I am old, let me make one thing clear
That no matter what time of the year
There never will be
Any sort of ‘new’ me
I’m fond of the old one. And beer

© jane jago 2018

This is an extract taken from Trust a Few the opening book of Haruspex Trilogy part of the Fortune's Fools.

A short time later he walked into in a small eatery which served the needs of the spaceport workers in the sector. The sign on the window said: ‘Real Cooked Food. All Day – Every Day.’ in orange and green flashing letters. The food smelt very good and having survived on the cafeteria fare of the recycling plant for the last ten days, Avilon used some of his new, positive, financial status to purchase a meal, with no hesitation at all. The teenager who served him was unmistakable, as if a familiar shadow fell upon his features, shaping them to look slightly different in Avilon’s mind.

He had come to the right place.

Having paid for his food, Avilon sat at a table near the counter to eat it. It tasted good, better than any meal he could remember eating. When he finished, he went back to the counter and ordered a drink which he sat with as the lunchtime rush subsided and the number of new arrivals slowed up. Soon the teenager began moving round mopping the tables ready for the next shift change and rush of diners. Avilon waited until he came over to the table nearby so he did not have to raise his voice at all.

“I’m looking for the man who owns this place. We were in the military together.”

The youngster stopped wiping the table and just stared, as if he had not even noticed Avilon before. Then his expression changed as his gaze fixed on the wide scar which cut down one cheek, the puckered skin where the tech-port drilled into Avilon’s skull and the three deep-ridged lines of badly healed flesh running over the back of one hand, looking like some kind of tribal or gang identification mark.

“Jaz. Jazatar Baldrik,” Avilon prompted, keeping his voice low.

“Ma!” The boy’s eyes remained on him, looking resentful at his presence: “Ma, there is someone here asking after the sperm donor.” Then a wealth of dark emotion visibly welling into his eyes from somewhere deep down, the teenager turned away and vanished behind the counter into the kitchen area beyond.

Avilon sat very still. Far from the expected warmth and welcome, he just landed in a new warzone without Lattice support.

A woman came through the door at the back of the counter, her gaze finding him right away, although there were one or two other people still eating and now glancing with some curiosity at Avilon. She wiped her hands on a cloth which she left behind the counter, then she approached him and, without a word, sat down at the table.

“I’m looking for Jazatar Baldrik,” Avilon repeated. “We served together. You must be Tillsa – he spoke of you.”

The woman neither acknowledged nor denied the name.

“I’m sorry. Jaz is gone,” she said. “This never was his place – it is mine.” She added the last as if it explained everything. Avilon watched her, trying to match the figure in front of him with the image he had formed from the little Jaz told him about the woman he shared his life with.

Avilon was not a complete stranger to women, there were always some in the Specials and like the men, they were in general cold, sexually aggressive and violent. Civilian women, he had read, were, in general, not. This one did not have the beauty he expected from Jaz’s fixed commitment but looked much the same height as Jaz as she was only slightly shorter than Avilon himself, with a strong face, strong hands and weary eyes. She brushed away a streak of mousey hair that slipped out of the hygiene covering, pushing it back. Her eyes held his own and he saw something in them shift a little as if she noticed something about him she had not seen before, and from there, her expression also changed.

“Don’t mind what, Tarn said. He’s not been dealing so well with learning his father -“

She broke off and broke the eye-contact, looking down at her own hands for a moment then across to the hand he rested on the table, the one with the triple cut scarring. He saw her tense, not in any form of recognition but in its opposite – a profound alienation, close to revulsion. She would go in a moment and the chance would be lost.

“I just need to speak with Jazatar Baldrik. He is expecting me.”

The woman’s eyes swept up to his own again and the line of her mouth became a fraction tighter with some inner resolution.

“I told you, Jaz is gone. I don’t know where he is.”

She started rising and Avilon fought back his desperate need to grab her hand and make her sit, make her stay, make her tell him. But civilian rules of behaviour did not permit that. It could count as assault and an assault charge would have him returned to the Specials without any appeal. So he let her stand and watched the emotions raw on her face, so personal and revealing she could have been standing naked before him. But one of the emotions looked like courage and another, maybe, compassion – or something as kind.

“If it is any help, I think he’s left the ‘City. You hear – things – sometimes. He made some people feel unhappy when he came back. I think he tried hard to keep legal – maybe too hard. Sometimes people don’t let you walk away from who you were.” Her expression shifted again, hardening as if aware she gave away more of her own feelings for Jaz than she should. Avilon searched his mind for the right question. It mattered, because he knew he would only get the chance to ask one question now.

“Would anyone know – more?”

The slightest nod and a quick glance to be sure no one paid any attention to their conversation.

“Shame Cullen.”

She turned away as soon as she said it and went back behind the counter and through the door beyond. A few moments later the teenager came out again and started cleaning the counter area. One of the lights had a strange flicker, a visual irritant and the slight sounds of people eating seemed louder over the low beat of the background music.

Avilon got up and left, opening the door of the diner feeling more alone than he could recall and stepping out into a blasted waste which had no markers or waypoints, no shelter or supplies and so little gravity his stomach felt close to nausea.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 23: The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Zachry Wheeler is a science-fiction novelist based in Albuquerque, NM. His breakout novel Transient is currently in development to become a feature film.

Q1: What is the most important piece of advice you would give to someone about to be trapped to live in one of your books?

Q2: Socks or gloves and why?

Q3:  If you were ever unable to write under your own name, what would you choose as your pen name and why?

Zachry is also the author of Max and the Multiverse and Max and the Snoodlecock and you can find him on his website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads.

When she was twelve years old, Atet was married to her half brother, Seti. Being painted and powdered and oiled and perfumed and dressed in fine white linen with a headdress so heavy she was sure her neck would break were merely the precursors to a wedding ceremony that lasted most of a day.

By the time the last priest had waved the last ceremonial artefact in front of her nose she was dangerously tired and on the verge of tears. It was only pride that kept her spine straight while they removed her ceremonial robe and dressed her in a gown so fine that every contour of her body could be seen through its delicate folds. She did rebel at the prospect of walking through the palace corridors so wantonly displayed, insisting on an azure feathered wrap to protect her modesty. When the acolytes sent to escort her to her husband’s bedchamber would have argued, she turned on them with all the hauteur of her great father and they fell into order beneath her icy glance.

At the great beaten brass doors she dismissed her entourage with a flick of her fingers and entered alone, finding her bridegroom cowering in the corner like the child he still was under his seventeen-year-old body. As she was about to go over and speak to him, a small doorway opened to admit a shaven-headed gentleman carrying a businesslike leather scourge and smiling sourly.

Atet raised her brows and he leered at her.
“I am the royal tutor. His majesty is to be scourged,” he spoke in a voice of contempt, “and after him it will be your turn to learn the feel of the lash.”
The young bride reached her own personal breaking point. She turned with deliberately regal dignity and opened one wing of the door, beckoning two of the royal guard to enter. She pointed a finger at the whip bearer.
“Remove this offal from my sight. Take it and strike off its hands before you cut its throat.”
“You can’t do that to me,” the tutor screamed.
Atet saw no need to reply as the grinning guards dragged him off to meet his fate.
Seti came to her side with fear in his eyes.
“He will only beat me harder next time.”
“My brother, be tranquil. He will beat nobody ever again.”
“How not?”
“Did you not hear me order his death?”
“Yes. But he is my tutor. My great father protects him.”
Atet felt a rush of sympathy for this simple infant, hidden inside the body of a man.
“Our great father is dead. You rule now. And with me by your side nobody will hurt you again.”

And so began the reign of the great king Seti, and his sister-wife Atet. They ruled wisely and well, with only a trusted few privy to the knowledge that Seti was what he was and that the intellect and the will belonged to his young wife.

They had only one real problem. Heirs. It was a marriage in name only and unlikely to ever be anything else. Seti had a slave girl who saw to his simple and infrequent needs, while Atet remained as pure as she had been on the day of their marriage. She was aware of the danger of appearing barren, and equally sure that she had no wish to give birth to a child with her husband’s limitations, even if it had been possible to persuade him into fulfilling his marital duties.

So matters stood when Atet’s most trusted adviser was called to his place at the feet of the gods and she found herself looking for a replacement. She found one such in the person of the Hyksos in charge of her personal guard. He was a man in his forties, with a fat jolly wife and a quiverful of unruly children. He was also handsome, intelligent, and completely loyal. Atet began asking his opinions and relying on his advice, and in time it came to her that this man of all others was the one she would choose to sire her own babies.

She sent for him and he came to her rooms where she sat in a gilded chair and regarded him through sombre eyes. “How far, my Hyksos, are you prepared to go in order to protect me?”
He didn’t answer, merely going down on one knee and pressing his forehead against her feet.
“Will you,” she asked in a very small voice, “protect me from the charge that I am barren woman, unfit to be queen?”
He looked up into her solemn little face before lifting her in his arms and beginning to do things of which she had no knowledge, but which gave her pleasure beyond her dreams.

It is a matter of record that Queen Atet bore her husband eleven healthy, intelligent, happy children, and that the land waxed fertile as the queen’s fecundity was proven time and time again.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

The ant was a hard worker, spent every waking moment pretty much working hard to earn money to feed himself and his family and to save for retirement. He’d see the grasshopper getting all dressed up and going out with his friends every night and shake his head sadly, knowing what was to come.

Years went by. The ant worked ever harder and the grasshopper socialised and had a grand time.

Then one day the ant’s wife left him saying he never had any time for her and was so obsessed with work and money he had no idea how to relax and enjoy life. The grasshopper, however, had made so many friends that even when he fell on hard times they all rallied around to help him out.

Moral of the story: Always make time for your spouse.

Bonjour mes petites,

And as I place my fingers upon the keyboard to reach out to you, dear Readers Who Write, I feel a certain powerful link has now been established between us. I, your pedagogue, creator of the seminal classic science-fiction opus, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and you my disciples, minions of literature, striving to bring to birth your first fumbling fantasies.

What, you may wonder, led me to this pivotal point of realisation in our ongoing relationship? Well, it was that I received a missive from one Adoring Fan, asking – nay pleading with me, to come to her aid. And so, moved by her desperate plight, I shall don my metaphorical armour and ride to the rescue on my white charger.

Dear Ivy,

Sometimes my characters do things that I don’t mean for them to do and it affects my plot. What should I do?

Regards,

Melonie.

Dear Melonie,

How I feel your pain and anguish! It is such a grief when those very characters which you have nursed and nurtured within your own bosom, turn on you like ungrateful lovers and spite your best intentions.

But you must first remember that these characters are brought to birth by the delicate insemination of the Muse into the fecund womb of your own creativity. These are the delightful love-children of Calliope and as such they are bound to challenge your parental authority and demand their own way in all things.

Now, there will be those who will say ‘Be firm!’ and insist you impose your will on these unruly offspring. It is your story and these characters are mere brain-foibles – figments you have postulated to carry the plot. Force them to do what you demand and be done with it!

But to such, I say ‘Fiddlesticks!’ and I say ‘Phooey!’. Those who take such a view understand nothing of the higher levels of authorial inspiration. To them is forever barred the inner sanctum of creative intimacy. They will never know the delight of engaging with the fruits of their literary loins. No, dear Melonie, I counsel you quite otherwise.

Be bold and invite your rebellious muselings to meet with you. Remember, these are not mere stirrings in your synapses, these are real and pure individual characters, formed from the life-breath of your soul.  So then, in an atmosphere of trust and empathy brought about by your deep familial bond, open your heart to them and show them the reasons for the choices you wish to make about their lives. And more, you must listen! Listen to their dulcet voices, their tones of appeal, their hopes, their fears, their aspirations. If well done, with the love and compassion every creative parent owes to the true and legitimate heirs of their art, then – and only then – will you reach a consensus and be able to progress.

Regards,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

PS. Please do not address me as ‘Ivy’ again that is a privilege I reserve only to my close and intimate friends and you do not qualify. Unless you happen to have written an incredibly popular fantasy or science fiction book of course, in which case I will send you my contact details by return and we may be able to enter into some form of carefully modulated acquaintanceship.

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem HERE or contacting me through my Facebook presence.

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

When people ask are you a poet
I mostly say not as you know it
I rhyme to poke fun
And use verse like a gun
And if I find a belt, hit below it

© jane jago 2018

Ty’s link had reached him, dinging insistently on his screens as soon as the resupply hopper had dropped from FTL into the planetoid’s traffic stream. He got back to her right away.

What are you playing at, Grim? I already gave you a three-day extension and you take that and ask me for two more. I know you have to live up to your maverick rep, but you are not helping us to build any trust doing the lone bounty hunter thing.”

He tried to sound penitent.

“I just need two more days Ty – then I’ll be in and have something to make up for it. I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time. What is this, Grim? Seeing how far you can push me? I don’t take kindly to being pushed. You keep it up and I’ll push back. And I can push harder than you, maybe so hard you’ll find yourself off the case and back on basic duties for the next five years.”

“I’m not trying to push you,” Grim heard the slight edge of hostility in his own voice. Then he boxed it all off and swung himself into Ty’s corner for a moment – putting himself behind her eyes, feeling the intense pressure from Jecks, the weight of knowledge – greater than his own – about the possible consequences of failure in this investigation, and the frustration and concern that the man she was supposed to be working with was apparently running amok and not telling her anything even before they had hit the ground running. He took a breath to regain his own composure. Ty was not the enemy, she was his best and greatest ally. He spoke again, his tone much more conciliatory:

“I am working on something I got from a personal contact – I can’t take this down any official road, if you want it logged and signed up, it can’t happen at all. Right now, I‘m on leave and I’m my own master – trust me for two more days, please Ty, and I’ll be able to bring you something really worthwhile. Call me in now, and I can’t get that for you.”

He was guessing that part of the reason he had been chosen for this case was this very tendency of his to blaze off-trail and get things done. That and the fact he had a proven record which showed he really could bring down the big beasts of the criminal jungle when he was allowed to do so.

He could see Ty considering his appeal. She had to be a risk taker too – no one was going to assign a stolid jobsworth to this kind of investigation. But, she would also be grappling with the concern that she needed to assert her authority over him and it was very possible letting him get away with this might be one step beyond her comfort zone on that particular score. Grim hoped she’d realise he wasn’t seeing this as any kind of power struggle. He had no wish to challenge Ty’s authority – just a burning desire to get done what he needed to get done.

“At least tell me where you’re going to be for those two days,” she said, after a moment. Grim felt a tight satisfaction, knowing he had got his two days. Hopefully, that would be enough.

“A place in the middle of nowhere called Hell’s Breath,” he told her.

Mistrust and Treason is the first volume in the upcoming Fortune's Fools Iconoclast Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook and will be out in the spring.