Two Women and Some Books
Pawprints in the kitchen
Pawprints on the floor
Pawprints on the furniture
Pawprints on the door
Pawprints on the patio
Pawprints from the shed
Pawprints running up the stairs
Pawprints on the bed
Pawprints on the landing
Pawprints in the hall
Pawprints by the front door
Pawprints on the wall
Pawprints running everywhere
I don’t know where to start
I’d curse the mangy mutt but he’s
Run pawprints through my heart.
One encountered this book back in one’s tender teens when it was a set text for some examination or another. One’s peer group was set the task of reading this dull tome and writing about its dystopian view of nuclear holocaust.
Being a child of extreme sensitivity one approached the story of the end of the world with some trepidation. But one need not have worried, sailing through this pages affected one with no more than brain-crippling boredom…
Review
This is a book in which nothing happens. Repeatedly. Nobody does anything much. Basically they all stooge around waiting to die. There is no romance, no sex, no adventure, nothing to stir the soul. Some people are in Australia waiting to die. In the end they do so.
Our teachers attempted to inculcate in us the belief that this was a case of masterly understatement. They failed. Even one’s contemporaries, whose hard-handed masculinity sent shivers of excitement and fear down one’s spine to one little pink toeses, apostrophed this as dull and uninteresting. Although one clearly remembers that it was not they who were bent over the headmaster’s skinny thighs and beaten for their opinions.
This book would be an excellent cure for insomnia.
Stars: Zero (one can still feel the cane across one’s tender flesh).
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.
It was her birthday, and she dressed with care, wearing the dress he said suited her above all other and painting her face with subtle skill.
The meal was exquisitely prepared and faultlessly served. He smiled at her and she felt herself glow with joy. Maybe tonight, for her birthday he might just stay at home.
But he left, and the light went out of the celebration.
“You knew what he was when you married him,” her mother hissed.
She nodded, mute in her misery.
Even then she was managing until she found the discarded feminine underwear.
In her bed…
From Aaspa’s Eyes an unusual fantasy by Jane Jago.
The whole family was breaking its fast when the gate guards bugled to announce visitors. Aascko and I wiped our mouths and went to investigate. It was my Father and his escort of doughty fighters. He jumped down from the back of his riding animal and came to hug me tightly. There was something at the back of his eyes that told me all was far from well and I put a hand up to his face.
‘What is it Papa?’
He smiled gently. ‘I think it would be best if we went inside your compound before I tell you.’
I knew he would have good reasons for his suggestion so I acquiesced.
We signalled to the gate guard and they permitted my Papa’s caravan to enter the grounds of our nest. Once the gate was closed, Papa went to a closed wagon and offered his arm to whomever was inside. A small, but upright, female figure dressed in an ill-fitting garment climbed carefully to the ground. Aascko ran to her side.
‘Mother?’ He put his arm around her and she winced. ‘What is it? Who hurt you?’
She couldn’t speak, just buried her face in her son’s burly chest and burst into tears.
‘Take her inside’ I said firmly. ‘We will do better with Food in front of us.’
Aascko smiled at me and escorted his Mother into the eating place. Sensing trouble, I called the three big imps to me and sent them off with Branwen. Owlet looked over his shoulder and I dropped him a quick wink before returning to the adults. I popped the sleeping Silver into her basket then ensured that everyone had hot java and fresh bread and honey in front of them. I sat down.
‘Okay Papa. Tell us.’
He looked to Aascko’s Mother for permission. She nodded and he spoke very quietly.
‘We left Home yesterday as soon as I got your message confirming that the imps wanted me to come. Just as it was getting towards dark, and we were thinking about pitching camp, we saw a lone female figure trudging along a little-used side road. This didn’t seem right to me, even less so when I recognised Moonflower. At first, she wouldn’t speak to me, but when she realised we meant her no harm she broke down completely. The leader of my guard has some skill with medicine and he treated her hurts, then we fed her and made her a bed in the wagon. It seems’ he said heavily ‘that her Mate has decided to repudiate her. He had her whipped naked from his nest.’
Aascko leapt to his feet.
‘I will kill him with my bare hands’ he whispered.
I considered that idea carefully. ‘You could, love. And I’d willingly serve the five years exile for patricide with you. But it wouldn’t be fair on the imps.’
He looked at me very hard, and for a moment his reaction hung in the balance, then he came around to where I was sitting and hid his face in my crest. I put up my hand, and he grasped it tightly.
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
When considering physical pleasure
There are very few things you can measure
Neither length, sir, nor girth
Is the measure of worth
It’s the way that you use them, my treasure
…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago
almsot (noun) – drunkard reliant on charitable donations to survive
bocan (noun) – pork-based sandwich filling
kund (noun) – well intentioned goat
mascarpine (noun) – soft cheese flavoured with disinfectant
masocpic (noun) – a selfie taken whilst trying to pluck nostril hairs
na dback (adverb) – of marching, being persistently out of step
parilment (noun) – collection of geezers getting fat on the sweat of others’ brows
prseit (noun) – confused clergy person with a magnificent moustache
pupit (noun) – a small mammal with sharp, yellow teeth and galloping halitosis
sopt (adjective) – of festival goers, soaked, normally with urine
stoy (noun) – text speak for dildo
tracjetory (noun) – path taken by drunk person when forcefully ejected from public house
understaoof (adjective) – of cardigans and woolly jumpers being covered in greyish beige bobbly bits irrespective of the original colour of the garment
wikkid (adjective) – of sheep having unusually aggressive attitude
yar (noun) – mispronunciation of the word year promulgated by your TV Royal Correspondent
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Cherie wanted a dog with every fibre of her being, but the doctors wouldn’t countenance the hair or the drool, so her loneliness grew and each day she faded a little more.
Schnitzel started life as a poster on Cherie’s bedroom wall, his face made her laugh and she seemed to take comfort from him.
When money is no object very little is impossible and Cherie awoke from a fitful slumber to find her favourite poster made ‘flesh’.
“Schnitzel,” she whispered.
Who knew that a million dollar artificial dog could give a precious child the impetus to try and live.
From Transgressor Trilogy: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.
“Have you known Avilon long?”
The Vavasor seemed not to notice the intense interest which underlay her casually phrased question.
“Since the Alfor Fair – although we met in less than sociable circumstances. Qabal Vyazin paid fifty-thousand reynar for him – left him to rot for the best part of a half-moon then gave him to me to look after.”
“He was your slave?”
“Hardly. Qabal doesn’t part with a fifty-thousand reynar investment that easily. A keeper is not the same thing as an owner.”
“Then you must have liked Avilon a lot to take him with you when you left the Warlord,” Aisha observed thoughtfully.
The Vavasor looked uncomfortable for a moment.
“Sore point – I wasn’t thinking too clearly right then and if I had been given the choice I’d not have opted to drag a Kashlihk fighting-slave across the countryside whilst playing tag with Qabal Vyazin for my life. Fortunately, although I thought it far from fortunate at the time, the gods intervened in the person of that famed humanitarian and liberator of slaves, Durban Chola.”
“Durban Chola?” Aisha echoed with amazement. “What in the world would Durban Chola want with Avilon?”
“Ah, I see you know the selfless man,” the Vavasor sounded ironic.
“Well enough to know that there isn’t a bone in his body that is selfless nor one that isn’t as devious as a sneak-thief. I’ve had a few dealings with him in the past.”
“That I would like to have seen,” the Vavasor said reverently. “The thought of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object springs to mind.”
It was a compliment and he delivered it with a gallant smile that almost made Aisha forget she was an old woman with a son and two daughters grown and five other children buried.
“We drove a hard bargain between us,” she agreed, but was unwilling to be diverted from her objective. “So why did he want Avilon?”
The Vavasor shrugged.
“Who knows? Spite, perhaps. But it has been exercising my brain for the past fifteen days on and off.”
“Has Avilon no idea to it?”
“If he knows he’s not said so – not to me at any rate.”
“He seems to care for you, a lot.”
The Vavasor glanced at her slightly puzzled.
“Who does? Durban?”
“No. Avilon. He hardly left your side when you were ill.” Almost immediately Aisha regretted her words as a tangible cloud settled between them.
“I didn’t know that,” he said softly and then, in a strange tone. “I am afraid that the Kashlihk has made something of a habit of saving my neck.” Then he smiled suddenly. “It seems a popular hobby for people. At this rate, I will be indebted to half of Temsevar before the year’s out.”
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
I am old now, and as my days pass
I find I can no longer be arsed
To try to conform
And act uniform
Might as well be a sheep and eat grass
A new sci-fi novel Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow is now available.
When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival….
An interactive projection of Nova Vita’s terrain flickered to life as he switched on his helmet’s COM.
“Madelyn—Charlene, move into position on the eastern flank and wait. Markus and I will flush out Chiara and Mitzu; that will teach them to take up the same position for more than one round.”
“On it.”
Madelyn’s voice responded as he pointed to the place he wanted Markus to move, holding up three fingers to signal the count down.
But shots from his left lit up Markus and took him out of the game, several nearly hitting Alexander as well. He jumped back, trying to sight the direction of shots fired. Whoever took them had done so from cover and moved on because he saw no one.
“New plan. I’m going to make a mad dash for that huge tree near the center of the room. I think someone is trying to pick us off from a distance.”
“So when you make the run, we figure out where they’re shooting from?” Madelyn asked.
“Exactly. It’s a risk, but I’m fast and won’t be running in a straight line, so it would need to be one hell of a shot to lead me.”
“Ready when you are,” Charlene chimed in.
With a deep breath he was sprinting, his body blending through the projected grass and bushes. Shots rained down at him, but he was always a few steps ahead. Return fire came from the position he guessed Madelyn and Charlene had taken up as he jumped behind the tree and fought to regain his breath, but a footstep behind him ended the opportunity.
He trained his weapon toward the sound and sidestepped, moving quietly to avoid giving away his position in the same way his target had.
A single shot to the chest took Peter out of the game, which was confirmed on the top left interior of Alexander’s visor. He took cover and waited to make sure no one had tracked his shot, then reached out to see if his other teammates were still in the game.
“Madelyn—Charlene, do you copy?”
Nothing.
“Do you copy?”
“I’m here,” Madelyn said. “Charlene was just eliminated.”
“Okay, link me your position. I’ll come to you.”
“Not a good idea.”
“They’ve got the area covered then.”
“Yep. And I took Denton and Lexi out of the game, so I think it’s got to be Chiara. She’s playing smart, relying on her shot accuracy and avoiding the close combat that got her knocked out of the last game.”
“Agreed. Let’s make her pay for holding position.”
“I’m locked in over here, so whatever you do, I won’t be much help.”
“Just hold tight. When I say ‘now’, light up the last area you saw weapon fire from.”
“Copy.”
Not positive how many were left on the north side of the map, Alexander made sure he moved carefully from one area of cover to the next, keeping his footsteps silent. Someone crouched behind a tree became his next target. A headshot ended Nolan’s game.
Alexander reached the far wall and crept in an easterly direction, saying ‘now’ as he went.
Laser fire from Madelyn’s position baited return fire. He seized his chance and closed in at pace, waiting for a clear headshot before pulling the trigger.
Chiara Carli has been eliminated.
Great question. In many ways it was similar because I put characters first and the genre I’ve placed them in second. But probably the biggest difference I noticed was in the use of more technical means to bring the story to life, rather than magical elements. But I did get to play with some of the elements of fantasy I love in small ways as the crew explore a new world. So it was really a fun blend of something new with a bit of something I know I already love.
Another great question. I’ll be candid here, this book pushed me to the outer reaches of my willpower and self-confidence. It was immensely difficult to write at times. Some of the content was not anywhere near my wheelhouse, so it wasn’t just research that I needed to do—I needed to gain an understanding of certain things, like character archetypes I’ve never gravitated towards, etc. I had a small critique/support group that I can’t thank enough for all their hard work.
Well, beer really… LOL! But I’m trying not to drink as much these days, so my second favourite is coffee. Love a good cup of tea as well.
Ian C. Bristow is a freelance artist and the author of Contact (Instinct Theory #1), Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on the second and final instalment of the Instinct Theory duology. When he isn’t writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends. You can visit him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter.
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