wound up skimming over parts where the plot was not being progressed, excessive flashbacks, which added nothing much I could find of value, for example.
Overall I enjoyed this book a lot and would recommend it to anyone who loves detailed world-building and a different twist to the dystopian sci-fi genre.
Review by E.M. Swift-Hook. Mercury's Son is written by Luke E.T. Hindmarsh.
