Dear Reader Who Writes,

I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery-acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”

The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur, if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.

So, to business. The new year is upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.

It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.

I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.

• Resolve to study all of The Thinking Quill lessons.
• Begin writing a novella.
• Complete a haiku.
• Peruse A-G in a thesaurus.
• Purchase and read “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
• Buy some pens with glittery pastel-coloured ink so your writing looks like unicorn faeces. This will add magic to those moments when you look in blank incomprehension at the notes you wrote in the depths of the night.
• Start each morning with a free dance expressing the joy of being alive.
• Take up yoga or pilates – whichever you did not plan to do last year but never started.

Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.

Happy New Year!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy's profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book, the worst ever 'how to write' book. Read IVy's advice with editorial comments on each blog piece by his mother, Jacintha. All courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Write a short story about a disabled person that is set in a futuristic or fantasy setting!

Too often those who are disabled or different become sidelined in speculative fiction or their issues are masked or ‘magic-ed away’ by technology or – well – magic. It is very rare for a story set in a sci-fi or fantasy universe to be truly inclusive.

This anthology is challenging that – big time!

If you write short stories and want to explore the importance of inclusion in your idea of the future, this is the anthology for you. It’s a charity anthology (this means there is no payment being offered for any submission) with all profits from sales benefiting the Special Olympics .

Theme: The main character must be disabled and succeed through their own efforts and without normalizing (i.e. undoing their disabilities). This book is about celebrating the people who exist today and making them represented in the future and in other worlds.

Every MC must be disabled and yet resolve the crisis they are thrust into. The key element is to show a physically or mentally disabled/different character has no bar to being a great protagonist.

Age level: should be no racier than PG 13

For more information, to support the venture or if you need help with your submission, please ask to join our Facebook Group.

The woman was in a pitiable state. Somebody had tied her wrists behind her and dragged her through the mud behind a horse. The magistrate looked severely at the guard captain.

The man shrugged.

“Witchfinder’s orders.”

“Is she accused of witchcraft?”

“No. Lewd behaviour.”

The magistrate sighed.

“Well untie her, man.”

The guard hustled to do his bidding, then he spoke.

“Case dismissed.” 

The woman’s face came alive, and he threw her a purse of small coin. 

“Money to feed your children.”

She clutched the purse and ran.

The magistrate mentally castigated the coldhearted witchfinder before getting back to business.

©️jj 2019

The Old Year sits, and knits her shroud
It will be done tomorrow 
Although it’s white and soft as cloud
It’s weighted down with sorrow

And every tear the year has shed
Has put a knot in snowy thread
And where her wrinkled hands have bled 
Brown stains mourn for children dead 

The Old Year sits, and knits and waits
And only half remembers
January’s child who grew, to
Wrinkle-faced December

When Father Time his anvil strikes
The Old Year’s thread is spun
While Young Year’s thread is gold and bright 
With hope for everyone 

©️Jane Jago 2018

Hard as it may be to believe, 2018 was only our second year here and our very first full calendar year running the blog!

By the chimes that end this year, we will have welcomed over 4,350 visitors over the last twelve months, to read the 674 posts we have made in that time! Our most popular post of the year was, a little surprisingly perhaps, Jane Jago’s review of ‘A Song for Arbonne’ by Guy Gavriel Kay back in June. Our most popular day for people to visit was Sunday.

Most folk found their way here through Facebook and Twitter or from other WordPress places, but at least one brave soul arrived here following the search term ‘brent a harris hunt dinosaurs’…

Most of our visitors came from the USA, but we had a lot from the UK too, with Australia, Canada, India, Ireland and Germany not too far behind. We’ve even had visitors from China, Egypt, Georgia, Somalia, Chile, Myanmar – Oh and The Bahamas… In all, people from 73 different countries around the world have dropped by for a read this year.

Thank you, each and every one of you, wherever you checked in from.

We hope you have enjoyed the reading here in 2018 and that maybe you have discovered some new authors too. We look forward to welcoming you back for even more great reads – poetry and prose, fiction and interviews, parody and reviews – in the New Year, starting tomorrow!

Eleanor and Jane

She sat up in bed with pillows banked behind her frail shoulders. Sleep being a rare commodity, she turned nightly to literature to divert her mind from the pointlessness of being nearly a century old.  

As the clock began to toll the end of yet another interminable year, her eyes tired so she closed them, and for a moment was young again. She thought herself standing at the foot of a bright staircase with nothing to do but lightly climb to where her lover waited.

As the twelfth note of the tocsin sounded she dropped lightly into her last sleep…

©️jj 2018

The name’s Nero, Sam Nero. Private eye and augmented android. Me and my holographic sidekick, Sugar, operate out of an office on the fifty-fifth level of The Last City. We do okay. But some days are a bit bumpier than others…

If you missed the first instalments you can catch up here.

It was the work of but a few moments for the father and son to be ready to depart, and the five of us walked to the nearest glide station. I noticed how the O’Hallerans placed themselves in the centre of our phalanx, and mentally applauded their bravery. At the glide station there was something of a crowd of hoodies, all pushing and shoving and generally making themselves an annoyance to anyone wanting to use the glides. We ignored them, and mostly they got the message. But of course there was one. A thin, twitchy youth, with the jittery eyes of the junkie, put a hand on O’Halleran senior’s arm. He went for whatever he was packing, but Zig grabbed his wrist. I picked the junkie up by his scraggy neck and shook him gently.
“Naughty, naughty,” I admonished.
He showed me his teeth, but, aside from noting a distressing lack of dental hygiene I remained unmoved. I gave him another little shake, and one of his buddies grabbed him by the arm.
“Leave it Sisco. That’s Sam Nero. He’ll eat you for breakfast.”
The junkie blinked blearily and a couple of his group dropped him and sat on his chest.

We climbed onto the glide and Zig left hold of Seamus’ wrist.
“Your goon had hold of me,” O’Halleran complained.
“So he did,” I agreed blandly. “ I think he was trying to stop you starting a war we might not have won.”
“But he touched me…”
I turned and gave the complaining man my flattest stare.
“And?”
His son laid a hand on his arm.
“Mister Nero has a point. We were badly outnumbered.”
Seamus subsided and the rest of our journey was completed in silence.

At Hood’s Bar, Vinny the doorman waved us in although he showed me the whites of his eyes. When the visitors had pushed their arrogant way inside I favoured Vinny with a small wink. He grinned wolfishly. I moved smoothly ahead of the O’Hallerans and led the way to the private office. I tapped respectfully on the door panels.
“Come.”
I opened the door and ushered the two men inside.

I went to stand at Katie Scarlett’s shoulder, and Myk and Zig ranged themselves either side of the door. Katie Scarlett held up a finger and carried on totting up a column of figures. Seamus all but ground his teeth, and his son placed an admonitory hand on his forearm.

Katie looked up and gave them her most ingenuous smile.
“I’m sorry to be so rude. There’s just so much happening.”
Seamus visibly pulled himself together and surged forwards to clasp her outstretched hand.
“How can we help you my dear?”
She manufactured a blush from who knows where and cast down her eyes.
“Well,” she said softly, “with Daddy out of the picture…”
“Out of the picture?” Seamus could barely keep the glee out of his voice.
“Yes,” Katie bit the word off. “Currently.”
“What has happened?” Seamus junior asked with spurious concern.
Katie Scarlett looked him right between the eyes.
“I was rather hoping you would tell me.”
He tried to stare her down, but she wasn’t to be intimidated.
Seamus senior went for his shoulder harness, but found his arms clamped in Myk’s huge hands. Not to be outdone, Zig grasped Junior just as firmly.
“I think the lady asked you a question,” I said mildly.
“I didn’t,” Katie corrected me. “But I will now. Uncle Seamus, will you please tell me what you know about androids with my face?”
Seamus swallowed audibly but said nothing.
“Myk, will you please remind my uncle about the penalties involved in stubbornness.”
Myk must have squeezed, because Seamus made a strange whinnying noise and his face changed colour. Seamus junior looked at his father with deep contempt.
“Zig,” Katie Scarlett spoke softly, and the second twin started applying pressure on the man he had a hold on.

Father and son held out for a couple minutes, and it was the son who broke first.
“What have you been up to father? Cough, or I swear I will kill you.”
“You wanted the girl, and the club. I was just smoothing your way.”
“And how were you proposing to do that?”
Daddy O’Halleran spoke from behind them, and they both jumped as if they had been shot.

I patted Katie Scarlett on the shoulder and left the room. They didn’t need me and I had a fancy for a large shot of bourbon over ice.

I was on my second drink when Katie sashayed up to me wearing a big grin. I signalled to the bar droid and ordered her a large martini. When we were settled with our drinks she regarded me smilingly.
“What do we owe you, Sam?”
“I’ll take a bottle of the good stuff, and we can call it quits.”
She looked at me over the rim of her glass.
“Is there nothing I can do for you?” she purred.
“Behave yourself, Katie Scarlett. You don’t know what you are offering.”
“Don’t I?”
A voice spoke behind me.
“No. You don’t.”
O’Halleran heaved his considerable bulk onto a stool and the bar droid brought him a pint of the black beer he favoured. He drained half the glass in one draught before looking at me with something akin to friendliness.
“She ain’t gonna give up, Sam.”
“I don’t expect her to, but it’ll still get her nowhere.”
Katie looked from one of us to the other, aware that there was an undertone she was missing. She frowned.
“Okay, you two. What is nobody telling me?”
Neither of us spoke.
“Daddy?”
“Not mine to tell.”
“Sam?”
“I’m on my honour not to tell you.”
She pouted, and her father looked at me. “You can tell. If you want. But there’s no obligation.”

I downed my drink and leaned forward to kiss Katie’s porcelain cheek.
“Sorry, babe. But it’s not something I want to talk about.”
Myk and Zig materialised at my back.
“The boys will walk you home,” O’Halleran said, and proffered a hand. We slapped palms and I walked away from pretty Katie Scarlett.

After all, I had Sugar waiting at home and one dame is enough for any man.

The End

©️Jane Jago 2018

You can find the first Sam Nero story in Dust Publishing's anthology The Last City together with other stories about his fellow Citizens...

Yellow Lotus looked at her lady mother’s rigid spine and sighed inwardly. She bowed three times to the ancestors in their ceremonial vessels then spoke quietly.

“Lady Chi,” she said, “we will not last the winter without money.”

Mother winced, but inclined her head.

“If there was not need to provide a dowry for me there would be food until Cherry Blossom comes of age.” Lotus paused. “The lord Lao would take me as his principal concubine.”

Chi’s pencilled brows drew together. “Do you know what you are proposing?”

“Well enough.”

It was agreed, and Lotus began her glittering career.

©️jj 2018

I swear that I blinked
And missed how
This year just went past,
I’m sure that I sang
Auld Lang Syne
This weekend gone, or last.

But the calendar
Pages prove,
With every crossed-out day
That yet one more year
For us all
Has somehow crept away.

A moment ago
Twas summer
With days of endless sun
But now the weather’s
Cold and wet
Being out is less fun.

I do not think I
Remember
Autumn when it was here,
It must have slipped past
As spring did
In the whirl of the year.

But looking back to
Consider
All the things I have done,
Since last New Year did
Celebrate
Our orbit round the sun,

It suddenly seems
Amazing
How much has taken place.
Those days that went by
Were packed full
Crammed at a break-neck pace.

So I glance at the
Calendar
And heed what the clock read,
But remind myself
They tell lies
Time is all in my head.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The name’s Nero, Sam Nero. Private eye and augmented android. Me and my holographic sidekick, Sugar, operate out of an office on the fifty-fifth level of The Last City. We do okay. But some days are a bit bumpier than others…

If you missed the first instalments you can catch up here.

“Never fails,” Katie laughed. “If Sam gets the live goods we can send some boys to fetch the droids and the security feed disks. Oh, and they can return the weasel to his pit.”
Her daddy aimed an affectionate swipe in her direction. “All that Katie Scarlett said. Plus back here. Couple hours?”
I nodded. Then I had a thought.
“You want them kicking and screaming, or on their own two feet, convinced their little plan has worked even better than they hoped.”
O’Halleran’s flat, shark eyes sparkled with mordant humour.
“The second option, if it’s achievable…”
I nodded and Katie Scarlett laughed, it was a sound like silver bells but underlain with a wealth of malice.
“Do tell, Sam.”
“Simple. The spy they are bound to have in the club will have told them there is something amiss. Depending on how close to you the spy is, they either think your daddy is missing, or they are wondering what the Sam Hill is going on. Either way, I would have thought a cordial invitation from you, Katie Scarlett, would bring them running.”
O’Halleran looked at me with a sparkle of real humour in his killer’s eyes.
“And when they get here, just think how much enjoyment we will have disabusing them of their false notions.” His laughter was absolutely genuine, but it scraped along my nerve endings like some kid running its fingers down a chalkboard. “You just write them a nice little note, my darling, and we’ll have Sam and the twins deliver it.”
They exchanged a look of pure unadulterated malice and I made eye contact with Zig, who favoured me with the merest hint of a shrug.

It wasn’t until a bit more than an hour later that father and daughter felt they had the groundwork in place. I was presented with a note, written on pink scented notepaper, and me and the twins went for a walk. We had to drop two levels and when we got down to thirty-seven the atmosphere was intimidating to say the least.
“Riot in the air,” I murmured, and Myk gave a soundless laugh.

No matter how proddy the local hoodies might have been feeling, nobody had the courage, or the downright stupidity, to want to tangle with Zig and Myk, so we made our way to our destination unmolested. Which, judging from the screams and bumps in the side streets we passed, was far from being the case for everyone.  

Seamus O’Halleran’s home and place of business occupies a whole block, and even has a bit of green space out front. The local hoods leave well enough alone, as Seamus has the reputation of being both humourless and spectacularly vicious.

We ambled along the sidewalk towards the concrete edifice and Myk quirked an eyebrow. Zig went one better, going so far as to ask ‘what business’, with his fingers flying.
“Whorehouse,” I said quietly. “Caters for people with very specific tastes.”
The twins looked down their noses, and I grinned.

Once we set foot on the broad brick pathway to the front door, I could feel the eyes. It wasn’t long before a couple of security droids appeared in from of us.
“Your business, gentlemen?”
They were scrupulously polite, although the bulges in their armpits suggested that things might get less pleasant if we were not possessed of the correct answers.
“Message for Mister O’Halleran from his niece Katy Scarlett.”
Their eyes did that strange skittery thing that indicates that a mid-range droid is processing information, and may even be receiving instructions.
“You may enter Mister Nero, but your companions are unwelcome.”
I turned on my heel.
“Come on boys. We’re leaving.”
One of the droids was stupid enough to get in my way. I picked it up and threw it into a flower bed. It’s compadre stood undecided and just as we reached the sidewalk the front door opened.
“Mister Nero,” the voice was cultured, although not without an element of threat.
“Mister O’Halleran,” I kept my own tones level, but carefully unimpressed.
I turned to face a slimmer, smoother, more urbane version of the shark-cold killer I knew so well. He manufactured a smile.
“Was it necessary to throw security into the herbaceous border?”
I shrugged. “It annoyed me.”
“Fair enough. Now why won’t you come in on your own?”
I looked him up and down a bit.
“I don’t know you. Plus. The streets are getting revved up for a riot, I will not abandon my associates in the face of that.”
He thought that one through.
“Fair enough you can all come inside.”

We entered a lobby as big as most people’s homes and hung a left into a palatial office. Seamus sat and I passed him Katie’s carefully manufactured note. He looked at it without opening it for a long moment.
“What’s it say?”
I lifted one shoulder. “I dunno. I don’t read other people’s mail.”
“A guess then.”
“Probably *help*. Her daddy is missing and she needs a strong right arm.”
Seamus’ smile almost rivalled his cousin’s for wanton viciousness.
“Shall we see…”
He opened the envelope with a shiny paper knife and perused the sheet of pink paper with a curled lip. About halfway through he started to smile.
“Got you, you slimy bastard,” I thought.

I kept my face bland and Seamus squinted up at me.
“Help indeed,” he said as unemphatically as he could manage. “My little cousin wants to see me. Me and Seamus Junior. I’ll just call him.”

He sent a droid to fetch his son, who arrived with a cynical twist to his thin lips. His father passed him the note, which he read carefully. His mouth relaxed as he read, and by the end of the sheet of paper he was as close to smiling as I figured he could get. He turned to look at me and I bore his gaze stoically.
“And what is your function Mister Nero?”
“Messenger. Escort.”
“And your associates?”
“Insurance.”
“Fair enough.”

To be continued…

©️Jane Jago 2018

You can find the first Sam Nero story in Dust Publishing's anthology The Last City together with other stories about his fellow Citizens...