Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say and the rest of the journey to Glasgow was accomplished quietly. Their first drop off was the boomer boys, and Sam went into a featureless building to supervise the plastering of one mangled arm. He came out laughing.

“They had their own doctor waiting. He was a bit pissed because I had set the arm in the field. Then he looked at the job I made, and had to get off his high horse.”

Bill was fully awake by now and regarding the world with round, curious eyes.

“What’s a high horse?” he asked.

“It’s a saying,” Sam explained, “it means somebody is cross and acting like they are better than you.”

“Like they are high on a horse?”

“You got it, mate. How about a high five?”

Bill chortled delightedly and high fived Sam.

“Can I ask you a thing, Doctor Sam?”

“Course you can?”

“Why is your face so nice and brown? It aminds me of Grandpa Cracksman, but you aren’t a pikey like us, are you?”

Sam laughed.

“No. And yes. My face is brown because my granddad came from Jamaica, and his face was black. He married a lady from China, whose face was sort of creamy, and they had my mum. Her face was a bit browner than mine. She married a doctor from Basingstoke, whose face was pink, and they had me.”

Bill patted his arm.

“Oh. I see. Thank you for explaining.”

He studied Sam thoughtfully, for a minute.

“Were people horrible to you when you were  little boy?”

“Oh yes. Indeed they were. They horrible to you?’

“Mostly not. Coz the twins beat people up if they are.”

“Well good on them,” Sam laughed. “Though kind of overkill. Unless people are physically unpleasant, I’ve always found it best to just ignore them…”

“That’s what Jamie says, but the twins think it’s more fun to hit people.”

Rod laughed.

“The twins would think that. They have a bucketful of Cracksman pig-headedness. The other boys are brighter and more fastidious. I love them all, but I think I understand the twins best. Anyway, we’ll be landing soon. Are you ready for the circus?”

Sam grinned.

“I reckon. Bill?”

“Yes. I want to see Anna and Bonnie.”

“Who is Bonnie?”

“Anna’s dog. She is a Belgian Shepherd and she is awesome. Do you have a dog?”

“No, because I work too much, and a dog would be at home alone. It’s a shame, because I always wanted a dog. Maybe one day.”

William patted him again.

“Don’t be sad Doctor Sam, you’ll get a dog one day. And it will be a special dog because you had to wait for it.”

Sam gave him a big hug.

“Thanks, buddy.”

At that point, the chopper touched down, and Will jumpsuit opened the door. Sam got up and collected the bags, while Rod stood up with Bill in his arms.

“Thanks Mister Will,” Bill said.

The man patted him kindly.

“You take care, now, and I won’t forget the jumpsuit.”

Then there was a bit of back slapping and hand shaking before the three of them stepped out to where a big black car awaited them. The rear door of the car burst open and a tall, slim woman burst out, accompanied by a black dog.

Rod grinned and put Bill down on the ground. The boy opened his arms and hugged the big black dog, who licked his face and wagged her tail happily. The woman smiled down at them before turning to the two men.

“Hello Rod. You must be Sam.”

She held out a hand and they shook solemnly before she smiled at him.

“Pleased to meet you. Even if I am a bit overwhelmed by the circumstances.”

Sam smiled at her.

“Likewise.”

She bent down and patted both boy and dog.

“Come on you two, get in the car.”

Child and dog obeyed and the adults piled in behind them. Bill scrambled into Anna’s lap.

“Do you like my jumper? It belongs to Doctor Sam. He put it on me because I was very cold. Isn’t it nice and soft. I don’t think I ever felt anything softer. And it smells like Daddy.”

Anna hugged him and smoothed the jumper.

“Yes it is soft. It was very kind of Doctor Sam to lend it to you.”

“It’s not a loaner,” Sam laughed. “It’s Bill’s now. He gets to keep it till he grows into it.”

Anna opened her mouth, then she must have seen something in Sam’s face, because she ruffled Bill’s hair. “You’re a lucky boy then. I wish I could find somebody to give me a nice soft jumper. I’ve got your favourite boeuf bourguignon for supper. But you need a shower first. You might pong a bit under your nice jumper.”

“I spect I do. And Rod and Sam say they need a shower too. We’re going to shower together like a rugby team. It’ll be fun.” Then he screwed up his face. “I got no clean clothes…”

“You do. I got you some.”

He relaxed against her.

“You are a very kind Anna. Thank you.”

She looked at Rod over his head, and winked away a tear.

The car pulled into the grounds of what was obviously a rather expensive country house hotel. Anna grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

“The camper looks a bit out of place, even round the back. However, Geordie dictated that we were welcome. So we are. We have the use of a self catering cottage for as long as we want, so there’s a nice warm bathroom, and I’ve been able to use the kitchen to cook supper.”

Rod laughed out loud, then sobered.

“Good. Shower. Supper. Then we’ll get on the road. If we’re agreed?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam agreed. “Only one amendment. A soak in a bath would be very good if there is…”

Anna chortled.

“Oh yeah. There is. Big enough for the three of you.”

“Excellent…”

At that moment the car stopped outside a low stone-built cottage. They all piled out and Anna unlocked the door. Sam picked Bill up and walked inside.

“Bath Bill?”

“Nice and warm. With bubbles?”

“Why not. If you will share with me and Rod.”

“Can we?”

Anna caught on fast, and led the way to the bathroom, where she turned on the taps to fill a huge sunken bath. She  poured some scented gloop from a bottle and bubbles began to form in the tub.

“Right. I’ll leave you boys to bathe. When you are ready come to the kitchen for supper.”

She left the room, and went to wait in the kitchen. When her phone rang she answered absent-mindedly, then sat up and took notice.

Jane Jago

You are old, and that prompts me to ask

How certain events came to pass

How you got a gold fang

And a piercing that hangs

And a dragon tattooed on your ass

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour my little love muffins,

It is one, the beloved and multi-talented Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient teacher who, via the medium of this ‘Thinking Quill’ seeks to inform, educate and excite – via the vulgar coils of the Interwebs  – the hearts and minds of a growing band of Readers Who Write.

Today, my Muse and I feel sportive and light and do gambol about in the water meadows of imagination in a harmony so perfect that to speak it is to mar its unsullied beauty.

Therefore, mes estudas, follow us quietly making your footsteps as gentle as the bleating lamb and as soft as the breast of the turtledove lest you dishonour the music of my life with your vulgarly large boots….  Ah yes, my children, follow in silence and  listen with care, for today we discuss the pinpoint of blue-hot flame that is literary erotica in all its fine forms.

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 9. The Write Sex

It must be understood that the act of fornication, in its multiplicity of guises, is the engine that drives humanity to live out its mundane day-to-day existence in the hope that a glimpse, a scent, a touch, or a taste will donate to any given moment that sexual ecstasy for which it strives. Equally we must always take into account the sensibilities of our gentle readership and the rules that govern what may be said and what should only ever be hinted at.

We are, mes estudas, above the simply biological. We may not discuss the precise size and thickness of the male appendage, any more than we should even hint at the width/narrowness, hair/baldness of the female docking station. No. You may leave it to your reader to understand that tab A is most usually inserted into slot B (with occasional excursions into orifices C and D).

Your task as a purveyor of fantasy is to bring a flush to the cheek and a heaviness to the stomach of literature in such a way that the reader experiences those selfsame heats and twinges. A properly written scene of sexual tension should leave its reader panting lightly and susceptible to the merest breeze of sensuality.

Do not grasp your unfortunate victim by the genitalia and wrestle him to the ground with the sledgehammer blows of sexually obvious language. No. And again no. Rather scent the air with tender sensuality and slowly bring your reader to a climax only by the tenderest touches of the fingertips of perfect prose.

Build your scenes of human love with care, lest they tumble around your ears leaving you like a pubescent boy with damp pyjamas.

Oh yes, my students, who hang on my every word with the sort of open-mouthed excitement more usually generated by a pole dancer at an adolescent birthday party, lead your readership along the paths of sensual gratification by all means. But do so with the siren song of your creative juices, not by lassoing them with a string constructed of pubic hair and bodily secretions.

To finish this lesson. I offer a small extract from my own greatest work wherein our hero first feels the gentle tug of his feminine companion’s sensuality.

They came out of the desert into the fertile valley of the big river, just as the sun was dropping. Buchtooth kicked her camel until it knelt and leapt off the saddle throwing her clothing off as she ran towards the water.

“Come on Fatswhistle you ugly bastard, get off your frigging camel and get into this water. You smell worse than him.”

Fatswhistle followed his companion in a much more leisurely fashion. He was just removing his cracked leather boots when she threw herself into the water. Her back was broad and freckled and as she dived, the white globes of her arse were displayed to Fatswhistle’s suddenly interested gaze. He removed his clothing at a rather accelerated pace and hurried after her into the brown water.

She was singing tunelessly and washing her long carrot-orange curls when he waded over to her and sat down. The river mud felt like silk under his buttocks and he picked up one of his own feet and looked between his toes. He watched his companion from under his eyelids finding her heavy breasts surprisingly exciting as they dipped in and out of the water. He scooted closer and put out a tentative hand. She snorted and wrung the water out of her hair. Emboldened, he touched the freckled skin on her shoulder. She jumped and swore, dunking him under the water until he saw stars..

“Gerrof.”

Farewell for now dear students!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

An extract from The Brittle Riders: Book III by Bill McCormick.

Worlds can change on the tiniest thing. History, written by the winners, tends to edit out
the minutiae and record the broader stories. One item that historians would edit out happened now. Which is a shame, because without this event the rest would never have happened.
Nature called and it was Sland’s turn to answer. It was almost even-fall and they could
hear the survivors setting up camp on the shore. They’d decided to wait until breaklight to see who was alive and in charge and then figure out their next move.
Sland cared about none of this, although he was aware of it all. He just wanted to find a
quiet tree and loose his bowels. He walked a considerable distance from their camp, found a suitable tree and was just finishing with the last wiping leaf when he heard a harrumphing sound behind him. He slowly rose while pulling his pants up and turned. He was faced with a nice array of weapons, any one of which could kill him instantly. He finished buttoning up and realized that this might be his last moment on Arreti. If so he wanted to go out with a laugh. He stood as tall as he could, expanded his chest and bellowed.
“I am Sland, prince of the Temple of Azarep, blooded warrior of the Brittle Riders. I have
come to Kalindor to meet Quelnerom in ritual battle for the throne.”
Yep, that should be good for a laugh. He smiled as he gently stepped away from the
steaming pile and waited to be executed. Instead some of the weapons waggled for him to move forward and others waggled for him to put his hands above his head. He complied with both wagglings.
They did not remove his weapons. His gun was still holstered on his thigh and his sword
was still sheathed on his back. His many knives were still hidden all over his body. Not that he saw any way of using them without being killed instantly but he noted it since it was odd that he still had them.

They led him to the shore and into the middle of their makeshift camp. He could see they
were all wet and tired. They didn’t look good at all. Of course, being blown out of a perfectly good ship and then swimming a kay or so to shore will do that to a brand.
He assumed the reptiloid wearing more feathers and glitter than the rest was Quelnerom.
He was dry and reasonably unruffled so Sland figured he must have ridden in one of the boats he saw dragged up on shore. He’d only heard him described but this brand seemed to fit the description. One of his captors reeled off his bona fides as he’d given them and then they all stepped back a respectful distance.
Sland chuckled to himself. He sincerely doubted that Quelnerom would follow through
with anything other than having him killed where he stood. Well, it was fun while it lasted.
Quelnerom stood and stared at him.
“You carry a sword. Is it for decoration or can you use it?”
Sland was astounded. Geldish was going to kill him if he survived this.
“The sword has been blooded.”
Quelnerom nodded appreciatively. “Remove all your other weapons.”
Sland did as he was told and that took a bit. When he was done his gun, holster, and eight knives lay in a neat array to the side. The reptiloids looked as though it were a small’s illusion show as each knife appeared from a different place. He stepped back to the center of the group and looked at Quelnerom.
Quelnerom was handed a sword and he aimed it forward in the ritual salute. Sland, seeing no option, unsheathed his sword and crossed his with Quelnerom’s.
Quelnerom nodded and lunged.

Begin the story of The Brittle Riders with Book I here.

 

Q1: Would you prefer to be an alien living on earth or an earthling living on an alien world ?

Well, since I, pretty much, know how to be an earthling I’d prefer to stay as such and live
on an alien world. This is especially true as I have travelled extensively and find that alien environments are comfortable to me. I can learn new customs, meet new beings, maybe try their spicy foods. I love spicy foods. Plus, years of hard living have taught me that what happens on Zebulon Beta Prime stays on Zebulon Beta Prime.

Q2: What’s the most useless talent you have?

I know how to skin a squirrel. Not very useful on the south side of a major city.

Q3: Which of your own characters would you least like to be stuck in an elevator with?

The Exalted Quelnerom. He’s a noxious, pompous, self-absorbed, douchebag who thinks
he’s the smartest creature on the planet. If he didn’t command one of the largest armies known I’d punch his lights out. He’s made even more annoying by the fact he’s successfully procreated and wields that minor achievement like a cudgel in all conversations.

Bill McCormick began writing professionally in 1986 when he worked for Chicago Rocker
Magazine in conjunction with his radio show on Z-95 (ABC-FM). He went on to write for
several other magazines and later transitioned to blogs. He currently writes a sports blog at Jay The Joke, as well as a twisted news blog at World News Center. The latter provides source material for his weekly radio show on WBIG 1280 AM, FOX! Sports. Yes, you read that correctly, he does a show about anything other than sports on a sports radio station.
In 2011, Bill started submitting some fictional short stories to various publishers. Much to his surprise, and the consternation of linguists everywhere, they began publishing his efforts. Bill has expanded his repertoire to include comic books, graphic novels, and full length novels. He has currently penned everything from dystopian nightmares to cuddly children's stories.
Bill is a big fan of nicotine, vodka, music, and this rambunctious redhead (formerly a bottle blonde) who keeps waking up in his bed.
You can slog through his scribblings on his website.

 

Hanna stood barefoot in the centre of the ring, her hands hung empty at her sides and she looked at nobody. ‘Breathe’ she reminded herself ‘breathe and focus.’ She held herself quietly quiescent, wondering who or what they would send against her this time. Being the champion held its own dangers and she knew the crowd was currently inimical. She was lean and scarred, and carefully emotionless. She had no glamour, and she didn’t know how to get the people on her side. All she knew how to do was survive. This was her seventh bout, and if she didn’t get killed this time they more or less had to let her go.

But that was for the future, for now she couldn’t afford even that glimmer of hope; she had to focus on the job at hand.

There came the sound of a brassy horn, and she heard the chain rattle of a lowering cage. She turned to see what she had to kill. It was no surprise to see a mythical beast, as a human fighter might be affected by her reputation. It was a Minotaur, and he shook the bars of his cage while roaring wordless threats at the small human female in the arena. He stood about eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and shortish bandy legs. His horns were tipped with cruel brazen spikes and he carried a Morningstar and a length of chain. She turned her back on him and looked to the Master of Ceremonies.
‘Choose your weapons.’
‘I choose a short sword and a net.’

A soldier trotted out of the tunnel carrying a short sword with a thick crosspiece and a very sharp blade. He also brought her a rope net about two metres square. Standing in front of her he passed her the net. Hanna was surprised to feel something hard in it, but she’d take any advantage, and with the bewildering speed of hand that was part of her armoury, she secreted a tiny knife in the thick braid of hair that ran down her back. As the soldier handed her the heavy sword he spoke. His lips didn’t move, but his message was clear. ‘Left handed. Watch the chain.’ Then he bowed formally and withdrew.

The Master of Ceremonies raised his voice and silence fell around the arena.
‘The Champion Hanna fights for her life. This is her seventh bout. The fight with which she seeks to buy her freedom.’
The crowd roared its approval, inexplicably warming to the tiny figure in the centre of the arena as the disparity between her and the gigantic Minotaur dawned on them.
‘Han-na, Han-na, Han-na’ the guttural chant filled the air.

Hanna switched off everything except for the necessity to listen for the unlocking of the Minotaur’s cage. Ah. There was the quiet snick of the meticulously oiled lock. She ran as swiftly as her legs would carry her, so that she was just to the right of the doorway as the portcullis lifted. The beast wasn’t fast enough to avoid a debilitating cut to his left arm, he snarled and tried to toss the Morningstar into his right hand. But he missed the catch, and Hanna danced in for another slash of her sword, this time cutting the right bicep. With his arms weakened, Hanna had to bet that her adversary would try to bring his razor-sharp horns into play. She danced back, careful not to trip over the fallen spiked mace and the Minotaur howled his defiance before dropping his head for the charge. Hanna knew she she dare not let him get close enough to gore her with the poison-coated tips of his horns so she moved with speed and caution until she could approach the beast from his left hand side. He turned to meet her, shaking his great horned head in bewilderment, and she knew a moment of pity for the half beast. She hardened her heart, knowing that the creature was incapable of feeling pity for her, and in full awareness that he would kill her without blinking one muddy brown eye.

The Minotaur dropped his head even further for a second charge and Hanna stood her ground for a second, before dodging to one side and making a leap onto the creature’s shoulders. Being behind the horns gave her the only chance she was likely to get and she reached around his brawny neck to slash the throat with her sword. She dropped to the ground with her chest heaving, warily keeping her distance as the blood poured from her opponent’s throat. He didn’t die quickly, but he was too strong for her to chance getting close enough for the coup de grace. As he finally dropped to his knees she looked into his lightless eyes before saluting him with her sword in the manner of warriors the world over. He raised his own fist to his forehead before falling on one side and breathing his last.

Hanna waited as the crowd chanted her name. For the first time since she was taken captive as a teenager she had hope. She lifted her head and met the eye of the Master of Ceremonies. He saluted her with his fist to his forehead and she allowed herself to smile.

She held her head high as she walked slowly through the Victors’ Gate. As soon as the gate closed behind her, a rain of crossbow bolts took her, flinging her around the empty corridor as if she was no more than a rag doll.

The Master of Ceremonies turned to look down at her broken body. He shrugged: the life of a slave meant less than his loss of face if he freed her.
‘Call my bluff, fighter’ he said softly ‘call my bluff’.

© Jane Jago 2016

Tales From Alternate Earths: Eight broadcasts from parallel dimensions from Inklings Press, reviewed by E.M. Swift-Hook. Since this was written Daniel Benson has won the Best Short-Form Alternate History Sideways Award for his contribution to this anthology 'Treasure Fleet'. Brent A Harris & Ricardo Victoria were also finalists for their 'Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon'.

There is surely no other step-child in the weird and wacky family that makes up the genre known as ‘Speculative Fiction’, which is better suited to the short story format than alternative history. It allows an author to hone in on a point, even a single moment, in history and ask ‘what if something different happened?’ The answer is often not one that needs volumes to explore, but is better left to clever tending by an expert of bonsai literary expression. This anthology is a veritable greenhouse of such well-shaped bonsai.

Nuclear war actually having happened is the theme taken up by two of the authors, but with very different time points: ‘September 26th, 1983’ by Jessica Holmes and 1962 for ‘One World’ by Cathbad Maponus. One explores how Britain might be today if a Russian officer had not used cool headed common-sense back in the Eighties and the other is set in an America where the Cuban Missile crisis reached another possible conclusion.

“So, you said Oxford Street. This is Oxford Street. Anything special you want to see?”

Meteor strikes impacted enough to inspire the work of three of the authors in the anthology. ‘Stargazing on Oxford Street’ by Rob Edwards, has a view of how London could be which is very different to the one we have today. ‘Tunguska, 1987’ by Maria Haskins provides a totally original take on the cataclysmic event that flattened miles of forest in an isolated corner of the vast Siberian hinterland. ‘Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon’ by Brent A Harris & Ricardo Victoria is set in an almost unrecognisable alternative present day earth, but then the timeline as it is pictured here diverged in geological not historical time.

Away from the terrors of technology or the impact of astronomical objects, ‘Treasure Fleet’ by Daniel Bensen and ‘One More Dawn’ by Terri Pray both pose interesting and very human ‘what-ifs?’. ‘Treasure Fleet’ considers the idea of a medieval China converted to Islam and ‘One More Dawn’ is set in Ancient Egypt as a dying Pharaoh is tended by his loving wife.

“Um,” said Ogilvy, “I would say the chances are around a millio…”

Having a favourite in such a strongly written anthology as this is almost as impossible as having a favourite child – and may even be just as unethical, I am not sure. But I have to admit that I do have one: ‘The Secret War’ by Leo McBride. It is the one story that does the utterly unexpected and turns the idea of alternative history as approached by all the other stories in this collection completely on its head: what if a famous fictional story was really true? And then, when we have been brought to realise the impact of that, the author cleverly – and seamlessly – ties it into an equally famous real world event.

This collection of historical ‘what ifs?’ are each a near-perfect miniature cameo and a genuine delight. I can highly recommend it to all connoisseurs of speculative fiction, no matter which branch or sub-branch of the genre is their preferred regular perch. I think the only negative criticism I could offer is that the anthology includes more than one story drawing on the same actual event or very similar scenario. I think I might have possibly enjoyed the book just that little bit more if each story was tackling something unique from all the others – and the stories I appreciated the most were those that moved away from the more explored post-apocalyptic tropes and offered unexpected, unusual ‘what-ifs?’.

I really enjoyed how many of the authors pulled in a second – and sometimes even a third – historical variable, to help expand and explain the events of their stories. All the contributions are well written and polished, all impacting in their own unique ways, offering thought-provoking glimpses of how things could have been – IF….

5 Stars out of 5

This was written when the thought of actually being in an Inklings Press anthology was less than a twinkle in my eye!  Now the exciting news is that the next Inklings alt. hist. anthology will feature a Dai and Julia Mystery written especially and exclusively for it. So watch this space!

As a (more or less) retired whore with an address book full of the names (carefully coded) and preferences of powerful men from all across the globe, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was offered money – a truly obscene amount of money – to write my memoirs.

Being a sensible sort, with her declining years to provide, for I accepted the advance and started writing. But, you know what, I may be an exceptional shag, but as a writer I suck.
*giggles rudely*
No matter how hard I tried, my sordidly erotic life just sounded like a fucking shopping list. I offered the men in suits their money back. But they refused.
“That’s okay,” they said, “we’ll get you a ghost writer”.

And that was another joke. The first one they sent me looked about eighteen and wore a fluffy angora jumper. Having established that she had never even heard of most of the things I did on a regular basis, I sent her away with a few quid for her trouble. The second try was even worse, some sleazy slag who writes porno for a living and who was getting her rocks off just looking at me. I didn’t even let that one in the door.

There was silence for a couple weeks, then I was asked if I minded working with a guy. Which made me laugh. For a moment the suit making the proposition looked at me like I was stupid or something. Then he got the joke. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to do himself a mischief. When he had calmed down he kissed my hand and left, promising to send ‘George’ the very next morning.

Promptly at eight-thirty, before I had even had coffee, the door buzzed. A tall, dark guy with a briefcase and horn-rimmed spectacles stood on the step.
“George?” I hazarded a guess.
He nodded and I buzzed him in.
“Breakfast?” I offered waving a hand at the bacon and things.
“No thanks.” His voice was deep and melodious.

He sat at the table and watched my culinary muddle for about three minutes before removing the frying pan from my grasp and motioning me to be seated. He put a mug of perfectly made coffee in front of me, followed in short order by a full English breakfast.
“You,” he said, “need a housekeeper.”
“If I ever get this effing book finished, I might even be able to afford one.”
He showed me a lot of very white, very even teeth.
“You American?” I asked.
“I am, but how did you know? I don’t think I have an accent.”
“You don’t, it’s the dentistry. In my business you tend to look at teeth carefully.”
It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, but when they did I was rewarded with his pleasingly masculine laughter. “And that”, he remarked with a broad grin, “is the first line of your book…”

We soon settled into a rhythm. George arrived promptly at eight-thirty every morning. He cooked my breakfast and we worked until three when he bowed his head, clicked his heels and left.

Inside a month, we had volume one of my memoirs nailed. It was racy, funny, human, and silly, and not a bit how anybody envisaged a whore’s memoirs. It was also an instant bestseller.

I tried to thank George, but he waved away my words.
“Just doing my job.”
We got stuck into volume two.

By the time we were halfway through writing volume three, I was twenty years old in my memoirs, and forty-seven and wealthy in real life.

Somehow, I never got around to employing a housekeeper, and George still cooked my breakfast and tidied the kitchen before we started work.

I did, however, have a cleaner and it became apparent that I also needed a secretary. My publisher found me Miss Jackson, who was newly retired, and bored and willing to work three afternoons a week. She looked like the worst sort of dried-up spinster, and I was perfectly prepared to hate her. Only appearances can be deceptive. She had about the filthiest sense of humour I have ever encountered and we got along fine.

She and George, on the other hand, eyed each other like tomcats on the back fence. I said little to either, merely determining to keep them apart. As Miss Jackson started her day as George finished his, they really only met on the doorstep. Even so, they managed to build up a head of real dislike, although neither ever said a word to me. I broached the subject with a George once, but he snapped his teeth together hard and I desisted.

I think the situation may have gone on indefinitely had I not discovered the date of Miss Jackson’s birthday and decided to take the old girl out for a treat. When we finished our work that evening I presented her with a birthday card, and a Waterstones voucher, and I suggested pie and mash at my local. We had a blast, and she obviously drunk a deal more than she was used to. As I poured her into a taxi she put a hand on my arm.
“That George,” she said more than a little indistinctly. “You need to find out just what he is. If he’s human I will…” Then she shut her mouth firmly.
I paid the cabby and walked home. Deep in thought.

I was just at the door when I felt cool breath on my neck. I turned, but there was nobody to be seen. I guess I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, even before I caught the faintest whiff of mouthwash and aftershave.
“George. Stop pissing about.”
Then he was in front of me. Looking sheepish.
“You had better come in.”
He followed me in silence, and I was of no mind to say anything quite yet.

Inside the apartment I was in no mood to let him off the hook so I pointed to a chair.
“Sit.”
He was the picture of misery as he folded his long frame into an upright chair.
“Okay buster,” I said severely, “you don’t eat, you don’t drink, you never have a day off sick, and you frighten Miss J shitless. Just what are you?”
He stared at me. “If you noticed all of that why have you never said anything before?”
I crossed my arms in front of my impressive breasts.
“I asked first.”
He looked into my eyes for a moment then squared his shoulders.
“I’m a ghost…” his voice was barely more than a whisper.
That was too much for me and I felt the giggles starting deep in my belly.

Only I could have wound up with a ghost writer who really was a fucking ghost.

When I got myself together, George was looking at me as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
“I take it that means you are not about to run screaming from the room.”
“It does, mate. I’m only worried that you will disappear now I know.”
He thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “I don’t have to, not if you still want me. I could even move in…”
“Okay. But no sneaking up on Miss J. I don’t want the poor old biddy having a conniption fit in my gaff.”
He grinned, a bit nastily, but hastened to give me his promise.

That being a Friday. I didn’t see hide nor hair of my secretary until Monday. She crept in looking more than a bit sheepish and I couldn’t help laughing at the mortified expression on her face.
“Sit down you silly old bat,” I said affectionately. “Sit down and tell me why you don’t trust George.”
She sat, picking at the sleeve of her muddy brown cardigan with nervous fingers. I watched her for a moment then felt so sorry for her manifest discomfort that I caved in.
“Okay. Never mind. Let’s just get to work. I don’t need to know.”
Her eyes raised to meet mine and she actually chuckled.
“You are right, you don’t need to know. But as you have shown me all the kindness I have ever known in nearly seventy human years I do need to tell you. I knew it wasn’t a human man in the same way it should have known I’m not a human woman, but it was too busy watching you to pay any heed to me.”
She sat back in her chair, obviously awaiting some sort of reaction. I wasn’t about to give anybody that much satisfaction, so I kept my voice level and cool.
“Does being whatever you are preclude you functioning as my secretary?”
She shook her head, with its neat grey bun.
“And are you any danger to me?”
“Oh no. I might have been, once, but you befriended me.”
“Shall we get on with our work then?”
Her smile was broad and admiring, and I caught sight of the gnarled old tree spirit that inhabited her wrinkled skin before she whipped out her laptop and began summarising the weekend’s emails.

I curled my feet up under me on the settee and allowed myself an inward smirk. Just as long as George and Mrs Jackson were occupied staring each other out neither one of them was going to spend any time wondering about me. I let my fangs drop for a moment and caressed their razor sharp edges with my tongue, before recalling myself to a sense of duty and listening to the outpourings of human love and lust that my secretary was recounting in a drily amused voice.

© jane jago 2017

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!
Tormented, scraped and cut,
Your entrails ripped out from within,
To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!
Thy glorious grinning face,
Carved from the orange of your skull,
Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!
Upon the doorstep set
Your eldritch light and feral look
Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!
When brightly lit your grin
Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts
And keep us safe within.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Arena do Battaglia just before dawn on the longest day of the year. The place is heaving, every seat and every standing space is taken. People are chanting, and screaming, and eating chilli dogs and churros.

The marching band sweats under the arc lights as it plays songs of the revolution and marches in perfect time. Troupes of mostly naked gymnasts prowl and leap and perform feats of near-impossible balance. There are fire eaters, lion tamers, maestre with their estudas strung behind them collared like dogs, and cages containing every form of maimed and malformed human life are being paraded for the delectation of the baying mob.

Oh yes, all of the starry universe is here, but the multi-tentacled monster that fills the seats from stadium floor to the heights from which the arena seems peopled by ants is barely aware of any of it. It is the main event the crowd wants, and, although it waits good-naturedly now, let the battle commence just one second late and the riot will be unstoppable.

Under the banked seating, the elite competitors wait, oiled, half-naked, and sweating in the sultry air. Every province has sent its best: the golden-haired, golden skinned inhabitants of el norte towering over the swarthy smiling southrons with their gold teeth and elaborately braided hair. Where they have a sisterhood, though is in the breadth of shoulder and massive upper body development. That and the multiplicity of scars on their arms, shoulders and ribcages. The softness of their clean carefully manicured hands, then, is all the more surprising.

The light in the tunnel is reddish and dim and the competitors eye each other unsmilingly. They wait in silence.

As the clocks crawl towards sunrise, the tension in the tunnel becomes so magnified that there is a tang of iron in the air that almost smells like blood. Even the hulking guardsmen with their nerve whips seem uneasy, and watch their charges with care.

A deep-toned bong tolls once, and it is as if the crowd in the stadium is turned to stone. The arena floor empties and there is silence. Then the gong tolls twice.

Two massively muscular guardsmen carry a strange contrivance into the mathematical centre of the arena. It is a tall thin column topped with what looks like a ball of gold. As soon as the men have positioned the column the lights in the stadium go out, save only for one spotlight trained precisely on the ball of gold which now looks as if it is suspended in mid air by magic.

The gong tolls thrice and the entire mob holds its breath, watching the golden ball as a snake watches a hummingbird.

Then a great voice filled the air.
“Cinco”
“Cuatro”
“Tres”
“Dos”
“Uno”

The ball falls with an ear-splitting crash and the doors to the athletes’ tunnel crash back. As the lights in the arena come back on so brightly they all but blind, a hundred battle-scarred women jog out onto the sandy floor.

The crowd bays its appreciation as the women take out their pointed steely weapons.

La batalla de los tejedores* begins…

*The battle of the knitters

© jane jago 2017