Barve the Brave picked up the magic Thurible of Enchantments and wafted the sacred Incense of Amity over the Table of Majestic Meetings where soon the important diplomatic encounter would take place.

The High Chair of Omniscience was polished with the Lacquer of Lucidity and the Stool of Perception sparkled with the Sheen of Sensibility.

Weis the Wise and Geas the Sage would soon be seated upon them, wills locked like wrestlers, to determine the fate of the Fourteen Kingdoms.

The room prepared and her job done, Barve farted loudly then headed to the Water Closet of a Thousand Flushes.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

As String dressed himself in a new and even shinier set of chain-mail with glowing runes around it, Pew looked at the open doors. Of course, one led out but the other three all led away into the dark and seemed to be ramps going down.
“Which way do we go?” Milla asked.
Pew shook his head and then held up his staff, casting the same spell she had seen when they first met, but the spray of sparkles seemed a bit less intense. He nodded towards the door to the left of the entrance.
“That way. Your little dog is down there. Somewhere.”
As if on cue there came a bark from somewhere below them. Milla’s heart moved in her chest and before she was even aware of what she was doing she had started running down the dark passage Pew had said was the one they needed to take, calling Ruffkin’s name.
“Milla wait!”
She heard Pew’s urgency and stopped her headlong dash just before the ramp doubled back on itself and turned into stairs. Which was just as well. An armoured ryeshor skeleton was walking down the steps towards the door below, where two more stood guard and Milla had nearly barrelled right into it. She still had Pew’s dagger in her hand and instinctively held it up. The runes on it were glowing dark red.
“That’s got awesome bonus stats against undead,” Pew said as he send a blast of flame down the stairs and the skeleton crumbled.
The boar pushed between the two of them and bounded down the steps to attack the two skeletons by the door. Milla noticed the armour plates on his harness were no longer black but now glittered with a silvery glow.
“See that?” String said, cleaving his sword into the skeletons as he spoke. “That last boss dropped an upgrade spell for my pet too.”
“Neat,” Pew said, as his staff send a string of fireballs into one skeleton blasting it apart. The other collapsed moments later in a heap of bones under the combined assault of Pigsy’s tusks and String’s sword.
There was a sudden deafening silence as the bones vanished, then an urgent bark from somewhere behind the door the skeletons had been guarding. Milla would have been down the last of the stairs and through it instantly but Pew caught her arm.
“We don’t know what’s in there. If you go charging in you could be killed.” The sobering words and the intense look he gave her were enough to make her pause. Something in his gaze distracted her and with a slight shock she realised he was concerned for her, he actually cared about what might happen to her. She blinked and nodded, her frill-spines spreading. Pew gave her quick grin then headed down the steps in the wake of String and Pigsy.
The chamber behind the door had a high domed ceiling. The walls were lined with white tiles and decorated with gorgeous images of local plants, birds and animals in shades of green, turquoise and blue. In the middle of the room was a circular, stepped dias. Placed on it, was a huge throne formed from blackened bones and adorned with bleached skulls on the back posts and arm rests. Beneath the throne, in a cage of bone, Milla could see a shivering Ruffkin. Sitting on the throne and dominating the room, was a hooded robed figure, twice the height of any ryeshor. It wore a crown of flickering lights that looked like a skeletal hand grasping a nebulous ball of magical power. Beneath the enveloping hood no face could be seen, just two glowing red eyes.
“Oh frag – it’s a lich lord.” Pew sounded worried.
“Then it’ll have a magic mitigation shield, an AOE frontal with massive damage and a fear effect.”
“HOW DARE YOU ENTER MY DOMAIN! YOU PUNY BEINGS ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE INSECTS.” The thing on the throne seemed to exude the words rather than speak them and Milla’s whole being shivered with an icy chill.
“So you put your armour buff on Pigsy,” String went on his tone as unurgent as if he was discussing the weather. “Pets are immune to the fear. But we’ll have to watch for the frontal.”
“You got your parser running?”
“Course. I’ll use it to spot when the ratstab is due to cast. Just be ready to joust.”
“MY MINIONS MAY NOT HAVE STOPPED YOU PENETRATING MY LAIR OF DARKNESS AND DESPAIR BUT I SHALL DEAL WITH YOU MYSELF.”
“Think there might be adds during the fight?”
“Likely. If we get any you keep focused on the boss – it’ll be leashed to the throne anyway – I’ll handle them with Pigsy.”
“OK.” Pew made a gesture with his staff towards Pigsy and the boar glowed briefly with swirling runes. “There you go. Ready when you are.”
“Pre-warding and sending in the pig!”

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology.

A sky alight with hope remembers
Those who walked ahead
Those whose pride lit up the embers
Burned the coals of dread
Those who founded one great nation
Signed with ink and prayer
That men would live in contemplation
One day we’ll get there
As we celebrate the glory
Wrought by long dead hands
Let’s add our voices to the story
Of this beloved land

©️jj 2021

When Jim Cracksman received a ‘get your ass home now’ text, he grinned good-naturedly and climbed into his beloved muscle truck. As it turned out, that was to be the last time he smiled for many hours.
When he strolled into the house, it was to find his wife and his oldest son awaiting him with white, strained faces. He pulled Patsy into a one-armed hug and looked a question at Jamie.
“It’s Will. He ain’t in France with the school party. Mum got the heebie jeebies because he hadn’t called and got me to do some checking. He never got on the plane. I activated the locators on his stuff and it’s in a locker at the airport. Then I did a naughty and activated his personal locators. He is in Scotland. Stopped moving about an hour ago at some place called Castle Ellan. Which actually is a castle. It’s let furnished, but I can’t find out who to.”
Jim held out his other arm and the boy came and buried his face in his father’s chest.
“He’s only seven years old Dad. We mustn’t let anyone hurt him.”
“We won’t. And you did good work. Now. Who do we know in Scotland? It’s time to call in some favours.”
Patsy lifted a tear-stained face to look at him.
“Rod’s in Scotland. Him and his buddy Sam are doing a distillery tour. And Anna and her motorhome are at some place called Garlieston.”
“Right. You call Ma and tell her somebody has got at Will. Ask her to look after Charlie and the twins while we sort it. Say she can tell the twins if she must, but not little Charlie. Jamie can stop here with us, as he’s already in it up to his neck. But I want the others out of harm’s way.”
She sniffed.
“Yes. I should’ve thought. I’ll get right on it. And I’ll make tea while I’m at it.”
She picked up her phone and headed to the kitchen.

Jamie looked at his father with haunted eyes.
“They are going to start hurting him soon, aren’t they?”
“Not if Rod gets there first they aren’t. And he will get there first. We have to believe that. Now. Quiet. I need to make some calls.”

The conversations were all brief, but Jim looked a little less grim when he finished the last call. As he did so, Patsy came back into the room carrying a big tray with a brown teapot and milk jug, three mugs, and a plate of biscuits.
“Pete is fetching the kids from their schools, and Ma will keep them for as long as it takes. Pa said not to forget Geordie Jackson, plus he knows a guy in Edinburgh who makes boomers if we need.”
“I already talked to Geordie. He has a couple of boomer boys, and they are on their way to a field where they’re going to be picked up by a helicopter what is already on its way to collect Rod and his pal, who I forgot is a doctor, and who insists on going along to take care of Will when they get him out. Anna is packing up the camper and moving to a place Geordie owns on the outskirts of Glasgow. It’ll take her about three hours to do the drive, she says. So she’ll be in position when they bring Will out. Geordie knows who is at the castle, and he says they are not nice people. He also tells me the main man is currently away from home. Expected back tomorrow. Which’ll be why we’ve heard nothing yet. With only average luck, we’ll get the wee man out before the end of today.”
Patsy looked him in the eyes.
“Now what aren’t you telling me?”
“Actually. Nothing. But I’ll admit to being very, very worried.”
“Fair enough. Me too. But the three of us will support each other through it. Now. Tea?”
Jim swallowed a huge lump in his throat, and Jamie just buried his head in his mother’s breast. She patted one and smiled at the other before pouring mugs of tea so strong it would have fought its way out of a delicate cup.
“Sit down and drink your tea. It’ll help.”
They sat, and there was silence for a while before Jamie spoke.
“Has Anna got enough stuff with her to pick up Will’s locator?”
“Yes. She already called it up. She says good work Jamie. She and I think Will is probably drugged, because he isn’t moving. So it’s good there’s a doctor in the rescue party.”
“But. Isn’t he a surgeon?” Patsy asked in worried tones.
“He is, which is all to the good, apparently, as he knows lots about unconscious people. He says William will be fine with him.”
Jamie spoke up.
“Is there any more we can do Dad?”
“Nope. Now is the hard bit. We sit tight. Man the phones. And wait.”
They waited.

Five hundred miles north, things were moving at an altogether faster pace. Two men, a couple of small suitcases, and a black leather holdall, waited by the helipad at the Gleneagles hotel. The larger of the two looked at his companion.
“You sure about this, Sam? It’s going to get nasty, and some people will get hurt, or worse.”
“Yes. I’m sure. They have kidnapped a seven-year-old boy. If they have kept him drugged for thirty-six hours, he could be in a bad way. He might need me, and I might need the stuff I asked for.”
“It’s on the chopper. And how bad?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rod. Worst case scenario is brain damage, but at best he is going to be confused, feeling sick, and dehydrated.”
“Right. So we do need you.”
“And we need to hope.”
They fell silent as the sound of a big helicopter engine came closer.
“Why a Sikorsky?” Sam bawled in Rod’s ear as it came in to land.
They picked up their stuff, ran across the helipad and leapt aboard. A big man in a jumpsuit pushed them into a pair of seats and handed them headsets.
“Welcome aboard Rescue One,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rod grunted. “My friend here wondered why a Sky Crane?”
“Easy. These bastards fly in and out of the target area all the time. Nobody will think twice about another. Has anybody thought about what sort of condition the kid will be in when we get him out?”
“Yes,” Sam said tersely. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. Is the stuff I asked for on board?”
“Yeah. You know how to use it?”
“I do. But let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“What don’t you want to have to use?”
“Mostly: tracheotomy kit. I’ve had to do it in Thailand to kids that were sedated for too long on the underground sex trade routes. It ain’t pleasant, but it can be the only way to get air into the poor little sods’ lungs.”
“Fuck. Will it really be that bad?”
“Probably not, but I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. But the poor little bugger is going to be confused and frightened, and that’s why going home in his friend’s motorhome, where he can rest and feel secure will be better for him than a plane flight where he is surrounded by strangers, or the noise and smells of a chopper.”
“Yeah. I get that. And we can take it in turns to drive. So we’ll get him back to his mum pretty soon. Now I find I’m feeling murderous. Nobody should get between me and anyone I’m beating up.”
The man in the jumpsuit grinned.
“Fine. We’re all fathers here, and nobody is feeling particularly gentlemanly right now. About half an hour till we collect Geordie’s boomer boys. Then an hour from there to this fucking castle. Any orders?”
“Apart from getting my nephew out and demonstrating the family’s annoyance? No. Just do what needs doing.”
“Will do. By the way. This one’s a freebie. Geordie is providing the hardware and the fuel, we’re giving our time. Nobody liked having the Russian Mafia on our turf. But as long as they kept their noses clean we could tolerate them. Taking people’s kids is a big no-no, so we are handing down a lesson.”
“How many are we?” Sam asked.
“You two. Geordie’s boomer boys. Twelve fighters. Pilot, co-pilot and radio guy. Why?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about what they might do to the kid when we tip up. I want to get to him fast.”
“Good thinking. Six of us will escort you right to him. We have his location on screen.”
“Right. Good.”
The two men bumped fists.
They seemed to have covered all the bases, and the men sat in silence until the helicopter dropped down to land briefly. Three men jumped in carrying obviously heavy bags. Once they were seated the chopper took off and headed north. The men put on their headphones and their leader gave Rod a grim wink.
“Got enough stuff to flatten this fecking castle. Geordie says you have to agree, though.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s show them our fist! But we have to get little Bill out first. And if they’ve hurt him…”
The smallest of the boomer boys spat eloquently.
“Aye. There’s examples to be made.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It always behoves me to assume that there will be at least one new reader of my inspirational course on ‘How to Start Writing a Book’. So to that gentle reader I doff my hat and reveal that I am none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – author of the  brilliant and inventive novel, “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy.

Today’s topic came to me a while ago and then I was distracted by my Muse offering other, more pressingly urgent dangleberries of wisdom and demanding that those took precedence. But then my focus was rehoned to the point by Mumsie walking into my writing cave, bearing her trademark pernod and ginger wine in a champagne flute with the inevitable green olive drifting in the murk. “Oh my god, Moons, this place stinks worse than a sumo wrestlers jock-strap!” I delicately pointed out that she was referring to my vetiver, bergamot and lemongrass aromatherapy oil, blended expressly to induce higher states of creativity.

Mummy was not, however, much impressed by this revelation. Instead she picked up my pristine first edition copy of Fatswhistle and Buchtooth and opened it, bending the spine and splattering droplets of her alcoholic creosote over it’s pages. Before I could recover from the horror of her deed, she had dropped the irreplaceably precious item back on my desk. “Don’t they say you can’t tell a book by the cover? Got it wrong with yours though. Shite inside and out.”

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Cover.

A book cover needs to be a visual precis of your prose. It should capture and enrapture the roving eye as a reader runs through the rows of books either on a shelf in a shop or on a scrolling screen. Yours must be the cover that cries out as that putative reader sifts through stacks of books to find their next favourite fiction.

But how is this achieved? If you read the academic artists they will talk of proportions, the Golden Mean, of colour strengths and shades and other esoteric claptrap. It is actually stunningly simple – make it red.

Red is the most eye-catching colour as everyone knows. We are all primally preprogrammed to see red as a signal of something requiring our attention. Therefore, so long as your cover is red your book will be read.

A more sophisticated and subtle touch can be achieved by drawing on that other universal colour combination guaranteed to draw the eye – black and yellow. Our perceptions are precisely honed to hover our eyes on anything that resembles hornets or wasps. So, if red is not appropriate for your magnificent tome – black and yellow may well serve the same end.

Of course, to be sure, combine the two concepts.

Oh and put a naked lady on it, ideally headless.

Follow these infallible rules and you will create a cover that none will miss and your book will bound from shelves be those physical or metaphorical.

Until next time, au revoir mes petites poissons.

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.

Kathleen looked out at the rain and wondered for the thousandth time why she was there. She was a teacher now and there was a stack of marking to be done and lessons to prepare for the coming term.

But instead of being at home, getting work done or reading a book or watching TV, her cat curled on her knee, she was out here in the rain, in the middle of a wood.

Waiting.

And waiting.

There was a small, moving patch of grey and her heart leapt.

This was why she was here.

Her first sight of badgers.

E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the story of what happens when a pragmatist gives in to a romantic impulse. Be warned.
I’m that pragmatist and my name is Alysson Kowalski.
Now that we all know who we are, there’s a couple of things you need to be aware of before you start reading: I swear too smegging much; I couldn’t give a flick what you think of me; and I do expect you to pay attention. Listen up, there may be questions later.

Through the skinny end window of my three-metre square office I watched Jackdaw Court grow from a hole in the ground to something one might call an architectural oddity if one was being kind. That having been said, and almost in spite of myself, I got interested and when the ‘for sale’ boards went up I dropped into the estate agent on my way home.
I sat in my tiny ‘apartment’ (ain’t that a joke: read bedsit with pretensions) ate pizza, and studied the blurb with increasing fascination. It was the tower that got me. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve been fascinated by towers, and the idea of living in one really floated my boat.
Not being one to let the grass grow, I was in the estate agent’s prim little office before nine thirty the next morning.
“The tower at Jackdaw Court. When can I see it?”
The over-presented receptionist looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out of the undressed lettuce that undoubtedly formed the mainstay of her meals. I favoured her with my best and most dangerous glare, and she thought better of whatever it was she had intended to say. Instead she made painfully slow progress on her computer. After faffing about for at least ten minutes she made a breakthrough.
“You can see it now” she said brightly. “Mister Brown is free.”
“Well wheel him out then. I don’t have all day.”
She picked up a handset and dialled three digits with a perfectly manicured finger.
“Customer wants to see the tower at Jackdaw Court. Now.” She put the handset down and only just managed not to sneer.
“He will be right with you.”
A middle-aged gent with a bit of a beer belly came out from the back office and smiled at me.
“Paul Brown” he stuck out a hand.
“Alysson Kowalski” I kept my own hands behind my back and his grin actually broadened.
“I’ll just get my car.”
I looked at him sternly. “You could do with the walk.” He winced then grinned.
“As you say.”
It was all of fifteen minutes, even with me needing to slow down for my new friend, but in that time we had sized each other up well enough for no fencing to be necessary.
“I take it” he said genially “that you have all your finances in position and you are in a position to proceed.”
“Yeah. Course I am. But blondie didn’t think so.”
“No. If she had she would have called on one of the thrusting young men who were also sitting in the back office drinking coffee.”
“How’d anything that stupid get a job?”
He grinned and shrugged.
“Yeah. There’s that” I had to admit. “But how does she keep the job?”
“She probably won’t. Especially if I make a sale this morning.”
“Eh? But don’t you make rather a lot of sales? The harmless duffer pose must be worth more than a few bob to the company.”
He grinned toothily. “It is. And I’m probably the most successful salesman in this branch. But you are not my target market. I’m supposed to deal with older people who would be turned off by Ranjit or Ralph – who are both a bit flashy.”
“Well then. I’d probably have wound up breaking someone’s pinky in a handshake. I don’t much care for flashy young men.”

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

It takes six men three days to free a caravan whose legs have sunk deeply into summer soft tarmac.
Job done, the digging biggers stood around drinking beer.
“You oughter move it in case it sinks again.”
Big fetched his truck and after a couple of false starts they hitched up.
With the paddock gates propped open Big climbed into the cab and engaged a gear.
The truck inched forward, but then the engine revved wildly while the caravan slewed sideways embedding itself in the paddock fence with a screech of tortured metal.
Hamish grinned. “Bugger my nuts,” he said.

©️jj 2021

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

achnor (noun) – a Caledonian person who says no a lot

brillaint (adjective) – of hair, shined and glued into place with brylcreeem

cramine (noun) – the peculiar colour all the washing turns when you put a red sock in it by mistake 

defetas (adverb) – of speech or singing, loud, flat and with one of those accents that removes two vowel sounds

dilemna (noun) a long-legged coot-like bird characterised by an inability to make up its mind

foor (adjective) – poor in the terms of reference of the very rich in that one’s children have to attend minor public schools and one cannot afford more than one divorce

hosematre (noun) – pedagogue who beats pupils with a hollow length of rubber

jamsine (adjective) – sticky and bright red

jusat (adjective) – smelling vaguely of old socks and Vimto

lineger (noun) – underwear that smells like a chip shop

morgin (adjective) – grumpy and prone to spitting

omouf (adjective) – of lipstick, misapplied so it slips over the edges of the lips

sinnic (noun) – a person with no charm and little intellect 

totamo (noun) – yellow fruit with hard skin that tastes like stew and smells like sick

upsdie (noun) – a dice that only throws sixes