Two Women and Some Books
Why do you send your babies out
Crying trick or treat?
Do you truly think it safe
For children on the street?
When all around the air is full
Of things not kind or sweet
As from the earth the dead things rise
A gibbous moon to greet
Things that touch their chubby hands
And trip their little feet
Things that want to suck their souls
And eat their brains like meat
This is the night of the living dead
Who only wish to cheat
And steal away the children
Left to wander in the street
Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!
Now I have your attention, let’s think about Halloween.
The night when, according to superstition, the veil between here and wherever is at its thinnest. So what do people do? They dress little Testosterone and Menopause in ‘supernatural’ costumes and they send them out to knock on the front doors of total strangers crying ‘twick or tweet’.
In what alternative universe is that a good idea?
Has nobody read Hansel and Gretel?
The opportunity for deeply disturbing adult behaviour is there for all to see. But no. What does the great British public do? It opens its fricking door and dispenses sweeties willy nilly.
Then, just as you are fifty quid lighter for the night, and at last even the most persistent of winkie has been put to bed, the door knocking becomes rougher in character and the local teenage males come out to do a bit of extortion – with menaces.
These bastards don’t bother to even pretend they are in costume, and they really won’t be satisfied with a mini Mars bar. Mostly they want ciggies or beer, although one or two will expect a fiver in their greasy palms in order that they won’t throw eggs and flour at your front door, or accidentally key your car, or tie a firework to your cat’s tail.
From the depths of my armchair this seems too close to blackmail to be acceptable, and I determined to put an end to such behaviour once and for all.
I am in the fortunate position of: one – being wholly nerveless; two – having more hefty grandsons and nephews than you could shake a shitty stick at,
Conceive of the scene, my friends, local thugs beat a tattoo on elderly lady’s front door. It opens with an eerie creak and a huge figure with a gimp mask stands in a sulphurously lit hallway.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” it says in a voice like a winter hailstorm. “Do come in…”
Exit thugs stage left. Pursued by creatures whose faces gleam green in the streetlights.
We don’t see trick or treaters after dark these days…
He expected to live his life a widower. But the elders thought differently, so he found himself a reluctant participant at the church door, with the innkeeper’s plain daughter at his side.
Once married, they walked towards his home in frigid silence. When they were almost at the door she put a timid hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her obvious misery and felt ashamed.
“Not your fault.” He took her hands in his. “Shall we make what we can of this.”
She searched his face with her eyes. “Yes please.”
They found friendship and laughter together.
“May I come in then?”
She buried her face in the flowers. “I guess you’d better, because I’ll ever be able to eat all I cooked on my own.”
A smile awoke the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. “I’m all about helping damsels in distress.”
“Eejit. Come in and sit quietly while I find a vase for my flowers.”
He followed obediently, although she got the distinct impression he was right on the edge of the giggles. In the kitchen she put her flowers on the worktop and turned to face him with her hands on her hips.
“Okay, buster, what’s so funny?”
“Me being bossed about by a woman who barely reaches my chin. And liking it.”
“Do you actually like it, Mike? Or are you humouring me?”
“Oh I like it right enough. I love the sass about you when you are putting me in my place. Besides which, I’d never patronise you by pretending.”
Jenny felt as if another corner of her frozen heart melted but she occupied herself putting the flowers in water rather than think about that.
When she was satisfied she carried the vase into her sunny sitting room. Mike made no attempt to follow her. Instead he stood at the french doors looking out at her tiny, chaotic garden.
“I like that,” he said as she came back into the kitchen.
“Like what?”
“That lovely little bit of jungle in the city.”
She went to stand beside him. “When I moved in here it was a perfectly respectable lawn with regimented flower beds around the edges. Took me most of the time I’ve been here, but now I can fancy myself out in the fields when I sit out here of any evening. And the wildlife loves it. It’s a good job my landlord’s amenable.”
“No conditions about mowing the lawn every Sunday then?”
“No. But there wouldn’t be. It’s my dad. Or, to be more accurate, it’s Ford Farm.” He said nothing, so she ploughed on. “I came out of my marriage with bugger all, and the need to escape from all the nasty rumours my ex engineered. Dad and Mum bought this house and renovated it for me. Then I got a job with a firm in the city. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Mike smiled down at her. “The layout of the house is really good. How much did you have to do to get it like this?”
Jenny was silently grateful that he chose not to pick her up on coming out of her marriage with nothing, and delighted to be able to talk about the house and the work it had taken to get it to her liking. She grabbed his hand and dragged him all around the downstairs, pointing out where walls had come down and how the thing had evolved. He was obviously fascinated and when she had run out of steam he had a lot of very sensible questions.
“Come and eat. We can carry on talking while we stuff our faces.”
Maybe they didn’t quite stuff themselves, but between talking and laughing, and squabbling about house layouts they managed to get outside of a pretty impressive pile of roast chicken.
Jenny was just making noises about pavlova when there came a thunderous knocking on the front door, accompanied by what sounded like someone kicking the stout wood.
“Who the heck?”
Just as she was about to go see who was responsible for this rude intrusion, a voice made itself heard.
“Open the door you filthy whore. I know you’re in there.”
Immediately, Jenny was back in the place where nothing she ever did was good enough, and the pain was all but physical. Mike must have noticed her suddenly pinched features because he spoke with careful neutrality.
“Your ex?”
Jenny managed to nod her head, and the concern on Mike’s face enabled her to force a rusty whisper from her mouth.
“I knew he was out of prison, on licence, but I never dreamed.” For a second she could say no more for the constriction in her throat, but some reserve of courage she didn’t even know she possessed came to her aid. “He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t know I live here. And even if he managed to find out there’s a restraining order. He isn’t allowed within five miles of me.”
Mike walked around the table and stood behind her. He was close enough for her to lean into his strength if she wanted, but not so close as to crowd her. He handed her his phone.
“Call triple nine love. He sounds like a bloody maniac.”
Jenny called, grateful to have someone else do the thinking for her. A police presence was promised immediately and she could relax a little.
Zraxy’ct had wanted to be an alien archaeologist from the time she had squaddled out of the brooding chamber. She had gained the right knowledge nodes to be accepted into the chosen clutch of those training for that elite career.
Now she was undertaking a course on one alien culture and its as yet untranslated languages. There was an odd broken circle symbol found everywhere thought to show generative power. It was clear to Zraxy’ct what the elements of it represented. The very obvious fact it showed a symbolic penetrative sex act was the basis of her acclaimed final thesis.
… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago
ahd (acronym) – absolutely horrible dandruff
bastrad (noun) – asshole whose parents have disowned him
brather (noun) – inconsequential conversation with male relative
cncetrating (verb form) – of jelly to set very firm
colun (noun) – printer’s symbol indicating the above is gobbledygook print as it stands
delive (noun) – technical term for murder
ebfore (noun) – very low tide
fdribblingrom (noun) – the mouth of a very drunk person
fudhe (adjective) – squishy and smelling faintly of old underwear
grwon (noun) – supernatural being almost always invisible but discernible at all times by its galloping halitosis
hopefulyl (noun) – optimistic alien
hosemate (noun) – person who swings a mean length of rubber pipe
ireonic (adjective) – of facial expressions, annoyed in a long-suffering manner
irritaes (noun) – annoyed rodents with very sharp teeth
kake (noun) – strange green dessert made from honey and cabbage
lvoe (noun) – small furry armpit parasite
maoment (noun) – unit of time falling anywhere between twenty seconds and an hour as in ‘I’ll do it in a maoment’
migth (adjective) – applied generally to children – meaning small, pale, and given to developing strange illnesses
numer (noun) – bloke who sniffs dirty laundry
orefer (noun) – yellow bird with pink feet and an attitude problem
somethme (noun) – occasional herb
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
“It’s a long way up.”
“It’ll be worth it when we get to the top,” he promised.
“But what’s up there?”
He wouldn’t say, just laughing and tugging her along in his wake.
When they reached the top of the hill she looked around in bemusement. It was just another hilltop. Then he turned her so she was looking at a stand of trees and a white stone that stood among them.
“Sacred to the memory of Arthur Merryweather,” she read.
The sudden tears filled her eyes.
“Oh. You’ve found it. After all these years. You found my dad’s grave…”
Torwyn watched the Easterner as he advanced across the floor of the arena. Therloon was fully aware that this was his moment and the exaggerated grin that split the tattooed face was as much leer of derision as smile of victory. Only those nearest the edge of the arena heard the tattooed man’s words as he approached his unarmed foe.
“You want to take back what you said before?”
The Sabre backed off step by step as the other man advanced, his arms spread wide in a gesture of pacification or surrender and the roar of contempt from the crowd at this sign of cowardice swelled close to riot.
“Take it back? Why should I?” he said as if puzzled by the question.
“Because on that depends how fast you die.”
“I don’t see why.” The Sabre’s tone was soft. “No matter how quickly or slowly you kill me it is all still true, Gant. You are an imbecile, a laughably dumb brute. You have less intelligence than the beast they named you for.”
An animal growl in his throat, the Easterner shot forward, the long axe held lightly in his hands. Sabre stepped back in a nervous retreat and in doing so missed his footing and tripped, sprawling backwards over the body of Therloon’s previous victim. He fell on his back, arms wide, body spread open and helpless.
The Easterner charged the last few paces, his face congested by anger and hate and Torwyn knew he was going to make this kill one his audience would long remember.
Then the fallen man moved. His body rolled suddenly backwards, looking for all the world like a street tumbler, legs disappearing over his head and he finished the movement smoothly on one knee, the spear he had rescued in the process of completing the roll, held in his hands and braced solidly against his foot.
Therloon could no more have shifted his course at that point than taken flight and his eyes barely had time to widen in horrified comprehension, before his stomach was impaled upon the spear.
Sabre was on his feet as the impact was carried through, driving the point home deeply, twisting it to bite into the spine as the Easterner went down. Standing above his fallen foe, the sturdy fighting-slave looked down, without compassion at the tattooed face which was broken now by a rictus of agony.
“How fast do you die?” he asked savagely, for once allowing the fury and disgust to boil up through his veins. But the Easterner was beyond words, lungs pierced by the ripping barbs on the side of the spear’s head and breathing only in wheezing grunts.
The adoring ululation of the crowd ran like a hurricane around the arena and a monsoon of flowers and ribbons rained down onto the blood-drenched sand.
“Sabre! Sabre! Sabre!”
Torwyn straightened up and looked around as if seeing the scene for the first time. Then, strangely impatient and with no more than the most perfunctory of gestures to acknowledge the adulation, he ran his hand through his short rust-coloured hair and strode back through the now open gates, into the dark tunnel beyond.
The lanista was, predictably, already there to greet him from behind the bars with a grim smile of delight.
“You had the crowd really going there for a few, Tawn, but I knew you could do it. I had an entire moon’s takings riding on you.”
The fighting-slave shook his head in disbelief.
“You are a bad liar, Proculin. You meant that asshole, Gant, to take me – in fact I am sure you are disappointed he did not. Why else did you give him that axe and me nothing but a shiny twig? You knew I stood no chance with that against him, that if I tried to fight with the thing it would snap in two.” Torwyn, the man the crowds knew as Sabre, was feeling more than cynical. The intense exaltation that another had died and he still lived roared through him with a primal surge, making everything clearer, brighter, more perfect and intensifying every nuance of sound, sight, smell and sensation. He did not miss the false stiffness to Proculin’s smile.
“I hope you lost a lot.” Torwyn added sincerely, gripping the bars that kept him from the free-world. But for once the money-grasping lanista seemed unconcerned.
“It is no matter. I made on you anyhow. But don’t bother settling down too comfy, Tawn, you’ve been sold.”
There was a nasty edge of delighted malice in Proculin’s tone that the lanista made absolutely no attempt to disguise. The relationship between the owner of the Alfor Arena and his most famous and profitable fighting-slave had never been other than caustic, but this presaged something of a different order.
“Sold?” Torwyn repeated incredulous. “You would never sell me. You’d more than halve your profits to do so.”
“Well get used to the idea, because it happens to be true. As of the moment you spitted Gant you became the property of Qabal Vyazin. But cheer up, Tawn, I hear he has a Zoukai captain working for him nowadays, one who used to ride with the caravans keeping the slaves in order on the road. So you’ll be in professional hands.”
The lanista seemed to find his own joke very funny and he walked away laughing, leaving Torwyn still gripping the bars, his knuckles white, as the real consequences of his lanista’s words dawned on him with the cold chill of comprehension.
From Dues of Blood part three of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook
A family picnic in the orchard with parasols, white dresses and a tartan rug. Jean-Paul proposed over caviar and champagne, she’d accepted. He said he’d have the ring resized, but by ill-fortune it’d fallen from her finger as they packed away.
The ring was lost for so long, Elise forgot about it.
Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren with their children, came for her hundredth birthday – a picnic in the orchard with parasols and champagne.
Through serendipity, her favourite great-grandson found the ring and Elise wept tears of joy. Then and there, with Elise’s delighted blessing, he proposed to his true love.
MeowOWeen a charity anthology for children, edited by Stephanie Barr
Spooky, scary, otherworldly, magical…
You can find all kinds of tales and tails in this collection of haunting cat stories for children and the child in us all. And if you think the perfect solution to a frightening dilemma or phantom is a kitty or two, well, you might just be right.
But don’t make them angry…
Death crept closer.
There was a nest of baby birds perhaps three meters up the tree, but Death could leap that easily. The night was dark and the moon was hidden. The mother bird dozed on her babies, unaware.
Death was used to that. He was silent and dark. Many thought him harmless since he had no tail and no front claws. It was usually the last mistake they ever made.
Closer, he crept and closer still. The father bird was elsewhere so no threat. Even the mother could not hold her own against him. Death was a large creature, sleek, lithe, deadly.
His yellow eyes were all but hidden behind the dark of his pupils. His feet were silent on the fresh-cut grass. The nest was on the other side of the tree, but he could leap up there and be on the birds before they had a chance to defend themselves. He was Death.
Easily, he could feast on the baby birds, a week old or so. And probably the mother. He could offer his friends what remained as treasures once he had consumed his fill.
Death poised for the jump. His strong back legs—oversized to compensate for the tail he’d never had—were ready to spring and propel him up the tree…
A door slammed open to his right, bathing the yard with yellow light from the kitchen. “Alvin!” the man shouted.
Death hissed his frustration. He was Death, Death! And he was being interrupted.
The birds were awake now but where could they go? Death returned to his pursuit, ready to leap and destroy.
“There you are,” a human voice said. “There’s my little smoochy oochy.”
Death turned to warn him away with a hiss. The birds definitely knew he was there now. He could still kill, but he might not get out unscathed.
The human scooped him up and snuggled him despite his wiggling protest. “Who’s a handsome boy? Want some fresh salmon?”
I am not a handsome—wait, did you say salmon? After all, those birds would be there for several more weeks.
The man, who smelled of oil and gasoline, nuzzled his head. “That’s right, you beautiful kitty. Nothing but the best for you.” With that, he walked back into the house, Death cradled in his arms. As soon as he’d closed the door, he let Death back to the floor, then crouched and scratched Death’s head in just the right spot. He rose and moved to the kitchen, then paused. “You coming, buddy?”So what if he was Alvin here? He had nice humans to pet him.
And let’s not forget the salmon.
Life was pretty good for Death.
From ‘Death Stalks’ by Stephanie Barr
All proceeds from MeowOWeen go to St Jude Children’s Research Hospital whose mission is to advance cures, and means of prevention, for paediatric catastrophic diseases through research and treatment. Consistent with the vision of its founder Danny Thomas, no child is denied treatment based on race, religion or a family’s ability to pay. No family receives a bill for treatment.
All authors and illustrators have donated their work free of charge:
Stephanie Barr, Knixolate Bar, Rose Campbell, Jocelyn Dex, Ken Goudsward, Jane Jago, Debbie Manber Kupfer, RC Larlham, USA Today Bestselling author Lily Luchesi, Jen Ponce, DM Rasch, F Stephan and Donna Marie West
Question one: How much truth do you think there is in the following statement, and why? If cats weren’t so fluffy and cute, people might notice that they are just about perfect killing machines.
I think that’s a lovely summation. So many cat adoption stories come from a kitten out in the “wild” walking up to a stranger and looking adorable with the person falling in love. The adorable nature of kittens is, without a doubt, a survival mechanism. Even when they’re older. “Punkin, did you tear up the bread and leave shreds all over the house?” Punkin (ginger tabby) rubs against your leg and purrs, with an added purry meow. “Well, don’t do it again.” Repeat endlessly. I find the fact that they’re also brutally capable hunters as well also appeals to me. Cats are amazing killing machines and, ounce for ounce, one of the most devastating killers out there. Hard for me not to respect that.
Question two: The connection between cats and Halloween is probably as old as the festival itself. Why do you think this is the case?
Cats are quiet, sneaky, slide easily into forgotten corners, can hide in plain sight, can be brutally vicious, and don’t bow down to the dictates of people as most other domesticated animals do. I think a part of it is driven by the faction of people who don’t like an animal that sees them as, at best, an equal. That’s likely the group that demonized cats.
For some people who love cats, their ability to get where they shouldn’t, their ability to kill effortlessly, their silent tread and stealth can seem like magic. And the purr. How many creatures have a mechanism that effortlessly reduces stress and even heals? Magic!
People who love cats can often love cats unreasonably, with an almost slavish devotion.
And most people who have cats have, at least at some point or another, seen cats staring at what looks to be a blank wall, as if there’s a spirit or some other otherworldly beast there. (The story “Fate” addresses this point directly).
Plus, who wants a holiday without cats? Maybe I should do a Christmas cats anthology next time.
Question three: As a person who loves cats would you agree that people may own dogs but they are owned by cats? And why are cats so addictive?
Cats can definitely get away with more than most and, people can become almost slavish in their support. I mean, we literally clean up their crap. Dogs want to make you happy, and, I think, dog people are definitely devoted to their dogs, BUT, dog owners know they’re the boss. Cats want you to clean up their crap and bring out dinner, chop chop. And pet them when they want you to, okay you can stop now. Don’t make me have to scar you.
So why are they so appealing, so addictive? Why do people have to actively stop themselves from having an indefinite number of cats? Part of tit is their apparent independence, their disinterest in what we think of their behavior. It’s hard not to respect that.
Part of that is their dangerousness. Having a deadly creature that cuddles up to you and jumps on to your shoulders is flattering.
Part of it is that cats—and especially kittens—are so damned adorable. And cats, often, do better with a friend to keep them entertained. And, once you have two, if you stumble across a new kitten, it’s hard not think, “So, how much more trouble is a third?” How do you take an adorable new kitten you find in your engine to a shelter? How do you leave a sad neglected stray to its own devices? They know how to appeal to the people they choose (there are dozens of examples of people who “hated” cats who became totally besotted). Then, suddenly, you have ten and nowhere to put another litterbox.
And cats are caring, too. Sure, they do their own thing and don’t need you, but people who have been depressed or are recovering from illness and injury will tell you how devoted a cat can be, even a standoffish one. Cats are very empathetic.
But, the same passion that people have for cats is not necessarily stronger than the antipathy some people have for cats. Feral cats are subject to abuse with little or no notice. And cats know true cat haters and respond accordingly (which is likely reinforces it both ways). I have a story about that in Pussycats Galore (“The Cutest Little Zombie Apocalypse Evah”).
Their very independence leads people who picked up a kitten for its cuteness but had no idea what they were getting into to abandon their cats. Cats can be very difficult. Some people just leave their cats behind when they move, neglect them, brush it off when they disappear. Toss ’em if they get expensive or difficult with age. It’s not all beautiful.
But, when it’s beautiful, it’s glorious.
Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part-time novelist and full-time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next!
You can find Stephanie on Facebook, Twitter, her webpage, her blog – or sign up for her newsletter and be sure not to miss out on any new projects!
