Once upon a picnic beery, whilst I guzzled, drunk and cheery,
Over the tartan blanket spurious, spoke words which could only bore –
While I waffled, sometimes rapping, suddenly there came a flapping
As of some bird quickly crapping, crapping on my fresh coleslaw.
“Tis a bloody gull!” I shouted “Crapping in my fresh coleslaw
“Shoot the bugger!” I did roar.

And the seagull, never flitting, still is shitting, STILL IS SHITTING!
All across the tartan blanket and the bowl of my coleslaw!
Soon his evil squawk brings streaming every seagull near, it’s seeming
And the flock of flockers teeming do devour my picnic more,
Thus, my cup of fine Prosecco now is spilt upon the floor.
I shall picnic – nevermore!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Dai watched the familiar countryside roll by and tried to forget, rather than obsess about, the fact that he was lying to his bride of less than a month – and on two issues. Well, lying by omission. He had promised himself he was not going to keep anything from her about his working life. She had lived it herself and her security clearance had been higher than his until his sudden promotion.
Even his friend, and newly appointed Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had warned him. Slapping him on the back the day before Dai’s wedding as they were taking a final drink in the Londinium taberna that had seen so much of their custom over the previous eight years.
“Two bits of advice from a long-married man to one about to take the plunge. One is never forget she is always right, even when you think you are and two – never – and I mean never – keep secrets from her.” Bryn burped loudly and adopted a fatherly look. “You see, if you get to the day you think you’re always right and she’s wrong or start finding there are things you can’t tell her – well, that’s the day your marriage hits the rocks.”
“You can’t tell your wife everything,” Dai protested. “I mean half the stuff from work is -”
“Everything she wants to know,” Bryn cut over his protest, then dropped a heavy wink. “But then my Gwen she’d know if I was keeping things from her. She’s descended from a long line of Druids on her mother’s side.”
The trouble was Bryn was right and these were things Julia would want to know – things Dai wanted to tell her. But it was not in his hands. These were secrets he had been ordered to keep from her.

The first had arisen in a conversation with the Tribune in charge of the praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero, foster-brother to Julia. He had summoned Dai on the pretext of a meeting about some legality around the marriage and had not been at all repentant about his duplicity.
“This is serious, Llewellyn and is a big part of how I swung this post your way. Our intelligence people are saying that a lot of dangerous contraband is getting in through the coast there and Viriconium is the hub of it. We need someone who is accepted by the British community and who we can trust. You fit the bill.”
“And here I was thinking I got the job on my merits as an Investigator alone.” Dai made no attempt to keep the cynicism from his tone. He had been wondering why this had come his way and was not too surprised to find it had been for reasons other than those put out for public consumption.
Decimus grinned at him.
“Well my sister falling for your baby-blue eyes helped as well,” he admitted, then he switched back to the clipped tones of before. “As if the smuggling isn’t enough we are talking a major anti-Roman group somewhere in the area and they have their fingers deep in our pies. We need to know who they are and how they are being financed and supplied before they start out on a major terrorist campaign. I’m sending you out with twenty of my lads under their own decanus, a good man Brutus Gaius Gallus. You may need them. We have no idea how high or deep this thing goes – even the Magistratus is not in the clear. So trust no one there and I mean no one.”
Dai took a moment to digest the implications. He had known it was going to be hard enough taking on a post he had been over-promoted to fill. But he had been looking forward to learning his way in and doing so with Julia’s sharp insight and wisdom to help. But Decimus had just taken that fond daydream of a bucolic honeymoon easing into things and blown it away. He realised now why, when he had asked for permission to relocate with some of his old team he had not met with more resistance.
“Julia will need…”
“Julia will not be told anything about it, Llewellyn.” Decimus sounded almost ferocious. Then he drew a breath and sighed. “She has been through too much, I am not having her dragged into this. She needs a chance to have some simple happiness with no more to worry about than what colour she wants to paint the guest bedroom.”
Which, Dai reflected rather grimly, probably showed more of wishful thinking on Decimus’ part than any true understanding of what Julia would want or need.
“I think she might notice Brutus Gaius Gallus and his men hanging around,” Dai said pointedly. “My wife is many things, but she is neither unintelligent nor unobservant.” And you of all people should know that, he added in the privacy of his own mind.
“Relax, Llewellyn. They have an official reason for being there and wandering around wherever. Amongst his other talents, Gallus once served as a bandmaster and all the men with him can play instruments. They are going to be there to learn some traditional British music as part of a ‘Hearts and Minds’ Arts initiative – a real one, believe it or not, from those effete, money-wasting idiots in Rome. But it gives them the cover we need for this, so some good comes out of it.”
It was sounding more and more complex and Dai’s heart plummeted.
“So you are pitching me in against smugglers, terrorists, corrupt Roman administrators, and whoever is behind them?”
Decimus pulled a face.
“You about have the size of it. But you are not exactly going in alone. You’ll have my praetorians and your own people and as soon as you have anything solid we can act on I’ll bring half a legion in to clean up if need be. But we can’t pounce until we have a target.”
“Don’t you have undercover people doing that kind of stuff? I don’t see how I’m going to succeed where they have failed.”
“This is deep Britannia, Llewellyn,” the Tribune reminded him. “The arse end of the Empire, hanging over the edge half the time. Hell man, you should know you grew up there. These are people who only trust someone they have known from birth and who has a British pedigree you could unroll from there to Londinium. We don’t have that many such people just lying around – in fact we have one. You.”
There was no answer to that and Dai had finished the meeting being briefed about what little was known of the situation in Viriconium and along the coast. It left him in a foul mood.
Decimus had stated very firmly that he needed to establish his bona fides by being anti-Roman from the first, as much as his position allowed. The problem, Dai found, was that it was feeling like no kind of act. Returning home triggered all the reminders of why he struggled with the two-tier Roman way of life. His resentment at being plunged into a cauldron of intrigue when he had expected to be starting a new life with his beloved as its focus, made him fractious and snappy. The fact that he found Julia was getting the brunt of it when she deserved it least of anyone, just added to his frustration and misery.

From Dying for a Poppy, one of the Dai and Julia Mysteries by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

I am a pig of little brain
I write my verse because I must
Put my thoughts on paper

My aim is but to entertain
To be both kind and just
Which is a difficult caper

I wrote this one here to explain
How rhyming schemes my purse strings bust
With wasted sheets of paper

Χαίρετε,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author extraordinaire of the bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, lightsome spirit, and all-round good egg. I come to you today all aflutter with excitement, and with a spring in my delicate heels. Mumsie and I have come into money. Well, Mumsie has, but as she so playfully puts it: “One can’t leave the fruits of one’s fanny out of the treat, even if he is a disappointing plonker, with no charm and less humour.”

And guess what the treat is…?  We are going away on holiday to the sun. To the Greek isles in general and to Mykonos in particular. To the place of dreams, to the wine-dark sea and the retsina. Sadly this visit, which will no doubt refresh my creativity in the home of Calliope herself, is not to occur for some months yet. But even now I am feeling ever more uplifted towards my Muse.

Mumsie says she intends to spend two weeks ‘on the lash’ (whatever vulgarisms that portends) whilst I ‘sort my freaking head out’. As if my beauteous little noddle was in need of ‘sorting’. Be that as it may, one is so excited that one’s breath comes in short pants and one finds oneself almost as excited as an eight-year-old on tuck-box day…

But such delights cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the programme of authorly improvement upon which we have set our feet. En avant ο φίλος μου.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Way to Court your Muse

It has been suggested to one that writer’s block is a condition that exists only in the mind of the writer. One would counter that claim with the irrefutable fact that one’s writing emanates from one’s mind. Ergo writer’s block is as real as one’s fingers or toeses. And if it is a real condition of the true literary giant, which it is, it behoves one to search for the remedy which must, as surely as the sun rises, be somewhere in the shining ionosphere

Researching the words the literary glitterati, one hears of stratagems varying from long walks in the countryside, to excessive sexual activity, to the consumption of hallucinogenic substances, to just giving up and going to bed.

In one’s own small experience of the stubbornness of the Muse of literature, one has found that capricious semi-deity can best be summoned by providing an atmosphere conducive to the comfort and delight of a creature accustomed to the finest things this world – and any other – has to offer.

Summon Calliope with soft music. With the scent of burning incense. With the delicate petals of rosebuds. With the richest of fabrics and the softest of cushions. Lay aside the vulgarity of the pad electronic in favour of the smoothest of papers, the blackest of inks and the most beautiful of fountain pens. Gaze upon only the fairest of nature’s creations. Bring yourself into that meditational state advocated by the most practiced of yogis. Do all this and you shall see the return of your faithless mistress to her perch at your shoulder. You shall once again smell the sweetness of her breath, and her inspiration shall once again enter your writing like a soft breath of breeze from the summer sea.

Above all do not despair my student. Apply yourself with humility and love and your Muse will love you once more.

Until next καλή τύχη. And ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I’m as fond of food as anyone, and I cook some pretty mean stuff. But the day I plate it and stick it on a carefully dressed table in order to post a picture of it on Facebland or Instayawn or Birdnoise you have my full permission to slap me about the head with a wet fish and have me committed. 
Worse still?
Being in a restaurant and perfectly willing to let food go cold so one can be a pretentious poser.
Just.
Stop.
It.
You are paying through the nose for your food. Eat it and stop fucking about.

When word of the Church army reached the Sky Temple, the High Priest was delighted by what he perceived to be an opportunity for a very wealthy retirement. He reasoned that he, as the ranking churchman, should assume control of this army, by which measure he would also control the city, and thus have a major say in the election of a new Emperor – which would, he reasoned, result in pecuniary gratitude on a grand scale. Accordingly he called up his personal guard and sallied forth to take command of his army.
The High Priest found the general in command of the Church troops in a noble square close to the palace precinct. A commanding figure in his golden robes and tiara of office, he rode forward on his white palfrey. ‘You’. He addressed the general. ‘Come forward’. The general looked up briefly from the papers he was studying but made no move. The cleric kneed his palfrey closer; ‘I spoke to you knave’, he said severely. The general, a husky-looking veteran in a plain soldier’s uniform only differing from that of his men by virtue of the embroidered insignia on his left breast, cocked a sardonic eyebrow at the pompous prelate, then spoke quietly to a diminutive grey-cloaked figure at his side. The enraged priest urged his mount closer; ‘Come to me at once, lest I relieve you of your command.’ Finally the general turned and gave his full attention to the by now purple-faced priest. ‘You? Relieve me of my command? I think not. Sergeant-at-Arms, this man is irritating me, do something about him.’ Another burly veteran stepped forward and plucking the High Priest from his saddle threw him to his knees on the ground. The grey-clad figure beside the general put back its hood to reveal a young female face of icy beauty before speaking in a low compelling voice.
‘By what right do you address the commanding general of the Church Army?’
‘By the right of my office, and as the ranking churchman in this city.’
‘That would be the churchman who hid in his temple whilst the common people were terrorised by thugs and assassins. The churchman who cowered behind his altar while the whole of the Imperial family lay murdered and unburied. Again I ask you by what right you address this army?’
Stung by the young woman’s tone and her accusations, the arrogant old man raised his face and looked at her. ‘I ask you by what right a mere woman questions a prelate of the church?’
A rustle ran through the ranks of those close enough to hear those words. The young woman laughed low in her throat and raised her right hand towards the cloudless sky. A black speck appeared in the heavens, and plummeted down towards the small, grey-clad figure. As it came closer all who dared look saw it was a great Golden Eagle, which came to rest gently on the woman’s shoulder. The city prelate suddenly bereft of his arrogance prostrated himself on the cobbles, aware that he was outranked and in grave danger. He had just challenged a Priestess of the Sky, a direct representative of the Holy Mother, and would be lucky to lose only his position for such presumption. ‘Forgive me gracious lady, I knew not to whom I spoke.’
‘Do not beseech my forgiveness, rather reach deep into your soul and ask forgiveness of the gods for your many sins.’
She turned and beckoned into the mass of church soldiers, which parted to allow a procession of brown-clad figures to converge upon the priestess and the dumbstruck churchman. The priestess raised her voice. ‘Let all who can hear my voice bear witness. The man now cowering on the cobbles is here stripped of his office, and will be taken from this place to await the judgment of the Holy Mother.’
She paused and two of the brown clad figures hauled the, by now jibbering prelate to his feet. They plucked the tiara of office from his head and one of them stamped on it with a sandalled foot. He then placed the mangled mess of gold and jewels at the feet of the priestess, before he and his colleague frogmarched the sobbing ex-priest away.
The priestess spoke again, only this time her voice seemed to come from the skies all around and everyone in the city could hear her. ‘By the powers given to me and mine from the hands of the gods themselves, I declare a ten-day period of mourning for the Imperial family. During that time the Monks of Chastisement will cleanse your temples. On the eleventh day after this we will inter with all honour such Royal remains as can be found, and a new High Priest will be appointed. On that day we will also announce our decision in the matter of the Imperial succession. In the meantime do not fear to go about your business. The streets will be safe.’
The thunderous voice ceased, and quiet held the city for a moment, as if life itself held its breath for an instant before shaking like a wet dog and carrying on.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.

Because life happens…

A man in a sharp suit, he said
Sign here to be rich. When you’re dead
But the feisty old bat
Said bollocks to that
And smacked him quite hard round the head

Jane Jago

Madelyn got comfortable in a chair as she watched the loading symbol swirl in a clockwise motion. The projection morphed, now displaying Hodgson’s bust.
“Miss Lawrence—I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally speak with you.”
“About that,” Madelyn said. “How the hell did you get my stream code?”
“It wasn’t easy, but I assure you, I will not retain the code any longer than needed.”
“That’s a bull shit answer.” Hodgson didn’t reply, and his expression remained eloquent.
“Anyway, I’m in the middle of some really important fieldwork, and it’s imperative that I’m left alone while gathering data for an ethnography. My work must be authentic and cohesive, or I won’t be able to publish—”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?” Madelyn echoed, unsure.
“Yes, Miss Lawrence. Exactly. You see, the dedication you have for your craft became more than evident when I read the work you compiled in Africa. You spent eight years working on that book, and it is one of the most comprehensive ethnographies I’ve read—mind you that is saying something. I’m no stranger to the offerings of the world’s top anthropologists. Some truly remarkable works have been released over the last few decades.”
Such praise left Madelyn stammering. “I—uh—thanks. That’s quite the compliment.”
“I assure you, it’s not more than you deserve. Now, on to the reason I have contacted you. First of all, is there anyone who will hear our conversation from your current location?”
“No, I’m alone in my hut, and anyone that might hear us can’t understand English.”
“Good—because what I’m about to tell you is sensitive information.”
“Yeah, you said that in your message.”
“Indeed.” Hodgson’s hologram paused, as if taking a moment to consider what he was about to say. “You may be aware of the fact that I was at the helm of a project that sent the first satellites into interstellar space in 2174.”
“I am aware of that, yes.”
“Well, I know you will struggle to accept this, but in the first year, one of those satellites did what we so desperately hoped it would do. It discovered alien life.”
Madelyn laughed. Not only was this guy some kind of creep who could get her private number, he was also out of his mind.
“So let me get this straight, you’re trying to tell me you’ve discovered life on another planet?”
“Yes. And more to the point, we have confirmation that it is intelligent. Our satellites have been in orbit for nearly four years, gathering data. Being the hopeful type, I insisted that each satellite be equipped with a small rover drone in order to further explore any planets that showed promise. That decision has paid dividends. We now have hours of recordings from the planet’s surface, many of which reveal that the life forms have a language system of some kind.”
Madelyn shook her head. “This is crazy! I mean, shit—I’m just waiting for the punchline here. It’s not really easy to believe what you’re telling me.”
“I would be shocked if you didn’t have a hard time digesting what I’m telling you. Not many would accept such information without needing some kind of evidence or attempting some amount of rationalization.”
“I guess my question now is why? Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Oh, come now. Don’t insult my intelligence—or your own for that matter. You know exactly why I’m telling you.”
“But—I mean—it’s not like I can actually go there and study them.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Lawrence. Ever since we discovered life, we’ve been laboring to finalize the project we already had in the works. The first passenger ship equipped to accommodate interstellar space travel is awaiting its maiden voyage.”
Madelyn covered her mouth. “You can’t be serious…”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in all my life. I realize this must be a bit overwhelming for you, so I will give you a few days to think it over. We have already assembled a team for the first mission. You are the last one, and might I just say, the most essential. Had I been able to reach you when I first tried, you would have far more time to think.”
“Not your fault.”
“Unfortunate nonetheless… Either way, I cannot express to you how important it is to have a top cultural anthropologist on the team, and you are my first choice. Please give this opportunity your utmost consideration.”
A silent nod was all Madelyn could muster in response.
“I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
The projection faded, leaving the screen as blank as Madelyn’s thoughts.
She took a few steps toward the edge of her hut and surveyed the landscape. What she saw now was no longer just a valley in Peru. It was Earth: the only planet she had ever known to harbor life.
Until now.

From Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Who in their right mind goes to a ‘salon’ and gets their pubic hair wrenched out by the roots?
One. It fucking hurts.
Two. It’s creepy walking around with a child’s pudenda
Three. It fucking hurts 
So. Before paying out your hard-earned cash ask yourself this. 
Why the fuck?
If you are doing it for a laugh then carry on – although I might question your idea of a ‘laugh’.
However, if you are doing it because your significant other finds your pubic hair in some way unpleasant that’s a whole new ballgame. 
Unless you really do have creepy pubes…

To begin there was only the darkness, all pervading and all encompassing. Then slowly, from within, it crystallised into a second state: awareness of the darkness – and for a long time nothing else seemed to matter. It was enough to just have being and consciousness within the darkness. But gradually that changed and there grew a strong sense of urgency – a knowledge that there was something more.
he awareness struggled for comprehension of itself.
With a suddenness that shocked, a dull pain gnawed in from one direction and a wave of nausea rose from nowhere in an irresistible surge. The physical body took over, turning itself and vomiting over and over again. Then there were cool hands and a reassuring voice, but the body was exhausted and darkness came again, taking even the awareness of itself away.
The second time it was easier and the ascent to full consciousness came more naturally, almost like waking from a dream-filled sleep. There was time to accept the fact of the pain, to notice the feel of the rough cloth on naked skin and the strong smell of animals and unwashed humanity. The previous sense of urgency to action seemed somehow less intense. Part of the mind registered automatically that this was due to the effect of some drug, but the strength to fight it was not there. Both body and mind were too weak. Instinctively the mind reached back, searching for the reason to explain its present state.
There was very little there.
He could remember he had been on a ship, fleeing something – what, a battle? Nothing there. Perhaps a battle, because the ship had been badly damaged and unable to maintain Faster Than Light status. A battle would explain the damage. Leave it for now. Follow what was there. Dropping out of FTL, no idea where – could have been in the middle of nowhere and without an operational drive there would have been no way of getting to a planet before the life-support systems failed. But it had not been in the middle of nowhere – can’t have been because there had been a hard landing and an explosion.
Then there was no more memory – nothing but the blackness.
It was little enough and experience said that the gaps might remain forever or at some time in the future fill in with full and vibrant recall. For now, though, that was all and no struggle to force memory would add anything else. Other things mattered more in that moment. The drug was beginning to lose its hold and the pounding ache in his head which it had kept partly locked away was intensifying. He heard a low groan nearby from someone in pain and he realised with a shock that it was himself.
Other sensations came to awareness. The air temperature was cold. Hands were touching him, lifting his head and trying to force some bitter liquid between his lips. They were trying to drug him again. He turned his head sharply, close to panic at the thought and what it could mean, spitting it out, almost retching at the taste and with a supreme effort of will forced his eyes to open.
It was dark and the only source of light came from a primitive flame-lit lantern hanging from the supporting pole of a low fabric roof. He was in the corner of some kind of make-shift shelter, lying on a crude pallet and covered with blankets of thick, coarse felt that was harsh against his skin but apparently offered some protection from the cold, because his naked body beneath it was warm. An old woman knelt beside him, her face dark and wrinkled, almost grotesque in the dim light. She spooned a noxious-looking brew from a wooden bowl.
Seeing her was a relief and the sense of near-panic receded. If he had been in the hands of his enemies he would be in a much more secure prison than this flimsy shelter and have a far more effective gaoler than this one old woman. For with the fractured memories had come the responsibility of knowing who he was: Avilon Revid, probably the top name in almost every Coalition Security Force list of most wanted.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook