Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Rice. Rice with vinegar. Rice with vinegar and seaweed and (often) raw fish.
What the feck is that all about?
Yeah, fish and vinegar. That’s all good. But we’ll have the fish wrapped in batter and served with chips shall we?
Okay. 
Sushi, and all the other stuff, comes from another culture and I accept that. 
I just don’t want to eat it.
The texture is strange. The taste is odd.
And then there are chopsticks – for which uses are limited. You can use them to eat with.
Or
Stab the fucking idiot who brought you to a sushi restaurant. 

Dana Illwind and Growing Shadows by Arthur Daigle is intended to be the first part of a trilogy, with part two out later this year.  It started as a short story for the Fellowship of Fantasy anthology series, but Arthur enjoyed the characters so much he kept writing until it reached book length and he decided to publish it.  

Dana Illwind waited at the forest crossroads outside her hometown of North Lights, not happy with her current situation. That was unfortunate given she was responsible for ninety percent of what was happening to her. More like eighty-five percent responsible.
It was getting dark and cold, and she pulled her cloak tight over her shoulders. She’d worn her extra thick dress and fur lined boots, and a fur cap over her brown hair. It was still early in the year when winter’s cold and spring’s warmth traded places nearly every day. Dana had brought a backpack loaded with two days of food, a lantern and extra oil, a knife (never leave home without one) and a purse with her life savings. Granted fourteen copper pieces and three silver coins didn’t buy much, but her father was fond of pointing out most people didn’t have two coins to rub together and got by on barter. Barter was also harder for the king to tax.
The thick growth of pine trees made it hard to see her guest. He’d said he would arrive today, but they were rapidly running out of today. Maybe he was delayed and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. That would be bad. She’d used every excuse she had to get out of today’s chores. Her parents wouldn’t tolerate her missing another day’s work.
An owl hooted to the north. Maybe he wouldn’t come at all. Then why bother writing to say he would? Paper cost money, and the scruffy looking man who’d delivered his letter must have been paid. If he had no intention of coming then he could have saved time and money by ignoring her request.
“Ms. Illwind, I presume?”
Dana screamed and leapt off the road, landing on a thick carpet of dead pine needles. She scrambled behind a tree and drew her knife. It took her half a minute to stop hyperventilating, and another ten seconds to get angry with the smirking man standing off to the side of the road.
“That wasn’t nice!”
“I’m not a nice man.”

A Bite of… Arthur Daigle  

Do you see writing as an escape from the sorrows of existence, an exercise in futility, or an excuse to tell lies and get paid for it? Or is there another option…

I write to make people laugh.  There’s no end of suffering in the world, easily proved by spending ten minutes watching the nightly news.  My goal in writing is to help people, make them laugh.  I write to make my audience laugh so long and so hard that when they’re done the world is a better place, easier to deal with.  Strange as that sounds, I have been contacted by readers who thanked me for doing just that.  One said, no joke, that I helped him get through the Covid lockdown.  That’s an unqualified win for me

Have you ever written somebody you know into a book? A lover? A friend? An enemy?

So far I have not written a living person into my book, although that may change soon.  A former coworker asked to me to make him a character in one of my books.  This is a first for me, and I felt it only right to honor his request.  But in general I prefer to make my characters rather than write real people into my books.  You never know whether you will offend by doing it, especially if it is done without the person’s permission.

If you could meet one person (alive or dead) who would you choose? And what would you talk about? And what do you bring d a gift? 

If I could meet anyone, Jim Henson would be on the top of my list.  I modelled much of my work off his movies and TV series, with their good natured humour and family friendly material.  I think that’s the way to go to reach the most people.  I’d like to talk to him about how he came up with his ideas and later refined them, and how he promoted them and dealt with the marketing side of making content.  I understand he was a humble man not given to extravagances, so for a gift I think I’d bring a home cooked meal.

Arthur was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. He received a degree in biology from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, which sounded like a good idea at the time. This led to work as a zoo intern at Brookfield Zoo, an assistant fisheries biologist at the Max McGraw Wildlife Foundation, and a research assistant at Morton Arboretum. Most recently he’s been employed grading high school essay tests and working as a garden associate (yeah, the job market is that bad). In addition to writing, Arthur is an avid gardener and amateur artist.
Arthur is the author (no jokes, please, he’s heard them all) of eight books. These include William Bradshaw King of the Goblins, William Bradshaw and a Faint Hope, William Bradshaw and War Unending, William Bradshaw and Fool’s Gold, Goblin Stories, Dr. Moratrayas Mad Scientist, William Bradshaw and Urban Problems, and Dana Illwind and Growing Shadows. These books were almost inevitable given that the author has been a fan of science fiction and fantasy since he was old enough to walk. Arthur is also a regular contributor to the Fellowship of Fantasy anthology series. Major influences include the works of the puppeteer and filmmaker Jim Henson and the British artist Brian Froud. Expect more books in the Will Bradshaw series, as all attempts to stop Arthur from writing have failed.

Every year for the last twenty, Wilf and Anna took the train to the coast and stayed a week at Mrs. Appleby’s guest house. 

They’d walk along the pier, buy ice-cream from the Italian parlour and candyfloss from a young woman whose face changed but whose piercings and tattoos always seemed the same, and celebrate their anniversary with a glass of bubbly in the Indian restaurant on the prom.

And every year for the last twenty both thought how much nicer it would be in Spain – or Bali.

But neither ever said. 

So the next year they took the train…

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Milla felt as if she had become suddenly invisible as the two talked in an indecipherable code.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked as a translucent ring of shields appeared around Pigsy.
Pew shook his head. “Unless… Is your pendant recharged?”
She glanced down and saw it was once again glowing with brilliant light.
“It seems to be.”
He gripped her arm briefly. “When I ask for manapower, do what you did before.”
Then Pigsy was bounding at the figure on the throne and for the next few moments Milla was blinded by dazzling spell effects. In the midst of it all she heard String shout “Out!” and she had to step back against the wall as the two Visitors nearly crushed her.
“It’s self healing,” Pew said, a real hint of desperation in his tone, “and I’ll be out of manapower soon.”
Beneath the throne Ruffkin was scrabbling at the back of his cage and as she watched him, her heart aching, Milla realised that there was a simple sliding bolt holding it shut. The two men had moved in again and Milla made up her mind. Even if they couldn’t defeat this lich lord, maybe she could rescue Ruffkin whilst it was distracted by having to defend itself. She reached out her hand and sent the manapower from her pendant to Pew, then slipped around the walls, careful to avoid the combat zone. The Visitors and their foe were so focused on the fight none of them noticed her as she left the safety of the wall and ran quickly in and up the steps to the throne from behind.
Ruffkin saw her and redoubled his efforts to escape, scabbling desperately. She reached the cage just as String shouted “Out!” again. But she ignored him. The boney bolt slipped as she tried to grip it, and then jammed solid. She drew the knife Pew had given her, hoping she could prize the bolt open with the point of it. Instead, the cage burst apart as soon as the tip of the blade touched it. Ruffkin shot out and pausing only to lick at her face, scurried to the back wall where Milla could now see there was a small hole in the shadows.
From the doorway she heard a shout.
“No! Pew!”
She looked back in time to see a bolt of black lightning piece through Pew’s chest, lifting him off the ground before he collapsed unmoving.
“Nooo!” Her own anguished shout echoed back String’s words and without thinking of the danger she leapt onto the rear of the throne and stabbed down with the dagger into the back of the lich lord. The force of the explosion threw her against the wall and the world dissolved into sparks and shards.
When things came back into focus she opened her eyes to see Pew crouched beside her, his snout wrinkled with worry.
“Pew? I saw you…”
“String rezzed me. But you, you dispelled the lich lord. String was on his last hit point. You saved us from wiping.” He sounded almost in awe.
“I was just rescuing Ruffkin,” she murmured and slipped back into unconsciousness.

Some days later Milla was sitting on the beach with Ruffkin and Pew, enjoying a picnic of fruit tea and flyberry cookies from One Eye’s shop. She was thinking that maybe ventures weren’t quite what she had believed them to be and that perhaps she preferred her life beachcombing after all.
“String is still convinced it was a glitch in the game and reported it,” Pew was saying. “He claimed that as I wasn’t given the quest reward it needed fixing. He just didn’t get that I’d refused to accept your pendant. Anyway, the devs said they never even put the quest he’s complaining about into the game. They said it doesn’t exist. So he rage quit.”
“Rage quit?”
“Deleted all his characters and left the game.”
“That sounds a bit drastic.” Milla shivered even though the day was as hot as it always was in Wrathburnt Sands. Something about the word ‘deleting’ seemed so terribly final.
Pew picked up a stick and threw it for Ruffkin who bounded happily after it.
“It is. But I know String. He’ll come back sooner or later. And meanwhile, I don’t care if you’re a glitch or not. To me you are just my amazing Milla.”
His hand found hers and held it tight.

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

Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology.

How fares the one I chose to love now that the years have passed?
The face that I once looked upon each day will be much changed.
I wonder how I once believed your love for me would last
When even then I saw your heart from me was oft estranged.

But folly is as folly does and youth’s not folly’s foil,
Full hearts will empty wit and blind the eye from truth so plain.
When in the field of love just one doth plough and plant and toil
The harvest reaped at season’s end is only tears and pain.

I never gave my heart again into another’s keep
And lived my life in many ways that seldom brought me peace.
Yet still, in dreams, we walk the hills, steal kisses as I sleep
And know again the trust and strength I’d thought could never cease.

Tis forty winters, come and gone, since I did see you last
How fares the one I chose to love now that the years have passed?

E.M. Swift-Hook

There are some things worth fighting for, even if you think you won’t win. There are some people worth trying to save, even from themselves— and even if they fight you every scrap of the way.
Lorelea Lastas reminded herself of this as she walked through the chilly concourse of the small-freighter zone of the spaceport, her travelling bag on her shoulder. She needed to hold onto what had brought her here and make sure it still mattered as much as it had when she was safe at home, surrounded by people she knew, cared for and could trust.
Here she was alone.
Completely alone.
She couldn’t even link home. That was a big scary first.

It had started with the thirty-eight adult members of Clan Lastas, sitting in the bar of The Last Hope. A Clan council trying to decide what they should do about the recent visit from a Coalition Security Force investigator to their home, the domed settlement on the planetoid of Hell’s Breath.
Having the CSF throwing threats around had shaken Vel more than Lorelea had ever seen her affected by anything. Velia might be her cousin but wasn’t her generation, more a mother to Lorelea than anything and grandmother to the child Lorelea had named after her. She was also the matriarch of Clan Lastas.
“Jaz don’t care about you, presh. Walked out on you twice. He’s not even Clan by blood,” Vel said.
“You never called him an outsider to his face, or thought of him as one when he lived here,” Lorelea retorted. “He belonged.”
And he had. They had all felt it. But not anymore. Because now they believed he had abandoned her and that somehow, his presence had brought the CSF to their door and endangered them all. They were wrong. She wanted to tell them how wrong, but even if she did, they weren’t going to listen. Not now. From being their star of hope, Jaz had become the bringer of their destruction.
It made her see red. “You can’t blame him for what happened. It wasn’t his fault.”
She could see from their frowning faces that they gave her words no weight. But then they hadn’t been there that last night. She couldn’t tell them about that. Even if she did it would only make things worse. They wouldn’t understand.
Dom cleared his throat.
“He upped and left you. We could find him, make him pay. Like we made your little one’s father pay.”
They had made that bastard— the father of her daughter— pay alright. A man who had sold her a thousand promises and betrayed them all. The Clan had chased him down when they heard what happened and made sure he understood he could either part with much of his wealth or with all of his life. The money had paid for her share in the ship with which she now made her living.
But Jaz was different. He was nothing like Lia’s father and Lorelea opened her mouth to say as much. To remind them all of exactly who he was and what he had done for them. Vel beat her to it, but not in the way Lorelea would have chosen.
“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t anything like that was. And no matter the rights and wrongs of it, he’d kill whoever we sent and not even break a sweat. This is Jaz Baldrik, not some corrupt corporate slime like little Lia’s father was.”
That was met with silence.
No one could argue Vel’s words and not just because she was their matriarch. They all knew what she said was the truth. It was completely the wrong reason to leave Jaz alone, but at least it would keep them from trying, so Lorelea said nothing too.
“We’d not know where to find him anyway,” Dom muttered as if that was the one thing stopping him carrying out his threat.
“He’s ‘City,” Vel said, her tone dismissive. “He’s ‘City the way we’re Clan. So he’ll always go back there. It’s in his blood.”
There was another silence, this one even less comfortable. Starcity, Thuringen. The place they called the criminal capital of the galaxy. Where Jaz had grown up not even knowing who his parents might be. An orphaned child, alone on the streets. Lorelea, knowing all her life the strong familial bonds of Clan, could never think of that without a tug of grief.”We have a bigger problem than that man,” Vanda, Dom’s aunt, put in, her words heavy. “We all know it, just no one wanting to say it. And the best solution is the obvious one. We need to be moving on. We been here so long some of us have clean forgot who we are. What we are. We’re Clan. We’re travellers. It’s been good times here, but this— this is too dangerous. It’s past time we shifted.”
Someone had been bound to suggest it. Halkom Dugsdall, the CSF investigator who called himself ‘Grim’, had single-handedly seen to that. His visit had left everyone unsettled, Lorelea included. He had made threats that had grown bigger with each retelling until, Lorelea was sure, half the Clan expected a cohort of the dreaded Special Legion convict troops to turn up on Hell’s Breath any day.
There were rumbles of agreement with Vanda’s words. Mostly from the Olders. Those who had spent half their lives lots of places elsewhere before settling on Hell’s Breath, an abandoned rock twirling through space. Lorelea herself had early childhood memories of that way of life, the transient faces of playmates on other worlds. Playmates who she had never stayed long enough to get to know, but had stayed plenty long enough to miss when the Clan moved on.
“I think we should stay,” she said. “I don’t see as how shifting’ll help us any. If they want us, they’ll find us.” But it was not heard. Too many other voices were being raised, some for and some against. People were more interested in saying what they felt than listening to other opinions. She sat back and sighed. It made no odds in the end what the Clan decided to do. None of it would change anything that really mattered in her own life and her daughter’s life. She had a simple choice, to accept that or to take action.
It was with that thought a realisation came to her. Not in bits and pieces or hints, but suddenly there in her mind, fully formed. If something mattered enough you had to fight for it. Whatever the cost.
The Clan were still arguing about the way things should be and not thinking much of the way things actually were when she slipped out of the bar.

From Iconoclast: Not To Be part of the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

There once was a plumber who was so crappy
And the name of the plumber was Mister Happy
He sent round a man for a hundred pound
Who didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

He started a job then he went away
And the water ran down the walls all day
And when he returned he looked in your eye
And said your problem was not I

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

He’s never on time and he’s never at home
And nobody ever answers the phone
The only thing that is not late
Is the bloody bill that’s right on date

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

©jj 2021

Beloved Readers Who Write,

Although a reminder of my superb credentials and exquisite sensibilities is becoming increasingly superfluous, it is possible that a tiny minority of the denizens of cyberspace may, as yet be unacquainted with the masterful intellect that is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft. Ecco, mes estudas, here one is. Prepared to pedagogueise…

How to Start Writing a Book – Refining the Write Character

For today’s little tutorial, one’s fickle Muse leads one further along the bridleways of characterisation and the building of those sprites which shall infuse your works with life and loveliness. Follow in one’s footsteps, mes enfants, and you will surely find that the strength of one’s pedagogical peregrinations shields your tender little souls from the hurricanes of blandness, excessive ‘realism’, cold bare prose, and that all-devouring vampiric creature whose name is critic.

Ergo, mes enfants, when you have your protagonistic personifications placed in your psyche allow them to speak within the pristine pergola of your mind. Listen as they tell you of their lives and loves and leisure pursuits. Speak with them aloud as their insubstantial forms draw flesh from conversation with their creator. Fear not the idle sneers of ignoramuses, listen not to well-meant advice wherein those less sensitive to etheric beings counsel against speech with those entities none else can see or hear.

Be brave and enter into such dialogues as the children of your encephalon will vouchsafe to you. Dispute with them, should that be their will. Declaim aloud your fractious floccinaucinihilipilification. Shout to the skies when Erato and Calliope send unto you an actor of such ferocious intractability as to madden the very core of your sensitivities. Sing lullabies to soothe the merciless breast of your insubstantial interlocutor. Eat only that which their nourishment requires, abstain from tobacco, strong drink, and hallucinogenic substances so that your soul can be pure and your psyche open to the voices from beyond.

In the ultimate analysis, when you have a protagonist who walks by your side directing your steps you have succeeded beyond mere measure, and you can allow yourself to be led by the hand into the labyrinthine lusciosity of lustful lubriciousness that is literature lubricated by genius.

Ah yes, mes estudas, when your careful construction takes breath into its own lungs your work is done. Cry tears of joy as you inscribe into insubstantial cyberspace the passages of pusillanimous prose your protagonists dictate to you.

When their clamour will not let you sleep, you will know you have achieved the ultimate in character creation!

I shall conclude with advice on antagonists. They are the bad people, everyone knows what a bad person is like, we all have neighbours, work colleagues or relatives we despise. So there is no need to explain them or their motives in more than the briefest of detail. Less is more.

Écrit 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.

The rocks fell in the dungeon of his mind. 

Again and again, reliving the moment the roof of the cave had collapsed, trapping Marsha and the kids and leaving him alone. An outing gone so wrong it couldn’t have gone wronger.

The emergency services were digging as fast as they could but the swirl of flood water was making it hard. In fact, they said, it couldn’t be harder.

Stuck by the entrance.

The hollow of the cave, the hollow of his mind.

The rocks falling again and again.

Then he heard a shout.

“Daddy!”

And the rocks stopped falling.

E.M. Swift-Hook

By this time we were rounding the corner to come face to face with Jackdaw Court. Paul Brown visibly recoiled.
“It’s smegging ugly isn’t it” I said conversationally.
“No comment. But if you think that…”
“It’s the tower.”
He must have seen the yearning in my face, as he sprinted to unlock the front door of the tower apartment, which gave access to a flagstoned lobby and a broad stairway that ran up the side of the stone-clad building to the base of the tower proper. We ascended in single file with me in front. When we reached a second locked door Paul passed me a key. I opened up to find myself in a large, light entrance hall.
“Bedroom level. Both are en suite.”
I looked into the first room to find a hardwood floor and white wooden shutters at the window. Nice. The en suite was a wet room with slate walls and floor.
“Master the other side of the hall.” This was bigger and with windows in two walls, but it had the same flooring and shutters. The en suite was a proper bathroom with whirlpool bath, and walk-in shower. Again the floor was slate, but the walls were white composite. I nodded once and preceded Paul up the stairs. This floor was almost entirely taken up with a kitchen cum diner cum family room. The kitchen bit looked fine to me, and the rest was more than fine. Up again we reached the sitting room, which had a big balcony on one side and a tiny roof garden the other. A final bonus was the spiral staircase to a mezzanine level study.
I stood in the middle of the sitting room and considered my options. “Okay” I said. “Take it off the market. I’ll pay the asking price if I can be in inside a month.”
Paul grinned and this time I steeled myself to shake his outstretched hand.
“Important. Part of the deal is that nobody else gets to come in here sniffing about. That would be a deal breaker.”
His smile was positively beatific.
“Whatever you say.”
“Besides which” I remarked as demurely as I was able “we wouldn’t want Ranjit or Ralph thinking about gazumping me, now would we?”
“We wouldn’t.” He bit the words off and I couldn’t help noticing how strong and white his teeth were.
Note to observant readers: I don’t like touching strangers, or having them touch me. I have more than a whiff of my great grandmother’s Sight, and it’s activated by touch. It can be uncomfortable to the point of stomach churning and I tend to stay away from it as much as I can. But. Back to business.
Surprisingly enough, the purchase of my tower went precisely to plan. Mister Paul wanted his commission, and he also wanted to be the first person to sell in a more than somewhat controversial development, so he made sure the developer moved with dispatch. I went to school with my solicitor and he’s kinda scared of me so he got a jiggle on. Plus, I guess, nobody could see any profit in wasting time.
I signed on the dotted line, had some additional security installed, and prepared to move in.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.