Two Women and Some Books
Welcome Tim Walker
The Waters of Time
“I don’t get it,” Del said, making no effort to conceal his boredom. “It’s just a bath with dangling coloured tubes.” He was only two weeks into an enforced work placement.
“Modern art, mate; now pay attention to the punters, not the items,” Brian growled. The grizzled ex-cop had bellied-out with a face-saving job as security guard at a prestigious London gallery following his retirement from the Met. They drifted away from The Waters of Time.
“My gran used to have one of those old iron bath tubs,” Del commented as he scanned the steady flow of tourists and corralled school kids.
“Might be worth a few bob now,” Brian said, tapping his young colleague on the arm and pointing. A woman in a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses was looking about furtively as she reached into her bag. They closed the distance across the crowded galley floor, but not in time to prevent her spraying a political slogan across an old master in yellow paint.
“Oy! Come here!” Brian yelled, as he broke into a waddle. “Del, head her off!” he shouted, pointing to the exit.
She exploded into the modern art room, and seeing her way blocked by the young guard, lost her balance and tumbled into the iron bathtub. The two guards converged, and Del instinctively reached for his i-phone, snapping the flailing form as she battled the tubing in her struggle to escape from The Waters of Time. Brian looked over his young apprentice’s shoulder at the picture.
“Nice; but is it art?”
Tim Walker
http://timwalkerwrites.co.uk
http://facebook.com/TimWalkerWrites
Tim Walker (@timwalker1666) on Twitter
Give Tim a rousing Working Title welcome as he kindly agrees to answer our three searching questions
Question 1
Your latest series ‘A Light in the Dark Ages’ is set in the Britain of Arthurian Legend. What attracted you to the period?
The idea for the first story, Abandoned, came about during a visit to the site of what was once the Roman town of Calleva Atrebatum (Silchester) in Hampshire. The site, maintained by English Heritage, is little more than a square patch of grass surrounded by the remnants of an earth bank and stone wall. The town was mysteriously abandoned some years after the Romans departed. I came away thinking, ‘what would it have been like being here after the Roman garrison marched out?’
From this starting point I began researching and writing the first story, and then developed the idea of writing a series that links the exit of the Romans between 409-410, with the coming of King Arthur. My idea is to build a story based around the few surviving accounts of the fifth century and incorporate elements of the Arthurian legend in a manner that will make it realistic and believable. Whether I succeed will be for readers to judge!
Question 2
Which author would you say has been your greatest influence?
The short answer is NONE. I am very poorly read, at least in recent times, and most of the books that have stimulated my imagination were read when I was a teenager into my twenties. During my working adult life I lost interest in reading for pleasure, with a few exceptions, such as reading Heart of Darkness by Conrad and Blood River at the time I worked in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
I guess I like to have a reason to read a book – I’ve just returned from Edinburgh where I attended the Rebus30 Festival, and visited locations mentioned in Ian Rankin’s excellent novel Fleshmarket Close – as I was reading it. Perhaps it’s linked to my journalistic background. Having read this back, I now feel compelled to say, I do enjoy reading!
I have also made a conscious decision to not read too much in the genres I’m writing in, so that I write what I want without external influence. There is so much out there already. It was only last year that I dared to read my first Bernard Cornwell historical fiction novel – The Last Kingdom. Now that I’ve made my plans for my series, I’ve dared to start reading The Winter King and it’s driving me mad! They are both soooo good, I’m almost ready to throw in the towel on my own stumbling efforts. Another reason to not read too widely. Self-doubt often sits on this writer’s shoulder, so I try to filter out external influences wherever possible.
Question 3
What makes you laugh?
Visits to Liverpool and Jack Dee make me laugh. I hail from Liverpool and have inherited the city’s cheeky, ironic humour. Whenever I meet up with friends and family on rare visits there I seem to be laughing none stop until I leave. It’s the place and the people that crack me up (with the exception of the over-exposed John Bishop)
http://amazon.co.uk/dp/B019D64AH0
When I open my mind and look inside, the gifts left by the passing of the Arganti stare back with their dark, pupilless eyes. I watch myself being watched, as the parade of the dead I cut down in their name, as their High Priestess and Avatar, grin from ivoried skulls.
The promise of the Arganti was a grant of immortality, bestowed on those I slew. Each soul-mind human patterned into ripples of sentient fabric and fused together into a patchwork cloak of human consciousness. Thus did humanity, at last, reach the stars, not as explorers or conquerors, not even as refugees or travellers – but as regalia, bestowing status on the Arganti who wore them.
And I am the one left abandoned. The one who gave up my very essence, an outlaw in my own brain, afraid they would find me and crush out the last spark of my ‘I am’. Perhaps I should have let them. It would be better than this endless opening of my mind to find what they left within…
Mountains because they illustrate the power of natural forces. At some point in geological history, two plates of the planet’s crust pushed together with enough force to raise mountains. It’s awe-inspiring if you think about it.
Mars settlement project for several reasons. 1. I’ve always wanted to go into space, since I was a little kid. 2. There’s something mind-blowing about the idea of the sky of another planet, of seeing Earth as just another twinkling light at night. And 3. I’m terrified of the idea of drowning.
The origin of life. Sure, we think we know that life can arise from the proper conditions, but we’ve never seen it, and it’s shrouded in mystery that leaves room for a force greater than the scope of our understanding. Is the universe full of life? If so, when did the first life come to be and how? Life is a mystery that seems to be defiant in its nature, fighting a battle against entropy that it will, eventually, lose and yet not surrendering.
If you’d like to know more about Rick and his books, you can find both HERE.
The Golden Queen
True mating is for life: and beyond
The golden queen dragon stretched her talons and moved sensuously against the green scales of the male who had just pleasured her.
“In certain cultures I would eat you now,” she murmured.
He winced and blew a small gout of flame out of his left nostril. She laughed.
“Trick flaming?”
“No. A nervous tic. It’s the thought of being eaten.”
“Oh you are safe enough. It would be a waste to eat you.”
“A waste?”
“Yes. You are far too pleasurable to kill. But leave me now before I get hungry.”
The male scuttled away leaving the queen somnolent and amused.
She slept, and in her sleep she dreamed.
She was making her first mating flight and the dragon who caught her was an entity she had never encountered outside her dreams, his scales were as golden as her own and his eyes as green as the emeralds in the master dragon’s sword hilt. He was magnificent, and her soul yearned towards him. Even as they mated high in the sky, with the lack of oxygen making their eyesight grow dim, she knew this was about more than fertilising eggs, this dragon was the other side of herself but her fear was that she might never meet him in this life.
As always, she awoke with tears running down her aristocratic snout and she sniffed indelicately.
A quiet tap in the door of her chamber brought her back to herself.
“Who knocks?”
“N’a’mma and mine new friend.”
“Come in my darling,” the golden queen’s love for her only female child was evident in the cadences of her voice.
The door opened to admit the still childlike dragonet who was dragging another hatchling along in her wake.
“Mamma, this is S’a’rthyr and he is my friend.”
The queen made welcoming noises whilst studying the young male.
His scales were a peculiar yellowish colour, but this was balanced by a strong symmetrical body and iridescent green-gold wings. He looked up at her, and she was immediately pulled into the sorrowful depths of his grass green eyes. Those eyes had already seen too much of bullying and belittlement, the queen thought, and the hurt that lurked in their limpid greenness made her want to clasp him to her breast and croon a soothing song.
“See,” N’a’mma crowed. “Mamma don’t think you are wrong because your scales is yellow.”
S’a’rthyr bowed his head.
N’a’mma opened her mouth to say somewhat else, but her mother shushed her gently.
“Quietly now, you must let S’a’rthyr speak for himself.”
The young male found his voice.
“I am of the clan of Queen A’u’nti. Sent with the young males for breeding. Sent as a servant. Because of my colour. The Lady N’a’mma seeks me out, but I will understand if you deem me not suitable as a friend for a young queen.”
“Not unsuitable at all, my son. Not at all.”
She nodded to N’a’mma who raised a chubby claw.
“N’a’mma gives her oath to S’a’rthyr. Friends while there is still blood in my body.”
For a moment the youngling was too stunned to move, but he gathered himself together and placed his own taloned extremity against N’a’mma’s upraised claw.
“S’a’rthyr gives his oath to N’a’mma. Friends while there is still blood in my body.”
The queen placed her huge front paw atop both of theirs.
“Oaths witnessed.’
For a moment, the air itself seemed to be still then a single silver note chimed.
The queen smiled at the two hatchlings who stood before her.
“You need to sleep off your emotions,” she said kindly.
N’a’mma led her oathsworn friend to a sleeping platform at the back of the room and they curled around each other before dropping into a deep slumber.
Their mother watched with a single tear running down her snout. She had recognised S’a’rthyr as soon as she looked into his eyes. Her dream lover. Now sworn to her daughter. Why was life never easy?
But she straightened her spine and swiped that tear away with an impatient claw. Her dream of a true mating of mind and heart and soul wasn’t to be for her.
But for her darling N’a’mma there was hope…
© jane jago 2017
The newly elected President tried to hide the slight shiver of apprehension, waiting as the huge vault was unsealed. There was no breeze this far underground and the whir of the system that ensured pollutant filtered air was the only sound apart from the slight squeak of shoes on the flooring.
The efficient aide tried to offer a reassuring smile as the huge door swung open.
“If you would step this way, please.”
Inside the vault, the air seemed less than fresh with a slight metallic tang to it. The walls were lined with sealed storage units, each with a display, declaring the careful environmental conditions being maintained within and all silently monitored by the AI which controlled the entire facility.
In here their shoes no longer squeaked as the special tiles underfoot absorbed all the sound. But this was not their destination and the President was led through the outer vault to the entrance that it protected.
The aide nodded towards the device set on the wall beside the door.
“I’m sorry, but you will have to confirm your identity. Facial recognition agrees it’s you but the system needs iris-scan and handprint confirmation before it will unlock.”
The president felt one eye developing its usual irritating tic, unavoidable under pressure and hoped that would not affect the iris scan.
There was a slight click somewhere and the aide was smiling again.
“It seems it really is you.”
Not much of a joke but it helped ratchet the tension down a little as the final door opened and they could enter. Except they couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do this bit alone,” the aide explained. “No one else is allowed to see. I’ll just pull this sliding screen across the door you can open it again soon as you are done.”
Alone in the vault, the President walked to the plinth on which sat a box file. Even that required a thumbprint to yield its secrets. Within was a lengthy document. Page after page of detail, the war and the politics that had caused it; invasion and resistance; treason and assassination. The unvarnished reality that had shocked the world and lay behind the events millions had seen on their TV screens.
With a feeling close to awe the President turned to the final page and read the words.
Now she knew how it must end.
Now she knew what was going to happen in the last episode of ‘Game of Thrones’.
Born she was from darkness
In the bosom of the night
Daughter of indiscretion
Selene who shines so bright
Relaxes she and grows by day
Secret as a nun
And then she bellies like a sail
Giving back the sun
Born was she to wax and wane
In her appointed time
She calls the seas to rise and fall
A Circe in her prime
Born she was from that dark sky
Wherein we see her face
Silver sister, crescent moon
Epitome of grace
Born she was from darkness
Born she was to die
Consider our mortality
The crescent moon and I
© jane jago 2016
A Bite Sized Interview with LN Denison – author of dystopian novels ‘Only The Few’ and ‘Going Underground’
Spaghetti, for sure…only because I like to suck it up, like in Lady and the Tramp. It’s not so easy to do with noodles, I’ve tried. Doesn’t feel right.
In a cave? But no! The real answer would be, in a toilet, because the pages are liable to end up being used to wipe someone’s arse.
Oooh! Phallus. The reason I laugh is the fact that I think of the smallest thingy in the world when I say it.
You can find LN Denison’s Books HERE and catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.
There were two other men in the hot bath, lazily reclined and talking in low voices. They were both, Dai could not fail to notice, wearing heavy Patrician rings so even when naked they were still marked out as superior beings, paunches and all.
“It is incredible who they allow in here nowadays,” one said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Dai. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I didn’t think natives were allowed in these baths – never seen one before, anyway,” his companion agreed. “I’ll have a word with the curator, we can get it removed.”
Dai was grateful the heat had already made his skin very flushed or his reaction to their words might have been visible, as it was he decided it was not worth creating an issue that might fall back on Julia to deal with as she was the one who had signed him in as her guest. That was the only way any non-Roman would be allowed in a public premises deemed ‘sub aquila’ – where you had to walk under the eagle on the portico to get inside, and it meant she was personally responsible for his behaviour. So, instead, he curtailed his bathing and pulled himself out of the pool on the far side to from where the Romans lounged.
He had to walk past them to leave the pool room and as he did so, one made a crude gesture with one finger, his patrician’s ring glinting gold. Dai froze mid-stride and turned back, fists balling as he did so.
“At least,” he said tightly, “I have a real dick and not just a picture of one on a ring.”
The water beside him erupted and he decided not to wait whilst the two heaved themselves from the water like bull seals onto a rock.
Taken from the novella, ‘Dying to be Roman‘, set in a modern day London where the Romans never left.
