Voters, if we have offended
Think but this and all is mended
That you have imagined us
To be mean and full of puss
That our incompetence doth seem
Of no more substance than a dream
Voters you must comprehend
That that we’ve broke we now shall mend
And as we are an honest crew
We’ll do so at no cost to you
And all that’s needed will be found
Even if it costs a pound
And when this cruel thing is over
We’ll embrace you like a lover
We will do good deeds to all
Or else ourselves a liar call
Give us your vote if we be friends
And Boris shall restore amends

©jj 2020

It was a beautiful May morning, but my life was currently being rendered hideous by my five-year-old twins throwing simultaneous epic tantrums. I wasn’t even sure what the screaming was about. I had been feeding the dogs when Ali started to whine, and I turned around just in time to see Roz slap her sister quite hard. Then they both began to scream. The dogs looked at me with deeply reproachful eyes, so I put their food out on the back patio. They went in evident relief, which only left me with two red-faced and hysterical children to deal with. I looked at them for a moment then came to a decision.
I filled a large jug with icy cold water. I was just lifting it out of the sink, when a masculine hand came over my shoulder.
“Allow me.”
My beloved, and normally wholly even-tempered, husband walked quietly over to where two of the loves of his life were screaming like demented banshees. He poured the water over their blonde heads. Miraculously the screaming stopped. Ben waited a beat then spoke very quietly.
“People who behave as badly as that the moment their Daddy’s back is turned should be very grateful he isn’t a spanking sort of a man.”
Then he turned on his heel and left.
The twins sat as if turned to stone and I let the enormity of what had just happened sink in.
It was Ali who found her voice first.
“Is Daddy very cross?” she breathed.
“Sounds like it to me,” I said briskly. “Now is somebody going to tell me what all that was about?”
But of course they couldn’t. It had come over them and they could no more explain than they could fly. They just shook their heads and looked at me with round eyes. Roz even went so far as to stick her thumb in her mouth, even thought she hadn’t sucked it for months. I tried to keep my own expression sober as I looked at their woebegone faces, but I wasn’t proof against the pleading in those big eyes. I held out my arms and scooped the two wet little girls into a hug.
“We’re sorry Mummy.”
“Never mind sweethearts. Let’s get you dry and calm.”
Half an hour later, we were at the breakfast table and the twins were eating porridge. The dogs were in their baskets and peace and quiet reigned. Ben walked back into the room on soft feet and two spoons stopped moving in two bowls. He crouched down between them.
“You two all better now?”
They nodded and he put an arm around each.
“You still cross, Daddy?” Roz quavered.
Ben smiled and kissed each rosy cheek.
“No I’m not cross. Don’t worry my loves. I know you didn’t mean to be naughty.”
Ali clutched his tee shirt in one small hand.
“We didn’t. We wasn’t meaning to be bad, but once we started we couldn’t stop.”
“I don’t expect you could. But there’s a lesson for you both. Don’t be silly. Because it is very hard to stop once you start.”
The twins studied his face carefully and he winked at them. They hurled themselves on his chest and he stood up with one little girl on each arm.
“Have you said sorry to Mummy.”
“We have.”
“Then let’s forget all about it. You two finish your breakfasts.”
He put them back in their chairs and they picked up their spoons. At a quirk of his eyebrows I got up and walked into his embrace. As I leaned in he bent and whispered in my ear.
“Fancy a day off? We can keep the brats out of school and take them for a good walk in the forest.”
“Yeah. I was going to suggest keeping them home anyway. There’s something not right about them. Even before the screaming fit I was concerned. They are unusually clingy, and when I went to wake them this morning Roz was in Ali’s bed.”
“I thought it was just me being fussy Daddy.” He watched the two blonde heads with a worried frown.
I looked out of the open door and across the garden to the flat that was occupied by our chef and good friend, Neil, his wife Stella and their two daughters Ellen and Sian. If I ever needed Stella’s input on parenting it was now.  As I opened my mouth to say who knew what my phone demanded my attention by screaming ‘bugger me boy’ in the voice of a parrot. The twins cracked up, covering their laughing mouths with their hands. I could feel the tension oozing out of them so I forbore to comment on my latest ring tone, merely picking up the call. It was Stella.
“Joss,” she said without preamble, “there’s something going on at school you need to deal with. Sian has been obviously worried, if tight-lipped, for a few days. I thought she had been naughty at school but it ain’t the case. I just wormed the problem out of her. You know that your girls have a new teacher, but what I’m sure you don’t know is that she has taken them in dislike. Sian says she punishes them all the time. Now, it seems, they aren’t even allowed to sit together in the dining room. Sian says it’s a crock of shit, and I reckon she is right enough so that I haven’t even said anything about her language.”
“Thanks Star. Tell Sian not to worry. Me and Benny are on the case. The twins can have a few days off while we get it sorted.”
“Good thinking. I’m keeping Sian home today, too, she’s right out of sorts.”
She ended the call and I looked at the phone with some dislike.
“Girls, can you eat your breakfasts quietly while I have a little chat with Daddy?”
“We’ve finished our porridge, Mummy, and isn’t it time for the school bus?”
I found myself floundering, but Ben rescued me smoothly. “You could go on the bus, or you could have a sneaky day off with Mummy and me.”
The twins beamed at him. “Shall we go and take our uniforms off while Mummy talks to you?”
“You do that. Jeans and sweatshirts for a walk in the forest.”
They shot off and Ben looked at me sombrely.
“What is the big worry? You are as pale as a ghost.”
I told him, and then watched as he found and dealt with the white hot rage he felt at the thought his daughters were being victimised.
“What do we do, Joss? What the hell do we do?”
“First we need to find out more about what has been going on. Then we take steps. If it means home schooling Roz and Ali for a year then that’s what we’ll do. First job, though, is a chat with Sian. Can you manage that without letting her see the berserker flare?”
“Have to don’t I?”
“It would be best if you could, because you are much closer to her than am I.”
“Okay. But walk first. Let’s let everyone settle. Meaning me primarily.”

From Who Pulled Her Out?  by Jane Jago 

Summertime and the livin’ is wheezy
Nose is runnin’ and the pollen count’s high
Oh, your daddy’s face is no longer good lookin’
So hush, little baby, just you nebulise.

Most every morning
You’ get to rise up coughin’
Yes, you cough so bad
When the pollution is high
Mm, the weather man says
The very air can can harm you
Yes, with daddy and mommy standin’ by

Summertime and the livin’ is wheezy
Nose is runnin’ and the pollen count’s high
Oh, your daddy’s face is no longer good lookin’
So hush, little baby, just you nebulise.

E.M. Swift-Hook

One greets the assembled disciples.

Should it be that you are a lost soul, who has recently slipped into the back of the class in the hope of improving your limited literary endeavours, allow me to introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, fondly referred to as IVy by my chums. The acclaimed author of that prodigiously enchanting science fantasy work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ which has been removed from the shelves on a temporary basis so it can return and be lauded as it truly deserves.

The end of summer is upon us and as harvests are gathered in I am once more returned to my writing room to reap the rich harvest of a summer gleaning inspiration from the very lap of the Muses in their homeland. Thus I was less than delighted to be disturbed whilst revisiting the profound passages of my previous literary highlights and admiring the lavish style, the graceful similes, the elegant turns of phrase and the superlative use of descriptive ornamentation.

It was, of course, my maternal parent who was well into her second admixture of Benedictine and Calvados. I knew that because the sickly smell of honeyed apples hung on her breath as she stuck her face into mine, muttering: “Why did I do it? What was I doing? How did I ever do something to deserve this?” Then, fuelled by alcohol and the disappointment she feels in her own sad little existence, she trailed off into a long-winded monologue in which I was unflatteringly compared to a chocolate teapot, a leadless pencil and other random objects.

Once I was again mercifully alone, the door bolted to avoid any further distractions, I realised Mumsie had unwittingly pointed out an area of English grammar that I have been remiss in bringing to the attention of my pupils. The ‘doing’ words.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Verb

Right class! Today we shall explore one of the backbones of any sentence. Indeed, that without which it is not a sentence at all.

Verbs are words which inform us of action. You all knew that of course, so I shall skip over asking for a show of hands and cut to the chase: how to choose the right verb for your sentence.

The important message I need you to take from today’s lesson is that any sentence can be instantly improved if you consider varying the verb. Truly. It can. Allow me to demonstrate briefly:

The stars shone.

Nothing wrong with that at all. It tells the reader the simple fact and they will absorb it and move on. But oh what a wasted opportunity! Instead of having the reader merely register the idea of the stars being there, doing what we all know stars do, you could have informed their imaginations with your creative genius (however small that might be) and awed them by your command of the depth of beauty in the language. Thus, thusly:

The stars blazed.
The stars lustred.
The stars scintillated.
The stars effervesced.
The stars coruscated.
You, by now, begin to assimilate the idea.

Thusly, my innocents, do not ‘walk’ but ‘promenade’. Never merely ‘jump’ when you can ‘frolic’. And remember, dear disciple mine, any noun can be enverbed to add to your treasure trove of possibilities:

The handsome young man entabled his firm buttocks, peachifying my day by his very beauty. (Voila mes crudités, deux pour le prix d’un)

And thus have we indeed ‘done’ the doing words.

Now go and try some out.

Until we next…

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.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

There’s been an awful lot of bullshit written about what women should find sexy and it’s about time somebody put a firm foot on the scrotum of the pedlars of foolish ideas.
Budgie smugglers on fat men are not sexy.
Muscular development that means a man can’t cross his legs isn’t sexy.
Excessive ink isn’t so much sexy as distracting – it’s difficult to concentrate on the sex if you’re trying to read the tattoos.
Old men whose necks look like penises aren’t sexy.
Fifty shades of abuse isn’t sexy.
And dick pics are just sad.
No – if you want to be really pant-wetting practice your stand-up comedy and learn where the clitoris is located.

The priestess poked disdainfully at the mangled tiara at her feet. In a quite ordinary voice she remarked to nobody in particular ‘Tiara of office, what in the name of all the seven hells is that about…’
One of the brown-clad monks spoke softly; ‘It was intended to symbolise the leather thong with which the holy Mahabaratma tied up her hair when she worked in the fields to grow food for the son of man, but I think its meaning got lost in translation’.
‘Indeed, brother Abram, you could certainly say that. But this is neither the time nor the place for theological discussion, we have a lot to do in ten short days. Take your brethren, and a detachment of burly soldiers and do your duty in the temples. There is to be no gold, nor silver, nor precious gems left in any temple in this city. No priest is to be dressed in silks or satins or cloth of gold; simple monkly habits and austere lifestyles are to be the order of the day. In order to achieve this, you will need to remove from office all those you deem to be greedy, or venal, or licentious, or otherwise unsuitable to serve our Holy Mother. If you cannot find sufficient simple pious men and women in the city – and it is my thought you will not – then you will need to bring in priests and priestesses to serve.’
Brother Abram bowed. ‘It shall be as my lady decrees.’
As the monks left the square accompanied by a detachment of husky soldiery, the priestess said something in a very low voice to the eagle who perched motionless on her shoulder. It lifted its head and gave a harsh cry before hopping to the ground and picking up the mangled tiara in its talons. As it lifted off from the cobbles the priestess said ‘fly well, Farsight, my friend’.
She turned to the general, who awaited her orders with no sign of impatience. ‘Shall we assay the palace then, my father?’
‘I suppose we must, although I’ll leave the Sergeant at Arms and half the army to maintain order in the streets. I hope your stomach is feeling strong, my dear, because unless somebody in there has done something about the bodies it is going to stink in there’.
As it happened somebody had done something about the bodies. The young commanding officer had put his faith in Sergeant Gandy and Corporal Bilwil, who put their heads together and set the palace guard to bring up some of the hundreds of barrels of brandy wine from the palace cellars. Each body had been carefully identified, and, when the exact cause of death had been determined by the military surgeon, placed in a labelled barrel to be preserved by the spirituous liquor therein. By the time the church soldiers sought admission, there had even been time for the palace guard, and those servants who had not run away, to scour the walls and floors of blood and other bodily fluids.
Thus the Priestess of the Sky and her entourage found themselves faced with some thirty barrels, each with a piece of parchment nailed to it. The priestess walked over to the first barrel and read aloud; ‘Prince Olof, aged four years and three months. Decapitated.’ She moved to the next; ‘Empress Anaya, aged fifty-two years. Tortured. Beaten. Raped. Hacked to death. Somebody didn’t like her majesty, although from what I hear that doesn’t narrow the field by much. Who is in charge here?’ The young commanding officer stepped forward. ‘Is this all of the bodies?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And are all the minor members of the Imperial family here?’
‘No, my lady. The princess Ana isn’t among the bodies. An extensive search of the palace and the grounds has yielded no trace of her – and we used the bloodhounds when they returned to their kennels. We can only conclude that either she escaped, or the assassins took her.’
The general stepped forwards; ‘There are thirty-one barrels, and our information is there were thirty-one minor members of the Imperial family, and now you say we are missing a princess. So who is the thirty-first body?’
‘A young person who was believed to enjoy His Majesty’s sexual favours. He was marked with the traitor’s brand before having his throat slit. Which would seem to explain how the assassins found the secret tunnels.’
The priestess frowned. ‘How very tidy. But possible I suppose. Who was the young person?’
‘His name was Wei, and he was one of the C’hin, although his mother was born to the Schiapetti.’

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.

Because life happens…

While dancing a showy fandango
Edged with the passion of tango
A small dancer slipped
Hit the ground with his hip
Now his tail’s at a very odd angle

Jane Jago

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

ahs sing (noun) – extremely melodious fart

amradidlo (noun) – country song about onanism 

bargrh (noun) – posh barbecue food

fbelievableront (adjective) – of dragons and the like having quirks of personality that make them readable

fraft (noun) – sliced cheese of dubious origins, having a strange odour and an oddly mottled appearance

griness (adjective) – of bread being flabby and of a strange colour

jumipr (noun) – woollen garment smelling vaguely of gin

nayway (noun) – street where only those in the know dare go

ompire (noun) – person qualified to officiate at many sports

peopel (noun) – a peephole in a front door as installed by an idiot where the hole on the outside is an inch below the hole in the inside

qaurrle (noun) – arrow fired by Cupid in an attempt to undo one of his unlikelier  pairings 

resonse (noun) – the chair you kept for the bloke that never showed up

tdrippingap (noun) – computer program for hay fever sufferers

wriitng (noun) – sarcastic grin – of the sort usually aimed at door-to-door salespersons and evangelists

yhen (noun) – curious chicken

zegra (noun) – horse wearing a stripy jumper

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I thought I had seen every possible eyebrow, but boy was I wrong.
Plucked, arched, thick, thin, fine, winged – pale into insignificance beside felt tip brow.
The brown or black scrawl halfway up the orange face. It’s as if somebody appended a couple of slugs to a persimmon and managed to persuade the young and clueless that this was attractive.
It’s not.
It even frightens passing birds.
I have been sighing sadly, and putting it down to the folly of youth.
But wait. A (forty-plus by the neck) makeup ‘designer’ actually claims to have invented ‘the brow’. 
Ye gods…

Seeing Avilon’s eyes open, the old woman smiled at him showing off a single, broken tooth. She said some words which he could not understand, at the same time raising the spoon towards his lips. For one jarringly irrational moment, Avilon wondered if the blow to his head had caused left-brain damage, affecting his ability to understand speech. But as she continued in the same reassuring tones, he realised that she was just speaking in a language he did not know.
And that was strange.
More than strange.
Coalition Standard was the common tongue from the most highly advanced planets of Central to the most far-flung, under-developed and over-exploited worlds of the Periphery. As far as Avilon was aware there were only a handful of places which had, by chance – or choice of their colonists in centuries past – developed or adopted a separate separate language, taking Standard as a second tongue. The few such he had ever heard of were outposts in the Periphery, so it was not entirely bad news. At least that meant he was likely to be somewhere his enemies were not going to find him quickly.
The old woman smiled again and clucked encouragingly as if she were trying to feed an infant, pushing the spoon against the barrier of his teeth. He turned his head away and struggled to sit up, his body feeling strangely unwieldy and reluctant to obey. The effort induced a wave of vertigo. He fought down a renewed surge of nausea and forced himself up, freeing his arms from the restrictive blankets.
“No more.”
Avilon had wanted the words to sound assertive, but all that came out was an indistinct rasping sound.
Still holding the spoon in one hand, the old woman tried to press him back down on the pallet, chattering excitedly in a loud whisper as though she did not wish to be overheard. He raised a hand meaning to push her arm away, but the movement was sloppy and ill-coordinated, catching her shoulder with more force than he had intended and sending her toppling over backwards. She started to scream then, calling out in a high pitched wail of fear as she wriggled out of his reach to cower on the far side of the shelter.
Almost instantly a flap of cloth was flung back at the other end of the tent and a young man burst in – more child than man, perhaps in his mid-teens. His head was shaved and he was wearing a strange looking outfit, with a band of small wooden boxes slung over the one shoulder, some kind of projectile firing pistol jammed into his belt and a whip held in one hand. His eyes fixed on Avilon with a contemptuous look and he snapped some words at the old woman. She promptly stopped wailing and started to crawl towards him, speaking all the time in an ingratiating sing-song whine.
Avilon kept very still. Under normal conditions, he could have easily dealt with the boy and disarmed him, but he was still half-drugged and his body was both weak and dangerously slow. Besides, he had no idea of where he was, who these people were or what was going on. He tried again to speak, but the words came out as a meaningless harsh croak. The youngster ignored him, silenced the old woman with a word and gestured for her to retrieve the bowl and spoon. As she did so, he looped the whip back at his belt and strode over to the pallet, making a grab for Avilon’s wrists, presumably intending to restrain him whilst the old woman forced fed him with the drugged slop.
Summoning what little of strength and agility he could muster, Avilon rolled himself aside and drove a fist up to meet the young man’s throat as he leant forward. It was much too slow to make effective contact, but the youngster jerked back in surprise, breath hissing between his teeth. Using this brief advantage, Avilon kicked out, hampered by the blankets, but pushing the boy off balance and bringing him down. The old woman had started to scream again, but there was nothing he could do about that.
Ignoring the light-headed giddiness that threatened from the borders of his mind, Avilon worked free of the blankets, diving into a forward roll, coming to his feet, breathing hard, already feeling what little strength he had was gone. The young man was up in the same moment. Unbelievably, his eyes now held the cold focus of someone looking to destroy and a knife flashed in his hand. Avilon had to let him come close and as the knife hand moved to strike, he was neither fast nor agile, only just succeeding in deflecting the blade, turning his body as he did so. But the counter strike went home and the youngster gasped once then collapsed heavily, temporarily immobilised.
Dizzy now, Avilon was reaching for the pistol, his reactions slow and perceptions distorting. He had barely started to turn towards the new threat he heard from behind, when fresh black stars of agony exploded in his brain. The pistol slipped from his suddenly limp fingers and he felt the floor catch him as he fell. For a moment he was sure he was going to pass out but somehow he remained vaguely conscious, if incapable, as he was dragged back onto the pallet.
This time he was unable to resist as his mouth was forced open and the foul tasting liquid was spooned in. Someone held his nose forcing him to swallow it, then they released him. He was dimly aware of the arrival of a third man and of an angry exchange taking place, but he could not understand what was said. Gradually, the drug began to numb his senses and he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness once more.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook