There was a little gran
In a purple campervan
Divorced from a city go-getter
Never had much fun
As a trophy wife and mum
Finding life after sixty much better

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour mes petites,

C’est moi. Polymath. Polyglot. Polly Parrot (oops tiny family joke slipped in unannounced).  But one digresses. One is, bien sur, your favourite tutor and all round good egg. Superlative author, raconteur sans pareil, and most recently philosopher and photographer. For those of insufficient erudition to have grasped the simplest of themes one will reiterate. One is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author of that seminal work of sprawling imagination ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooh’. Known to one’s chums as IVy, to one’s confused and emotional parent as Moons, to one’s special friend Stavros as Kolos, and to yourselves as Magister, one is a kindly and tolerant soul and one who, moreover, voluntarily wastes one’s precious time attempting to impart at least the vaguest smidgin of knowledge into your dense and unintelligent noddles.

I was shocked into realising I had failed in my primary pedagogic duty, when I discovered Mummy had been reading my acute and suscinct grammar lessons online.

“You’re wasting your time with that ‘eye’ before ‘ee’ crap, Moons,” she slurred. “It don’t matter how perfect their prepositions and pronouns if they come out sounding like a bunch of ignorant prats because they’ve been reading your poop about stuffing sentences with pointless words. If they can’t sound sophisticated what’s the effing point? You’re trying to make them writers not bloody editors.”

I had to concede she had a point. So I shall digress from the strictness of grammar for one week to make amends. After all how can you, my dear disciples, write well if you have no idea of sophistication? Thusly I say unto you do listen with care, as this semaine one attempts to cure your little literary efforts of the inevitable rusticities engendered by your own lack of social polish.

How to Write Right – Lesson 8. The Write Touch of Sophistication

Whatever you write, from the turgidity of literary fiction, through to the popularised genres of ‘romance’ and ‘adventure’, there is very little that cannot be improved by the seasoning of sophistication.

You look puzzled my dear little hayseeds, allow one to elucidate. Call to mind if you will the seminal spy, psychopath, and lady killer, Mr James Bond. Ask yourself, if your grey matter can be brought to such an unusual exercise, whether there would have been such interest in a man who wore a flat cap, drove a Ford Focus, and drunk pints of mild and bitter. One thinks not…

A hero of suave sophistication is the essential leavening in the mix, lightening the doughy drabness of your prose and lifting it to coruscatingly crusty charm.

So, does one here you muse, how should one introduce such an aura?

There are, mes enfants, two possible avenues. One is that you, the author, are possessed of such ineffably suave sophistication that it imbues your writing without any effort on your part. However, looking at the shiny and occasionally snot-stained faces that surround one, this seems excessively unlikely. Which only leaves. The Rules.

1. Your hero NEVER wears an item of clothing that has not been bespoke tailored at enormous expense.
2. Your hero NEVER drives a conveyance that can commonly be purchased on the open market.
3. Your hero drinks only Russian Imperial Vodka, or vintage champagne, or cocktails of the sort not given witty nomenclature in Magaluf
4. Your hero NEVER eats in a burger bar. Nowhere without a Michelin star.
5. Your hero NEVER goes to the local pub. He will belong to a gentleman’s club.
6. Your hero NEVER attends an association football match. Rugger is just allowable.
7. Your hero NEVER eats fish and chips, cheese and pickle sandwiches, crisps, pork scratchings, pickled onions, or anything ‘southern fried’
8. Your hero is unmarried, wealthy, and has a devoted housekeeper
9. Your hero is a stranger to the tenderer emotions
10. And finally. Your hero is a crackshot, expert skier, fast driver, and player of games of skill and chance.

Follow these rules my little country dumplings and your work will accrue that sophistication you so desperately need.

For now, attempt to learn the rules and apply them rigorously. For oneself moussaka and retsina call.

αντιο σας

They scrambled down the face of the dunes from the most inaccessible part of the beach. The boy was helping his female companion with such tender care that neither noticed me.

When they did realise they weren’t alone they averted their faces as though fearing recognition. I didn’t know them, although the trailing clouds of guilt offered a clue to what they had been about on the early morning beach.

I couldn’t help noticing the gleam of gold on the woman’s left hand. Nor was I too blind to see them climb into two cars and go their separate ways.

©️jj 2018

Shalomon came back to the everyday world, and looked at the paper under his hands. There was something, but what was it? It was complex, and full of symbols, and a bit frightening. He knew this was his last chance and he was afraid he might already have blown it. But what could he do?

He drew in a slow, deep breath and made an effort to calm his soaring pulse rate before raising one shaking hand.

Teacher left his desk and came down the narrow aisle, with his scaly sides brushing the desks as he walked.

He picked up the paper and looked at it for a long moment, exhaling a spurt of bluish smoke through the red craters of his nostrils. Then he took the paper in both of his ‘hands’ holding it away from his snout and breathing more smoke accompanied by tiny gouts of flame.

Shalomon scarcely dared to breathe. Would his drawing pass muster, or would it be rent in twain by contemptuous claws?

Teacher exhaled more smoke and flame, before turning a reptilian eye on the cringing boy.

“Satisfactory,” he grunted “you are deemed worthy.”

Shalomon bowed. Satisfactory. That was all one could ask.

Jane Jago

The little man with the beaky nose started the chant, and all the cross-legged celebrants joined in. As the smoke from the incense burners filled the air with heavy sweetness, the people began to sway from side to side – moving in disturbing unison.

The cat, Bast, stalked into the centre of the circle, and all around her the foreheads touched the ground in profound respect.

“Lighten our darkness.”

The yellow eyes studied her disciples. One fell face down. Speaking in tongues.

“The way of Enlightenment is a stony road.” 

As a mark of favour, the cat pissed on him.

©️jj 2018

Do you have a short story about a disabled person that is set in the future or near future?

If you like short stories and understand the importance of inclusion in your idea of the future, I might just have an anthology for you. It’s a charity anthology (this means there is no payment being offered for any submission) with all profits from sales benefiting the Special Olympics .

Every MC must be disabled and yet resolve the crisis. The key element is to show a physically or mentally disabled character has no bar to being a great protagonist.

Age level: should be no racier than PG 13

For more information, to support the venture or if you need help with your submission, please ask to join our Facebook Group.

Although the peacock feather fan was old it was as glorious as the day it left Constantinopolis in the baggage of a queen.

Beauty cared not that fans were thought unfashionable. She set fashion, and the swishing feathers perfectly expressed her moods. A jealous hand came over her shoulder and snatched the pretty thing, throwing it pettishly towards the roaring log fire. 

But somehow it fell short and a handsome gentleman returned it with a bow and a smile.

She whose hand sought destruction felt as though she had grasped both fire and ice. Her palm bore the cicatrise forever…

©️jj 2018

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

He came round lying in the snow, soaked through and frozen. It was dark and the pain of the cold in his body was sharp. It hurt to move and muscles screamed into cramp when he tried. He managed to get to his feet, head swimming and staggered against the wall.
“Are you alright? Here let me help you.”
The solicitous arm came out to go around him, but the glint of metal in the other hand woke Durban to his danger. He rammed his elbow back into his rescuer’s solar plexus, which did no more than make the man curse and forced himself into a staggering run away from the alley and into the main street. There were more people there and his assailant, mercifully, did not mount a pursuit.
The welcome sight of a tavern gave him the strength to cross the road and he pushed open the door into the warmth, his steps uneven.
“We don’t want your kind in here.” The voice was accompanied by a firm grip on his arm and he recalled, belatedly, that he looked more like a night-soil sweeper than a man of substance and his dull eyes and lurching steps must give the impression of insanity or drunkenness. He gripped the arm that seized him and spoke to the bald face, his voice commanding if hoarse.
“I have money, but I have been attacked and robbed. Send to the castle, to the Castellan of Cressida. You will receive gold from him, I promise.”
The face, round as one of the moons, seemed swamped with uncertainty, but Durban’s grip on the world was faltering and he had very little idea of anything until he became aware of lying in the warmth and Caer’s face surveying him with slight concern. He mustered a smile in response and tried to sit up.
They were in a private room of the tavern and he had been laid on blankets by the fire. Someone had removed his wet clothing and the frozen flesh was thawed.
“I might have imagined myself dead and transported to the garden of the gods until I saw your hideous face,” Durban said weakly.
The hideous face broke into an answering grin.
“You will wake from death into the torment of those who have offended the gods and my face will not be there,” Caer told him cheerfully. “I shall be lying in the arms of a well-built nymph and taking my pleasure as I am enjoying watching your sufferings. What happened to you?”
Durban pulled himself up and looked rueful. “I was mugged in the street.”
“They took your clothes and redressed you?”
“No. I was in disguise. There are some problems one can tackle best from the bottom up, some information which will not reach ears that look washed and have lobes that are adorned with jewels.”
“You should have had an escort.”
“Ah yes, that would have worked,” Durban agreed, “a peasant with three hulking well-armed soldiers watching his every step and coming running each time he sneezed.”
“You have men who are more subtle than that,” Caer chided. “Why did you not have them with you? You could have been killed.”
“I am used to taking my own risks and I am used to working alone,” Durban said. “Old habits die hard.”
“And so could you.”
“But not today. It remains for me to thank you for coming to my rescue. I hope you did not trouble our Most Honoured master with the matter?” Durban said it lightly and looked around as he did so. “I don’t suppose you brought me any clothes?”
“I have sent for some for you – you were lucky you had not changed your shirt, the quality of the cloth was about all that convinced the landlord to send for me and not throw you out to die in the snow,” Caer said. “And, no, I did not tell the Most Honoured One when you sent for me, as I did not know it was you. But he has been asking for you. He knows you left your men and went alone, you will need to have something to say to him.”
Durban smiled.
“I think he will forgive me when he hears what I have to say.”
“He always forgives you. You always know what to say to him.”
“I always say what he wants to hear,” Durban told him guilelessly. “All I have to do is work very hard to make sure that he wants to hear what I am able to say to him.”

E.M. Swift-Hook.

It was an arcane weapon small enough to fit a woman’s delicate hand, given to a lady of the night for her protection.

When the stranger came, she knew him for what he was and refused his advances. His reaction was swiftly vicious, with the body of her little sleeve dog delivered as notice of his intent.

She dried her tears and went to his office, where she was admitted to his presence without question. He looked up. Into the twin barrels of the derringer. 

She shot him in the testicles first. And, when he screamed, through his open mouth.

©️jj 2018

An extract from Self Love by TL Clark

Meet Molly; a 30-something florist with issues. 
With her health, and perhaps sanity hanging in the balance, she must face her personal demons, which sound uncannily like her mother. 
This is her personal-growth-whilst-shrinking story. Sprinkled with toils of weight loss, dredging dates, flowering friendship.
Will she blossom or wither?

The bride looks resplendent as she wafts down the aisle like a drifting cloud, but a stone plummets into the deep well of my stomach.
No, I’m not the bride, I’m over here. Cooee! See me waving my hand? No, back further, in the…1, 2, 3…17th row on the bride’s side.
I’m sandwiched between two very fat people. Really, I’m big myself, but I expect other fatties to have respect for one another’s parameters. Too many parts of our bodies are touching, and I’m really not comfortable with that. 
Yes, here I am. Hello, my name’s Molly. Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances. 
‘But you’re at a wedding,’ I hear you cry, ‘Surely this is a time of merriment and celebration?’ Well, not this one. Before I launch into vitriol, I’d like to point out that I’m not normally this bitter. But today’s one massive ordeal, and we’ve not even got to the vows yet. 
This bridezilla really takes the biscuit. She, who also answers to the name Amelia, contacted me a mere two weeks ago to call in a favour, as her florist let her down. Those were her words. But having worked on this wedding, I think the woman in white stamped her foot once too often and the florist quite rightly decided it simply wasn’t worth it.
I’m not even sure which favour Amelia thought I owed her. It’s not like she’s ever done anything for me. We worked together when I had an office job. She thought she ruled the roost even then, despite the fact we were on the same pay grade. 
Anyway, stupid gullible me felt some sort of obligation to help out an old…acquaintance. God, I can’t even bring myself to call her a friend. Why did I do this? 
I’m a florist. My business is still being built up, but it’s doing OK. I suppose I hoped a big wedding like this might help promote me a bit more. Oh, that sounds horrible, doesn’t it? But really, if she was as great a friend as she insinuated, wouldn’t she have hired me from the outset?
But no, she walked into my little house, armed with her mother. Yes, my business is run from home at the moment. Amelia oozed charm and implored me to come to her aid. What was I to do? I couldn’t say no. Maybe I should’ve, but I couldn’t.
Amelia, who had at best, disregarded my presence before, managed to enlist my services at mates’ rates. Her mother glared icy daggers at me the whole time, daring me to say no. I firmly believe she was disappointed that I didn’t give her an excuse to launch into a torrent of verbal abuse. 
Looking around the church I can see just how conned I was. I’m getting virtually nothing for all this work, and yet they don’t seem short of a bob or two. Nothing has been spared anywhere else. That dress alone must have a price tag in the thousands. 
That’s not even the worst thing. Do you want to know the most deplorable part of this whole sorry saga? Gyp! She demanded bloody gypsophila in her bouquet. You may know it as baby’s breath. The tiny white fluffy, ridiculous flowers are nothing but fillers used by lazy florists, or ones stuck in the eighties. It’s hideous and smells like cat pee.
I had tried to keep it to a minimum in the bouquet, and hid it as much as possible, but Amelia has only gone and bloody teased it out, so it’s sticking in all directions now. This is my professional reputation here. I’m spitting feathers.
The bridal bouquet contains as many peonies as my limited budget would allow, along with some hydrangeas, sweet peas, and roses; all in white. All designed to disguise the appearance and smell of the gyp. 

Catch the video on YouTube

A Bite of... TL Clark

Q1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?

With Molly, she’s as close as I may ever get to an autobiography tbh. Her story was inspired by (but not based on) my own Slimming World journey. I have been my own worst enemy, and called myself horrible names, and been my severest critic. I sometimes still am, but I’m a work in progress. And I’m getting better at being kind to myself. 

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I’m exploring different kinds of love, so yes, this includes different sexual orientations. There’s a gay boy who features heavily in my CSA survivor romance, Broken & Damaged Love. 
Love Bites uses my own pagan and witch learning to create a magickal world for my own witches. This paranormal romance has now won a bronze medal in the Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards. Not that I’m bragging. OK, I’m totally bragging; it’s awesome! 
Incidentally, there’s sexual fluidity in that duology too. 

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Chocolate cake. I adore chocolate and exist on coffee, but can’t bear the two things mixed together. Does that make me weird? 

About TL Clark

TL Clark is a British author of heart-racing, tear-inducing tales of love.
Her mission is to explore different kinds of love, with the hope of uncovering some of its mysteries.
So far, she has discovered that coffee may be the source of life.

You can find TL Clark on Goodreads, Facebook, D2D, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, Bookbub and her own blog. You can also sign up for her newsletter.