They set out for Brighton bright and early on Saturday morning, and Sam found himself more nervous than he was willing to admit, although he didn’t quite know why. A rather giggly lunch in a tiny pub on the downs, where Anna and Bonnie were obviously well known, did a good deal to restore his equilibrium, and he was able to sit back and relax as Anna drove the last few miles to Downsview, and their meeting with Ted.
Sam hadn’t been to sure what to expect a private facility for the care of dementia patients to be like, and he was pleasantly surprised by the homely look of the place. They parked the Audi, and a large young man came quickly over to the car. Anna opened the door.
“It’s only me Pete.”
The man smiled.
“Sorry, Miss Marshall. I didn’t recognise the car, and we’ve been having a bit of trouble recently with prying eyes.”
“Bastards. This is my partner Doctor Henderson. Sam, this is Pete Moss, who stops people from making money by publishing stuff about the folks who live here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Pete.”
“Likewise. Doctor? Of medicine?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you do sewing? Justine has cut her hand badly, and the local NHS dragons are refusing to send anyone out over the weekend.”
“Sewing is my forte. I’ll get my bag and have a look.”

Sam followed Anna and Bonnie towards the noise of a small disturbance inside the big, rambling house. There seemed to him to be entirely too many people in the room.
“Clear the room please, Anna. Ideally just me and Bonnie.”
Anna swung into action, and the room cleared. Sam went in with Bonnie at his heels. He saw a very lovely woman with blood dripping from her left hand. She seemed to have that hand clenched around something, and he set about getting her to let him look at the damage.
“Hello Justine. I’m Sam. Me and Bonnie have come to see to your hand.”
“Bonnie. Bonnie come.”
Sam signalled, and Bonnie stayed at his side.
“Bonnie doesn’t like the blood on your hand. Let me clean it up and then she’ll talk to you.”
Justine extended her hand and slowly unclenched it. He saw a large piece of glass embedded in her flesh. Opening his bag he donned surgical gloves and took out a dressing pack.
“Okay Justine. Bonnie and I are going to clean you up now.”
He used disposable forceps to remove the glass from the wound, then swabbed the hand with strong disinfectant. Bonnie wrinkled her nose, but stayed still beside Sam.
“Good dog” he whispered.
The hand was bleeding sluggishly, and he decided it definitely needed stitches.
“Does it hurt, Justine?”
She thought for a moment.
“No.”
“Can I sew it up then, so Bonnie will come and give you a cuddle?”
“Sew. For Bonnie.”
Being unsure whether or not his patient was on any medication, Sam opted to try and suture the cut without  local anaesthetic. He called Bonnie a little closer then tried a stitch. Justine didn’t flinch, keeping her eyes fixed on Bonnie’s elegant, black face. Sam heaved an inward sigh of relief and set another dozen stitches as quickly as he could. Then he cleaned Justine’s hand again, and wrapped it in a clean bandage, fixing the bandage in place with elastic strapping.
“You’ll do. Now Bonnie will come and see you.”
He motioned the dog forward and Justine buried her face in the soft black fur. Anna re-entered the room followed by a big loose-limbed man and a uniformed nurse.
“You were brilliant. Nobody could get her to even open her hand.”
“I had Bonnie.”
Then he turned to the nurse.
“Is she on any medication?”
“Nothing.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
“I’ll give her a shot of penicillin then, just in case. It looks clean, but a shot wouldn’t hurt. I’ve put in self-dissolving sutures, so you won’t have the problem of getting them taken out.”
He turned to Justine, and taking a syringe from his bag he rolled up her sleeve and neatly popped an injection into the muscle. Justine didn’t twitch, but Bonnie regarded him approvingly.

The man beside Anna spoke.
“Thank you very much, doctor. I didn’t think they were sending anybody.”
Anna laughed.
“They didn’t. This is Sam. Sam, this is Ted.”
Sam drew off his gloves and put them in a disposal bag with the bloody swabs, used needles and other detritus. Then he held out his hand to Ted.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Ditto. And even more thanks. Justine can be very difficult to deal with, but you handled her beautifully.”
“I had Bonnie.”
“You did. And she also has a weakness for handsome young men.”
Sam laughed.
“Not guilty. I reckon it was all down to a sagacious hound.”
After that the time passed easily. While Anna and Bonnie visited with Justine, Sam and Ted took a walk in the grounds. For a while they walked in silence then Ted cleared his throat.
“There were a lot of things I was going to say to you about Anna, but I don’t know if I can now. I saw the way you dealt with my poor empty wife. I saw kindness mixed with professionalism. Then I saw the way you looked at Anna. I think you two have a shot. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose her.”
“I won’t. I had a lousy marriage. It ended. I managed alone. Then I met Anna. I’ve got a second chance. I won’t do anything to jeopardise that. And I love her.”
“Then I hope we can be friends. I think a great deal of Anna, and I’d like to keep her friendship.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. And I do know that you were lovers. I don’t have a problem with that either. I just wanted you to know that Anna and I have no secrets.”
Ted coloured, then grinned.
“I’m glad you know. But I wasn’t using her.”
“I didn’t think you were. She wouldn’t be as fond of you if you were.”
A voice from the building interrupted their talk, it was Anna. “Come in, you two. Justine wants a tea party.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

Let’s make a toast with coffee or raise a mug of tea
To friendships that we’ve known before and those still yet to be.
Let’s share a cup of kindness and bring them all to mind
The people we still keep in touch and those we’ve left behind
Let’s give a moment here and there in life’s so busy daze
To those who’ve held our hands in troubled times in different days.
The names that still can bring a smile when we their deeds recall
Even if it’s been a while since we heard from them at all.
The bonds that weave our friendships may be weak or maybe strong
They may last just a holiday or for all our life long
So make a toast next time you pause for just another cup
And think of those you call your friends – and maybe call them up…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Bonjour mes estudas

It is I, bestselling author and all-round excellent human being, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Here to pass on the fruits of my intellect to those lesser beings – such as yourselves – who struggle through the dilemmas of life, love and literature.

Today we have a question from Ian (is it only I who has noticed what a plain and boring cognomen is Ian?).

Dear Ivy,

Is there a reason I struggle to feel immersed in present tense writing? What, if any, are the pros to writing the seldom appreciated tense when past is available and most prefer it?

Your Adoring Fan,

Ian.

My very dear Ian,

This is the sort of question that exposes the ignorance of one’s little students to the glare of the public eye. One does not, silly boy, write in tense. One writes intensely. When the Muse sits on one’s shoulder and whispers his seduction into one’s shell-like ear one does not allow the constraints of grammar to befoul the flow of beautiful prose from one’s metaphorical pen. One cares not whether one’s protagonist speaks pastly, presently, or futuristically. It matters not. The outpouring of one’s artistic sensibilities will carry the reader of taste along on the flood tide of emotion and adoration.

Good writing, has it not been often said, is timeless. So do not concern yourself with whether the events written are here and now, now and then or soon to be. Ignore the trite distinctions that are mere verb forms and peer more deeply into the flowering blossom of prose. The present is the immortal now and as such is a fitting medium for the more discerning artistes of the literary world. Those who prefer the most opulent and rare of words to cluster in their paragraphs and for whom the tawdry details most lesser authors need to observe are become merely optional as they have grown beyond them.

Oh no, my dear little Ian, immersion in writings should not be a function of tense, person, or voice. Should you fail in your endeavours to understand the writing you are drawn to, there are but two possible reasons for this miserable failure. The first possibility is that you are in the hands of a writer who cannot handle their chosen means of communication. The second, sadly, is that there is a lack in you.

I hope, whilst yet fearing it likely, the latter is not the case, and that you will eventually find an author whose sensibilities march alongside your own. One who will fully immerse you in the embracing sensuality of their prose regardless of tense, gender, sexuality, or language.

Yours with gently reproving affection,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a literary problem you may avail yourself of one’s wisdom by posting to my Facebook presence.

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.

The lamplight shone into Hannah’s cell, hurting bright.

“There’s a woman in here. Tied.”

“Cut her free. And bring her.”

Careful hands turned her, and something sharp was gently slipped behind her bonds. She couldn’t help but cry out as the blood rushed to her hands and feet. Someone began rubbing her extremities with warm hands while another carefully cut the cruel bonds from about her throat.

The one who carried her upwards was gentle and smelled of sandalwood soap.

“I wonder what the poor little bitch did.”

“She must have been lovely once. And that’s enough in these parts.”

©️jj 2020

Alina dragged herself into the bathroom, deeply thankful for a double-wide shower stall, big enough to accommodate her burgeoning belly. She heard Joran return to the bedroom walking softly and felt him enter the shower behind her. He supported her carefully while she soaped and rinsed.
“Won’t be long now…”
She turned and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Joran helped her out of the shower and dried her tenderly on a big fluffy towel.
When she was dressed in a loose flowing gown with her hair properly imprisoned in a silken net, she took both his hands in hers.
“Has your father returned?”
“Aye. But he had no luck.”
With her last hope gone, Alina heard her own cry of agony as if from afar. She held her husband’s eyes with her own, aware that the misery in his expression was mirrored in her face.
She dropped his hands and placed her own palms on her stomach.
“There are two lives in here Joran. We only have a licence for one.”
She thought his face was the bleakest thing she had ever seen.
“I know. And how do you think I feel?”
“I don’t think I can begin to understand. Will you have to kill one of us?”
“Yes love. I can only leave the delivery room with one extra life. The Numbers prohibit any more. My family has only lost one member since the last child was born a decade ago.”
“Then you must kill me.”
He fell to his knees and buried his face in her white gown.
“That has already been suggested to me. I will not rip out my heart.”
“Then will you rip out mine? I have grown two lives here inside me. I cannot allow one to die.”
Joran stood up and they clung together like children. Caught in the toils of intractable law and unable to see a way out, all they could do was hold on and perhaps pray.

By the time of the family meal they had collected themselves enough to behave with propriety, and they even managed to ignore the spuriously sympathetic looks cast their way by those family members who had lost out to them in the childbirth lottery.
It was a long day, and the heat and humidity of the air in the place of the women all but brought Alina to her knees. But she had sufficient pride not to give in, and she was sitting tall and straight when Joran and his Grandfather entered the room.
They came straight to her side. Joran’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he smiled at her through them. Grandfather spoke directly to her.
“The Numbers have changed. Both your children may now be welcomed. Old Grace went to the God today. By her own hand. This was her gift to you.”
Alina thought she might faint, but managed to hold firm.
Joran took her hand.
“We will call our daughter Grace…”

© jane jago 

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old and my teeth are old too
There are things they do not like to do
Like toffee and chews
And in today’s news
I coughed and they fell down the loo

© jane jago

There were two other men in the hot bath, lazily reclined and talking in low voices. They were both, Dai could not fail to notice, wearing heavy Patrician rings so even when naked they were still marked out as superior beings, paunches and all.
“It is incredible who they allow in here nowadays,” one said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Dai. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I didn’t think natives were allowed in these baths – never seen one before, anyway,” his companion agreed. “I’ll have a word with the curator, we can get it removed.”
Dai was grateful the heat had already made his skin very flushed or his reaction to their words might have been visible, as it was he decided it was not worth creating an issue that might fall back on Julia to deal with as she was the one who had signed him in as her guest. That was the only way any non-Roman would be allowed in a public premises deemed ‘sub aquila’ – where you had to walk under the eagle on the portico to get inside, and it meant she was personally responsible for his behaviour. So, instead, he curtailed his bathing and pulled himself out of the pool on the far side from where the Romans lounged.
He had to walk past them to leave the pool room and as he did so, one made a crude gesture with one finger, his patrician’s ring glinting gold. Dai froze mid-stride and turned back, fists balling as he did so.
“At least,” he said tightly, “I have a real dick and not just a picture of one on a ring.”
The water beside him erupted and he decided not to wait whilst the two heaved themselves from the water like bull seals onto a rock.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago & E.M. Swift-Hook

They said she was too young. Too inexperienced. That she was an untried Wiccan who would never succeed in such an endeavour. But they underestimated her determination to carry on her beloved grandmother’s work. 

A single tear ran down her face as she  picked up grandmother’s wand and stroked it lovingly. She closed her eyes and drew the necessary serenity about her.

Lifting the wand to her face she opened her eyes and blew gently.

The air about her filled with the delicate beauty of hope, joy, laughter and happiness. The bubbles flew gently away, bearing dreams for sleeping children.

©️jj 2020

Inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow

At last.
It had been longer than he ever believed he could endure. Soraya had not endured it. She brought him food, that last day and sat watching him eat, the child asleep in the crib, sucking her thumb.
“She’ll need a bigger bed soon,” he said, knowing from her eyes that was not going to work. Normally, anything he said about the child would turn her mind from other things. But not this time. So he tried again. “And the new child will need that crib.”
“I don’t want to have another child,” she said, her face set into determination. “The result will be the same, we both know that and I don’t want to condemn another life to… to this.” She moved her hand to indicate the cavern.
“I am working on that,” he told her, knowing he probably sounded sharp, as sharp as his sister. “Without the kind of state-of-the-art tools we had in the lab, we can’t grow what we need, we will have to use live samples. And from the results of those tests, it can’t be done from our own offspring. Only a new mix, a new generation. Another child would give more chance of that.”
He could never forget the expression on her face in that moment. As if something grotesque and hideous had reared out of the ground and slid into his clothing.
“Live samples?” The horror and disgust she put into the two words made Yris afraid. “Our children are not live samples. What kind of monster are you?”
He struggled to understand her anger and shook his head wanting to clear it.
“You don’t understand. Without it, we are trapped here. All of us. Unless we can change the coding in my genes, wherever I go she will hunt me down and take me back and she will destroy you. Our grandchildren – maybe our great-grandchildren – can save us from that.”
“And how would it affect them to save us?” she demanded, her whole body trembling. In the crib, the child had woken, disturbed by its mother’s raised voice and sat up, clutching the side with pudgy fingers.
“I don’t know. That depends on how much I can harvest–”
“You would kill your own children to keep yourself alive?” The child started crying then, great gulping sobs, face made ugly by the process. It was pulling itself up on the side of the crib and wailing.
“Of course. I am the only one who can do this. I am needed so much more than they are. My knowledge, my experience, my–”

The child gave a loud cry, cutting across time.
“You ‘urt me, Gran’pa.” The dark eyes and black hair framed the soft-featured characterless face, which was set into a frown.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I did. But that is all for now. You can read your story.”
The test was quick to run and as he checked the results, matching mark for mark against his own DNA he felt as if the sun was rising within him. No, it was not perfect, but it was adequate. More than adequate. It was the key to unlocking his captivity. If he could harvest enough from the small source available.
With trembling hands, he unlocked the storage box which held the final dose of his life. He had been putting off taking it for the last decade, knowing it would serve no purpose until he had both the tools he needed to defeat his sister and the means to escape her long enough to make use of those tools. He took the final vial from its cradle, each precious drop refined from the stem cells of the embryo Soraya carried under her heart. He had lifted it from her as her heart was still beating, before he stilled that from its useless task and let his sanity roll deep into the wells that sank below the habitable levels of the caverns. He remembered the words she left on the small tablet gripped in her hand: I am sorry, but I can’t live like this any longer.
He used the intravenous clip and felt the life of his unborn infant flow into his blood.

From ‘Tongueless Caverns’, a Fortune’s Fools short story by E.M. Swift-Hook. It is one of the stories in Tales From the Underground, an Inklings Press anthology.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old, there’s no need to remind me
That a lot of my life is behind me
But I will just resort
To my own blanket fort
Where sorrow and bailiffs can’t find me

© jane jago