Two Women and Some Books
Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!
The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…
We all know the feeling of change
When things in our head turn out strange
It’s the imagination
That leads to creation
Not a muse, on a horse, on the range
The most photographed woman of her generation looked at him politely, and offered a practised smile. It was frustrating, but he chose not to show that, instead he searched for another way to to shake her out of her self-possession.
“Does it not worry you?” he asked in his deep, hypnotic voice. “Are you never a little afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“That the old superstition is true, and every time you are photographed you lose a little of your soul.”
She regarded him limpidly.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I have been photographed so often that I am just a graceful shell.”
He looked into the serene depths of her remarkable amber eyes and allowed his frustration to boil over.
“Well maybe I should photograph you like that,” he snapped with sudden viciousness. “As an empty vessel remarkable only for the elegance of its window dressing.”
She made no reply, so he stared again into the depths of his imaging device – looking for something to distinguish his pictures from the thousands of others that flooded the Internet and colonised every glossy magazine on the planet. As he concentrated it seemed to him that those famous eyes grew even wider, and clearer, and that they slowly filled the viewfinder as bit by bit they dragged his soul into the abyss that lurked in their depths.
He screamed just once, and the woman smiled the secret smile he had been looking for…
Sometimes Janice struggled with being a children’s author.
Her series of Hippity-Hop and Bunnykin sold out to pre-schoolers’ parents as perfect for precious, developing young minds.
There was much excitement when she published the retelling of a favourite fairy tale.
Until the reading parents got to …they all lived happily ever after. The story continued:
..except they didn’t as no one lives forever. In fact, they all died. Some quite terribly of various agonising diseases and some in horrific accidents.
What the parents, and Janice, hadn’t expected was the delight with which most youngsters took to this dose of reality.
The Dragon and Leek was a small but substantial wayside cupona on a narrow, but well-travelled, road skirting through the foothills of the mountains. It seemed to lack any kind of village and stood, half-hidden by the forest in its deep valley. Here the road tracked the path of a brook which locals considered worthy of being considered a river. Used to the Tamesis, Dai was not convinced.
It was mid-morning as the vigiles piled out of the all-wheeler in the car park which doubled as a stableyard and were met by the worried landlord. Blaen Aderyn was a man who looked past the age of retirement and leaned on a stick to walk, but had a fierce briskness which defied anyone to consider him too old for his role.
Introductions made, Dai sent Bryn and his team with one of the staff to begin the usual investigation preliminaries and let himself be coaxed into the warmth of the lounge area, by Aderyn. A few locals, presumably from the hill farms around, were gathered at one end watching a game of harpastum on a big screen. Now and then the image broke up or the screen blanked, but the small audience didn’t seem to mind. Aderyn found them seats well away from the sports fans. The two of them were served with mugs of honey sweetened mulled wine that Dai only agreed to when assured it was mostly just spices and water – and on the promise a tray would be provided for Bryn’s team as they worked.
“This is a terrible shock to us all, I don’t know how it could be. They were fine when they arrived early evening, ate quietly – the men here and the lady upstairs in her room. It is not anything we have had happen here before and I can’t imagine how it could be. This is so very, deeply disturbing.”
Dai nodded along sympathetically and brought the topic to the point.
“So they came in last night, rooms were pre-booked in the name of,” he checked the entry in the book – handwritten. “Deliciae Parnassa Devotius?”
The man nodded. “Yes. She came all cloaked and hooded. Could barely see her face beneath the fur.” “And her escort were Roman – are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. They spoke like it and they both wore one of those.” He gestured to the broad silver ring of citizenship on Dai’s index finger. “They ate their food and went up to their room soon after.”
“Did they say or do anything you recall whilst they ate?”
Aderyn frowned and shook his head.
“Not aside what you might expect – the weather, having to travel at Saturnalia – that kind of thing.”
“Anything about their employer?”
“Not a word as I heard. I can ask the staff of course, or you can.”
“Did they talk to anyone else? Any other guests?” “Well, it being Saturnalia and all they were the only guests. Most of our trade comes from those who have business at one of the medical or care facilities on Ynis Mon. Romans don’t like to stay there overnight and we make a good stop-over before they run back to Londinium. But trade has not been so good lately, what with the latest economic downturn and -”
Dai cut across him.
“Did they talk to any locals?”
The old man shook his head again, a worried frown on his face.
“Not that I know. You lot are going to pin it on me though, aren’t you? Just like the last Submagistratus did over the contraband they they found in the cellar of The Fox and Radish. You don’t care who gets the blame long as someone can be tried for it. They took Geddy Haps and had her executed for it within the week. And she was as innocent as they come.” His voice was rising in pitch as he spoke and some heads turned from the game towards them.
“Won’t happen,” Dai said in the brief space when Aderyn paused to draw breath. “The man you speak of is himself disgraced and dead. There will be no miscarriage of justice on my watch. You have my word.”
“The word of a Roman?”
“The word of a Llewellyn – and a citizen.”
The old man reacted to his name, which was not so surprising. The family was very well known throughout Cornovii and beyond.
“A Llewellyn you say? And a citizen? How can that have happened?”
“When this is all dealt with I will happily come back, sit by your welcoming hearth and buy us a jug of your finest ale to share as I tell you the tale of it. But for now I need your honesty – so we can find who did this and what has happened.”
From Dying as a Druid, a Dai and Julia Mystery by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!
The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…
It isn’t a matter of talent precisely
It’s more the decision to write something nightly
Of maidens forlorn
Or a dip into porn
It need not be good but one day just might be
The downside was that living on Invercallus was like living in a furnace.
Jaz hated that you couldn’t go out in the daytime without wearing full on protective gear to shield from the heat and solar radiation. But at night it was very different. The air was cool and clear and the red rocky landscape looked beautiful. Even so the only habitable zone was at one of the poles – it was the only place water didn’t all evaporate away and the only place some stubby plants had managed to put the odd splash of colour on the dull ochre-grey background.
Jaz had never figured why they didn’t go full dome for the settlements here. Instead people shifted their way of life and spent the days sleeping and the nights transacting whatever of business or labour they needed to do. Maybe that was because many here came from Thuringen and were well used to days that were nights.
There were plenty of domes. But not connected in any proper way. The entire settlement was pretty much a huge spaceport and nothing else. Except unlike most spaceports, each bay had its own attached residential mini-dome. Maybe some of the privately owner-occupied ones had lavish fixtures and fittings, but as the Tarams didn’t even really live in theirs it was pretty basic. Jaz could compare it with the kind of comfort level he’d endured in barracks during his time with the Specials – except the food here was a lot better.
Much of the time, Jaz had the place to himself. Thuringen was a short hopper ride away and, like most else of the people who called Invercallus home, the Tarams preferred to be there, or anywhere else, as much as they could. He wasn’t surprised. Going over what they had was depressing enough. The bulk of their finances were tied up to pay for the bay. The ship, such as it was, belonged to them. And that had been the first big row – Day One of the new plan.
“Sell it. We need something newer, faster. Something that you don’t need to worry if it’s going to break up from gravity stress each time you hit into FTL.”
He had been sitting with Marche going over the team’s resources. Big lists on remote screens all over the walls. She shot up, her face snarling like he’d said something to insult her.
“It’s my ship. It’s all I got. If I sell we’d have to lease a ship and that’d eat more than we can raise from the work we got offering.”
Jaz ignored her snarling tone.
“The work you had offering. You might recall we agreed you’re not taking that kind of thing anymore.”
Marche had her fists tight and for a moment Jaz was calculating where he’d need to go to put her on the ground without hurting her too bad or damaging anything. But she didn’t attack. Just stood there glaring.
“So,, we spend out on a lease ship and pay for it with what?” She gestured to the bleak land beyond the dome. “Sand? ‘Cos that’s all we’d be left with. We’d not even be able to pay the rent on this place.”
“You would. Even at breakers’ prices your flying scrapheap’s going to be worth enough to keep this place and pay the lease on a decent ship for half a year – and get you some specialist gear. But, I’m thinking you’ll likely find some scrimping freetrader willing to pay over that base. Besides, you got no choice. That deathtrap is getting to the point it’s going to cost you more to run it for a year than it’s worth. It’s holding you back, like a fucking great stone.”
Marche looked like she’d run into a wall. “Specialist gear? You mean more than standard stuff?”
Jaz nodded, trying to put as much conviction as he could into his words. “That’s what you need. Something you can offer others can’t. Something you can make a name for. The big mistake most teams make starting up is doing what you’ve been doing – taking whatever’s on offer and not thinking strategically.”
She was gawping at him now, like she wasn’t sure if he was looped or genius.
“And if we don’t make enough money in them six cycles?”
Jaz shrugged.
“Then you know you’re not good enough to cut it, and you go find a decent team that’s already established and sign up with them instead.”
“But if we still had the ship -”
“You could turn freetrader instead. ‘Cos by that time, with the big advantage you got in having me along on this, if you can’t make it as a team you’ll never make it.”
He could see she was unhappy. Chewing it over like the remains from a day old synth-meal.
“And if I say no?”
Jaz shook his head.
“If you say no, I’ll still give you some basic training. But won’t bring you much. Maybe get you the chance to tag on some mediocre commander’s reserve list in the long run. That’s the closest you’ll get to what you want to be.”
She’d still baulked.
“I need to think. Ask the others. It’s not just my future.”
“Take the time you need. Just not too much of it.”
She hadn’t needed much. He’d still been going over the lists, checking prices, juggling figures and looking into what kind of work was most in demand – or at least most in demand and not going to get them all stint in the Specials if they got caught doing it.
Marche came back with the others close behind, looking like school kids being up for misbehaviour in front of the class. Jaz wiped off the screens and stared at them expectantly. Shit. Just standing there, freshfaced, they made him feel ancient.
“Well?”
“We’re in. We’ll sell the ship.”
Result.
From Iconoclast: Not To Be a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook
Brother Benedict loved the time he was permitted in the cloister. There he felt more spiritual. It was the one place he never doubted his vocation.
When the King ordered the destruction of the monasteries, Brother Benedict became Roger Smith again. He was fortunate finding work in the household of the new owner who used the monastery as a house. So when he overheard the new lord arguing with his son they should demolish the cloister he was able to act.
Ever after, standing in the cloister, he was sure the blood that stained his hands left his soul untouched.
Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…
***** ***** *****
Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!
The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…
There once was a writer called Jane
Who stared out of her window pane
At sunshine and showers
And quivering flowers
Which finally drove her insane.
The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…
“I may have a plan.” Cicero spoke thoughtfully. “I think it covers all the bases. Firstly, we have to arrive at the stone together. You two can come down this ridge and I’ll circle around to approach from the other direction. When we get to the girl, Sir Barnabas can discover whether or not she is willing to be divested of her virginity.” He paused and passed a claw across his eyes. “Assuming the young woman is agreeable, I can cover the event with my wings. And I’m sure neither Salazar nor myself would wish to watch such an undignified procedure. Once the deed is done I will be able to touch the stone and return to my library. The rest of you will be free to do as you will.”
Salazar shook his mane but said nothing, leaving it to Barney to voice the question they were both asking in their heads.
“What if the girl is unwilling?”
“Then I will eat her.”
“And what of my companion and I?”
Salazar’s skin twitched and he stamped a forehoof. “I guess we go down fighting.”
“I suspect we might. But you could always run away. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No. I know you wouldn’t. Which is why I can’t do it.”
Barney laid a hand on the arched neck. “If that’s how you feel we should give some thought to what we do in the aftermath if this plan goes to plan.”
“That might be tricky.”
Cicero coughed genteelly. “You could come with me.”
“Could we?”
“Yes. I have a very nice home. With room for friends.”
“What about your dragon chums? Who are generally very fond of horse meat.”
Cicero shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. “I don’t actually have any dragon ‘chums’. Regular dragons don’t have much time for vegetarian librarians.”
“Oh. Well. Umm. In that case.” Salazar swished his mane some more. Then he snapped his teeth together. “If we are going to do this thing, we should stop jawing and get on with it.”
Barney stretched until his joints popped and he and Cicero attempted a high five. The dragon waddled off in the opposite direction to the castle and spread his dun-coloured wings. He leapt into the air and the down draught all but brought Barney to his knees. Salazar swore, but sobered as Barney climbed awkwardly into the saddle. They set off down the spiny ridge at a careful walk, it not being safe to go any faster. When they reached the flat, green pastureland in which the Dragon Stone stood like a rotting tooth Salazar broke into a ceremonial canter while Barney sat upright in the saddle and tried to look noble.
Overhead the dragon circled and flamed, skilfully managing to make a good show for the watching castle without coming close to singeing his co-conspirators.
The trio arrived at the Stone together and Barney slid from Salazar’s back. Standing over the chained girl he brandished his broadsword so as to make it appear he was guarding her life.
Hs spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Can you hear me mistress?”
“Of course I can. I’m not deaf. And it’s Princess.”
“Oh right. Sorry. Well. Look. Umm. The thing is…”
Aurora studied the tongue-tied young giant with some approval. In another place and at another time, she thought, he might make a very presentable beau. But she did rather wish he’d spit out whatever it was he was trying to say.
Salazar took over. “Can you hear me?”
“I can. But you’re a horse so I shouldn’t be able to. Are you a hallucination?”
“No. I’m just a talking horse. And we’ve no time for idle chitchat. This is serious. We’re trying to save your life, but that requires your cooperation.”
“In these circumstances I’m all about cooperation.”
For a moment it seemed that even Salazar’s glib tongue had deserted him, but he coughed a bit and ploughed on.
“Do you know, young person, what it is about you that makes you possible dragon food?”
“Approximately. I mean. I’m young. Female. Not ugly. And…”
“And what?”
“And a virgin.”
“Precisely. You are currently a virgin.”
“Are you trying to tell me that all I have to do is discard my virginity I have a fighting chance of surviving this brouhaha?”
“I am.”
“You’re kidding me? That’s all it takes? ”
She narrowed her eyes and studied Barney’s broad back.
“That one will do,” she said firmly. “Except. What happens if he stops fighting off the dragon…?”
“You don’t need to worry about Cicero. Or you won’t if you can divest yourself of your inconvenient innocence. In fact he is prepared to shield you with his wings while the necessary happens.”
This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…
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