Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Somewhere in the deep and distant past (during the time I was too busy raising a hopeful brood of contumacious little buggers to take notice of fashion) somebody sneaked something eggy onto the shelf behind the bar. Having made this dreadful mistake they looked at it for a decade before deciding that mixing it with lemonade and shoving a cocktail cherry in it made it a palatable drink. They then persuaded a whole generation of non-drinking aunties and cousins it was both ladylike and delicious.
It’s not.
It has the texture of snot and the smell of egg.
Don’t …

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

Ruffkin got up and started barking. Milla groaned. Another Visitor.
“Go away,” she called “The quest is off until tomorrow it’s…” She tried to remember the word the Visitors used. “It’s gritched.”
“Milla?”
Her heart skipped a beat and she was at the door in a moment opening it. Pew stood there dressed in his shimmering red Firecaster robes, ineffable runes swirling around him, looking as if he was being chased by a pack of enraged landsharks. He staggered into the room, ignored the welcoming bound from Ruffkin and dropped into the chair she had just vacated, cupping his hands around her mug of fruit tea, his crest flattened against his head and the colour washed out from his scales. Ruffkin retreated to his bed and looked at them both mournfully.
Milla found another mug and poured herself some more fruit tea, then searched around in her pantry for the emergency supply of flyberry cookies. She scooped a few onto a wooden plate and put them on the table beside the desolate Pew before taking the other chair herself.
That was when she knew whatever it was, it must be really bad. He didn’t even pick up a cookie. His favourites. He just put his mug down, pushed the plate a bit away and stared at the cookies miserably.
“It’s string.”
Milla blinked.
“No. Flyberry. I bought them from One Eye. He’d not put odd things like that in his cookies.”
Pew gave her a very odd look.
“Not string. String. You must remember him?”
Milla did. But sometimes she wished she didn’t. He’d been with herself and Pew on her one and only venture and he’d not been the nicest Visitor she’d ever met. Too much like that elf.
“I thought you said he’d rage quit, whatever that means, and gone away for good?”
“Not for good. Not String. He’s a gamer like me. He’ll always come back.”
Milla reached out a hand and put it over one of his.
“I’m glad you always come back. But String… I thought you weren’t really friends?”
Pew gripped her hand.
“I’ll always come back because you’re here. And no… Maybe not friends. But he and I…well… we played through this game from launch together. We’ve been guildies most of the time and I guess that means something.”
Milla didn’t pretend to understand. This was a Visitor thing, clearly. But she could see Pew needed her, that was very obvious.
“Tell me what’s happened?” she prompted.
“First I knew he was back in the game was when I got a private whisper from his roomie today. Said he’s in some kind of coma or trance. He was in his room playing the game and they were chatting on the ‘chord – then it went quiet.”
“So String has gone missing?”
Pew ate a second cookie before replying. “Yes. But I think it’s worse than that.”
“Worse than going missing?”
Milla wondered if he meant String had vanished in the same way people sometimes vanished after an Expansion. Sometimes they simply weren’t there any more. She shivered at the thought. She hadn’t really liked String much but she wouldn’t wish that on him.
“Yes. Worse. When the roomie checked String was sitting in his chair with a smile on his face but unaware and unresponsive. His machine was still on, game still running. That happened yesterday and he’s been the same way ever since.” Pew picked up one of the cookies and ate it.
Milla filtered out the meaningless words as she always had to when talking with Pew and focused on the key point.
“So he is sick? Don’t you have healers in… wherever he is?”
“We do. But I don’t think they’ll be any help. The thing is String was soloing around Lustrous Lake, trying to build faction with the Lamia so he could get that cool looking water-dragon mount. And String always had a thing about the Lamia, their uber-long blue and green hair, their huge aquamarine eyes, their water breathing ability…”
“Their lack of virtually any clothing?”
Pew’s crest flushed.
“The point is he always said if he had to live anywhere in game it’d be in the Lamia village.”

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.

His tractor is green and he drives it too fast
For he knows the summer is not gonna last
There’s crops to be brung in from fields that are steep
And he’s hardly a moment to shit or to sleep

Come winter, come summer, come autumn or spring
The roads are so narrow and the tractor is king

A tractor of yellow drags machinery wide
No room to pass him he touches the sides
And he’ll never pull in and he’ll never give way
Because he’s on his phone and there’s plenty to say

Come winter, come summer, come autumn or spring
The roads are so narrow and the tractor is king

This little blue tractor is lacking a cab
Because it’s being driven by a twelve-year-old lad
He’s bouncing about and he ain’t thrilled to bits
To be towing a trailer that’s piled high with shit

Come winter, come summer, come autumn or spring
The roads are so narrow and the tractor is king

We’re behind a red tractor and he’s going so slow
Coz his wipers have failed and it’s pissing with snow
But we’re not going to curse him no never, not we
For he’s ploughing a path so we get home for tea

Come winter, come summer, come autumn or spring
The roads are so narrow and the tractor is king

But whatever the day from the spring to December
There’s one tractor driver we always remember
A beast of a man built of anger and bones
Who lived in his tractor was never at home

Come winter, come summer, the children all know
That they’d better be careful of old Tractor Joe

Sometimes when the moon is as fat as a sow
You can still hear his tractor coming over the brow
The engine is racing as downhill it goes
And into the river to drown Tractor Joe

Come winter, come summer, one thing you can betcha
If you lose concentration your tractor will getcha

Come winter, come summer, wherever you go
When it’s moonlight at midnight you’ll hear Tractor Joe

©️jj 2021

In England it was the depths of winter and the weather was doing its worst. It was cold and grey and wet and muddy and miserable. Which made it all the more amazing that a short dragon ride could bring one to a beach of shining white sand bordered by a sea so clear and blue it was criminal not to swim in it.
After time spent mating rapturously on the deserted beach, Leonore found she had sand stuck to so many places that the siren call of the sea could no longer be ignored. She ran until she could lift her legs no longer then just allowed herself to fall into the sparkling blueness. Unafraid, she struck out for who knew where, only stopping swimming when her arms and legs grew tired. She rolled over in the water and felt R’u’uth come up beneath her. He lifted her onto his back.
“Come” he said almost sternly. “I must speak with you.”
Leonore felt something inside her shrivel. This was the moment she had been fearing. Her dragon had grown bored with her timorousness and lack of self-belief. He was going to tell her he could see her no more. She wanted to cry, but her stiff-necked pride kept her misery hidden. Plenty of time to cry when she was alone in her bed.
They reached the shore, but not at the sandy cove where Leonore had left her clothes. Instead R’u’uth climbed out of the water onto a smooth rocky ledge. He made a step from his foreleg and a somewhat woebegone woman climbed down onto the warm rocks. Her dragon lover was not fooled by her attempt at a careless demeanour.
“Why so sad?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sad? You are going to dump me.”
R’u’uth looked as puzzled as it is possible for a dragon to look.
“Dump. You know. End the relationship. Tell me it’s all over…”
She would have continued her litany of misery had not a long dragon tongue licked the angry tears from her cheeks.
“Come here, silly one.”
Almost against her will, Leonore moved closer and he draped a wing over her.
“Listen. It is not of ending what we have that we must speak. But of having more.”
She looked at him in genuine puzzlement.
“How can we have more?”
He blew his spicy breath over her, which both soothed and excited.
“Would you have more if we could? Would you live with me and be my love?”
“Of course I would. But how might that be? I’m not a dragon.”
“You might be.”
She stamped her foot. “Look at me. I’m not a bloody dragon.”
R’u’uth removed his wing from about her shoulders and laughed.
“And I am not a bloody human, but watch.” 
Leonore turned to face him and for a moment nothing happened, then it was as if there was a flaw in the light and a handsome naked man stood in front of her. For a moment she couldn’t believe her eyes, then almost of its own volition her tongue came out to moisten her lips.
It was strange to hear her dragon’s voice coming from the lips of a human. He spoke teasingly. “Stop looking at me like that, or I will have to have you right here on this hard rock.”
Leonore knew she would be even less able to resist R’u’uth in human form, so she dropped her eyes.
“So you can be a human, but that doesn’t mean I can be a dragon.”
“It might. You might. Are you willing to find out?” For once he didn’t sound teasing, or sensual, or amused.
She gathered together her tiny courage, rooting it out from all the hiding places it found behind fear, uncertainty, self-doubt and sadness. Then she straightened her spine.
“Yes I’m willing. But what if I cannot be a dragon?”
“Then I won’t be one….”
Before she could find the words to respond to that he flowed back into his dragon form and extended his foreleg.
The next while went by in a sort of a daze, and by the time Leonore had collected her thoughts she found herself standing at R’u’th’s side on a hilltop where the grass was springy and scented and dotted with ancient megaliths. 
She wore a hooded robe of something soft and comforting and felt more at peace than she had ever felt in her life. Something impelled her to walk forward a few paces and place the palms of her hands against the surface of the tallest of the stones. She somehow knew it would be warm to the touch, and she couldn’t even bring herself to feel any fear when she felt a presence exploring her mind and heart. When the presence left her she turned back to R’u’uth to find him no longer alone. There were two more dragons with him. One was a hulking black-skinned male, the other a svelte female with the deepest darkest eyes she had ever seen in her life. She curtseyed fluidly, a skill she hadn’t even known she possessed until that moment.
The male dragon spoke. “You would be a dragon, little human?” 
“I don’t know what I would be, sir dragon. I only know I would be with R’u’uth.”
The black roared and flames split the sky, but Leonore felt no fear.
The female snapped her teeth together.
“Behave A’a’shanto,” she snarled. “The stones have accepted her. She has answered you correctly. And she didn’t even react to your showing off. Do your duty as master dragon and stop behaving like a hatchling.”
The male smiled at the female who must, Leonore thought, be his mate to speak thusly to him. He then turned his attention to Leonore.
“There will be pain,” he said almost apologetically.
“There will be more pain in spending my life without R’u’uth.”
“Extend your left arm.”
She did as she was bid, and draconic teeth snapped. For a second the pain was so excruciating she thought she might fall but then R’u’uth braced her from behind. The master dragon ripped his own foreleg with his razor-sharp teeth and as their mixed blood fell onto the sacred ground Leonore felt the change within her.
Her arm stopped bleeding and she leaned into her mate before making the change of form for the first time in her life. She simply let herself flow into her draconic body before beating her wings for the sheer joy of being a dragon.
“Look,” the master dragon’s mate said in a voice of wonder. “R’u’uth’s mate is a golden queen.”
L’e’onore heard no more as the need to fly overwhelmed her and she took to the skies over Dragonheart flying wingtip to wingtip with the other half of her soul.

©️Jane Jago

This poem is in memory
Of the one I used to be
The brave, the bold the self-assured
The person I called ‘me’

That person who just went away
One day some time ago
And I became a person who
I really do not know.

I used to ride the storm itself
And laugh at shallow fears
I couldn’t understand those who
A movie moved to tears

I used to have a strength within
That felt as strong as steel
And whatever life did bring
I knew that I could deal

But then that person went away
I’m still not quite sure why
It was as if inside myself
I learned to fear and cry

As if once learned they both did grow
And never did abate
Then all my strength was swept away
And now this is my fate.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Buenos Dias!

It is indeed I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, writer, agony aunt and astrologer to the famously credulous.  The renowned author of the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One had been racking one’s cranium for a topic for this week’s tutorial (yes, even I sometimes find inspiration needs to pursued vigorously), when a question from Claire prompted one to consider the vital importance of symbols and symbolism to those who would create literature.

Even that bastion of unthinking vulgarity, that outpost of alien mindset, that epitome of hard-handed hard-headedness, that creature one calls Mater has in the recesses of her underused and underdeveloped brain a vestigial understanding of the importance of symbols. Only last week, she was watching some interminably boring panel programme sur le téléviseur, upon which the current Archbishop of somewhere was being castigated about yet another cover-up of ecclesiastical child abuse. Mater looked across the room at me and smiled a twisted smile.

“Moons,” she said a thought sadly. “Moons. If that churchman was to have worn his episcopal regalia, instead of sitting there like a mouse in a poorly fitting lounge suit, I reckon most of them oiks would’ve been a lot more respectful. It’s the symbols of office doncha know.” Then she refilled her gin and Guinness and no more was said.

But that brief moment of lucidity is proof, if proof were needed that the power of symbols reaches deep into the psyche – even of those as sunk into alcoholism and depravity as one’s unlovely parent.

However. En avant.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Symbols

When one seeks to create literary magic one needs many tools at one’s disposal. Not the least of which is the noble quest. A device by which your hero may be dispatched wherever your imagination chooses in search of some artefact or some creature without which the story can progress no further. But what does that have to do with symbols, do I hear you cry? Yes, of course, I do as your tiny crania cannot hope to make the leaps of understanding that come to one’s mind as easily and gently as a bluebottle lands on a plate of rotting meat.

Of course, the noble quest is to do with symbolism. It is one of the most symbolic of all the storylines.

First. The quest itself is a metaphor (or symbol) for the struggles that beset all humans from cradle to grave.

Second. Your hero’s solid helpmeet – uplifted from the lower orders to become his right hand – is symbolic of the common clay’s need for a god to worship and of the need gods have for worshippers.

Third. Whatever or whoever is searched for, the vicissitudes of the search are the symbolic harbingers of events in human life which must be overcome with stoicism and bravery. Tempting though hysteria and Tia Maria may be.

And finally. That which is sought is the most powerful symbol of all. It symbolises human love and human endeavour. It shows us the beauty that may be found in the depths of the human soul as we try ever harder and climb ever higher in our quest for perfect beauty.

Some common symbols explained
The dragon. Strength, coldness, avarice, and sex.
The virgin. Unattainability, truth, and the desire for sex.  
Water to cross. The struggle to be loved, and the desire for sex.
A cup or grail. The thirst for knowledge, and the desire for sex.
A dove. Hope and sex.
A raven. Despair and sex.
A knife. Cutting the thread that binds a child to its mother, or sex.

One could continue almost infinitely, but I am sure you are following by now.

So, my bambinos, choose your symbols with care and write them with delicacy.

Until next. Do not have nightmares 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.

Citizen surveillance was the best way forward.

After all, who could object to an elderly lady sitting, knitting, a cup of tea beside her and a cat on her knee, keeping an eye on the neighbourhood?

No one liked being watched by security services or a remote and uncaring AI.

It was the perfect solution, politically.

The same nosy neighbours who once peeped through net curtains with disproving, judgemental stares now did so through the anonymity of the internet, knowing if they reported poor behaviour the police would come.

It put a whole new meaning into the phrase ‘neighbourhood watch’.

E.M. Swift-Hook

For the next few weeks I was about as busy as barely five feet of woman can be, and it culminated in me having to make a flying visit to Silicon Valley. And that was a real crock of shit. I arrived back in the proper world one Sunday lunchtime, to find Mum waiting at the station. She gave me a big hug and a worried look.
“What? Do I look as bloody as I feel?”
“No, it’s not that. You look okay.”
“What then?”
“The piranha is looking for you.”
I felt my smile turn feral. “I guess another relationship just broke down. Bar-steward.”
Mum looked so worried that I had to put my arms around her.
“Don’t you worry. I can handle him. And I don’t even have to worry about the Sight. He’s so shallow that there’s nothing to See. Also there are some things about him that are most enjoyable.”
She blushed and I gave her a little shake.
“Not just that, dirty girl. Although…”
And we wound up laughing. She drove me home and I fell into bed. I have seldom been as glad of anything as taking my foot off and getting horizontal.
Oh yeah. The foot. I don’t suppose we’ve covered that yet. I was born without a left foot. See. I told you you’d have to pay attention.
Anyway, I have a prosthesis, and very few people are even aware of my little problem. It isn’t a big deal, but after three consecutive flights and a train journey, I’d right about had enough.
I slept for getting on for a whole day and awoke refreshed but stinky. I opted for the whole whirlpool bath deal with bubbles and stuff and I’d just climbed out when I heard a key in the front door.
“Anybody home?”
It was Danny, my cleaner and a good friend.
“Yeah. I’m in the bathroom.”
“Okay. Will I make you some breakfast?”
“Please.”
And I heard him clumping up the stairs. By the time I reassembled myself I could smell bacon and coffee. Dan was in the kitchen, in a particularly fetching apron, just dishing up bacon and scrambled egg.
“Thanks mate. None for you?”
“No. I had waffles and bacon and maple syrup this morning already. When did you get home?”
I sat down and tucked in. “Yesterday” I said around a mouthful. “Scuse. I’m starved.”
He grinned and sat opposite me with a coffee. “Okay. You fuel up and I’ll talk.”
“Guess who’s back in the field?”
I quirked an eyebrow, although I actually had a very good idea.
“The delicious doctor. Seems his latest relationship went tits up.” I shrugged and Danny continued. “This time it wasn’t him by all accounts. Came home too early and found her taking private lessons with her personal trainer. Is alleged to have blacked PT’s eyes for him, then thrown her out bag and baggage on the spot. Suze says he rubbed it in by calling her a cab, and paying the man to take her home to her mother.”
I could feel myself grinning.
“The biter bit then.”
“Indeed. But what about you. Gonna take him back?”
“I expect so. But it is only sex you know.”
“You sure about that?”
“Am. He and I understand each other very well.”

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I have no philosophical objection to gum chewing. If you wish to masticate plastic then that is fine by me.
But.
Effing well dispose of it properly.
That means. 
Not. 
On the pavement. 
Under the edge of the pub table. 
Stuck to the wall next to wherever you are sitting.
Etcetera.
Remove the disgusting globule from your gob. Wrap it in a tissue. And put it in the bin!
The other thing is more about aesthetics. You may think that chewing gum makes you look like James Dean. It don’t. You look like a fucking llama.
A stupid fucking llama.

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

ashsole (noun) – bottom of a clog

attentin (adjective ) – when used to describe standing indicates a slipshod attempt at uprightness. As in: the guard’s attentin stance was clearly indicative of a wish to be elsewhere

barve (verb) – to vomit at high velocity 

befe (adjective) – muscular but not necessarily intelligent 

barzillion (adjective) – of pubic hair having the appearance of having been cut with a knife and fork 

chesee (adjective) – being possessed of large and obviously fake breasts

davish (adjective) – prone to laugh at one’s own jokes

galnd (noun) – hard bogey stuck in much-used handkerchief 

greese (noun) – goose fat

haircat (noun) – member of any one of an almost infinite number of tribute bands

huming (verb) – the noise made by a haircat trying to sound like Mick Jagger

jma (acronym) – juicy male athlete

prevert (noun) – the stage before sexual misconduct 

snoze (adjective) – asleep and snoring with one’s mouth ajar

wanj (noun) – a small, pale being who always has at least one hand in his pocket

weethe (verb) – to wriggle in what one vainly hopes is a sensuous manner

wonam (noun) – confused female

xcrap (adjective) – bad porn

zrbra (noun) – the largest size of brassiere