Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

“Wait here,” she instructed and turning sharply on her heel she strode off towards the ramp that led up to the stilt-village. The griblin with a fishing spear grimaced as she approached.
“Ryeshor. We no see lizard people here. Strange stories. Dry lands.” It broke off and sniffed at the air. “You not Visitor. What you do here?”
“No I’m not a Visitor,” Milla agreed. “I’m a Local like you. But I’m on a venture with two Visitors and we need to go through your village.”
The griblin looked across to Glory and Pew and sniffed again, but this time it was more sniffing to show distaste.
“The elf, griblin friend. Can come in. The ryshor, not friend. Can’t pass.”
Milla sighed.
“I know Pew hasn’t proved himself to you, but he’s a decent person. I can vouch for him if that helps. Please let us pass.” The griblin shook its head.
“Can’t. ‘Gainst the lore.”
“But we have to get through the village. Lives depend on it!”
The griblin looked almost sympathetic but still shook its head.
“Can’t. Me sorry. Can’t break lore.”
“But there must be a way.” Milla was beginning to feel as despondent as Pew looked. She reached into her back pack to see what she had that might help. “I can give you some flyberry cookies? A pot of healing salve? A vial of dog spit? A shell necklace? Two sandylion manes?” At each item she drew out and offered, the griblin looked wistfully but then shook its head. “What about all of them? And the backpack too?”
The griblin considered its face distorted into a gurn. Then it seemed to reach some decision and gave a sharp nod.
“I trade,” it said at last.
Milla felt a wash of relief and smiled.
“So if I give you my backpack and everything in it, Pew can go through the village?”
The griblin shook its head quickly.
“No. Got to obey the lore. Me trade something for backpack. Me trade information.”
Milla’s heart sank again.
“What kind of information?”
“Get you past village. Not through. Under. Exploit. Graphics glitch.”
Milla knew what a glitch was. Pew had explained it to her. He even thought she might be one as she could do things no other Local seemed to be able to do.
“Tell me.”
The griblin held out its free hand. “Backpack first.”
Milla reluctantly handed it over and watched with growing disgust as the griblin took out the vial of dog spit and swilled it down with every sign of delight.
“Tasties!” it declared, smacking its lips. “Now. Me tell you information. One day me sees two Visitors too lazy to make friends with griblins. They talk of this thing. Exploit, they call it. They go to that tree.” It pointed. “Jump into swamp. Swim under village. Me sees other Visitors try same. Wrong tree. All others try wrong tree. Not swim under village. All talk of seeking exploit tree and graphics glitch.”
The griblin gave her a quick grin.
“You friends in trouble, me thinks.”
Milla spun around and saw Pew and Glory were fighting off more firedrakes. Calling her thanks to the griblin as she ran, Milla grabbed at her pendant, just as Pew was about to lose his magical shield. One of the drakes swooped over her and she felt a sharp pain as it spat fire which caught the frills of her crest.
““By the power of My Skull!”
Milla ducked as Glory’s sword followed the drake over her head, if she hadn’t flattened her crest the dragonblade would have sliced through it.
“Seriously Glory, that quest is a fragging PITA. Can’t you delete it or something?” Pew was breathing heavily as the last of the firedrakes popped out of existence, hit by his rapid fire mini fireballs.
“I’m on the last step. You know how long the class quests are. I was trying to finish it when you guys dragged me off here, so no, I can’t delete it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Same difference.”
Milla had to wonder how these people ever managed to get along for long enough to complete a group venture. Ever Visitor she’d ever met seemed to argue with the others about something. She spoke quickly.
“I can get us to the lake without Pew having to be friends with the griblin.”
The two Visitors stopped arguing and stared at her.
“You can? But how?”
Glory looked and sounded disbelieving but Pew was smiling at her.
“You are amazing, Milla. I know I tell you that every day, but… you are.”
The elf made a harrumphing sound.
“Blech! Get a room! But first tell me how we do this?”

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 22nd Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Next morning, a fitful sun shone on at least a score of unconscious nomes. Brenda had found a pair of dolly sunglasses with which she sought to dull the pain in her head.
“What the frag?”
Granny showed her greenish dentures. “You’re hung over, you are.”
Brenda looked at her belly. “No more so’n usual.”
“Nah. It’s what the biggers call feeling ill coz of booze.”
Brenda cast an unloving gaze at the figure of Oisin as he lay on the grass with his mouth wide open.
“Why do I think we’ve not heard the last of poteen?”
Granny sniggered.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

apprecaite (verb) – to cover oneself in apricot jam and offer specialised sexual services

coruse (adjective) – having the colour and texture of rusty wire wool

misisng – (adjective) with no idea what the fuck is going on

missign (verb) – to employ the wrong rude gesture in the heat of an argument

paberbok (noun) – antipodean antelope which subsides on used pornography

rund (verb past – participle) – having no room left on one’s hard drive and thus being reduced to wax crayon on the bedroom window

snawer (noun) – one who can swear in more than one language

steampink (noun) – steampunk writings with erotic overtones 

sufficnet (noun) – fishing net big enough for a day’s catch

tefforthan (noun –  proper) – famous welsh tenor with tattoos and a big ‘personality’

ypou (noun) – virulent yellow stuff found in nappies

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

The secret of life you will find
Is simply to try to be kind
If you’ve got to be vile
Then go venting some bile
In private and no one will mind

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Χαίρετε,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author extraordinaire of the bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, lightsome spirit, and all-round good egg. I come to you today all aflutter with excitement, and with a spring in my delicate heels. Mumsie and I have come into money. Well, Mumsie has, but as she so playfully puts it: “One can’t leave the fruits of one’s fanny out of the treat, even if he is a disappointing plonker, with no charm and less humour.”

And guess what the treat is…?  We are going away on holiday to the sun. To the Greek isles in general and to Mykonos in particular. To the place of dreams, to the wine-dark sea and the retsina. Sadly this visit, which will no doubt refresh my creativity in the home of Calliope herself, is not to occur for some months yet. But even now I am feeling ever more uplifted towards my Muse.

Mumsie says she intends to spend two weeks ‘on the lash’ (whatever vulgarisms that portends) whilst I ‘sort my freaking head out’. As if my beauteous little noddle was in need of ‘sorting’. Be that as it may, one is so excited that one’s breath comes in short pants and one finds oneself almost as excited as an eight-year-old on tuck-box day…

But such delights cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the programme of authorly improvement upon which we have set our feet. En avant ο φίλος μου.

Courting Your Muse

It has been suggested to one that writer’s block is a condition that exists only in the mind of the writer. One would counter that claim with the irrefutable fact that one’s writing emanates from one’s mind. Ergo writer’s block is as real as one’s fingers or toeses. And if it is a real condition of the true literary giant, which it is, it behoves one to search for the remedy which must, as surely as the sun rises, be somewhere in the shining ionosphere

Researching the words the literary glitterati, one hears of stratagems varying from long walks in the countryside, to excessive sexual activity, to the consumption of hallucinogenic substances, to just giving up and going to bed.

In one’s own small experience of the stubbornness of the Muse of literature, one has found that capricious semi-deity can best be summoned by providing an atmosphere conducive to the comfort and delight of a creature accustomed to the finest things this world – and any other – has to offer.

Summon Calliope with soft music. With the scent of burning incense. With the delicate petals of rosebuds. With the richest of fabrics and the softest of cushions. Lay aside the vulgarity of the pad electronic in favour of the smoothest of papers, the blackest of inks and the most beautiful of fountain pens. Gaze upon only the fairest of nature’s creations. Bring yourself into that meditational state advocated by the most practiced of yogis. Do all this and you shall see the return of your faithless mistress to her perch at your shoulder. You shall once again smell the sweetness of her breath, and her inspiration shall once again enter your writing like a soft breath of breeze from the summer sea.

Above all do not despair my student. Apply yourself with humility and love and your Muse will love you once more.

Until next καλή τύχη. And ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

jenny dunn lived in a pretty smart town
with an up so market prices go down
all year round in her little room
she used her smartphone to control

Friends on facebook (both far and wide)
cared for jenny dunn not at all
they liked her posts she played their games
time now to login again

children grew up with screens a few
and down went their health as up they grew
winters stopped more summers came
then the sun dried up the rain

one day jenny dunn died I guess
hard to know as her profile’s there
busy folk living their virtual life
don’t miss the woman who was ne’er a wife

Friends on facebook (both false and fake)
reaped their harvest ate their cake
came their going and died their death
earth gone nowt left…

e.m. swift-hook

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends. 

The boys headed back to the table, where Roz and Allie leapt on them demanding information.
“Just some rude little boys who needed reminding of their manners.” John grinned at the twins. “Have you fat girls left any pudding for the workers?”
The ensuing battle gave Ben a moment to whisper in my ear.
“Uncle James?”
I had a quick think. “I think, no I’m sure, he’s Mark’s cousin on his dad’s side. But a lot older than Mark. Hence uncle. We met him at one of Debs’ big barbecue bashes. I think he lives in Spain near Mark’s dad.”
Ben’s forehead creased as he sought remembrance. “Oh yeah. I’ve got him. Truly a hard man by the looks. Jaw you could split logs with and shoulders like an ox.”
“Yes. That’s the one I’m thinking of too. I remember being told he has five large sons.
Ben nodded. “The Brown family is almost as far-reaching as a Rom clan.”
“Further, really as the Browns absorb people on merit rather than any racial malarkey.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He watched the twins assaulting John’s knees, which was about as high as they could comfortably reach, and grinned. “Do you suppose I should rescue him?”
“Possibly. Before the gruesomes hurt their fists.”
And so it was that family, friends, and the running a business that sometimes felt like spinning plates on top of poles, pushed all thought of bad guys and ill intentions to the back of my mind.
Until.
Some three weeks later.
The school holidays had kicked in and the twins were enjoying the fleshpots of Majorca in the company of their doting grandparents. Which might have given me a break if the pub wasn’t insanely busy. We were just winding down after a chaotic and frustrating lunch service, when trouble found us again. I had been pinch-hitting in the kitchen and was helping to sort out a buggers muddle in the tapas kitchen, when Stan and Ollie came to the door with their fur standing on end.
“What is it boys?”
They flattened their ears and Ollie growled deep in his chest.
“Show me.”
They turned and headed towards the back door of the pub. I was about to follow when I was stopped in my tracks by what felt like a giant hand.
“No, Joss. Not that way.” It was the voice of Esme Caunter from the other side. “Go through your home and approach the ice cream shop from the private garden. And take some large men with you.”
“Okay. I have it.”
I slipped out into the bar, where Ben and Simeon were bussing tables. I beckoned them and they came at once.
“The dogs say there’s a problem at the ice cream parlour. And Esme agrees. Says we hafta go in the back way. Sneakily.”
Ed whistled sharply and I turned to look at him. He handed over a couple of weighted baseball bats and a handful of pepper sprays. Normally I’d have been annoyed that he had such an arsenal in his possession, but I was too disturbed to do more than grab a coupe of sprays mid-stride.
“Never go into an unknown situation unarmed.” Ed said starkly.
Ben gave him the thumb and we ran round the front of the pub, slipping through the house and out into the garden. Ben and Simeon are a lot faster than me, and the dogs are faster than them, but we all stuck together, ghosting carefully round the extreme edges of the garden to where the back door of the ice cream parlour stood open.
“Right then, ‘Miss Brown’, or whatever name you’re really entitled to. You just phone your boss and tell her she has five minutes to get over here before we start hurting you.”
“I can’t call her. You have my phone.”
Came the sound of a fist hitting flesh before a second voice spoke.
“She has a point.”
I felt Simeon stiffen beside me and I laid a hand on his arm.
He and Ben leaned down so I could whisper.
“I’ll cause a diversion and you two come in and mop up.”
The nodded grimly.
I stopped creeping and wandered towards the open door. I had my hands in my apron pocket, an armed pepper spray in each hand, and murder in my heart.
“Morgan. Are you okay? You were supposed to come and collect your order of clotted cream.”
The figure in the doorway turned, and I saw it was Andrew from Brown Brothers. The fact that someone who was supposed to be guarding us was abusing Morgan made me very angry indeed. That anger stiffened my spine even further, but I smiled prettily .
“Hi Andrew. You on parlour duty?”
He showed me his teeth in a travesty of a smile.
“You could say that. I’d be more inclined to call it vermin extermination.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Guess what just walked into our trap.”
Taking two big paces towards me he put out a hand to grab. I stepped back and let him have the contents of a pepper spray full in the face. He dragged his hands over his burning eyes and I think he might have screamed had not Simeon erupted out of cover and kicked him in the solar plexus effectively rendering him helpless.
Ben and Simeon passed me at a flying gallop, and I paused only long enough to put Stan and Ollie on guard. I followed my boys inside, with Bud and Lew at my heels.
Morgan was holding her hand to an obviously bruised cheek, while Simeon and Ben each held a young tough by the throat. A third youngster was attempting to make his escape, oozing along the floor like a snake. He might even have got away had Bud not grabbed a mouthful of his gentleman parts and squeezed none too gently .
“He’s a Staffordshire Bull Terrier,” I said conversationally, “and he can bite through two-inch thick wood. If I was you I’d freeze.”
He froze.
“Who hit you, Morgan?” It was Simeon who asked.
“The one you have hold of.”
Simeon dropped his prey and punched twice, before the man had chance to do much as twitch. I hadn’t known a human fist could move that fast and to be honest it was bloody impressive. Grabbing the retching crying figure, Simeon spoke close to his ear.
“You don’t hit women, asshole. And you most certainly don’t hit my woman.”
The smile Morgan bestowed on him could’ve lit the sky, but it was me she spoke to.
“I was supposed to get you over here so they could beat you up. For making a fool of my dad, they said.”
She was obviously shaken, but doing her very best to stand tall. I went over and gave her a swift hug.
“Why are you on your own?”
“Between shifts. I let the girls go. Was just putting up the closed sign when these brave bastards rushed me.” She grabbed my hand. “There’s another one.”
I grinned into her eyes. “Yeah. We dealt with him in the way through. He’s had a face full of pepper spray, and a kick in the solar plexus. And either Stan or Ollie will bite him if he so much as twitches.”
Her expression lightened. “Deep joy. Now, if someone will get my phone out of the pocket of the one laying on the floor pissing himself I’ll call Dad.”
I looked at the prone figure. “Phone. But slowly you wouldn’t want the dogs to get the wrong idea would you?”
After which it was all pretty anticlimactic. Mark sent some men with a van to collect what he called the trash, and I gave Morgan the afternoon off to go and see her mum. Unsurprisingly, Simeon took the time off too. To drive her home and, no doubt, stop for a cuddle on the way.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Then the airship angled down and stopped abruptly. It had moored at a platform identical to the one where they had boarded. Back on solid ground again, even if it was only as solid as a path in the middle of a swamp could be, Milla breathed a sigh of relief. The other two were still going at it as they went down the steps from the platform behind her.
“…but the armour and defence rating won’t stack so you’re better off taking something to boost your dodge.”
“My agility bonus has maxed out my dodge to the hard cap. And you’re missing the benefit of having the extra HP.”
Milla cleared her throat loudly. “Fascinating as I’m sure all that is, where do we go now?”
Pew looked at her and then looked around as if unsure where they were.
“If we’re heading to Lustrous Lake we have to go through the griblin village,” Glory said, pointing to where the ramp up to the stilt-settlement was guarded by a skinny looking creature with a purple and green skin, clad only in a loincloth and holding what looked like a barbed fishing spear. “The lake’s just on the other side – on the edge of the swamp.”
But Milla was looking at Pew who had a stricken expression. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”
“I’m KOS to the griblins,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Oh fracking frag!” Glory looked appalled “You’re not serious?”
“What does that mean?” Milla asked, feeling lost as she often was around Visitors.
“It means your boyfriend can’t go through the village without every fragging griblin attacking him on sight. But what I don’t get is how come you’ve not got the faction? Every toon on the server has griblin faction by your level.”
“I forgot I’d never done it on this toon. It was last expansion and I only started my ryeshor this expac.” He sounded so miserable that Milla wanted to hug him, but she felt a bit shy doing so in front of the sarcastic Glory.
“Then maybe we can sort that?” she suggested.
The other two looked at her as if she had turned into a swamp slug.
“Seriously?” Glory shook her head and laughed. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to grind up griblin faction? The devs put it in as a time sink for those who’d done everything else in game to fill in before the new expac came out. It takes days just to be allowed into the village and even then you can’t pass through without maxing faction and that’s another week of grind.”
Milla picked out the essential idea that Pew was not going to be able to walk through the village and wrinkled her snout in thought.
“So then let’s go around the village.” She gestured to the swamp.
“No!” The answer came in chorus.
“We can’t do that,” Pew explained. “There are wandering contested raid boss mobs in this part of the swamp and the whole place is set up so you can’t help but run into them. We’d never make it through.” His crest had deflated completely and he looked defeated. “I can’t even use an invis pot. The griblin guards’ll see through it.”
Milla stiffened her shoulders and heaved a sigh.
Visitors!
Which gave her an idea. The one advantage she had here was that she wasn’t one.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 21st Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Brenda turned her back on the nakedly capering Oisin and waded through the nomes who were fighting over the hooch. She slapped a few and grabbed the bottle.
“It don’t say Po-Cheen anywhere.”
“It wouldn’t.” That was Grandmother. “That’n is shop bought. Poteen is home made.”
“Home made booze. Why have I never heard of it before?”
Granny indicated what was rapidly becoming a war with one rather grubby thumb, and Brenda nodded.
“Anyway, stop hugging that there bottle and pass it this way.”
Brenda took a pull and her eyes watered. She coughed and passed the bottle across.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

admaant (adjective) – specifically of politicians – sticking to the party line no matter how immoral, or illogical

buttre (noun) – sheep with large horns

degssting (adjective) – looking as if one has eaten a bee

eggsistentialism (noun) – the belief that we are all lizards and hatched in  secret laboratory

gerryatrick (adjective) – having the appearance of being cocky and unreliable

littke (adjective) – fecking useless at typing

looing (verb) – waiting in line for the ladies’ toilet

migth (noun) – small biting insect found in gyms

nuon (adjective) – naked and very pink

relaly (noun) – pink ice lolly shaped like a penis

octover (noun) – the eighth set of balls in a village cricket match

sexcription (noun) – the writing of financially successful erotica

tusinghem (descriptive noun) – of playing a musical instrument, having more enthusiasm than skill

wueer (noun) – waterfall with very little water coming over it

zume (noun) – online conference where nobody can hear anybody else and at leat three separate toddlers are tantrum-ing in the background 

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.