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

For as long as Rebekah could remember September had been a month of terror, with her mother growing shorter and shorter of temper as each day passed. Then Michaelmas would come and they would stand in line at The Hiring, hoping against hope that they would catch the eye of someone kindly and decent.  They almost always did, except for one memorably bad year when both mother and eight-year-old daughter toiled in the kitchens of a back-street whorehouse for little more than a hard bed and even harder words. It was only one year in the seventeen Rebekah had been alive, but the memory was strong enough to strike fear into a stronger heart than hers.

This Michaelmas was different, though. Mother had been hired for three years running by the same man, a grim-visaged merchant with an out-thrusting paunch and a hard eye for a bargain. Rebekah didn’t much like him, but kept her thoughts to herself. At least the beds were dry and there was sufficient food.

At the start of the September after her seventeenth birthday, their employer called Mother into his narrow counting room, where the pair of them had remained closeted for a very long time.

Mother came out looking even grimmer than usual. Rebekah hunched a shoulder and awaited a tongue-lashing. To her surprise none was forthcoming. Instead, Mother beckoned her out into the tiny strip of garden they tended throughout the year. She sat down heavily on the wooden bench and patted the seat by her side.
“Daughter. I would have speech with you.”
Rebekah tried to look suitably interested and yet modest.
“Mister Brown had a proposition for me. It is one I am minded to accept, but it depends on you.”
“How is that Mother?”
“He proposes marriage to me, but he will not adopt you as his daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if I accept the offer, you cannot stay here.”
“Oh. But where would I go.”
“You could go to the hiring. Or you could marry.”
“Marry?”
“You are young, and strong, and accustomed to hard work. There are always young farmers looking for girls like you.”
“You mean like a mail order bride?”
Mother nodded.
Rebekah bent her fair head, thinking hard. She turned a serene face to her mother.
“If I chose to be a mail order bride, would I have any say in which offer I accepted.”
Her mother frowned.
“You would if you wanted, but why would you want such a choice?”
“Mother. I am seventeen years old, it would not be fitting were I to find myself married to a man with children older than me. And nor would I wish to wed outside of our faith. If those are not unreasonable expectations I would choose to marry.”
Her mother regarded Rebekah with rare approval. “Not unreasonable. Sensible. Very well, child, Mister Brown and I will set things in motion. You do understand that naught will occur until after the Michaelmas Hiring.”
“I do so understand, Mother.”
Mother stood up and then bent to place a rare kiss on her daughter’s smooth cheek.
“I will make sure that your husband is kind.”
Then she was gone, leaving Rebekah to return to her duties with a calm face, but a very flustered mind.

The weeks leading up to The Hiring ran smoothly, with Mother settled and Rebekah resigned.

On the day of the Michaelmas Fair, Mother and Mister Brown went out straight after breakfast, leaving Rebekah on her honour not to leave the house. They need not have worried, as she had precious little taste for the noise and laxity of the street fair and no coin to spend had it been her wish to venture out. Instead, she brought her spinning wheel beside the kitchen fire and sat singing quietly as she worked. The only other living creature in the house was the kitchen cat who came and sat on the floor at her feet. It was about two hours before the street door opened and Mother’s voice called out.
“It is us, Rebekah, put the kettle to boil like a good child.” She sounded happy, and Rebekah hastened to move the kettle onto the hot plate atop the closed stove.

She returned her spinning wheel to the corner and quickly swept up the little bits of wool that flew from the wheel. She was just wondering what to do next when Mother and Mister Brown came into the kitchen. He regarded her sternly, and looked around the room for signs of disorder. Finding none, he so far relaxed as to smile, although no warmth reached his hard little eyes. Mother lifted her left hand, and Rebekah saw the gleam of gold. She cast down her eyes, lest anyone see her dismay.
“My felicitations Mister and Mistress Brown. May your union be long and blessed.”
She looked up to find both beaming at her. She must have said the right thing. Mister Brown even unbent enough to address her directly.
“Fairly spoken, girl,” then he coughed. “You must understand that my refusal to adopt you is no reflection on your character. For all I have seen you are a modest and hardworking female.”
Rebekah bent her head, and Mother actually chuckled.
“The child is unused to compliments.” Then she turned her attention to her daughter. “There are three offers for your hand that we deem suitable. It appears fair to both my husband and I that you should select from them for yourself. Sit at the table and read. I will make hot tea.”
Rebekah sat, feeling as if she dreamed, and her mother’s husband placed three packets at her elbow.
“We have,” he said in a surprisingly careful voice, “ascertained that these three men have a reputation for kindliness as well as being suitable in all other ways”.

Rebekah read the three letters carefully.

Jane Jago.

We have twenty-three minutes to live
The inexorable numbers tick past
We have given the most we can give
And the seconds are running down fast
We have no contact with home
There is no way we can say goodbye
In the end we will each die alone
Wink out in the blink of an eye
We have twenty-two minutes to live
Each breath is becoming a task
Like sands through an eternal sieve
Our lives are away dropping fast
The clock is irrelevant now
As each chest heaves and ratchets in pain
Oh Lords let us end it all now
Whilst we still have the function of brain
We have twenty-one moments to live
But the numbers are clearly a lie
I whisper, my darling forgive
As I cut both my wrists and I die

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour mes braves,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. The teacher beloved of your hearts and minds. The author of the remarkable and much remarked upon science fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. The pedagogue on whose delicate prose depends your understanding of the literary arts. That happy man who breaks from the few moments of ecstasy this life will allow him to present you with the fruits of his mind and the essences of his labours.

Lesson 34: The Write Denouement

Thus far one has been leading you gently by the hand through the rose garden of the literary arts, providing you with the petals of perennial wisdom and alerting you to the sharp, tearing thorns that await the unwary novice as you struggle with your first stumbling steps into the wonders of writing.

Today though, one shall thrust into the meat of the matter, penetrate boldly into the underbrush with decisively strong and muscular intent. For this is the climactic moment of your novel and it needs to leave your reader breathless and fulfilled.

Ah yes, the denouement.

That moment when all becomes clear. That place to which one has been leading, through passages and parlance, the unveiling of understanding where one’s magnum opus finally brings the reader.

It is the climax if you will.

The crescendo when the conductor brings his baton crashing down and the horns blow, and the drums crash, and the strings wail. It is that place where you offer some reason for all that those who travelled stumble-footed through your works endured. That place where you choose whether to bring your reader laughter or tears, happiness or despair, completion or destruction.

It is your big moment. Treasure it. And write it from the bottom of your soul. Use words that drip with drama and exude emotion. Drench it delicious descriptors – all those admirable adjectives and adverbs you have been practising so assiduously. Pump up your prose, that your words are wrought with wonder. Spare not the syllables, for this is the place to prove your true literary worth!

If it is sad, make of it a tragedy. Ensure that it wrenches tears and painful sobs from your reader’s very soul. If it is happy, make it joyous and life-affirming, let it fizz through the bloodstream like champagne and uplift the spirit into ecstatic rapture.

I offer for you one humble exemplar:

When the doorway brought the golden one to his eyes, he felt tears of pain and anticipation sting at the back of his own orbs. Would he be sufficient that such magnificence even deign to notice him? Would he be able to speak around the thorny lump in his throat? Would the dampness of his palms give him away? And what was that hot and heavy sensation in his hitherto unfulfilled loins? He dropped his eyes in real fear, and did not see his destiny approaching him. It was not until a voice like unto nothing he had ever heard before bespoke him that he dared to raise his eyes. He found himself transfixed by a warmly golden gaze and his lips turned up into a smile as the golden one cupped his chin in long fingers and traced the contours of his mouth with the forefinger of the other hand.
“Why do you tremble, pretty one? I won’t hurt you. Much.”

And whether this ending is happy or sad I neither know nor care…

Study well my children.

Next time. Erotica.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

The dragon regarded his talons with elaborate casualness.
“And this concerns me because?”
The woman cast down her eyes so he couldn’t see the flare of anger in their depths.
“It concerns you because you were supposed to be guarding her.”
“She dismissed me,” the dragon sounded defiant.
“And this concerns me because?” The woman’s voice was as cold and pointed as a steel blade.
He lifted his eyes and stared at his interlocutor.
“By what right does a human question a dragon?”
“The right of a child whose mother was murdered while her guard dragon slept.”
B’a’al snarled savagely then flowed into his human form, standing naked in front of the woman.
“There is a forfeit to be paid by humans who dare question dragonkind,” he sneered, and moved towards the delicate red-haired woman who had dared to speak to him with contempt in her voice. “I will take my payment here and now…”

She held up a hand and he found himself stopped in his tracks as if held by a giant claw. The woman made a tutting noise.
“Arrogance, arrogance,” she muttered before making her own change.

B’a’al found himself looking into the eyes of something he had never seen before. She was like him, only not, and probably outweighed him by half.
“There is a forfeit to be paid by dragons who are stupid enough to quarrel with wyverns” she said before she casually ripped his head off and ate it.

© jane jago 2017

 

 

You may well ask how one ever came upon this ‘literary classic’, as it is undoubtedly aimed at pre-pubescent females. However, it can also be aimed in a wholly different set of circumstances at the nodding cranium of a son who dares to fall into slumber when his beloved Mumsie is watching Kramer vs Kramer for around the four millionth time. One had been inveighed into the parlour by the promise of Mama Mia, and then let down with a bump by one’s perfidious parent so that one was unhappy, to say the least, but not stupid enough to attempt escape whist the turgid trash droned on and on and Mumsie sniffed and snotted unbecomingly. One had briefly succumbed to all but terminal boredom and allowed ones head to drop for a moment when ‘thwack’, a heavy leather-bound volume hit one’s forehead corner first, causing a large and purple contusion.

“You, Moons, are an awful little shit,” Mumsie declared in tones of doom. “You can just fecking well sit there and read quietly and stop spoiling my film.”

And thus I became acquainted with Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.

Now. My review.

Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott

Four sisters living in poverty during the American Civil War hardly seems a recipe for riveting entertainment, and in truth it isn’t a thundering good story. But it has some sort of something, because one was unable to discard the tome until it was read. The four girls have different characters, different dreams, different problems, but all are dealt with in some clever way so as to keep one reading. It seems dreadfully plain and unadorned. An yet… Motherly Meg, tomboy Jo, sickly Beth and beautiful Amy. Not all survive. Not all prosper. One laughed. One even cried.

One’s  mater actually accused one of becoming ‘almost human’ as one read this old-fashioned morality story with sympathetic tears staining one’s cheek.

As she remarked. Perhaps one is closer to nineteenth-century female children than to one’s own contemporaries. Who understands.

Three stars reduced from four because of the bump on one’s cranium.

 

From Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Faust made up half of a team of two brothers. The younger and the more annoying half and a temporary resident in Voltz as he formed part of a team set up to work on an ongoing project. As far as Avilon was concerned if the team included Faust, he did not want to be a part of it.

As soon as he entered the bar, a slight frisson passed through certain segments of its patrons. One or two offered a terse nod, most avoided his eye and a couple even got up and headed out. His reputation in Voltz grew all the time.

He found Faust crouched on one of the well-padded side benches, a remote visor concealing his eyes from view, making strange noises as if imitating some kind of fast firing weapon. Now and then he would twitch his hands, manipulating things only he could see. Avilon grabbed his arm and pulled the visor up. Faust’s eyes looked pale and watery, those of a subterranean creature. Removing the visor was like lifting a stone and finding something squirming and hideous underneath. He hissed like a snake and tried to snatch the visor back. Avilon ripped it away, dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his foot.

“Play time is over. Shame Cullen wants to talk to you.”

Faust pushed up fast from the bench with the strength of his legs, throwing his entire body forward, and tried to sink his teeth into Avilon’s face.

It was like handling a wild animal. Worse. He could not use lethal force. Worse. It was in full view of the entire bar on a crowded session. If he let it go on for more than a moment or two he could expect to get a few half-humorous jeers, longer and he would be being mocked by half the bar. He could not afford that.

In the end, he opted for a simple but effective arm-break lock, manoeuvred the feral screen addict through the iris valve door and spun him round, ramming him up against the wall, as it closed behind them. Then he said in a very calm voice: “If you make me go through that one more time, Faust, I will break all the fingers on both your hands – one after the other.”

An idle threat. Shame Cullen needed Faust operational, but Avilon was willing to bet Faust himself could not be sure of it. The younger man looked up at him with limpid eyes and smiled.

“I think you might enjoy that a bit too much,” he said.

“Oh, I would. So don’t give me the opportunity.” But he had no way to be sure whether or not the message penetrated Faust’s skull.

Trust A Few is the first volume in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune's Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook

 

 

 

 

A Wager to Win by Jenna Thatcher: When Lord Harrington mysteriously leaves the London season much too early, he sets tongues wagging. He would wager he will never marry...

May 2nd, 1813

14 Grosvenor Square, London

Charlie,

Our Dear Mother is in a State of Depression about your quitting London. She has asked me to write you and tell you how concerned I am about your current bachelorhood.

Reggie wrecked his curricle within 24 hours of his owning it, something about a race with Strathmore that was only an excuse to go at a bruising speed. I own I was a bit relieved to not have come along, for I very much like my face where it is. As I have won the wager, you will be receiving a copy of your required reading post haste.

The Right Honorable Viscount Petersham

 

May 7th, 1813

Holcombe Manor, Kent

Georgie,

The Mysteries of Udolpho is an absolute horror to read. I am finishing it as quickly as possible like medicine with a bad taste. I cannot understand the appeal, and I will look very differently now on females who praise its merits. 

Meg has also written me, although her letter was full of a variety of descriptions about fripperies. I find it ironic that I haven’t the foggiest idea what any of it meant, and yet I am footing the bill. Our Dear Mother has also written, and it was much more to the point than either of yours. Apparently Miss Pratt is wasting away to nothing in my absence.

As a result, Mother has decided to have a house party in June. Perhaps it will allow Meg to socialize in a more comfortable situation before her entrance into society. Regardless, I must stay at the estate to attend to a variety of business. If there’s anyone you wish to invite, then of course bring them along.

I wager Miss Pratt will be the very first guest Our Dear Mother will invite. In that case, I should like to return the favor and have you read Udolpho in turn.

The Right Honorable The Earl of Harrington

 

May 11th, 1813

14 Grosvenor Square, London

Charlie,

There is no wager – I am in complete agreement. Mother is in a state regarding the house party. You’re a complete idiot.

G

 

Chapter 2

June 15, 1813

Holcombe Manor, Kent

Lady Shaw,

I am in receipt of your letter regarding my upcoming house party and your niece, Miss Jane Shaw. I must caution you that I have been careful in my invitations, for I hope to secure engagements for both my sons shortly. There are, however a few young men that are unattached, and I am sure the amiable genteel niece you have described will be perfectly content in our festivities.

Regards,

Lady Harrington 

PS. Any debt owing is, I assume, fulfilled in this invitation. Also, I must congratulate you on your remarkable efficiency of having twin sons; I am sure Lord Shaw is very pleased.

 

A Bite of... Jenna Thatcher.

Q1. What is your secret vice? And where do you indulge?

Cadbury mini chocolate eggs. After Easter I bought double-digits worth of bags. I keep them in the top drawer of my art desk (I also paint and do calligraphy), where I sneak a hand in every once in a while.

Q2. What is your greatest weakness? And your greatest strength?

I can be incredibly stubborn. I mean, beyond ridiculous. I have, unfortunately, passed this trait onto my children. Potty-training can be (and has been) a veritable nightmare.

My greatest strength is my determination? Loyalty? I suppose those are really only nice ways to say stubborn…I am a really good friend (there’s the loyalty) and when I  believe something, I believe it with a firm conviction that’s pretty unshakable. 

Q3. You have the chance to change one aspect of history. What would you change and why?

The problem with trying to change history is that history is constantly repeating itself. It’s like telling your child not to touch the stove because they’ll burn themselves. They do, and they learn their lesson, and the child that was watching knows this…but you have to repeat said lesson with them too. Ok, maybe not the perfect analogy. Throughout history, however, there has frequently been a loss of art, artefacts, etc. that would tell us more about those who have lived, and in many cases would be beautiful works that could be displayed for all to enjoy. (For example, the loss of so much during the Nazi regime.) I would find a way to find those so they could be appreciated.

 

Jenna Thatcher lives in a quiet little valley surrounded by mountains. She has been to every state in the US (except Alaska), and has a soft spot for volcanoes. Her favourite job ever was as a children’s Her favorite job ever was as a children's librarian where she ordered the 500s - 600s. Three kids and a smart-mouth cat keep her busy, but thankfully she has an amazing husband to juggle them all (not literally). 
You can find Jenna on Goodreads as she continues to publish a variety of genres, including fractured-fairytales, fantasy, and more historical fiction or follow her blog.

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

The following Friday saw Sam and Anna ensconced in their room in a very posh London hotel. He was dressed, and Anna had tied his tie. She was almost ready and just wriggling into her little dress, a process Sam found truly fascinating.

“It’s a shame we have to meet a lot of very boring people for cocktails. Watching you wriggle has given me all sorts of interesting ideas.”

“Tough tit, Sam. It’s taken hours to buff and polish me. You are welcome to mess me up all you like after this shindig. Until then. Hands off.”

He grinned wickedly, but complied. Anna gave herself a quick spritz of perfume and picked up a tiny weeny evening bag. She gazed critically at herself in the mirror, then Sam came to stand behind her.

“You look stunning,” he whispered before offering her his arm.

 

They sailed out of the room, looking like the successful professional people they were, but with an overlay of happiness that made people stop for a second look at them as they passed along the carpeted corridor of the hotel talking quietly.

 

The cocktail hour was as boring as Sam suggested it might be. The committee members and their partners were overly polite and politically correct, but the hospital dinosaurs and their mostly brittle wives spent the time checking Anna out, either covertly, or with shockingly rude thoroughness. She let neither approach ruffle her calm demeanour, and Sam remained rooted to her side despite a myriad of subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to detach him.

“Cripes Sam,” Anna hissed as they headed for the ballroom where dinner would be served, “this lot are even worse than a room full of accountants.”

He sniggered, then Anna felt him stiffen at the sound of a female voice.

“A little bird tells me my ex has had the poor taste to turn up with some bint in tow. I must just have a look at what has picked up my leavings.”

Anna turned a bland face in the direction of the voice, and what she saw had her stifling a giggle.

“What?” Sam hissed in her ear.

“Tell you later. It really is too good not to share.”

Sam’s ex-wife was a very curvy blonde, who obviously thought she bore more than a passing resemblance to Norma Jean, which would have amused Anna anyway, but it was the woman’s escort who had her biting the inside of her cheeks to control the giggles. He was a darkly handsome man, beautifully tailored, and possessed of a carefully tended athletic build. His eyes met Anna’s and he dropped her the ghost of a wink.

“Christina, my love,” he said reprovingly, “that came out very rudely. I’m sure you would like to apologise”.

For an instant she looked mulish before dropping her eyes. “Oh. I’m sure I’m very sorry,” she muttered.

Anna inclined her head, then held out a hand to the dark man.

“Tariq. What a pleasant surprise.”

He bowed over her hand.

“Anna. Likewise.”

Then he scooped up his sullen-looking lady friend and more or less towed her into the ballroom.

 

Sam held Anna’s arm gently and they stood allowing their party to precede them. Anna put her mouth to his ear.

“No time for the whole story now, just one thing for you to think about. Unless that particular leopard has changed its spots radically, your ex will be sitting on a very sore bottom tonight.”

Sam gave her a quizzical look, then the penny dropped and he grinned.

“How delightful,” he murmured. “Shall we?”

 

The evening dragged, mediocre food was followed by a mediocre after-dinner speaker, then a mediocre band played mediocre middle-of-the-road music. The entertainment culminated with a cringe-inducing charity auction. As Anna whispered to Sam it was no more than an excuse for wealthy upper middle-class people to pay way over the odds for stuff they didn’t want just to show off to their peers.

 

By the time they could decently leave, Sam’s jaw was aching with the effort of not yawning.

“I have to slip to the men’s room. I won’t be long. Then we can escape and I’ll watch you wriggle out of that dress.”

 

When he returned, he found Christina, Tariq and their party at the table making their farewells to Anna. Christina’s father moved away from the table and grasped his hand firmly. “That’s a lovely girl you have there,” he said in his rich, Lancashire brogue. “I’m glad my little madam didn’t put you off women for good. Mind you. She’s met her match with this one. Perhaps he belts her like neither one of us did. Whatever. It seems he has known your Anna for some years. Says you’re a lucky man.”

 

Sam just smiled and watched. Christina, jumpy and edgy and seemingly unable to keep her eyes or her hands off her escort. Tariq, urbane and polished, but with an underlay of something much less civilised. His ex-mother-in-law, made faintly uneasy by something she couldn’t understand, talking randomly to the wife of one of the older doctors. And Anna. Anna, who seemed unaffected by the undercurrents around her. Serene and lovely, she smiled charmingly at everyone but was careful not to catch Sam’s eye. The giggles, he surmised, were quite near the surface.

 

As Tariq and his party moved away one of the senior doctor’s wives turned to Anna.

“He’s an attractive beast. How do you come to know him?”

“Purely professionally. He’s a financial adviser and I audited the books of some of his clients.”

“Oh. Boring. So there’s nothing you can tell us about the man then?”

“Other than the fact he’s rich, successful, unmarried and a quarter Iranian? No.”

The woman who had asked the question had the grace to blush, and her husband rescued her from further embarrassment by announcing himself ready for bed.

This effectively broke up the party allowing Sam and Anna to escape. They got into their room and Anna dropped face down on the bed in a serious fit of the giggles.

“Sorry Sam,” she mopped her streaming eyes. “I’ll explain as soon as I can stop laughing.”

He looked down at her.

“I’d sooner watch you wriggle out of that dress,” he said darkly.

She got to her feet and obliged with an exaggerated shimmy of her narrow hips. Sam growled deep in his chest and began to throw off his own clothes while she stood and watched him, clad only in a tiny thong and skyscraper heels. As soon as he had fought his way out of his dinner suit he grabbed her.

Jane Jago

 

You are old so you shouldn’t bedazzle
You should be both faded and frazzled
It shouldn’t be you
With a Harley (brand new)
And a Swarovski Crystal vajazzle

© jane jago 2017