Two Women and Some Books
Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!
The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…
Coffee apparently fuels
Authors and other like fools
But for my own sake
I have brandy and cake
As my preferred writing tools
… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago
belive (imprecation) – the opposite to be dead
cocnern (noun) – unreliable dildo
defrentiate (verb) – to unfriend in a history group
egnlish (noun) – language of ladies who lunch
extatic (adjective) – applies only to men watching porn – exceptionally happy
gate hred (noun) – man who sits in the road by the gatehouse exposing himself to passing women
hiar (verb) – of upper-class twits to rent a posh car
improtent (adjective) – of high value but sexually incapable
jealsoy (noun) – thick salty sauce
legmue (noun) – knee that appears to be pulling a face
lubmer (noun) – person who thinks he’d like to be a sailor but is sick when he puts too much water in the bath
nuremous (adjective) – of families, possessing many rodentine offspring
obnexyus (adjective) – having a very long neck
raibb (noun) – a weapon that shoots death rays and pieces of potato
seeance (noun) – three old ladies with a ouija board and a bottle of port
tuaght (adverb) – of speech, clipped and mildly threatening
tuseday (noun) – day on which it is legal to kill annoying people
vergin (noun) – pure young woman who doesn’t eat meat
vigenar (noun) – lady bits
yur (noun) – the way year is pronounced by any royal correspondent on television
zologoist (noun) – supernatural creature that manifests itself during seances by farting
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…
Doug was a little, skinny man who sat in the window of his little, skinny shop mending clocks. He was a fixture in the city, and as reliable as the dawn. So the day he wasn’t there there, a hunt was called. But there was no sign. The city burghers sent for a finder who led them to a half-forgotten graveyard, where a moss-encrusted headstone marked Doughall Snaith’s last resting place.
The mayor had to be revived with smelling salts and burnt feathers.
“But who has been mending our clocks?”
“Who? Or What?”
The finder flew away laughing.
What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…
“The final Future Data field trial started five years ago and was originally focused on one man, Avilon Revid,” the woman went on, this time giving a slight, supercilious nod to Cista Tyran to acknowledge her previous mention of the name. “It seems that was something of a mistake, in retrospect.” She paused and shot a meaningful look at Jecks, who frowned.
“Right. But at the time the evidence was highly convincing,” he said, a little too quickly.
“And faked.”
“Right.”
Five years ago? Playing catch up, Grim realised, that implied Avilon Revid had not died in the Specials and had — presumably — been released. Which was probably the most chilling piece of information he had encountered so far in this briefing. No wonder there was so much secrecy being padded around this. Politically sensitive was not in it. If word that Revid had been released ever became general knowledge, there would be a massive public outcry from Central all the way out to the Periphery and so many scalps demanded that even the top echelons of Central government would not be safe. He glanced at Cista Tyran and noticed she was looking thoughtful. He had a distinct feeling that it was not news to her.
“So we have an interesting situation in which a half-run field trial has caused a number of issues and left some highly irregular loose ends. Ends we thought had been tidied up, but which seem to have re-emerged onto the scene.”
The woman sat back clearly satisfied she had said everything that needed saying. Grim, translating the obscuring words, took them to mean that despite what the presentation had implied, there was evidence that Chola and Baldrik were still alive.
“Right,” Jecks said into the strained silence. “So we have the job of clearing up a potentially critical mess. Just because the Future Data project was aborted does not mean that the consequences it was predicting have also been terminated. In the original plan, there would have been a sweep of all those — ” He hesitated fractionally, but enough for Grim to notice that he had needed to find a different word to his first choice. ” — implicated in the project to ensure none of them was left at large, endangering the security of the Coalition.”
“People like Avilon Revid?” Grim found himself asking, feeling just a little appalled at what he was being told.
Jecks shook his head. “No. Not at all.”
“Avilon Revid is dead. He died in the ‘City in a turf war,” Cista Tyran said, as though it was a well-known fact. “But seriously, sir — it’s not like — “
“Right,” Jecks cut across her. “That is a very valuable point. Avilon Revid is not an issue for us to worry about anymore.”
“And Baldrik and Chola are?” Grim asked, faintly relieved to be assured that at least Revid had not survived to make this mess worse than it looked already.
Jecks gave a half-nod and looked at the unknown woman who cleared her throat.
“Kahina Sarava is a genius. A highly flawed genius. But that does not detract from the power of her mind or the quality of her achievements. We have to take very seriously the consequences that were foreseen by her work.” She gave a tiny nod as though she had just explained everything.
“So what you are saying is that even though this Future Data project failed to predict things correctly — you still think the things it predicted incorrectly might happen?” Cista Tyran asked, her tone sweet and convincingly ingenuous. Grim found himself warming towards her.
From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.
Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!
The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…
I wonder how I get inspired
Being both idle and tired
It’s surprising I’m able
To make funny fables
Perhaps it’s the booze I’ve acquired
Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…
***** ***** *****
A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…
He was a big plain-faced man with a small, brown wife. Nobody would’ve taken a moment’s notice if they hadn’t found oil on his land.
Suddenly he was accounted handsome and his wife insufficient to his new status. They weathered the storm, until the young wife sickened and grew frail. The farmer unearthed the moppet with her hair and menstrual blood and burned it, but the need for vengeance was aroused.
It cost a great deal of money, but he accounted it worthwhile when the smallpox left every woman in the valley scarred – except his own little brown wife.
The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…
Marplot didn’t move, so Barney gave him a not too gentle shove.
“Go on, man, be about your business.”
Marplot scuttled off and Barney swore.
“We need to be not here, my friend.”
Salazar neighed at him, and he got the feeling that meant someone was about who might overhear should they converse.
Indeed, the tent flap opened almost immediately to disclose a hard faced man with the impressive muscularity of someone who takes fitness very seriously.
“Are you Barnabas?”
“I am.”
“Good. The name’s Gawain.” When Barney didn’t react, he carried on speaking. “Are you aware that a certain lady may have what we could call designs on your person?”
“I am.”
“And what do you propose to do about the situation.”
“Run like fuck!”
Which must have been the right answer because the hard face actually broke into a grin.
“That makes things nice and simple then. His Majesty was of the opinion you might be a reasonable man. I wanted some convincing, particularly when I saw that toad Marplot sneaking out of this pavilion.”
“He wasn’t here by invitation.”
“Oh. Right. Lucinda sent him did she?”
“Lucinda?”
“The Queen. You really haven’t got close, have you?”
“I have not. And I’m currently looking for a way out. Yesterday for preference.”
“Of you are serious about legging it I can help.”
Barney raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. His Majesty can help. He’s just been asked to provide a dragon hunter and…”
Barney lifted both his eyebrows.
“Yes. I know. But His Majesty has a peculiar sense of humour. However it would give you an excuse to be gone.“
“I suppose it would. Details please.”
Gawain handed over a scroll and clapped Barney on the shoulder.
“If you stay away for a couple of months she’ll forget you and set her sights elsewhere.”
Then he was gone. Barney waited a few moments before speaking with elaborate casualness.
“Salazar. How do you fancy a dragon hunt?”
“A dragon hunt? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“No. I just thought it was a good excuse to leave here. We could maybe go for a long walk together. And perhaps not come back.”
“Now you are making sense. Just as long as you aren’t proposing to ride around the countryside in an iron suit.”
“As if I would. Serviceable leather is what I’ll be wearing.”
“If that’s the case, I’m with you.”
So it was that as darkness fell a tall man and a tall horse made their quiet way out of the royal encampment and up into the peaceful hills.
It was sunrise on the very next morning when it all started to come unravelled.
Not very far away from the green meadow and its gaudy pavilions, a grey stone castle stood at the head of a metalled causeway. As the sun poked over the horizon the portcullis squealed its way upwards, the sally port opened, and half a dozen heavily armed men dragged a cloaked and chained figure across the drawbridge. The group began to climb a grassy ridge with the armed men setting a punishing pace. The chained figure stumbled, but they had no mercy, dragging their captive along in their wake. At the head of the ridge stood a rough, granite obelisk with iron rings set in its pockmarked sides. The soldiers quickly chained their small charge to the stone and jogged back from whence they had come leaving a forlorn figure spreadeagled on the cold dewy grass.
After a while, the chained one sat up. She, for it was a young woman, put back the hood from her face and surveyed her predicament. The soldiers had freed her hands, but that was of little assistance as she was chained to the rock by both ankles and by a steel hoop around her slender waist. She dropped her face into her hands.
“Princess Aurora,” she sighed. “Your beauty and virtue aren’t a lot of use to you now.”
For a moment there was despair written in every line of her body. But then she sat upright and set her chin.
“If I’m going to die,” she muttered, “I’m going to do it sitting up.”
This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…
A thing of the moment
Available now
Harnessed by magic
Or some other how
Twenty-six letters all jumbled and torn
From table to fable
Yet somehow forlorn
A thing of the moment
Ephemeral fine
As thin as a cobweb
And frozen in time
The story it crouches and snarls in its cage
A thing of the moment emboldened by rage
The circus wagons move from town to town, with the brightly-arrayed creatures tumbling and dancing about them – animated only by the strangely compelling music of the singing oil drums. And all the while, the masters collect money in their horny palms.
Do we ever feel the joy of the dance? No. It is not permitted. We must remain with the freak show, alongside the moustached lady who flaunts her tattooed self and the strangely misshapen beings whose birth was unfortunate and whose lives have rarely been more than burdensome.
We sometimes wonder if we were born as we are now. Truth to tell, we do not know. Although we sometimes speak of where we might have come from none of us has even an idea of before we were as we are.
But our life isn’t hard. Not now. Not if we can manage not to mind the staring eyes.
We speak of that, too, in the quiet of the night – understanding that, hate the eyes though we might, they are less troublesome than the hurled rocks and stones that were overwhelming us in the only other place we can remember. We still feel the hurt to our bones, and the strangeness of relief when the masters drove our persecutors from us with cudgels and harsh words. They removed us from the place and we understood that we became their possessions from that day on.
Our present owners are never truly unkind, although they think of us as animals who have no more comprehension than the heffalumps and the prancing unicorn.
So we stand in our wagon, and those with a brown penny to spend come to look and enjoy their own revulsion. Sometimes those with coins of silver or gold pay to come into the place where we are. They are permitted to do certain things to us. Things that are unpleasant, but never as painful as the rocks of those who sought our deaths. We endure, and are rewarded for our stoicism with treats of honey and brief walks in quiet woodland glades.
Sometimes we think of escape. If we ever get a chance.
Opportunity comes to those who are patient, though, and ours knocked in a most unexpected way.
It was a hot summer night and the circus was leaving town in a hurry. There were whispers of inquisitors in the district and the dark ones had no mind to lose any of their pets to the heavy hand of such as those. The procession hustled along as fast as was possible given the need for discretion. The only sound to be heard was wagons softly creaking in the darkness, while the rising dust clogged our nostrils and besmirched our robes. Nobody capered in a foolish dance, and no music heralded our movement. All was tight-lipped quiet and care to be unobserved.
At a certain place in the deepest shade of the trees our party left the road and turned its face to the hidden ways, where the old trees moved their limbs aside making a path between themselves for the swaying wagons.
We judged it to be coming towards dawn when the wagon beneath us lurched and broadsided itself across the barely discernible byway. There came a horrid cracking sound and we shuddered to a stop.
“Blasted, buggering axle.”
The master who had been driving the patient burden beasts swore in a bitter undervoice. For a few moments there was sufficient chaos to awaken the hungry flesh eaters in their shiny cages. But the masters are resourceful and they soon regained order although we feared certain of the chattering ones would have felt the lash of a stock whip before they quieted.
And we?
We stood in our customary quietude whilst they argued the best way forward.
“Leave them. We can return for them tomorrow night.”
“Leave them, and have them run away? What foolishness is this.”
We knew that cold, harsh voice. It belonged to the ringmaster, who was heavily handsome in the way of humans, and whose anger all the circus feared. Or almost all.
Around him, the talk subsided, until only one was left to brave, or foolish, enough to argue. It was the old one. The one whose voice rustled like last years desiccated leaves and was so discordant as to make our mouths and throats feel as if we had been thirsting for many a day.
“Have them run away? Think again grandson of my son. Where would they go?”
The silence fell heavily cold into the breathless heat of the night, but then he laughed. “Where indeed.”
In a very short while they were gone and around us there was no sound save for the noises as the forest herself awoke. Emboldened by our unaccustomed aloneness we sat swinging our feet over the sides of our broken home.
The air grew cooler and the scent of grass came to our nostrils.
“Such beauty,” one of us spoke into the softly verdant air.
We watched as the sun rose and the creatures of the day took over from the night fliers and crawlers.
Another of us spoke into the pinkness of the dawn.
“Do we dare?”
“Do we dare what?”
But we knew. We knew that if we would ever leave the wooden prison in which we dwelt, now was our time.
Nobody moved, though, and our hands stroked the smooth wood of familiarity.
It must have been high noon before yet another found voice.
“After all. Where would we go?”
This story was inspired by the image created by Paul Biddle
