A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The girls got off the school bus, twittering like a flock of brightly plumaged birds. Watcher remained in the shadows, waiting for a sign. It came, when a head of gleaming copper braids left the pack and walked into the shadowy quiet of the park.

Watcher followed, closing up where the ground was soft with leafmould and running feet made no sound.

Even the high inhuman sound of the single scream failed to attract attention. 

It wasn’t until moonrise that the park warden found a body with a knife in its throat. He closed Watcher’s eyes and called it in.

©jj 2022

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…

“Up to the last day they were in the ‘City I had people in their organisation, in deep cover. And I even met and talked to Chola a few times. I have one question, sir, if we are talking about these supposedly dead people having relevance today — why are we not at least mentioning Avilon Revid too?”
There was a long, awkward pause.
Grim was in no hurry to break it. He heard the name and felt a frisson of genuine curiosity. Revid was the man who had come closer than any to single-handedly destroying the Coalition. Before his arrest a decade ago he had spent almost twenty years working with the insurgent terrorist organisation known as The Legacy, which had one item in its mission statement — the overthrow of the Coalition. For most of those years, Revid had consistently been topping the CSF’s most wanted lists and Grim could still recall, vividly, sitting in a bar on Kabros when the news broke that Revid had finally been tracked down and arrested.
The last Grim had heard, Revid had been condemned to serve in the Special Legion, and he would have died there long since. In the unlikely event he might have survived the first five years, the nature of his crimes would have placed him outside any criteria that could qualify him for release. It was hard to see, though, what that man might have to do with the people they were being told about here.
But even as he was thinking that, Grim’s mind was off on its own looping back over the briefing so far and linking a few interesting facts. Baldrik had been arrested for taking part in a terrorist attack and had also been in the Specials. Coincidence? Doubtful. Baldrik was getting more interesting all the time. Always assuming he was still alive — and this whole briefing was looking incredibly pointless if there was not at least some outside chance that he was.
“Avilon Revid is relevant here,” Cista Tyran repeated tenaciously when no one replied. “Without him, we don’t get the whole story. So why isn’t he being mentioned?”
The politician gave a small cough and moved in her chair. Jecks’ mouth had straightened into an unyielding line.
“Right. Dugsdall — your first thoughts?”
Jecks was acting like Cista Tyran’s question was rhetorical but Grim was very sure it wasn’t. Since subtle was clearly not going to work, Grim decided to try for the throat.
“I think we’ve been given an incomplete briefing so far, sir. I am assuming that means there is some evidence — or at least a strong suspicion — that these people are still alive. I am also assuming they are seen as posing a major threat to Coalition security quite a bit above and beyond that of running a criminal syndicate in the ‘City.”
It didn’t get the reaction he had hoped.
In fact, it got none.
Jecks merely nodded and in acknowledgement not confirmation. That was hard to swallow. It was pretty obvious to Grim they needed him for this or he’d not be here. From what he’d seen so far this was going to be an urgent, tough and dirty job. Grim didn’t mind that, but he did mind starting out feeling like his own side were playing games with him. He bit back the urge to say so and deadpanned.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

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…

At the words writing process I cringe
As I don’t understand such a thing
I just think up some shit
And write about it
And make my poor characters whinge

Jane Jago

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

“A hundred lashes”, the old man with the dead eyes intoned. The accused woman swayed in the dock. 

Her court-appointed lawyer studied his knotted hands in silence. He had just heard an effective death sentence, but he accounted his skin of more worth than hers.

Shocked silence hung like a shredded sail, broken only by the sound of the heavy footfalls of the execution squad. 

Ten masked men, armed to the teeth, into whose care her captors gave her.

Their leader looked down into her eyes.

“You are with child?”

She nodded. 

He shot the judge between his eyes.

©jj 2022

The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…

His name was Barney and he kept body and soul together, barely, as chucker-outer and general dogsbody at the ‘Ferret and Flagon’ down a malodorous back alley in the city. His father and grandfather had been master smiths and he had expected to follow in their footsteps, but the plague had killed his family before he finished his apprenticeship, leaving him destitute and meaning that he was grateful to work for his bed and board – neither of which amounted to much.
His fortunes changed again on a filthy afternoon when he was mucking out the stable, while trying to avoid the huge iron-banded feet of Salazar, the bad tempered stallion the innkeeper had taken in payment for a bad debt. As he worked the ground beneath his feet shuddered and the world seemed to take a lurching tilt. A feeling of vertigo almost brought him to his knees. ‘Oops’ he thought, ‘earthquake.’ He didn’t have leisure to think much more as all his attention was taken up by calming a freaked-out stallion – and keeping his own stomach where it belonged.
When the earth stopped moving he led Salazar out of the wreckage of the stable…
Into bright sunlight, brightly-coloured flags waving in the breeze, and silken pavilions where lords and ladies toyed with marchpane and sweet wine.
A cadaverous character, in a costume he somehow knew indicated a steward from a high-status household, hurried towards him. He awaited the storm of abuse with which upper servants always greeted the likes of him. But it never came. Instead the steward bowed so low his nose all but touched his skinny knees.
“Sir Barnabas. Be welcome. Are we to expect the pleasure of watching you in the tourney?”
Before he could open his mouth and mess things up properly, Salazar stepped firmly on his toe. Barney clamped his lips shut and inclined his head. This seemed a satisfactory response and the steward bowed some more.
“Would you do me the honour of following me?”
Barney inclined his head again. The sardonic laughter in his head somehow lightened the load. Salazar, for it was he who was so amused by this turn of events, spoke slowly and clearly in Barney’s head.
“Right, stable boy. Seems as if you’ve gone up in the world and brought me with you. Know anything about the tourney?”
Barney shook his head.
“I thought not. Can you just sit still and let me do the work I’m trained for?”
Barney nodded.
“Let’s give it a shot then shall we? It’s not me risking broken limbs.”
This time it was Barney who laughed.
By this time they had reached an ornate pavilion flying a positive forest of exceedingly ugly pennons. The Steward opened the door flap and bowed once more.
“Your servants await within.”
Barney smiled his thanks. before leading Salazar into the pavilion. Inside, it was excessively noisy and totally disorganised. This annoyed Barney.
“Quiet,” he bellowed in an awful voice.
The silence that followed was quite pleasing. Barney studied the assembled company from beneath his sandy brows.
“Better,” he said. “Now. Will somebody please fetch my armour. It appears I have a tourney to attend.”
And that was all the direction his minions needed. They separated into two groups. One crew began stripping and re-dressing Barney as though he was a two-metre tall doll. The other set approached Salazar – with rather more respect and a great deal of care for the whereabouts of his long yellow teeth and his huge iron-shod feet.
In the end, though, the horse was gaudily caparisoned, saddled and bridled before the knight dressing crew was through. Once encased from toes to neck in steel Barney was draped in a blindingly white surcoat emblazoned with the same gaudy and crudely drawn motif as adorned the pennons snapping in the wind above the pavilion. Barney stared down at his chest in some disbelief.
“The Queen’s Royal Majesty designed your coat of arms with her very own hand.” The servant who spoke appeared to be having trouble keeping his face straight.
“Using her very own wax crayon, by the looks of it,” Salazar’s voice in Barney’s head sounded about as disgusted as Barney felt.
Barney himself thought discretion a good idea and kept his counsel.

This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…

May Day and the maypole is erected on the green
And all the local school kids will dance and eat ice-cream
They wind the ribbons clockwise, then dance them widdershins
Plaiting and unplaiting as the dancers skip and spin

The grownups take their pictures or maybe video
And drink warm ale outside the pub until its time to go
And maybe there’s an ‘obby ‘oss or maybe a green man
Or maybe morris dancers shake for pennies in their can

But no one goes a-Maying in the wild woods anymore
And no one brings home white-thorn to hang above the door
And girls no longer go by night yearning to be misled
To find a man to marry them, to try before they wed

“Here we come gathering nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May.
Here we come gathering nuts in May,
On a cold and frosty morning…”

E.M. Swift-Hook

It had got dark and by the time Brandon pulled the car up at the side of the road he had chosen to park up a short walk from his intended destination and in the residential road, his smart car would draw little attention. Moving quickly he followed the road round to where the entrance of the overgrown path waited, univiting. He carried no light and once away from the road it was hard to see. A slight breeze brought a drizzle of rain and beneath his feet the path was muddy. But Brandon was no longer focused on the physical. He was shifting his energy carefully, drawing the shadows around him, aware that the atmosphere of this place had altered since he had last been here.
Tasting the energies, Brandon paused and for a moment the memory of the thing he had seen on the beach brought a chill that owed nothing to the weather. The sensation was stronger the further he went along the path and as he passed the fallen tree the first image he had of the ruined church tower was of an ethereal glow playing around it like green flame. The scent redolent of the same energy he had fought on the beach was almost physical to his nostrils and he was unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Proceeding with extreme caution, Brandon realised that the source was not sentient, but the whole area seemed imbued with the eldritch power. Like a pollutant contaminating the very ground and stones.
Something moved in the graveyard.
Brandon simply stopped moving, allowing his form and force to blend with what was there. On a physical level he would have seemed less than a shadow amongst shadows, astrally his energies faded like a camouflaged moth on its branch. Stillness his shield.
It took a few moments before he was certain that the figure moving was indeed physical. There were other eyes watching, but none of a kind to trouble Brandon even in his less than powerful state – vermin drawn to the thrum of energy like the thirsty to a fountain or jackals to a corpse. They would not move to interfere in a wizard’s affairs.
The being was human and psychic and in extreme emotional distress. Brandon watched with fascination at the churning of the energy around it – reminding him of oil and water being stirred in together. He wondered how long before one of the vultures decided this human was weak enough to latch onto and made its move.
He watched as the figure grew more desperate – searching for something and not finding it. A feral shadow pounced from the night and bit deep on the unsuspecting human who seemed too distracted even to notice as it latched onto his energy. Another followed and a stirring around the area told Brandon that the rest would follow in a moment.
He stepped forward and sent a shiver of his energy against the natural shields of the human, satisfied to see the parasites lift and scatter and the human freeze and then look round sharply. Another pace and Brandon consciously released the shadows allowing his outline to be visible to the other.
“Who’s there?”
The voice was male and uncertain. Brandon saw the slight shimmer of dull metal as the man pulled something out of his pocket. He quickly positioned his energy for points of control and was puzzled to find the shielding. It would be a fight to break in this one’s psyche and with a gun involved that would not be an option Brandon wanted to try. There were times the simple human methods were better. He stepped forward to take advantage of a thin sliver of moonlight so the man could see him more clearly and feel less vulnerable.
“A friend.”
There was no reply for a long moment and Brandon felt the brush of a questing probe and deflected it gently.
“A friend?” There was a disbelieving snort and the gun moved to glint in the moonlight. “If you want to kill me you’ll have to get your hands dirty wizard. Not like you lot did with my sister. She couldn’t fight you but I can.” He moved the gun slightly. “This says you are dead here no matter what may happen to you off this planet.”
Brandon stood very still and allowed the new information to settle. The headline from the local paper was stuck in his mind: Girl Victim of Ritual Killing.
“I’m guessing Olivia Brown was your sister?”
That made him draw a sharp breath.
“So you don’t deny it?”
“I have done nothing. I just read the news.”
For a moment the man seemed to falter, uncertain. Brandon took a slow step forward into the hesitation, and then another, closing the distance between them, enough to make a difference.
“Keep away!”
Brandon stopped dead and allowed the narrow moon to show his empty hands.
“You are the one holding the gun here.” He pointed out. “I don’t want you to feel you need to use it, I just want to talk.”
“Yes, I’m the one calling the shots – makes a change doesn’t it? How does that make you feel wizard? After all, I am a mere human.”
“Some of my best friends are humans,” Brandon responded mildly, “and I can’t think of many who are wizard race.”
“Who the hell are you? I never met a yank wizard.”
“It happens in the best families, even the best American families. My name is Brandon, what’s yours?”
“Like you don’t know!”
“Matter of fact I don’t. You seem to think I know what you are about but truth is I just walked in on this and have no idea.”
This was met by forced derisive laughter.
“Ha ha ha! That would be funny if it were true.”
Brandon said nothing and let the initiative fall open.

E.M. Swift-Hook

It’s not as if I cared she said
It’s not as if I cried
It’s not as if I banged my head
And wished that I had died
It’s not as if I missed his voice
It’s not that I was sad
I knew that leaving was his choice
It wasn’t all that bad
It’s not as if the bed’s too big
Or if I feel alone
It’s not as if I missed the pig
But I wish he would come home

©️jj

This is a book one read under protest. One morning at breakfast one was attempting to explain to the mater that literary affection must be pure and unsullied, it must not mirror life. If it did, it would be unpleasantly sweaty and redolent of bodily fluids.

Around halfway through one’s peroration, she got up from the table, temporarily abandoning a plate of greasy egg and sausage to scrabble around in the escritoire that leans drunkenly in one corner of the breakfast room. She returned to the table bringing with her a torn and dogeared paperback with which she proceeded to beat one about the head.

“This is a proper exploration of human emotion. Read it and for f***’s sake learn something. There will be questions later.”

Adjudging discretion the better part of valour. One read it.

My Review

A plain female child grows into a plain woman. Somehow she catches the eye of a man. Who turns out to be married. Then she runs away. Then she goes back

End of story.

Honestly, gentle reader, it does nothing for one. The heroine lacks romance, beauty, allure, etcetera. Although the hero is quite exciting, I suppose. But if one’s distaff parent hadn’t insisted….

Star rating. One out of five. Plus a half for a slightly sexy hero.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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