Two Women and Some Books
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
You are old, quite a lot needs a shave
Or a wax if you’re terribly brave
While you’re at it don’t skip
The despised upper lip
You look like a moustachioed knave
The Rabid Readers Review Massachusetts by Warren Dean.
What happened to Massachusetts was a crying shame.
This is the first sentence of what seems, at the beginning, to be a folksy tale about a plucky little racehorse. We come to know and love Massachusetts – or Chusey as the narrator fondly calls him – but all the time in the back of our minds we are wondering when we are going to encounter the ‘crying shame’.
When we do it’s more than somewhat surprising. Without giving too much away, the story moves from Kentucky to… somewhere else. And what started out as a simple story about horse racing becomes something completely different.
We move into what can be seen as science fiction or fable, and very well done it is too. When we do find out what happened to Massachusetts it’s a very long way from anything we might have suspected – and the journey is a pretty enjoyable one.
Highly recommended. Not least of all for an equine hero with a big heart.
Massachusettes is a racehorse who has a great future ahead of him until something happens that changes him forever. Instead of racing on a regular track against other horses, he has to race against monstrosities and aliens through a course where the land itself is hostile and dangerous and his fellow ‘speeders’ and their riders won’t stoop to murder if that means they will win.
What I enjoyed:
The journey of the story. This is pretty much an all-action romp from start to finish with nail-biting tension as Chouk-Tzie and Orin charge through an alien world.
The setting. The world where the Katerwaul Klash takes place and the strange Augurmasters who control it, is beautifully described. The atmosphere it conjures made me think of the pod race on Tatooine as featured in The Phantom Menace.
The writing style. Fluent and flawless, beautiful word choices, excellent description and direct and engaging dialogue. The author makes words dance across the page, swirling the reader along effortlessly.
What I struggled with:
The morality. A huge tension point in the book is that Orin voluntarily takes on a horrific wager to do something that, in my opinion, no decent individual would ever agree to. That made it very hard for me to see him as sympathetic.
The end. The resolution of the last climax felt unnecessarily contrived to me, which was a bit disappointing after the taut writing and superb storytelling of the rest of the book. But, that said, the way it was done kind of worked in a book aimed at children or young teens. The message it gave of parental oversight maybe helps take the enormity out of how things transpired for a younger reader and would provide a sense of security.
Overall thoughts:
This is a great book for a younger reader and is beautifully written. Highly recommended.
We was hunting food when there come this bang and such a stench of sulphur that it near to blowed off our heads. Elmer he falls to the ground a-cryin’and a-prayin’, but the rest of us ain’t much into church so we primes our guns and waits.
Next thing we hears is a sound like something is tearin’ up the sky with big hungry claws. Elmer he faints.
Then the ripping sound comes closer and there’s such a tear as you would never believe, right through the space/time continuum.
Dobie shot this critter as it come through
Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.
A tall praetorian came into the room and stood kicking his feet like a schoolboy. Decimus sat abruptly upright.
“All right man, what don’t you want to say?”
The hard-bitten guard looked into his commander’s eyes.
“We obtained entry to the Rufus apartment and there we discovered two females. Identified as Lydia Augusta Severius and Octavia Tullia Scaevia. Both females were deceased. Preliminary examination suggests poison. I’m sorry sir.”
Decimus stood up and clapped the man on his hard, muscular shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said simply and the soldier left, walking quietly.
“Oh. My dear friend,” Julia felt incapable and suddenly very small and useless.
Fortunately Boudicca was well able for the situation. She went and put her plump, motherly arms around Decimus and he laid his head on her shoulder. Julia walked over to them and patted them both.
“We’ll just leave you then…”
“No lass,” Decimus’ voice was thick with tears, but he spoke with authority. “You two should at least hang about until we find out if my lads caught up with Marcella. Though I doubt it.”
“I do too,” Julia said moodily. “I think the futatrix will be long gone.”
Dai looked on, and his face clearly expressed complete puzzlement.
“Tell him, lass. I can’t speak about it right now and he needs to know.”
“When Decimus was offered the job as Tribune in charge of the Praetorian Cohort of Britannia, which was a huge promotion, there were strings. Or rather there was one string. The Praetor had a problem daughter who he wanted married and off his hands. Decimus was single, and with the reputation of being a tough man to cross. The Praetor thought him the perfect man to take his daughter off his hands. Decimus wasn’t given the option of refusal. He married the girl. And she never forgave him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yes, but…,” Dai was groping for words.
“But why am I shedding tears for her?” Decimus provided, stepping away from Boudicca and gently gripping her arm in gratitude.
“Sorry, dominus. But yes…”
Because the poor silly futatrix got as little out of the marriage as me. Maybe even less. She wanted some little wastrel, who was the only son of a senator. But his father didn’t agree. Even when it was proved the girl was spoilt goods. Spoilt by his spoilt son. And that’s why I was weeping. I was weeping at the waste of it all – and because no one should die unmourned. Even simple piety demands tears be shed for her.”
“Oh. I see…”
Julia gave him a little punch on the biceps.
“You probably don’t, and neither do I. But that’s the way they do it in the first families. Lydia was supposed to be grateful to Decimus for marrying her and he was supposed to be grateful for a patrician bride. Sadly, neither felt gratitude. He felt pity. She felt loathing.”
She watched Dai’s face carefully as she spoke, willing him to at least try and understand. Try to see that Romans could be as trapped in their lives as he was in his. When she wound down, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze as if to reassure her, before speaking directly to Decimus.
“I’m sorry dominus. Sorry for what you are going through and sorry for my own crassness. I think I just always assumed that being a Roman Citizen meant you had at least half of the world at your feet. I never thought that might carry its own set of problems.”
Decimus looked at the tall Celt and dredged up a wry grin.
“Just keep it in mind when you are dealing with Julia will you? She’s had it a lot harder than me.”
“Shut up, Decimus,” Julia said, feeling the heat in her face.
“Why should I? Am I not speaking truth?”
“You are. But…” her voice was tense, willing him to leave it alone. This was not the time.
Boudicca gave Decimus a little shake. “Not yours to tell.”
He subsided, still grumbling under his breath, while Julia tried to deal with the twin demons of memory and loneliness.
She’ll grow out of that, they said
When she understands
Her little friend is in her head
They never will touch hands
When she goes to school and finds
Little friends for real
She will see the unreal kind
Cannot think or feel
And so I left my friend, pretend
And turned my face away
The special friendship had to end
With others I must play
But now the years have floated by
And I am old and scary
We are fast friends my friend and I
Though she’s ‘imaginary’
From ‘Follow That Dragon’ one of the stories in The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago
“And keep your eyes open for a dragon on a Harley Davidson.”
Constable Willet stopped in his tracks.
“A what?”
The desk sergeant looked up from his computer.
“You heard me.”
Outside the station, the young policeman looked down at his partner. Badger cocked an ear.
“What’s your problem?”
“Dragons can’t ride motorcycles.”
The canine cop stopped in his tracks.
“You may have a point.”
Willet grinned.
“See, I’m not completely stupid.”
He wasn’t to know what Badger thought of that because the distinctive note of a Harley Davidson engine split the air. The motorcycle careered around the corner, rearing up onto one wheel and mounting the pavement before hurtling down the road bouncing off street furniture as it went.
Badger sat back on his haunches.
“That proves your point. Dragons really can’t ride motorbikes.”
Willet grasped Badger’s harness in one hand as he unfurled his wings.
“Operation intercept,” he said happily as they took to the air.
It didn’t take long to overhaul the motorcycle, as the riding became more and more eccentric with the Harley yawing from side to side and scraping its footrests at every movement. When they caught up, it had just made a sharp left onto a mercifully deserted football pitch. Willet made a long arm and pulled out the kill switch. The engine died and the bike slewed to a halt before slowly toppling over onto its side. The stubby golden dragon just managed to slip from the saddle in time to avoid being trapped by the fallen machine.
Badger gave the rider a very stern look.
“What’s on here, my laddo,” he said firmly.
“Steady down Badger. It’s only a hatchling. And I don’t think it’s a laddo.”
And then the sky was full of panicky dragons bugling their alarm and distress. A good dozen circled Willet, Badger and the hatchling making agitated noises.
“Thief, thief,” the biggest one cried in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Thieves and kidnappers. Where are the rest of our little ones?”
Willet knew that dragons broadcasting distress could easily spark a riot, so he stepped forward.
“Calm down and stop being silly. Nobody kidnapped anybody, although it does seem that those charged with the care of your hatchlings have failed in their duties.”
The lead dragon turned an unfriendly eye on him.
“How does a human dare to so address a dragon?”
Badger laughed sardonically.
“Hush now,” Willet admonished, “and stand back, I’m going to have to make the change before this lot get right out of hand.”
Badger backed off and Willet flowed into his true form.
The dragons quieted appreciably as a huge winged centaur stood facing them with condemnation writ large on his classically handsome features.
“Are dragons too proud to converse with a centaur?” he asked coolly.
The big blue female dipped her head.
“We are not.”
The dragonet meanwhile was watching the happenings with multi-faceted jewel-bright eyes.
“Mama. Where Mama?” The voice was hesitant but definitely female.
“Mama will be here soon,” Willet assured her. “Now tell me where your friends are.”
The dragonet shook her head.
“Mustn’t tell,” she whispered.
Willet concentrated briefly then smiled.
“N’a’mma tell Willet,” he cajoled.
“What Willet?”
“Willet name.”
“Not….”
The centaur laughed, then turned to the hovering dragons above.
“I have seen this little one’s thoughts. The hatchlings found a portal, and while their nursemaid slept they all sneaked through.”
There was a rustle of agitated leathery wings and voices were raised in condemnation of a nursemaid who slept on duty.
“Quiet,” Willet commanded. “Instead of flapping about like chickens, you should be asking yourselves some searching questions.”
One of the smaller blue dragons seemed a bit quicker on the uptake than her sisters.
“Questions like why was there only one nursemaid. Questions like who opened the portal in the first place. Questions like who knew enough to send us here.”
“Yes. Questions like those. But the first question is where are the other dragonets?”
The blue dragon changed her wing shape and landed neatly beside the bemused N’a’mma.
“Where friends? Must tell…”
The dragonet wrinkled her brow.
“Auntie say must not tell.”
“Auntie?”
N’a’mma closed her mouth and looked mulish.
“Where’s her Mama?”
“Dragonheart.”
“We need her. Can any of you bespeak A’a’shanto?”
The little blue pointed to the big female with the squeaky voice.
“She can. But she probably won’t do it.”
Willet laughed.
“She will.” Then he raised his voice. “Dragon. Will you bespeak my friend A’a’shanto, or would you have me do it?”
The big female looked about as offended as a dragon can.
“I will bespeak our master.” Then she looked at the centaur in some puzzlement. “What must I say?”
“Tell your master that there is an unregistered portal that the hatchlings found and escaped through. That we need this little one’s Mama in order that we can find out what she knows…”
“Oh. Very well.”
Badger flattened his ears and Willet looked at him with some sympathy.
“Bloody loud isn’t she?”
“She is.”
The subliminal buzzing stopped, to be followed by the snap of leathery wings. Two more dragons appeared and landed with minimal fuss. One was the black-skinned master, the other a truly spectacular golden queen. As soon as they set claw to the ground, the atmosphere seemed to thicken, and the mating instinct hit Willet like a mailed fist. He only just managed not to swear. The queen was in season, and they would be lucky if they managed to prevent a city-wide orgy. He ruthlessly squashed the heaviness in the pit of his own stomach and looked briefly at Badger who was already communicating with headquarters.
Willet pulled himself together and faced the dragons, at least one of whom was hugely amused by the situation. Willet bowed respectfully.
“Master dragon.”
A’a’shanto stopped smirking and inclined his head.
Before anyone else could speak or react the dragonet waddled over to the queen as fast as she could go.
“Mama. Mama.”
Her mother looked down a long draconic snout at the rotund form of her hatchling. She smiled a maternal smile.
“N’a’mma. What have you been up to now?”
The dragonet shuffled her feet.
“Noffink Mama.”
“Tell Mama, and stop fibbing.”
“We finds portal. Auntie shows us. And we comes through.”
“Where are your friends?”
“Me don’t know. Me plays with hrrrdudu…”
“And where did you get the hrrdudu?”
“Man talking to Auntie has. N’a’mma borrows.”
Willet looked at Badger.
“Can you backtrack it?”
“Can try.”
Willet called up two beat rats to guard the motorcycle, before Badger sniffed the tyres of the Harley, then the now giggling dragonet. He scented the air for a moment, then he put his nose to the ground and headed off in the direction from which the motorbike had come.
“Got you, you bastards,” Willet murmured and followed the upraised tail.
The sword that stands within the stone
Sings inside the soul
Cries come to me and grasp my hilt
If you would once be whole
And all the knights who come to look
With hard ambitious eyes
Who kingship see in glory clad
As life’s most precious prize
Ambition eats their steel-clad souls
And whispers in their brains
The lake blows mists into their ears
They ride away insane
And all the time I sit and wait
For him who stands above
For only whom the waters break
The bear lord, and my love
It was a wet weekend so I was poking through the crumbling and dusty ancient tomes in Mumsie’s personal library, some of which even date back in history to before the early 1990s, in search of something worthy of my attention. As I pulled out a slender volume of poetry, a rather wide and heavy paperback was dislodged and fell from the shelf to impact my naked toes.
After I had finished hopping around and cursing my maternal parent for the disorganised teetering piles of books she has adorning her shelves, I picked up the book and examined it. In the absence of anything else appealing, I decided to read it.
The first thing I noticed is that all the major characters in the book are dead. Which one would think might mean they were thus safer than those who were alive. Indeed, the few who first appear alive usually do wind up dead, but those who are dead also end up deader. Confusing? I think it is meant to be.
For example, there is a little girl who starts being alive, then is dead but still a character active in the book – and then is dead and no longer a character active in the book. Except in the past tense where she remains very active.
The hero of the book is truly Byronesque, bemoaning the nature of the human condition – for those humans who are dead as he is. His nobility is the only saving grace of this book. That and the erotic elements. And Lestat.
Read it if you have a wet weekend that needs filling and have no boxed sets left to binge on.
Two stars – one for each day of that wet weekend it filled and a bonus star for the attractiveness of the real hero, Lestat.
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.
“We’re in space. There cannot be water dripping.”
“No. What’s that smegging noise then?”
“There is no noise.”
But Zammo knew there was noise. He also knew nobody was gonna do smeg. So he suited up. Getting one of the more reliable drones to man the airlock he went out. He turned his face to the direction from which the noise had come, and his jaw dropped so fast it cracked against the plexiglass of his helmet. His feet were on solid ground, and there was vegetation around him. He took off his helmet and walked away from the ship.
I was:
Fifteen when I first set eyes on him.
Seventeen when he fed me red wine, popped my cherry and walked away.
Thirty-one when he walked into a very boring cocktail party. I recognised him immediately; he was even dressed very much the same in faded blue jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up his brawny forearms. He scanned the room with his denim-blue eyes and I was immediately transported back fourteen years to another party in another world.
He had materialised at my elbow with a glass of red wine in each hand.
“I can’t bear to see a pretty girl not drinking.”
It was so vivid that I could even smell the crushed grass underfoot in the marquee.
I snapped back to the twenty-first century in time to see those eyes skip over me, then back, narrowing in recognition.
I put down my glass, walked quietly out of the party and hailed a cab.
Three days later I received a text.
Three days after that I was in his bed.
I rolled over and gave him my best slumbrous look.
“You wanna play a game?”
He was intrigued enough to fall in with my plan.
Three hours later he was tied naked to the bed and I was writing uncomplimentary things about his sexual prowess on his torso with a sharpie.
The photographs were an internet sensation.
Oh yes, revenge is a dish best eaten cold…..
Working Title Blogspot 