I scarce can bring myself to greet you, my pupil.

The only reason I am setting out these words is from the profound sense of duty that every pedagogue owes to his most devoted students. In happier times I was renowned for my science-fiction work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ – a light-hearted escapade of two heroes who could only ever conquer, written by one who then had a light heart, untouched by the ravages of love and loss.

For now I write to you from the very depths. This is a harsh lesson indeed and comes from one whose name is now sorrow, whose eyes see naught but pain, whose mouth tastes naught but ashes, and whose dreams are filled with tears. But this is no matter. Of such agony truth of writing cometh. Follow me and I shall lead you into a vale of tears from which your writing shall grow emotions of which you never hitherto dreamed.

Lesson 36: The Write Heartbreak

In every story, in every lifetime, in every world, in every universe there is Heartbreak. Even should your compositional endeavours lead you to a place inhabited only by machines and sharply carapaced octopids there will still be unrequited love, or the gutwrench of a failed relationship, or death, or sickness, or the loss of all.

And as writers this is what we must deal with.

We must lift our prose to a plane from which sorrow drips like corrosive acid into the very souls of our readers. We must wring their withers. We must pull from them gouts of snot, bathfuls of tears, and sobs that leave their chests pained and torn.

We must use every adjective and adverb to our name. We must leave no emotional stepping stone untrodden, no hidden corner of sensibility unharrowed, no tiny morsel of love unstamped upon.

If we are to write grief, let us feel grief, let us cry ourselves to sleep as we contemplate the fate of our hapless lovers. Let us understand their hearts as our own breaks with them.

I offer a small sample that you may begin to understand…

It was a suburban garden, offering him little space in which to feel himself alone enough to allow the fullest extent of his misery to crash down around him like a tidal wave of unquenchable sorrow. Seeking solitude, and knowing there was no solace to be had under the unforgiving sun, he had crawled under the spreading leaves of a barren fig tree there to lie in foetal misery, too frozen to cry and too alone to face the world. Who knew how long he had been sunk in his own misery before he felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Turning, almost not of his own volition, he allowed himself the luxury of another’s embrace. The comfort of a shoulder clad in unromantic and somewhat bobbled and faded wool. He lifted his eyes to the worn and unromantic features of his mother, thinking in some corner of his tired mind that he could not remember the last time he and this woman had shared anything except vague mutual antipathy. She seemed to comprehend his distress though, as she smoothed his hair back from his hectic forehead with gentle fingers.

“Hearts don’t break,” she said softly, “it only feels like they do”.

Until next time.

Whenever that may be…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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Candy had worshipped the boss from afar since her very first day at Maxwell Industries. But she was just a typist, and no matter how fast her heart beat and how the butterflies in her stomach fluttered at the very sound of his voice, the best she could realistically hope for was the occasional glimpse of his commanding figure as he strode through the corridors with his team of secretaries and assistants at his heels.

The call to his office to take some dictation came out of the blue one Friday afternoon, and she smoothed down her demure little skirt with suddenly sweaty palms. She tapped gently on the office door and was rewarded with a curt “Come”.

Mr Maxwell sat behind his huge mahogany desk, immaculately suited, and perfectly presented. Candy thought his silver-flecked beard and horn-rimmed spectacles only served to accentuate his utter handsomeness. She felt her breath catch in the back of her throat as she detected the faintest scent of his cologne, it was something spicy and masculine and she felt her knees weakening.

Mr Maxwell didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture. He just pointed one finger at a seat in the corner and started to rattle off strings of figures at the speed of a machine gun.

After about five minutes he stopped abruptly and motioned for Candy to hand him her pad. She passed it over and nervously licked her lips. He studied it for some moments before smiling his approval.
“Very good, Miss Jones. Only one error and you have noted that yourself.”

He looked her up and down and Candy felt the blush start at the Peter Pan collar of her neatly ironed blouse and work it’s way up to her face.
Mr Maxwell laughed.
“Is your passport up to date?”
“Yes, Mr Maxwell.”
“And is there any reason why you wouldn’t be able to accompany me on a business trip to the US?”
“No sir.”
“Very well. Go home and pack. We leave at eight this evening. Smart casual wear will be appropriate. And Miss Jones, no trousers and no tights.”

Candy all but ran from the room, and Boris Maxwell leaned back in his chair. He smiled a cold smile, as he thought of how sweetly virginal the girl looked and how much pleasure he would take in training her to be properly submissive to his needs…

Jane Jago

Courtly love and troubadours. Lust, betrayal and brutality. Lifelong feuds, towering ambition, warlike gods and goddesses.  This book has it all, but without ever feeling like it has too much.

Blaise of Gorhaut, raised to despise Arbonne as soft and women-ruled, has his certainties chopped from beneath his feet as he learns of the worm at the heart of his own homeland whilst coming to both understand and admire a different way of living…

What happens when a society that venerates song and the elements of courtly love is forced into battle by a neighbouring state bent on burning and raping the very land on which they live?

In Blaise, we meet one of the most prosaic of fantasy heroes. He is at heart a very ordinary man, torn between deep-rooted beliefs and new truths he comes to understand, a man who learns to love and to value women, even as he rails against his own looming fate.

This is a complex and wholly believable story, set in an equally complex and equally believable world. 

Five stars without reservation. Read this but be prepared to weep.

Jane Jago

You can find A Song For Arbonne on Amazon and other bookstores.

 

From A Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook

The frost had frozen the blood onto the surface of the snow almost as soon as it landed, stark red against the white. In the cold illumination of the flashlight, it seemed crystalline and jewelled.
“She’ll have lost too much,” the bearded man muttered grimly. Gernie nodded. He was no expert but even he could see what this trail meant. They followed it out past the courtyard wall and on towards the edge of the settlement.
“If we had been a bit faster or you’d just hit that – “
“We had no bloody choice,” the other man cut across him. “It’s how things are here, lad, you can’t bloody change it.”
“The bastard shot her,” Gernie protested.
“And in his full legal right to do so. She is his property – or was, most likely. She ran away and that means she knew she was in for death if she got caught.”
“So you and Micha have to make nice to him? Man, that’s -” Gernie realised for the first time just how alien this world really was.
“We had to play it that way. That’s the way it bloody is around here, Tavi. Maybe if you work on it you can make a difference one day, but you can’t go shooting down local notables – nor even beating them up. Not if you are planning to stay here and I take it you are?”
For a moment, Gernie wanted to say no. Wanted to say he was not going to stay anywhere a teenage girl could be murdered, legally, in front of an entire tavern full of people. But even as he opened his mouth to say as much, he found his mind filled with the memory of an oval face with golden skin, framed by dark-copper ringlets and wearing an expression of appalled compassion. Something inside him moved.
“I’m taking the job,” he said, “if that’s what you are asking. It’s why I came here after all. The pay is crap, this place is like a nightmare. But someone has to run the spaceport so crazy people like you can come and trade here. I’ll stick it a year or two then head back to civilisation.”
The bearded man grinned briefly.
“I think Micha will be pleased.”
Gernie said nothing to that, it was still too new, too startling. He shone the flashlight back on the snow and followed the trail.
The blood seemed to vanish near the small block building that backed onto the first of the spaceport domes. As if the ground had opened and swallowed the girl.

A Midwinter Miracle is available as an ebook, audiobook and paperback special edition with typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

An extract from Cornered Magic (The Void Series Book 1) by Charissa Dufour.

Sam took one look at the bodies and averted her eyes, as though she had no say in where her eyes looked, but the image of what she had just seen remained etched on her consciousness. At least three bodies, maybe more, hung on display, their limbs arrayed over concrete left slippery with more blood than she thought possible. 

She absently noticed that Amber, the gentle empath, had already clamped a hand over her mouth. In fact, most of the small mob had their eyes on the floor and hands over their mouths. No one was handling the row of bodies well and for very good reason. 

Sam steadied herself and forced her eyes back on the first body as she walked through the hastily-formed walkway made for Mr. Newberry and herself. Sam didn’t much want to draw nearer to the bodies, but if she was the fae’s unofficial investigator—ironically working for their lead suspect—then she had to look closely at each body.

Before she could give them a close examination, the whole room seemed to fill with panic as a wave of horror washed through each person. Sam felt it too, almost drowning in it. The all-encompassing emotion nearly brought her to her knees before she realized its source.

Sam jerked her gaze to where Amber stood, her gaze fixed on the macabre scene laid out before them, her bottom lip trembling and tears dribbling down her cheeks unheeded. The crowd was quickly losing control, the powers of each individual fae coming out as they fought the overpowering emotions spreading out from the empath. 

One fae was already creating fire where none should be. Thankfully, he was standing next to a water elemental who accidentally put him out. Next to them a man with tentacles was tripping his neighbors. Beyond them, stone spikes were appearing in the ceiling. Electricity jumped from one rack of hooks to the next, released by a one extremely scared fae. A fae with the power of speed raced in circles, weaving through the group and knocking over those unfortunate enough to step in her way. The results were quickly shifting from comical to dangerous. 

Sam gave Amber’s arm a jerk, trying to drag her attention away from the bodies. It didn’t work. In desperation, Sam slapped her friend across the cheek. 

Amber blinked, her eyes focusing in on Sam’s face. Sam tore her beanie off and shoved it on Amber’s head, pulling it down until it covered Amber’s eyes from the sights surrounding them. 

Sam could feel Amber’s emotions ease away from the crowd, but the mayhem did not cease. Sam could still feel her gift raging against her own defenses. No doubt the others had no idea how to control their own gifts after Amber’s emotions had drawn them all up into a frenzy. 

Foolish humans, she thought. Didn’t they realize how stupid it was to cram all these powerful fae into a tiny space, like cattle?—all pun intended. 

She took Amber’s hand and closed her eyes. Slowly she focused on each fae’s magic that raged around the slaughterhouse, sparking off the various contraptions. They were as numerous and as different as they could be. Sam had no idea what this many different types of powers would do to her, but she had to try something. 

With all the concentration she could muster, and Amber’s stabilizing touch, Sam gave each power the tiniest jerk with her own Void magic. It was just enough to knock them off their feet, so to speak. The various fae stopped their antics and stared at her. 

She had just done what they all feared. She had taken their powers, but she had taken so little and done it so carefully they couldn’t be angry however much they might want to be. 

They stared at her, and she at them, waiting to see what the other would do. 

Slowly, the crowd dispersed.

Sam stayed with her back to the crime scene. “Amber, I need you to go get Jason and bring him back here. Now. Fast.”

“What’s wrong?” asked one of the fae clan leaders. 

“You want a mage here?” asked one of the other men. 

“Sam?” was all Amber said as she lifted the beanie enough to peek at Sam. 

“Now,” whispered Sam as she raised a hand to forestall any further questions from the clan leaders. 

Her fingers crackled with power—electricity, fire, and droplets of water all trying to jump between them at the same time while the digits faded to invisibility. The world began to spin as Sam grappled with her reality. She knew it might be a mistake to take from various fae at the same time, but the effects were proving to be more than she could handle. She needed help.

And Jason seemed to know the most about Voids.

“Get the mage,” she repeated as she stumbled to her knees, the worried thoughts of the others fading in and out of her consciousness. 

Slowly, the world around her went black, and she slumped to the bloody floor. 

Charissa Dufour in her own words:

Question one: Who have been the three greatest influences in your life, and why? A literary influence. A moral influence. And somebody you just love the heck out of. 

Without a doubt, the greatest literary influence has been Anne McCaffery. While many other authors have contributed, Anne McCaffery the author of the Dragon Riders of Pern series, specifically the Harper Hall trilogy within that series. Melony was the first character formed by words that I connected with. Melony was all my brokenness, all my insecurities, and all my hopes and dream for the future. I couldn’t help but feel that if she, of all people, could find her community, then so could I. Ironically enough, I found my own community when I became a writer.

It is so hard to pick one moral influence. My integrity is built on the foundation of so many various people. If I had to pick one, I guess I’d say my maternal grandmother, Susie Huddleston, may she rest in peace. 

As I describe her, I may step on some toes due to our own pasts and heartaches. My grandmother married a man who had fought in WWII. Long story short, he returned home shell shocked to the extreme. The hospital’s shock therapy didn’t help matters either. Even when he got frightening and violent, she did not divorce him. She did get a restraining order to protect herself and her children, but she did not abandon him or turn to another man. While still protecting her children from harm, she walked through life with him—in and out of the Veterans Hospital in Roseburg, Oregon. I realize that we all have our opinions on whether or not she had done the right thing, but I think none of us can say that she acted without integrity. She had made a vow to this man and she kept it, regardless of the damage done to his mind and the threat it had created. 

Lastly—whew!—someone I just love the heck out of! That is easily my bff Jordan. Much like my grandmother and her husband, Jordan has stuck by me through thick and thin. We met when I was fighting the beginning of a life-long illness. Instead of writing me off as useless, he befriended me. Seventeen years later and we still talk on a daily basis even while we literally live oceans apart. It is the single friendship in my life that will last until we’re in rocking chairs screaming at the children to get off our lawn. So, in short, I just love the heck out of him!

Question two: What is your secret vice and where do you indulge in it? 

Considering the amount of blogs that want to know this, I’m not sure it is a secret anymore, but that would be cereal. Like I could eat a bowl of cereal for every meal every day for the rest of my life and I’d good. I mean, I’d likely be dead shortly after starting this, but I’d be happy. 

Question three: You can make one unbreakable law for the benefit of the whole of mankind. What law do you make, and why?

I probably shouldn’t make the law that cereal magically has no calories anymore with this new power of mine. So since that is off the table, I think I would make that law that everyone pays 5% taxes, no more no less: regardless of how rich or poor they are, regardless of whether they have an energy efficient refrigerator, or regardless of how many children they have. We all are equally responsible for our country, and while we shouldn’t all pay the same dollar amount, I believe we should all pay the same percentage of our income. With this simplified system, we could also decrease our government spending by eliminating most of the IRS.  

On top of all this, we could stop arguing about who should pay more or less on taxes and we could move on to more important matters. 

Which brings me to my next law *she says magnanimously*… I like being master of the universe…

About Charissa Dufour

My journey to become a writer began in 8^th grade, when I was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and pulled from school to recover. During this time, I was left alone for hours on end and it was then that I discovered new friends within the pages of books. I also learned the blessing of creating my own friends by writing down the stories that plagued my lonely mind—as demented as that sounds. Therefore at the ripe age of fourteen, I wrote my first novel. It sucked! But I kept going and now I am an Indie Author with numerous books out. I never imagined that first horrible novel about a man who crash landed on his long-lost home world would turn into a lifelong passion. 

I now live in Chicago, IL with my amazing husband and two rambunctious cats, Groot and Rocket. 

You can find Charissa Dufour on Bookbub, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. The Void Series is available on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, iTunes and Smashwords.

 

 

At one forty-five, the Range Rover drew into the short stay car park at Cheltenham station. Sam jumped out.

“Stay there, and I’ll get a parking ticket and find out which platform.”

He was back in a couple of minutes.

“Here. Shove this in the windscreen. It’s platform four, and the train is on time. Bonnie and I will wait here. You go meet the boys.”

Anna all but leapt out of the car, kissed Sam hastily, then dashed off. Sam put Bonnie’s lead on then let her out of the car.

“Want a wee while we wait?”

Bonnie wagged, so Sam locked the car and they went over to a small square of grass at the far end of the car park. By the time Bonnie had found a suitable place to perform, Sam could see a crowd heading out of the station concourse. He surmised that a train had arrived, and wondered aloud if it was Danny and Paul’s. Bonnie looked at him intelligently and he patted her head.

“Oh yes. It is them. I can see your Mum now. It looks as though somebody has her in a side headlock. Would that be Danny do you think?”

Bonnie wagged, and tugged him gently towards where a biggish, square-shouldered sandy-haired guy was busily mussing Anna up, watched by a slender and very handsome blonde man who was hung about with luggage and trying very hard not to laugh. Bonnie put her feet on the arm of the big guy and growled deep in her throat but with her tail rotating like the blades of a helicopter. The man dropped Anna and fell to his knees on the ground beside the dog.

“Hello Bon Bon, you pleased to see your uncle Danny?”

 

Bonnie vibrated happily and Danny held out his arms for a big canine hug. Anna came and snuggled Sam’s arm, she was giggling and vibrating almost as much as her dog. The blonde guy was the first to recover his composure. He held out a hand to Sam, who shook it firmly.

“Pleased to meet you. You must be Paul.”

“Ditto. You must be Sam. I’m surprised to discover that Anna displays a modicum of taste in her choice of man.”

Anna sniggered.

“You’ll have to work harder than that to get a rise out of Sam. His best mate is gay, and his partner makes you look butch. Plus. Sam’s ex-wife is Tariq’s latest submissive.”

Paul’s eyes rounded in surprise, then he sniggered.

“Does that mean Sam beats you?”

“No. But I’ll let him beat you if you don’t stop being deliberately confrontational.”

Danny got up from the ground with Bonnie in his arms. “She’s right, love. You are being a bit bitchy.”

Paul laughed.

“Yeah. I guess I am. Sorry. But you’d better be good to Anna, or I’ll come talk you to death.”

Danny put Bonnie down carefully and reached over to rub his partner’s head.

“By the way she looks, he is… And did you get a load of the rock?”

“I most certainly did not. Show me at once.”

Anna held out her hand.

“It’s exquisite. Who chose it?”

“Sam saw it first, and I was just as bowled over.”

Paul dropped his world weary pose and hugged Anna.

“Be happy you. It’s about time.”

Danny held out his hand to Sam.

“Pleased to meet you. I never thought to see my baby sister so glowing.”

Sam grinned.

“I’m glowing too, but being a man it don’t show!”

Danny and Paul both laughed, as did Anna.

“C’mon you lot. Let’s get in the car and go home.”

Sam unlocked the car.

“D’you mind if Anna sits in the back with me?” Danny asked almost shyly.

“Course not. You haven’t seen each other for ages. I’m sure Paul and I can entertain each other. And if he don’t behave I’ll throw him out and make him walk.”

“You’re all right. I’ll behave. One: I hate walking. Two: You really aren’t phased by gay bitchiness. Three: Anna seems entirely happy for the first time ever, so it ill behoves me to try and make you uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” Sam said equably. “I’ll be nice too.”

Paul nodded and got into the passenger seat.

“Sorry, I’m feeling a bit sharp around the edges right now. But that’s no excuse for trying to get a rise out of you. Especially as something tells me you aren’t exactly a stranger to prejudice yourself.”

“Indeed not. You might be gay, but I’m black. I think that makes us quits.”

Paul laughed a bit shakily.

“I really owed you that apology.”

“Just forget it.”

“Thanks. It’s just that Danny got told he would be an ambassador by now if I wasn’t on the scene. He ain’t bothered. But…”

“Yeah. That’s a bummer. However. Try looking at it from a different angle. When I was married, it was to a woman who looked precisely the part of a successful doctor’s wife, not only was she blonde enough to compensate for my dark skin, she also knew exactly how to stroke the egos of the great and the good. But she was, and is, an absolute bitch and I was fucking miserable. Even so, when she threw me out my superiors felt it reflected badly on me. A black man like me should have done more to keep hold of a lovely blonde wife. And they didn’t care whether or not I knew how they felt. I actually told one of them to piss off. Could have been sticky, but my representative played the race card for all it was worth and I got away with it. Anyway, that’s not the point. What I’m trying to explain is that you and Danny are happy, and that’s worth more than any job in the world. So don’t feel guilty…”

“I was. But I think I’m not now. Thanks. I think.”

The rest of the drive passed pleasantly, as Sam and Paul felt their way towards friendship, while Anna and Danny talked nineteen to the dozen in the back of the car and Bonnie sat between them grinning a doggy grin.

Jane Jago

 

Glow worms know the sun

But we still deny the night

Why is the darkness?

He heard the whispers as he strode the echoing corridors of that grey, weed-choked castle perched on the very edge of the sea
“A hero,” the sibilant voices declared. “A hero.”
The young man preened himself and puffed out his chest. It was always nice to be recognised, even if it was only by the ghosts in a backwater like this. His steel-clad feet rung on the stone floors and rattled on the worn and slippery steps of a spiral staircase. As he walked, he wondered what the assignment would be. Perhaps there would be a sleeping maiden, or a crone at her spinning wheel, or a queen labouring under a geas, or a dragon. He enjoyed dragons. One killed dragons and moved on. Women tended to be needier. If one kissed a maiden she rather expected one to stick around, and the tears and tantrums when it became apparent that wasn’t happening wore on the nerves more than somewhat. Then he became aware that he had reached the apex of the staircase and pulled his awareness back to the work in hand.
Loosening his sword in its scabbard, he laid his hand on the huge wrought iron latch.
The room at the top of the tower was a fantastical octagon, with pointed stained glass windows in every wall, and delicate flying buttresses made of carved white marble. For a moment the hero thought himself alone in that place, then his ears caught the sound of slow breathing. He lifted his eyes and saw her, seated on a plain wooden chair on a mezzanine high above him, wrapped in velvet so black it seemed to leach the light from the room and with burnished auburn hair falling to the floor. She might have been beautiful but it was impossible to see as her eyes and the top half of her face were wrapped in gauzy bandages.
‘Aha,’ he thought, ‘a geas’.
“Who comes?” The voice was low, musical and pleasing.
“One who will break whatever enchantment holds you lady.”
She laughed, a sound like the chimes of silver bells and rose from her chair. “Come hither. And we shall speak of this…”
He all but ran up the intricately carved and smoothly polished wood drawn by the excitement of the quest, and by somewhat else. By an undefinable pull to the very centre of his being. By the elusive perfume that he somehow knew came from her velvet skirts. And by a furtive fantasy involving a rope of red-gold hair.
When he reached the head of the final staircase, he was surprised and a little embarrassed to find himself breathless and flushed of cheek. He felt anger that a mere female should so disturb the composure of on so far above her and he frowned direfully. The lady appeared not to notice, moving to a side table on whose mirror bright surface reposed a silver wine jug and a tray of long-stemmed glasses so finely blown as to look like bubbles on twisted stalks.
“Wine, good sir?” The lady’s voice was mild and he felt himself relax in the face of such politeness.
The lady poured wine the colour of blood and brought glasses for herself and her visitor.
“Will you not sit?”
He sunk into the cushioned comfort of a chair that the cold analytical side of his brain insisted hadn’t been there a moment before. For a brief scintilla of time he stayed his hand regarding the glass in his hand with deep suspicion. The lady raised her own glass and drank and he watched the movements in the white column of her throat with an emotion any other man might have recognised as lust. She laughed, low and intimate, and he raised his eyes to the gauzy veil that enwrapped the top half of her face. To his surprise he found it was dissolving as he looked; he was enraptured and forgot his misgivings as his blood rushes unbidden to his loins. He raised his glass and drank, noticing as he did so that the lady’s eyes were the colour of rain-washed violets. The wine flowed down his throat as sensuously as a caress and he wondered what rare and fine vintage it might be. When it’s syrupy sweetness hit his stomach he dropped the glass from suddenly nerveless fingers. The sound of it shattering into a million shards was the last thing he was to hear for some time.
When the hero awoke, his first thought was that he was naked and cold, and then it came to him that he could not move. For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. He opened his mouth to cry for aid but no sound would come.
“He is with us.”
The voice was familiar and he managed to swivel his eyes to where the lady stood regarding him with a peculiar expression in her eyes.
“He is,” she said musingly, “passing fair. Perhaps it would amuse me to keep him for a while.”
Someone laughed and it wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Domina. Do not be so cruel.”
The lady came over and leaned down into the hero’s face. She moved suddenly and he thought she might have been going to kiss him. But she did not. Instead she bit the fullness of his lower lip, licking the blood away in a manner that made him think of a kitten lapping milk. He closed his eyes, unaccountably distressed and unable to understand what was happening to him. He was a hero. Invulnerable. Undefeatable. Fearless. And yet…
While his befuddled mind was struggling to process this strangeness the sound of sliding silk alerted him to who knew what and he opened his eyes to see the now naked lady climbing onto the bier where he lay. She straddled him and he thought there was mocking laughter in the back of the eyes that studied him.
She leaned forwards until her breasts all but touched his face.
“I’ve never had a pretty hero before.”
Then she leaned back and he saw the dark glimmer of the obsidian blade she held in her hands. He saw it and knew it for what it was only a second before it slashed his throat from ear to ear and his eyes grew dark. He never felt the priests rip his still beating heart from his chest, nor did he smell the disconcertingly edible aroma as they threw it onto a fiercely hot brazier…
A hero died. A lady laughed. And somewhere a dark god smiled.

©️jane jago 2018

 

Raise a toast to each morning my friend
Here’s to friendship that has not a face
Shall we meet where the road greets her end
In the forest’s most secretive place
Will we walk side by side through that glade
Where the silence is heavy and still
Will we meet Dragonheart unafraid
And see starlight from Golgotha hill
Raise a toast to each day that we find
Awaiting as time rushes by
When we meet hand to hand, mind to mind
And conquer the world, thou and I

©️ jane jago 2018

Good morrow mes estudas.

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, raconteur, bon vivant, and lover. You may know me for my classic work of science-fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ but I am not defined by any one genre or style. For me, the entire plethora which fills the vast panoply of literature is my veritable playground.

Ah yes, play! From the innocent games of children, to the mature games we adults play, the make-believe and imagination we hold within can be ejaculated upon the page by the skilled and talented writer, such as one is and you, dear reader who writes, aspire to be.

Which brings us to the topic of my next eloquent endeavour in education.

Lesson 35: The Write Way to Write Erotica

Today we shall tackle the ticklish topic of erotica. A topic more top-full of dilemmas than almost any other.

Firstly we ask ourselves if we should indeed commit to metaphorical paper the most lustful and libidinous and licentious workings of our brains?

Should we decide in the affirmative we must ask ourselves how detailed are our explorations to be. How explicit shall our histories become? How much do we tell and how much leave to the fevered imaginations of our readers?

Having set ourselves such boundaries as seem good, our next quandary is how far we delve into our own personal experiences and fantasies. Should we tell all? Or are we morally obliged to invent and to speak only of our inventions?

Our last question is the delicate matter of gender specification. Can a man write as a woman, or a woman as a man? Is one’s genius able to carry such opposition?

Having settled each question in your mind and to your own complete satisfaction there leaves only to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard and create for your reader that hotbed of chaos and unthinking sensation that is the experience truly erotic. That world of touch, and smell, and stinging slaps, and kisses, and the caress of the flogger, and the forgiving benison of The Act itself. Bring your reader each subtlety, and each affront to previously held notions of decency. Teach him the fear and the ecstasy.

Make him want as your protagonist wants, or you shall have failed.

I offer a small snippet of words to conjure such feelings in the virgin breast as were unknown before.

Conceive if you will, gentle reader, of a holiday cottage somewhere in the depths of rural nowhere. It is as sparsely furnished as such places tend to be, and of creature comforts there are none. Also imagine, if your poor enfeebled brain allows, that the one brought to this place is virginal in all but the very basest sense of that word. That this child comes with untouched sensuality, with eyes wide in both need and fear, with trembling hand, with heaviness in the pit of the stomach, and with a need neither understood nor yet assuaged. Imagine the joy this simple child feels at the hand of that person who sets the self up to be both lover and teacher. Feel with our protagonist the soft caresses that turn the knees to water and the lions to fire. Hear the arousing sound of a hard hand meeting and pinkening the fairest of skin. Feel the kiss of the cat and the bite of the binding rope. Hear the cries of joy as orgasm follows orgasm. Experience the texture of skin on your tongue. The taste of the ultimate gift as your hero drinks of his lover’s joy. Rejoice. And feel envy…

Next week, my students. Ah, next week. Next week, what? That is a mystery in itself. Await my words with baited breath and painful loins and a heart that feels too big for your chest. Await me thus, and you shall see.

Until then.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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