Once I stood upon the battlefield,
My sword held high
And in the righteous cause, my blade did wield
And I did die.

Once on horse so fine I rode to war
My king to serve
With pistol and carbine, I slew a score
And fell to earth.

Once in trenches deep I crawled all day
My land to save
With machine-gun fire I cleared the way
And found my grave.

Now I watch a screen and with my hand
It’s drones I fly
Their deadly strikes will kill at my command
But I won’t die.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Picture by from Ian Bristow of Bristow Design

You can listen to this on YouTube.

There are some books one remembers distinctly from childhood because of the immense impact they had at the time on the developing individual. I have memories of A Wizard of Earthsea bound up in blood and trauma.

I was gifted the tome by some long forgotten maiden aunt of my pater’s who had included a hand scripted note saying how she thought the cover looked like it was ‘a good book for a little boy’. I should probably add that said maiden great-aunt was profoundly immersed in art deco, dadaism and surrealism. Left to myself I would not have opened the thing and would have slipped it into the bag of items Mumsie always kept for The Less Fortunate and shipped out to a charity shop once full.

But Pater had other plans. It seemed I was required not only to write a loquacious and sycophantic thank you letter to said maiden great-aunt, it was also required that I first read the wretched thing and pass comment upon how profoundly it had moved my innocent young soul. In other words, a review.

From the wisdom and experience of adulthood, I can look back fondly on my child-self and laugh at my puerile folly in thinking this was some show of esteem and affection for his aunt from my father. As I recall the inheritance netted him enough to double his investments overnight.

I still have the review, which I wrote with a cartridge pen on the back page of the book and in the process inflicted a paper-cut on my innocent childish fingers. My first ever.

The Review.

A boy called Dunny, or Sparrowhawk or Ged is good at magic and goes to a kind of Hogwarts on an island. There he learns magic and gets in a fight with the school bully. He loses his shadow and he and his best friend have to find it again. 

It was a very annoying book because the boy could have won by using the magic stone but for some reason decided not to.

Stars: One and a half. 

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.

He bought the picture at a house clearance sale. 

Anna obediently cleaned the dim little oil, which turned out to be a charming study of Bacchus and his nymphs.

She loved it. And Him.

The marriage lurched along for another decade, but when it finally broke He was vicious. Within a week Anna was out and he had installed his young mistress.

She was a fey creature who sat in front of the painting devouring it with her eyes.

Then she disappeared.

Did she run away?

Did He kill her?

Or was there an extra figure in the painted bacchanal?

©jj 2019

This is an extract from ‘Dragonheart’ one of the adult fairy tales in The Dragonheart Stories by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The dragon spiralled down out of the sunset, with the orange light setting his skin aflame so that he looked as if he was made of oil and steel. Tia stood and watched, wryly noting the Diamond Throne banner, whilst being careful not to move or speak until the shining one’s feet touched the ground and he furled his wings.

She bowed her head in a formal gesture of welcome.
“Greetings lady,” the voice inside her head was deeper than she expected. This must be a full male, which meant he would be a shifter as well. He would bear watching. Carefully.
“Greetings, bright one.”
The dragon regarded her out of whirling multi-faceted eyes before bowing his head. The silence lengthened, and seemed to Tia that her uninvited guest was trying to make her nervous with his lack of comment. She broke the silence in a deliberately small voice.
“What does my lady mother want of me?”
“Naught. She would merely ascertain that you are well.”
Tia cast down her eyes so he could not see her contempt.
“Perhaps my lord dragon would care to assume his human form and venture inside, to where we can speak in more comfort.”
If it was possible for a dragon to look puzzled, he did so.
“May one ask what makes you think this dragon has a human form?”
For a moment Tia dropped her shield of humility.
“Who am I?” she raised a narrow dark eyebrow.
He thought about that one for a moment before dipping his head.
“One is ashamed.”
Tia was at great pains not to show her contempt for that remark.
“I apologise. It was not my intention to cause you disquiet.”
She felt the dragonish laughter as a vibration that ran right through her skeleton.
“My name is M’a’tsu, and I would be honoured to visit with you.”
Tia curtseyed.
“I will leave you to make the change in privacy.”
She turned and made her way across the flower strewn meadow to the grey stone buildings that clustered at the base of the cliffs and the stone stairway to the temple.

M’a’tsu watched her go, enjoying her long-legged stride and the way her body moved under the simple linen robe she wore. He found himself fantasising about tying her up with the rope of her own black hair, which hung in a braid almost to her knees. Giving himself a sharp inward reminder that he wasn’t there for pleasure, he took the necessary time to compose his mind before making the change.

Once he was in his human form, he stretched for a moment enjoying the different sensations afforded by thinner skin. He looked down at his muscular perfection and briefly considered remaining unclothed but the pleasure of the rapidly cooling air against his human flesh had to be balanced against the possibility of giving offence. Accordingly he shifted himself leather trews and a waistcoat, electing to remain barefoot for the sheer delight of the feel of grass beneath him.

Jane Jago.

He broke her heart when she was seventeen, and crowed about it in the pub until her brother broke his nose.

Ten years later he sent her a Facebook friend request. She ignored him, so he posted ten-year-old pictures of her naked body alongside a pretty crude dismissal of her performance in bed.

But he was a fool, because she unearthed the poem she wrote the day after he left her. It went viral, as every teenage girl in the world downloaded a copy for her bedroom wall.

And him?

Oh, nobody noticed him, except as a deceiver.

©jj 2019

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

buson (noun) – heavily armoured brassiere 

cadgiran (noun) – warm woolly, worn by unreliable gentleman

chils (noun) – small person with a perpetually runny nose

digsust (noun) – assistant gardener

ebhind (noun) – a person with a Bambi fixation

fiendr (noun) – false friend

giggkes (noun) – chuckles that end in hiccoughs

moom (noun) – elongated female parent

nomran (adjective) – of architecture, seldom perpendicular 

rokcet (noun) – salad leaf whose flavour is vaguely reminiscent of elderly  training shoes

sumb (noun) – a column of numbers that comes to a different total every time you add it up

sytaighforward (adverb) – of gait denoting having the chest poked forward and the ass cheeks pressed as far back as possible

tuhmb (noun) – the sound a cat makes just prior to vomiting

usueful (adverb) – of teaching not entirely successful but well-intentioned

waelse (noun) – the offspring of a marsupial and a garden chair

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

About his feet the little people quaked and cried. He curled his lip in scorn. 

He felt a strong desire to cook the soldiers in their metal cuirasses but chivalry demanded that he kill only where necessary so he reined in his fury.

Instead, he turned his face on the invading king and allowed himself one roar of rage.

The man fell to his knees and covered his eyes.

“Die infidel.”

As the king grovelled, a ballista twanged thickly and the iron bolt buried itself in Draco’s noble heart.

His dying flame razed a swathe of death a mile long.  

©jj 2019

Inspired by the brilliant work of the multi-talented Ian Bristow

From Mistrust and Treason by E.M. Swift-Hook which is a Fortune’s Fools book and opens  Iconoclast Trilogy, the third and final trilogy in the series. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The music started up again and there was a tap at the door. Distracted, he turned smiling, knowing who it would be.
“I grabbed a drink. Thought you’d like one too.”
This was the reason he had taken that retirement two years ago. Vexana. Nearly sixteen years old now, Legacy raised and the perfect age to become willing cannon-fodder for them. He was trying hard to convince her that there were other, better, ways to serve the cause, ways that could achieve just as much — more — and not cost you your life. So far he wasn’t sure he had succeeded, but it was a work in progress.
Torbalen hoped she would, one day, be able to learn the kind of skills needed to do his job here, or maybe she would move on to something different, better and safer. It would be folly to assume he could ever persuade her to step away from The Legacy. Much as he wanted her to do exactly that, he couldn’t deny her the same right as he had to serve the cause for which her parents had died. But he could, and would, do his best to ensure the way she served that cause was one that would never place her in the same kind of extreme hazard her parents had so willingly undertaken.
He accepted the drink she offered and sipped at it as Vexana dropped into the only other chair available.
“So you think these two are any good?” She gestured vaguely in the direction the music was coming from.
“Not bad. They have that raw edge you kids seem to like.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“You kids? Sheesh!”
Torbalen hid his smile.
“Sorry. You young adults. Let me try it again. This duo has the kind of unconstrained spontaneity that young adults seem to find inspiring. Is that better?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly. He felt she was judging his very soul and finding it wanting. It was a court with no facility for appeal, but it was also a judge who could be merciful and accept age as a mitigating factor. She looked away and glanced at a screen, firing off a couple of quick, texted, messages before deigning to give him her attention again.
“She was back there today.”
Torbalen tried to make that comment fit into the landscape of the world he shared with his granddaughter. He failed.
“Who was back where?”
The slight impatient sigh told him he had made some mistake by not knowing.
“At the dojo? That new girl I told you about? She’s good. You should come see her. She was talking politics with some of the others too.”
He felt a lurch of concern at those last few words. He owned the building the dojo occupied, it was one of the main places he had people keeping an eye out for potential recruits. One of the first things many of those angry and hate-filled kids wanted to do when they got here from whatever war zone hell-hole they had fled, was to learn how to defend themselves. They believed if they did they would never feel so vulnerable again. So, it made good sense to have his people there ready to listen to their woes and alert him to any who might be more useful.
In terms of recruitment, it was right on the front-line and the people he had doing it there were all well trained and experienced.
His grand-daughter didn’t know any of that. She was simply passionate about martial arts as a sport. Vexana trained there and she also helped out a couple of hours each day after school assisting in teaching the children’s classes. Torbalen had complete trust that his people would watch over her there with as much care as he did himself. Although of course, Vexana had no idea of his real role here on Skapandir. She knew he owned the dojo and maybe even believed she was the only one bringing him word of what happened there. But she was also not naive and would have worked out by now that there was some kind of Legacy connection with the place.
“Vexy, you know you mustn’t get into that kind of conversation with anyone.”
She glared at him.
“I just said she was talking with some of the others.”
“Good. Because it is really not — ”
“Not what?” Vexana snapped. “Not appropriate? Not my business? My parents died because of it so I think that makes it my business.”
She was brittle and defensive. He said the wrong thing, as he always did.
“My son and daughter-in-law died because of it, Vexy, and I would rather my granddaughter did not and I have the suspicion that they would’ve felt the same.”
“They died. You didn’t.”
He sighed heavily. It was an old argument and he had never yet won.
“I have given my life to The Leg— ”
“Really? How is that? You were just running a shipping business.” The girl almost spat with contempt. “How did that help anyone?”
“I was doing other things too.”
“Like what? Making a donation now and then? How very noble and heroic.”
“It wasn’t like that. We’ve been over this before. You know I can’t tell you exactly what I was — ”
Vexana made a sound that was a half-growl, half-groan of frustration and threw herself out of the chair, back towards the door. In a moment she would slam it hard and he would hear her feet thump down the small staircase.
He hated that.
Each time it happened he was left with the chill of fear that this might be the time it had gone too far and she might do something rash.
“Tell me then,” he said quickly, breaking the usual script of their ongoing melodrama. “Tell me about this new girl.”

 E.M. Swift-Hook 

She had never considered herself any more than passably attractive, thinking of her fellow debutantes as beautiful butterflies to her own pale moth. She watched the social whirl with a gentle smile, finding herself no more than mildly amused by the gyrations of her peers.

And then she met Him.

He was tall and wide-shouldered and even the sound of his voice in another room was enough to set her stomach fluttering like a captive bird.

He bowed over her hand and looked down into her eyes.

“Dance with me, beautiful.”

From that night she was beautiful – and beloved

©️jj 2019

The Rabid Readers Review Tempest Blades: The Withered King by Ricardo Victoria

The Withered King is a rollercoaster of a blockbuster. It starts fast and keeps right on coming at helter-skelter pace.
Fionn is an old-style heroic hero, the reclusive wielder of a Tempest Blade, and just about too old and too world-weary for another battle. But despite his reluctance, he comes to understand that figures from his past are reaching into the future and he has no option but to stand up and be counted.
He collects around him an oddly assorted group of friends and helpers (and the most wonderful airship) and together they go forth to face whatever fate has in store. Which is plenty.
This is on one side of the coin a traditional swashbuckling story of derring-do. On the other side, it collects together so many influences from mythology, to steampunk, to manga, to video gaming, that it becomes something entirely more complex.
I loved the breakneck pace and the fresh feel of the storytelling.
I was less happy with the sheer number of ideas crammed into one novel, at times I felt as if I was being bombarded by an overactive imagination and I wanted to shout ‘slow down’.
Taking the rough with the smooth though, this is an excellent read and I’d highly recommend it, both as a jolt to the system and as an involving piece of escapism.

Jane Jago

Final Fantasy Meets Science Fantasy

Fionn is a hero from another age and he has a lot of baggage around using his power and his magical blade even in the best cause. In the past, he has seen them bring him only sorrow, guilt and regret. But when a new adventure opens up he realises he can’t ignore what he is, who he is and he finds a new generation of ‘Gifted’ who need his help to master their skills.

What I really enjoyed:
The Pace. This is a book which seems to pack a page and a half of happenings on just about every page. It powers along and once you get into the story it is page-turning.
The Setting. This has the feel of a world the author knows well. A world that is never over-described, but has the sense of solidity that only great worldbuilding can provide.
The Plot. Complex, twisty and coming at you from all angles. The one thing it’s not is predictable or dull.

What I struggled with:
Two things, but both are purely personal gripes – taste not substance and between them, I’d maybe dock a half star.
The Banter. I am not big on this kind of stuff in the most ideal of situations but when our heroes take time out in the middle of a battle to stop and score verbal points off each other, I struggle to maintain any measure of disbelief.
The Lack of Realism. Even allowing for the fact this was a fantasy, I struggled in places to believe in the events as described. It was so much like anime it was, at times, as if all the rules of reality went out the window.

Overall Thoughts.
If you love anime style fantasy then this book is a must. The experience of reading it is unique in capturing that feel. 

E.M. Swift-Hook