Because life happens…

It’s ironic when privilege wails
That their freedom to bellow has failed
But the cure for their ill
Isn’t vaccine or pill
It’s a jolly good kick to the tail

Jane Jago

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Please explain the phenomenon of the selfie to me. People and cameras at beauty spots. Photographing the scenery?
Are they fuck.
It’s selfies. Why?
I might like to see a picture of cherry blossom in Japan. Without someone’s fecking stupid face dead centre of the shot.
I have a nephew who is a minor celebrity and his life has been rendered hideous by the constant demands for a selfie from airheaded young females.
He even had one perch on his lap while he was getting a haircut.
He managed not to tell her where to shove her selfie stick. Just.

The Wrath of Swords and Magic

Clinging to hope on the front lines of battle, these heroes vow to persevere as fires rise and shadows fall before them. New heroes (and heroines!) will arise to conquer faraway lands and defeat the forces of evil threatening to destroy their world.
Alliances will be forged.
Kingdoms will meet their demise.
Betrayal will haunt their steps.
And their wrath will be felt.
But these gallant protagonists will complete their quests, even when they struggle to find a guiding light to pull them through the darkness.
Experience the riveting clashing of swords and duels of magic throughout these page-turning tales of dragons, mages, mythical creatures, crooked conjurers and treacherous villains. Follow each compelling character as they are forced to choose between fulfilling their personal desires and altering the fate of their world to realise a destiny they oftentimes didn’t decide for themselves.

Featured story: The Wrong Bitch by Stephanie Barr. 

The Wrong Bitch is an expansion of a story  previously told in The Paths We Choose, which was told from her familiar, Shah’s, viewpoint in the anthology Legacy. This is from Elia’s viewpoint as someone trained, against the mores of her tribe of arcane archers, in their magical arts. When she escaped to find happiness, they followed, destroyed (nearly) everything she loved and left her blinded, unable to use her skills. At least, they thought she couldn’t. 

A bite of… Stephanie Barr

How much of what you write could be classed as therapy? 

All of it? I’m frustrated by some social ill I don’t have the power to correct: I write it (in a way that provides me satisfaction). Some personal tragedy befalls me: I write something that makes me laugh. I worry about something I can’t fix: I find a solution with writing. Someone charming wanders into my life: I include those mannerisms in a delightful side character so I can enjoy them any time. Someone with characteristics that anger or frustrate me wanders into my life: I write them into a character who gets a taste of karma.
Writing is my ultimate therapy. Anything’s possible even if that isn’t true in real life.

Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I don’t think it’s essential to do so, but it’s a good idea to include diversity, in whatever kind you have in your world, as frequently as possible. I do think it’s essential not to attack that diversity. I don’t do races=evil ever in my books. I have among the protagonists in my many book: demons, dragons, shifters, humans, POC, LGBQT folks—including a delightful troop of drag queens I’d love to know in real life, disabled people, cats, ghosts, a vampire (cat!), aliens, and even zombie (kitties!).
Belief is a different beastie, however. Belief is, at least to a point, a matter of choice, which makes it a separate question for me than race or sexual orientation. Extremists in belief show up in my books but are less likely to be protagonists. Less extreme beliefs of varying degree and type can show up in my protagonists, but, as a general rule, I don’t touch much on recognisable belief systems current in today’s society. I like people to have any belief they like unless they use it as a cudgel to mistreat others. Most of my characters might have some particular belief, but it doesn’t push them to do bad things. And, if it does, they are likely headed for a reformation or are the villain.

What time of day do you write best? 

I am not a morning person. And I work during most days so my best and most likely time to write is in the last few hours before I go to bed, so maybe 7-10pm most nights. I do better if a have a sprint partner.

Although Stephanie 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 her website, on Facebook, her FB fan group and her blog, subscribe to her newsletter or follow her on Twitter.

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

The path to the pyramid was blocked by the two drakkonettes who guarded the gate. They were kind of friends with her. The kind who didn’t breath fire on you when you stopped for a chat, kind of friends. They blocked the gate to the pyramid by crossing their polearms in front of it to form a barrier. But when Milla approached they both relaxed and leaned on the poles and one of them called a greeting.
“Hello there, lass? How’re you keeping? You and that Visitor of yours?”
“We’re fine thank you. I was just wondering if you had seen an elf come through here recently?”
The other drakkonette smiled showing a mouthful of razorsharp teeth.
“Oh yes, dear. If you mean the one wearing the golden Armour of Blessings and carrying a moonoak bow?”
“Did she go inside?”
The drakkonette’s smile grew wider revealing even more teeth.
“She was very rude and started waving her sword around right under our noses. So we defended ourselves. But I’m sure she’ll be back. That sort always are”
“Here she comes now,” the first drakkonette observed.
Milla turned in time to see the golden clad elf dismounting from a bright pink unicorn, which shimmered into thin air the moment her feet touched the ground in the way that Visitor’s mounts always did. Having made a quick farewell to the drakkonettes, Milla hurried back up the path and stopped abruptly. The elf was standing in the middle of the path making odd weaving gestures and humming to herself off-key.
“Are you alright?” Milla asked when the weaving and humming stopped and the elf seemed to come back to herself.
“Oh frack! It’s you.”
“Yes. It is. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“What? Oh. Yes. I was just respeccing to get some better heals.”
“Heals?” Milla heard the word and perked up. That was exactly what Pew had said they would need. “You can heal?”
“I’m a Blessedknight. It’s what we do. Depending which way I spec I can be more tankish or more healerish. You can’t move on the forums for people who think they know the sweet spot to get the best of both worlds.” She smirked. “I have it but I’m not telling.”
“I need your help with something,” Milla said, speaking quickly before she changed her mind. Spending time in the company of this elf was going to be a trial.
“You already gave me your quest. And the reward. Or don’t you remember?”
“This is another quest. A bigger one. It’s a…” she tried to think of something that would win a Visitor’s attention. “It’s an epic heroic mythical saga quest.”
The elf stared at her.
“Not heard of one of those before. What’s the reward?”
Milla thought desperately.
“It’s a secret. No one is allowed to know until someone has completed the quest.”
“And no one has yet?”
Milla shook her head. She could see the gleam in the elf’s eyes
“So not just server first, would be an all time game first?”
Milla nodded. “But only if you do it right now and come with me. Or I’ll offer the quest to someone else.”
She stalked off, head high as if not really caring whether the elf followed her or not. It took less than the time to breathe in and out before the golden-clad figure was beside her.
“Hail fair lady! I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, pledge myself to your cause. You have my sword and my bow.”
Hiding a smile at just how easy it was to get these Visitors to do things, she inclined her head gracefully and continued walking.
“Thank you. But I’d rather you kept your sword and bow and used them yourself. And my name is Milla.”
“Got it. Milla. And I’m Glory. So where do I get the quest?”
“You’re already on it.”
“But there’s nothing in my quest log window.”
Milla stopped walking and put her hands on her hips.
“I am a quest giver? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ve just given you a quest. You are now on it.”
“But…”

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

He stalks the night on silent paws
From shadow to shadow like a wraith
Obedient only to his own laws
Glossy and midnight from tail to face
Astride the fence defiance calls
To any who dare his wrath incur
And stands atop the garden wall
Malice hid in silken fur
He walks alone yet has no fear
Of anything the dark may hold
Bright of eye and sharp of ear
Moonlight only makes him bold
Throughout the day he cushioned sleeps
And twitching dreams of silver moons
His human servants fawn and weep
And bring him food on a golden spoon

©jj 2021

At about the time Bill was calling his parents, a man went into a pub in Edinburgh. He was broad-shouldered, bulky, exquisitely tailored, and obviously deeply annoyed.
“Where is she?” he snapped at the skinny little man behind the bar.
“She’s in the snug. Says to go in. But your goons stay out here.”
“I go nowhere without my bodyguards.”
“So fuck off then” the little man said without any particular heat. As he spoke he brought a sawn-off shotgun out from under the bar, and pointed it at the biggest of the ‘goons’ who had his hand inside his jacket.
He smiled, showing a mouthful of very bad teeth.
“I’m no a very good shot, and I’m worse if I’m nervous. So just keep  your hands where I can see them. I’m sure nobody wants a nervous man blasting around with a six-gauge in this confined space.”
Whether or not he would have been obeyed became immaterial as the man with his hand in his pocket gave a queer cough and collapsed. His companions looked down briefly to see a dart sticking out of the side of his neck.
“Double top,” a jeering voice said. As one man they turned their eyes towards a raddled-looking whore and a couple of beefy young men who had moved their attention from the dartboard to the entertainment at the bar. One of the men cracked his knuckles, and the sound it made fell loudly into the now silent room.
“Well then, big man. Are you going in to see herself? Or are you leaving? Choice is yours.’
For a moment the besuited man’s reaction hung in the balance. Then he shrugged.
“Wait here” he snapped then walked through the half glazed door into an almost dark room, where a woman sat nursing a large drink.
“You decided to be sensible then,” she said in a husky half-whisper.
The man ground his teeth together as he visibly fought for control.
“I have business with you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“My principal is not pleased. We paid you for protection. And what happened?”
She spat accurately between his highly polished shoes.
“You paid me so that the local plod would look the other way, and so that nobody from Edinburgh would interfere with you. I kept my end of the bargain. If you were stupid enough to piss off people from elsewhere who play very rough, that’s your problem.”
“Why you…”
He took a step forward and found himself literally looking down the barrel of a very businesslike gun, held in a perfectly steady hand.
“It’s a Glock. And at this range it would actually shoot off your face. I’d quite like to see that.”
The man stood very still. His companion laughed harshly.
“Whatever possessed you to think you’d get away with it?”
“Why not? It was only some Rom kid whose father had annoyed the wrong people. It would have made a change to mix business with pleasure. The little bastard would have screamed for a very long time.”
He licked his lips, then shrugged his heavy shoulders. His hot eyes met the woman’s cold gaze, and he flinched, but he spoke with undiminished arrogance.
“We aren’t here to talk about some brat. I’m here to tell you that my boss isn’t pleased with you. And to explain what the consequences will be if you fail him again…”
“Don’t bother yourself. I have absolutely no interest in anything you might have to say. You are actually here because I have something to say to you.”
The man tensed.
“If you move, I’ll shoot off your testicles. Now. Back off, sit in the chair behind you, and listen.”
He sat, more than a little unnerved by the unwavering eye of the big, black pistol. For a moment there was silence, and the man had to fight an urge to break and run. His tormentor must have seen something in his eyes as she laughed again.
“Testicles” she reminded him. “You are here because there are some people who need to learn what is and is not acceptable. Torturing wains to death comes under is not.”
He opened his mouth and the Glock swung unerringly towards his crotch.
“Unacceptable. Intolerable. So. An example needs to be made. It looks as if you just volunteered.”
He surged from the chair, only to be caught and held fast by two pairs of iron hands.
“Take him away, and do to him what he was going to do to that wee lad. I’ll be interested to know how long he screams for. And when he can scream no more, bleed him out. We’ll be sending his remains to his boss in a body bag and we wouldn’t want it leaking would we?”
“No boss,” the voice was deep and cold, and seemed to be barely masking huge anger.
“We’ll see he feels the full benefit before we tidy him up for transportation.’
“You do that.”
As he was being dragged away the bulky man screwed his head around to look at the woman by the bar.
“You are a dead person walking,” he hissed.
“Aren’t we all you evil bastard. Aren’t we all?”
When the door closed behind her unpleasant guest, the woman at the bar went grey under her make-up, and she seemed to sag on her barstool.
“I’ll have a wee sniff of that oxygen now, if nobody minds. It was a bit of a strain not shooting that creature. Only the knowledge that he needs to suffer stayed my hand.”
A younger woman in a nurse’s uniform came out from behind the bar an put an oxygen mask on the face of her suffering patient.
“Dead person walking indeed… Here, let’s get you back in your wheelchair you stubborn fool.”
A big soft-footed man came quietly into the room. “Bodyguards deceased. Mister X is being taken somewhere where nobody can hear him scream. Now. Will you please go home and rest?”
His boss lifted her oxygen mask.
“Aye. I will. But I want to know how long bigmouth lasts.”
He smiled grimly.
“Me too.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

I must go down to the beach again, to the crowded beach and the sun
And all I ask is a wide-brimmed hat and a towel to lie upon
And an ice cream van playing nursery rhymes and sand in the sunshine baking
And a deckchair for Auntie Clair and the sound of the donkeys braying.

I must go down to the beach again for a walk on the promenade
Is a wide prom and a clear prom which is seen in every postcard
And all I ask is a sunny day with no grey clouds a-trying
To spoil the queues of endless folks, cold drinks all a-buying.

I must go down to the beach again to the chippy by the pier
To taste the salt – and the vinegar – just like yesteryear.
And all I ask is a seafront pub called ‘The Wild Rover’
To welcome us in with beer and gin when the sunbathing day is over.

E.M. Swift-Hook

My dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, author of the science fantasy classic (or SciFan as we cognoscenti prefer to say) ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mummy was the one who identified the genre for me when she had been sipping on her fourth pernod and organic Greek yoghurt smoothie. “Moons, if you think that anyone is ever going to call that poop science-fiction you are living in a frigging fantasy.” I recall she spat the stone of an olive she had fished out from the bottom of her glass with the final words, so they impacted me deeply.

Today mes estudas, after our brief plunge into the murky pond of reviews and reviewing, we will return to the primrose paths of prose preparation.  To those of you who have had the supercalfragilistic fortune to be winnowing worth from my words of wisdom I say welcome back, and to those who have only just discovered my delightful calligraphy I say sit quietly at the back of the class and be sure to revise later.

And thus, my happy followers, my RWW, I propose to you the finest flora and bejeweled gems of my inestimable intellect. Read carefully, learn assiduously, and ingest intestinally that you may benefit from the experience of one whose writing skills are superior and sans pareil.

How to Start Writing a Book –  The Write Character

When creating fantabulous fiction, one of the building blocks one should consider perspicaciously is the characteristics of one’s characters, the pontification of one’s protagonists, and the mentality of one’s mendicants.  May one humbly suggest the ritualistic dismemberment of the dichotomy of despair is the first essential in the realisation and roundaboutification of perfect protagonists.

As we are fast becoming closely intertwined, one feels comfortable in sharing some of one’s own little ritual-ettes for the construction of credible character traits. Place upon the table a virgin sheet of the most beautiful of papers and upon its sensitive surface inscribe certain informations about the person growing in one’s psyche. Once you have these facts inside your cranium attempt to dress your shrinking physique in the insubstantial anatomy of your putative creation. Once having assumed this physical envelope, model it as carefully as if you were a supermodel on the catwalk and allow it to permeate every pore of your being. Only then can you begin to set it down with its contemporaneous companions inside the delicate framework of your histoire. Tread gently and allow each one of your persons to speak in their own tones, to walk in their own shoes, to listen with their own ears, to feel with their own hearts, and to expostulate to you of their hopes, dreams, passions and personalities.

Never, mes enfants, permit yourself to press your own expectations upon the psyche of those who inhabit your writings. Rather let them fly on their own wings and listen with your inner ear as they speak to you of their lives and their loves.

Ah mes estudas, quel excitement, quel bonheur, as your little people walk the pages of your magnum opus and clamber around in the canyons of your consciousness. Let your creativity be as verdant as the grass, and allow your imagination to be impregnated by the words of those persons who have grown up to inhabit your worlds with the organic ossification of their beings.

And there we will leave the characterisation of Calliope and her sisters until next time when we shall consider the impact of those most precious people of our imaginations on the mundane and dour dross of everyday life.

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!

Get a grip!
Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day.
To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….
So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.
Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.
Again I say crap.
If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

Masked killers tore down tapestries, ransacked cupboards and dressing chests, and urgently questioned the few servants to be found in the family wing of the palace. All to no avail, the princess appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.
As the massive battering ram began to take effect on the brass-bound outer doors, the leading killer gave a low whistle and gathered his men. ‘It’s no good, the bitch is gone, and his fancy lordship didn’t pay enough for any of us to get dead.’ There were nods of agreement and the group vanished swiftly into the tunnels from which they had emerged just as the outer doors gave and the heavily armed palace guard surged into the apartments.
The carnage that met the gaze of the largely ceremonial palace soldiers had more than one falling to his knees and retching helplessly. One grizzled veteran held the head of his commanding officer as he deposited his breakfast on the shining marble tiles of the antechamber floor. ‘Come along son, there are messages to be sent’, the sergeant said in a steady voice as he hoisted the young aristocrat to his feet.
‘Messages?’
‘Yes, sir, you’ll be wanting to send an eagle to the Sanctuary of The Sky, and as many pigeons as you can get hold of to the northern kingdoms. All hell is going to break out here very soon, and we’ll need all the help we can get’.
‘All hell? Why?’
‘Emperor dead. Imperial family dead. No successor. There’s going to be one almighty scramble for power, and we’ll be right in the middle of it.’
The officer may have been young, green, and a political appointee, but he was no fool and quickly grasped the reality of what his sergeant was saying.
‘We need to hurry then. Is there anybody steady we can leave in charge here?’
‘Bilwil’ the sergeant bellowed, and a short, bandy corporal with acne-scarred cheeks bustled forward. ‘Take charge here, and try to make sure nobody makes this mess any worse.’ Bilwil snapped a salute, and, casting a sardonic eye over the group of assorted idlers, pensioners, and green lads still vomiting began to bawl out his own set of orders. The sergeant and commander left at a flat gallop heading for the signal tower at the northern corner of the palace complex.
It is a sad comment on human nature that Sergeant Gandy’s prediction proved to be so accurate. Within twelve hours of the royal hunt setting out from the palace, the city had become a virtual war zone.
Gangs of armed men prowled the streets, while looting and casual violence became the order of the day. The city seethed with armed and dangerous dangerous people, from paid assassins reducing the size of the pool from which a new emperor would be chosen, through career thieves, to groups of noblemen’s sons seeking to avenge imagined slights. The ordinary populace stood little chance against armed toughs and mostly chose to retreat behind closed doors and wait out the worst. Those who had no doors to wait behind fared very badly indeed, prey to casual violence and with no help forthcoming from any direction: the temple guardsmen and the members of the watch, the very men charged with keeping the peace in the city, having prudently retired behind the sturdy doors of the temples and watch-houses leaving those on the streets to survive, or not, as best they might.
Thus matters stood until just after dawn on the tenth day after the palace massacre, when a force of about five hundred men entered the city from the east. The Church had taken a hand. Seasoned soldiers, in scarlet cloaks and bronze breastplates, flooded the streets and the ordinary citizens breathed a collective sigh of relief. A few of the less intelligent among the younger sons and roaring boys who had terrorised the city weren’t fast enough to make themselves scarce, and a number of messy object lessons were handed out before order was restored.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.