Friday morning came rather too soon for me. Charlie went to work whistling his tuneless whistle, and I rather hoped for a quiet day. I went into work for an hour then sloped off home. Feeling a bit bruised and blue, I called Mum, who was only too easily persuaded into a girlie lunch and a spot of therapeutic shopping. Spending far too much money had its usual calming effect, and by the time we got back to my place, Mum was so flustered that I couldn’t help giggling.
“Look Mum” I said in my most reasonable tones. “I’ve made so much in bonuses in the last year that I would be never be able to spend it if you didn’t help.”
She looked at me searchingly, then shrugged and grinned like a schoolgirl.
“If you are sure. But. Three hundred pounds for a pair of boots.”
“They are very nice boots” I said “and they could have been made to go with the coat Dad bought you for Christmas.”
“They could” she grinned. “And that body warmer will stop Tomasz from looking like a vagrant in the cold weather.”
I laughed. “Nothing can stop Dad from looking like a vagrant. It’s one of his biggest talents.”
She aimed a playful blow at me, and I noticed my answering machine blinking away at me. I idly pushed the button. It was a message from Uncle Sid. It was several messages from Uncle Sid. I looked at Mum.
“I guess I better call him.”
“You had. He sounds a bit desperate.”
I called the number and Sid picked up immediately.
“Alysson. Thank goodness. Have you looked in your mail box today?”
“No.”
“Do me a favour. Don’t. We think you have a letter bomb.”
“Oh. Smegg. What should I do?”
“Nothing. I’m on my way. With some people who know about these things. We will be with you in under an hour.”
“Okay. Will you have eaten?”
“No.”
“Right. How many of you?”
“Four. See you soon.”
And he cut the connection.

I turned to Mum, to find her sitting at the kitchen table white-faced and shaking.
“Letter bomb?”
I went and put my arms around her.
“It’s okay Mum. I have guardian angels.”
She put her hands around my face and I smiled at her.
“Oh Aly. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“I dunno. Mum. I’ve done nowt. I just seem to have arrived on some people’s radar. Charlie says it’s my face.”
She laughed. “Will you promise me that you’ll be careful?”
“Oh. I will. Now do you want to help me cater for a crowd of huge men?”
“Only if me and your dad are welcome too.”
I knew that was coming and although I would have preferred to send her as far away from danger as possible I knew I couldn’t do that. I nodded my agreement.
“Okay then. What you got?”
“There’s a chicken in the fridge, and some packs of breast in the freezer. I’m thinking of a massive curry.”
“Yeah. That’d do it.”

We worked side by side for an hour and when two enormous casserole dishes were in the oven, we grinned at each other in a satisfied manner. Mum went upstairs to call Dad and I was just having a large glass of water when my doorbell buzzed. I looked at the screen to see Sid, two other huge thugs, and a skinny little man with a tool box. I went downstairs. Sid gave me a brief hug and introduced Joe, Billy and Mack.
“Where is your letter box” the little guy called Mack asked.
“It’s over there.”
I pointed to the rank of boxes on the other side of the courtyard.
“Good. Gimme the key.”
“There isn’t a key. It’s a number. 4970.”
“Okay. Now you go back indoors and leave us to deal.”
I turned to leave, but spotted Georgios Christopoulos and a couple of his henchmen approaching purposefully. Sid gave me a little shove.
“Go inside. I’ll deal with your Greek friend.”

Nothing loath I buggered off as fast as I could go. I found Mum standing in the big window of the family room, watching with worried eyes. I went and stood beside her as Sid spoke briefly to Mr C before Mack went and opened my letter box. He took out a small pile of mail and examined each item with some care. He gave all but two bits to Sid, who stood back respectfully. The leathery little man took some sort of a scope out of his toolbox and ran it over the letters. He frowned and shrugged. Then he took out an old fashioned stethoscope. He handed yet one more piece of mail to Sid. Then he carefully carried the last envelope over to the corner of the courtyard where two big buttressed walls surrounded a gnarled crab apple tree. He put the packet down on the floor and went to the undistinguished van in which they had arrived. He put on a thickly padded vest and a businesslike visored helmet before picking up a pair of long-handled tools. He used the tools to carefully open the package. For a moment I thought it was all a storm in a teacup. But it wasn’t. The explosion, when it came, sounded shockingly loud in the quiet afternoon air.

Mum squeaked and jumped.
“Oh” she said. “Oh Aly. Oh why would anybody want to do a thing like that to you?”
“You hush now” I replied firmly. “We don’t know nothing yet. But Uncle Sid will tell us. Just so long as you don’t go flapping.”
She thought about that one for a minute, then nodded.
“You’re right. I have to stiffen my spine.”
“Okay. You stay here and practice. I’m going down to see precisely WTS.”
She opened her mouth then thought better of whatever she had been going to say.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago

 

Sometimes I wonder if my maternal parent is indeed all she claims to be on that account. Could it be, perchance, I was secretly adopted and hail from a genetic line in which the aesthetic principle is celebrated more absolutely? Alas no. The results of the DNA test were pretty clear on that point.

But you will understand my confusion, nay – my utter bafflement at the birthday gift I received from Mumsie last year. I had hoped it would be yet another copy of one of the vibrant tomes by She Who I Am Not Worthy To Name, but instead it was a children’s book – in Latin. When I challenged her choice, suggesting that whilst I was ipso facto her child, I was no longer in childhood, quod erat demonstrandum. But she was not impressed.

“Moons,” she told me, “stop pratting around. Your father paid for you to have an expensive education so use it. Read the book.”

Needless to say ‘Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis’ still sits unread in my writing den where it’s presence is discreetly muted by shadows. However, so I could convince Mummy I had read the blasted thing, I was compelled to procure an English edition.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling.

A boy who is being generously raised by distant relatives, shows extremes of ingratitude and against their wishes takes off for boarding school seduced by the blandishments of those who try to persuade him he is some kind of messiah.

The school, called Hogfarts or something similar, is the educational facility of a secret cult which regards normal people as an inferior breed and calls the ‘muggles’, whilst endeavouring to promote a master race of magic users. Hogfarts uses a hat to choose which house a pupil should be in and the unfortunate child, who is called Harry, is not selected for the superior house and thus has to make do with some rather second-rate companions.

Amongst his adventures, Harry finds a mirror, a dog and a chessboard. He turns out to be quite good at sports, which was not something I had expected as he seemed the geeky sort. He also finds an invisibility cloak but uses it for the most boring things like sneaking around the school. Harry eventually succeeds in stopping a two-faced individual from getting hold of some pebble, but despite his dramatic victory he still finishes the book back where he started.

Two stars for being available in both Latin and English and thus sparing me Mumsie’s scathing vitriol.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.

Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.

Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.

“What makes you think you are worthy?”

“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”

“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”

Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.

The same yearning, the same questions.

Alone in her chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Artwork by Ian Bristow

Light's Dawn is book one in the Light in the Darkness series by Yvette Bostic.

Mikel and Raphael are the sole survivors of a horrific battle where each of their own armies are annihilated by demons. They’re forced to become reluctant allies in a war they can’t possibly win on their own. With the help of a mysterious stranger, they join forces with an Amazon warrior in pursuit of the demon-summoning cultists. Only together will they find themselves strong enough to face the emerging evil. Read an extract…

A snapping limb to Mikel’s right caught his attention and arrested his movement. He listened intently and heard it again. He looked to each side, panic creeping across his skin. A rustle of leaves stirred, this time even closer. He scurried to the nearest tree and started climbing. He didn’t stop until he was halfway up the tree. He held his breath, certain that the soldiers below him heard his noisy ascent. The seconds ticked by as he listened to muffled footfalls and snapping branches.

He looked down through the thick leaves and saw a dark form emerge beneath him. It was enormous, towering above the height of any normal man. Large, curved horns emerged from its dark skull. Its black, muscular body covered only by a pair of linen pants. It held a massive dual-headed axe in its clawed fingers.

Mikel tried desperately to control his breathing, but fear threatened to overwhelm him as a dozen more of the creatures passed under his hiding spot. He nearly fell from his perch when he heard a soft gasp above him. He looked up to find a Portuguese soldier clinging to the next highest limb. The man’s face reflected the same fear and confusion as his own.

Mikel turned his gaze towards the Portuguese army, the same direction the monsters were headed. Were there more approaching the Dutch as well? Were these the creatures the scout saw the other night? Mikel reigned in his fear and carefully made his way down the tree. He needed to warn the Dutch soldiers. As much as he hated his situation, he suddenly realized there was safety in numbers. He and Harry would never survive an attack against those creatures.

When his feet touched the ground, he heard the other soldier descending the tree as well. They nodded to each other, understanding the greater danger.

Mikel threw caution to wind and ran as quickly as possible back to his fellow soldiers. He heard the sounds of fighting before he reached southern side of the clearing. Agonizing screams were followed by otherworldly howls. The Commander’s strong voice cut across the chaos for a second before it was silenced. Mikel stopped just inside the tree line and watched in horror as a dozen more demons swarmed through the Dutch soldiers. The men tried to fight back, but the sheer size and strength of the monsters they faced could not be matched. His gaze was drawn to the sound of Harry cursing. Surrounded by the dead bodies of the soldiers he despised, he raised his sword and growled at the lone demon in front of him. A feral grin spread across the creature’s face. It raised its axe above its head and brought it down against Harry’s sword. Harry’s weapon shattered and the demon embedded his bloody blade in Harry’s chest.

Mikel ran away from the carnage and into the thick underbrush. Visions of the men he had despised for weeks being slaughtered by those hellish creatures clouded his thoughts. He stumbled through the night, not heeding the direction he traveled, having lost sight of the road hours before.

He tripped and landed face first in small stream. He pulled himself to his knees and sobbed. His salty tears mixing with blood from dozens of cuts inflicted by the thick foliage. He was lost in a foreign jungle, without food or water and utterly alone.

 

A Bite of....Mikel Davis. 

Question One: What is the most important to You? Love? Money? Good health? Fame?

Before the events that led me to South America and the creation of the Council of Light, my answer would have been money and social standing. My family owned a rather productive textile company in London and our influence and sales increased greatly when we secured a contract with the East India Trading Company. My entire life revolved around my career and the wealth it brought to my family. When I was torn away from Ambon Island and thrust into the Dutch army in South America, my outlook on life changed dramatically. Finding out that a demonic warlord intends to enslave the world tends to make the squabble with my neighbor seemed fairly insignificant. Love and compassion for humanity’s survival replaced everything else.

Question Two: What is the stupidest thing you have ever done? And what impact did it have on your life?

There are so many to choose from. Seeking revenge on the Dutch was probably one of my weakest moments. It nearly cost me my life as well as those who chose to follow me. The only positive thing to come from it was the rescue of the young Chinese woman who would become my soulmate. So, in the end it was worth it. I have no doubt fate played a role in my need for vengeance.

Question Three: If you could make one unbreakable law what would it be? And why?

My first thought would be murder. No one would be to take the life of another in cold blood. But that would make me one of the largest offenders, as I have taken the lives of so many without hesitation. Of course, most of those were demons or the cultists that summon them, but they are lives non-the-less. Had I not killed them, they would have slaughtered innocent people by the thousands. I’m not sure I could come up with a law that could not be broken. We cannot legislate man’s emotions, or I would say no one is allowed to hate another. That alone would remove so much of the violence in our world. It could possibly eliminate the need for my Council, which I believe I would welcome with open arms.

Yvette Bostic lives in the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. During the day she has a full-time career, but when she gets home and kicks off her shoes she becomes absorbed in her next novel. She enjoys the company of her ever-patient husband who believes she’s lost in her computer, and three dogs who are the only ones who can drag her away from writing-mostly because she has no desire to clean up their mess.

She loves to read almost anything, but fantasy has a special place in her heart. You can find Yvette on Goodreads, Facebook, Twitter and her own website.

Her first series ‘Light in the Darkness’ is available on Amazon.   

As soon as they could speak and move again, Sam looked questioningly at Anna.

“Now you can tell me what is so funny.”

“Tariq and your ex. It’s hilarious. He’s a very respectable financial adviser. Nothing hinkey about his business.”

She doubled over laughing again then got herself together. “His sexuality, however, really is hinkey. I believe he refers to himself as a dominant. I’d have said a sadist. Has a dungeon in his London flat, with whips and straps and all manner of yukky stuff therein. Therefore it follows that your ex wife must be what they call a submissive, and, considering how she treated you, I reckon that’s priceless. As she misbehaved tonight, he’ll probably put his belt across her backside in the taxi home.”

It was Sam’s turn to laugh.

“Oh god, Anna. That is truly priceless. Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah. He tried to get me to play. I kicked him in the nuts. But the beauty of it is he owes me big time. And he knows it. You’ll have no more trouble with Norma Jean. I reckon he’ll probably marry her and whale her ass night and morning.’

“I hope. But why does he owe you?”

“Oh. If it wasn’t for my magic fingers he’d have lost everything, and probably gone to prison for a good long time. His business partner had his fingers in the till, but he was computer savvy enough to make it look as if Tariq was the guilty party. Sadly for him, but happily for Tariq, I’m much better than him, and I traced the money to his hidden accounts. The clients got paid back. The partner got the bird. And Tariq came out of it with his reputation intact.”

“He does owe you then, don’t he?”

“Oh yeah, and keeping your ex sated and under his thumb is only part payment.”

“I wish him the joy of her. Though something becomes clearer now. Once, and only once, she goaded me to the extent where I belted her. Then she was panting for sex. Which she didn’t get. And. Norma Jean?”

“Mortensen.”

“Of course. She was channelling Marilyn a bit tonight.”

“Yeah. Pathetic. But I’m guessing Tariq likes it. According to a book I once read many dominants think that Marilyn was sexually submissive.”

“Hey, ho. Whatever floats your boat. I must admit the idea of Christina being spanked in a taxi…”

“On her bare bottom, and so the taxi driver can see.”

“Oh my god,” Sam buried his face in the bed and laughed until he cried. “Poor cow.”

“Don’t think that, Sam. She’ll be loving it.”

“I guess. And at least it’s likely to keep her off our backs.”

“And on hers!”

 

They fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, and woke in the small hours to make love slowly and tenderly.

“It’s different every time, isn’t it?” Anna mused.

“It is. And yet it’s the same. The same love. The same fall into absolute pleasure. I’ll never get enough of you.”

“Good.”

 

They went home the next morning by train and taxi. They were greeted by an ecstatic Bonnie who bounded to the door as soon as she heard Sam’s key.

“Did you miss us, girl?” Sam asked as he scratched the wriggling dog behind her ears. She whined and wagged frantically. Carrie and Oscar also came to greet them. Oscar looking a bit sheepish.

“He’s a bad boy,” Carrie said. “Did a poo in the kitchen. I’m sorry about that. I cleaned up, of course, and the odour has gone, but I’m still sorry.”

“No matter. I’m sure he didn’t mean it! He probably had a tummy upset.”

“He did. But it was his own fault for eating windfall apples in the orchard.”

Sam laughed. “Never mind. The floor is hard. No carpet. No harm done.”

Carrie grinned her gratitude.

“We’ll be off then. See you Monday.”

She shoved the still sheepish Oscar into her battered van and drove off waving and beeping.

 

Sam and Anna went indoors with Bonnie at their heels. Bonnie went straight to the kitchen and pointed her aristocratic nose at a spot on the tiled floor. That, she was obviously saying, is where Oscar disgraced himself. Anna laughed.

“Tell tale.” Then she sniffed the air.

“No smell. No problem. Poor Carrie was so embarrassed.’

“I guess she was. She would normally have stayed for a coffee at least. Now. What do you want to do with the rest of the weekend?”

“Well. There is a thing. Would you like to meet Danny? He’s in London again, and he is just about bursting with curiosity.”

“I’d love to meet him. But what do you mean in London again? I thought you said he lives in London.”

“Nominally, but he’s a diplomat and his work takes him all over. He and Paul have just got back from a two-year posting in DC.”

“Paul?”

“His partner. Is that a bother?”

“Nah. You might have noticed that my best mate Ben is gay.”

“Did. Partner being Colin the chef?”

“Clever girl. Most people don’t get the vibe. So. You wanna invite Danny and Paul here? Or do we go to the smoke?”

“Whichever. Though here would be nicer for Bonnie. There isn’t a lot of walking to be had at the flat.”

“Here then. Will they want to stay a while?”

“They’d love to. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Course I wouldn’t. Anyway it’s your home too, you numptie.”

 

Anna flew into his arms and hugged him hard, blinking back tears. He looked down into her face and smiled.

“What?”

“My home. My home with you. Our home together. It’s almost too much…”

Sam lifted her face and kissed her gently.

“Eejit. That’s just the way it is. Now pull yourself together and call your big brother. Bonnie and me will go check out the garden.”

 

When both man and dog were satisfied that they had no feline invaders on board they ambled gently back into the kitchen. Anna was sitting at the table grinning to herself. “We’d better get our skates on. The buggers will be on a train that gets into Cheltenham at two o’clock. They are so used to travelling that Paul boasts that they can be packed and out of the door in ten minutes. The only reason we have this much grace is the trains.”

“Okay. What do we need to do?”

“Food shop. And get the only spare room with any furniture in it ready. Fortunately all our bedrooms are en suite. I really don’t cope well with Paul wafting about the place in his rather too brief bathrobe. He only does it to annoy…”

Sam laughed.

“Yeah. Colin can be a bit brittle at times too. And he likes to rub people up backwards. Goes with the territory methinks. However. You shop. I’ll do the room. I can, you know. It’ll be clean, so I just have to make the bed and put towels and the like in the bathroom.”

“If you are sure.”

“Am. Now scoot. If we are brisk we can drive into Cheltenham and meet the train. I know you’d like to do that.”

Anna’s smile was brilliant as she scooted.

Jane Jago

There was a little gran
In a purple campervan
Divorced from a city go-getter
Never had much fun
As a trophy wife and mum
Finding life after sixty much better!

© jane jago 2017

For as long as Rebekah could remember September had been a month of terror, with her mother growing shorter and shorter of temper as each day passed. Then Michaelmas would come and they would stand in line at The Hiring, hoping against hope that they would catch the eye of someone kindly and decent.  They almost always did, except for one memorably bad year when both mother and eight-year-old daughter toiled in the kitchens of a back-street whorehouse for little more than a hard bed and even harder words. It was only one year in the seventeen Rebekah had been alive, but the memory was strong enough to strike fear into a stronger heart than hers.

This Michaelmas was different, though. Mother had been hired for three years running by the same man, a grim-visaged merchant with an out-thrusting paunch and a hard eye for a bargain. Rebekah didn’t much like him, but kept her thoughts to herself. At least the beds were dry and there was sufficient food.

At the start of the September after her seventeenth birthday, their employer called Mother into his narrow counting room, where the pair of them had remained closeted for a very long time.

Mother came out looking even grimmer than usual. Rebekah hunched a shoulder and awaited a tongue-lashing. To her surprise none was forthcoming. Instead, Mother beckoned her out into the tiny strip of garden they tended throughout the year. She sat down heavily on the wooden bench and patted the seat by her side.
“Daughter. I would have speech with you.”
Rebekah tried to look suitably interested and yet modest.
“Mister Brown had a proposition for me. It is one I am minded to accept, but it depends on you.”
“How is that Mother?”
“He proposes marriage to me, but he will not adopt you as his daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if I accept the offer, you cannot stay here.”
“Oh. But where would I go.”
“You could go to the hiring. Or you could marry.”
“Marry?”
“You are young, and strong, and accustomed to hard work. There are always young farmers looking for girls like you.”
“You mean like a mail order bride?”
Mother nodded.
Rebekah bent her fair head, thinking hard. She turned a serene face to her mother.
“If I chose to be a mail order bride, would I have any say in which offer I accepted.”
Her mother frowned.
“You would if you wanted, but why would you want such a choice?”
“Mother. I am seventeen years old, it would not be fitting were I to find myself married to a man with children older than me. And nor would I wish to wed outside of our faith. If those are not unreasonable expectations I would choose to marry.”
Her mother regarded Rebekah with rare approval. “Not unreasonable. Sensible. Very well, child, Mister Brown and I will set things in motion. You do understand that naught will occur until after the Michaelmas Hiring.”
“I do so understand, Mother.”
Mother stood up and then bent to place a rare kiss on her daughter’s smooth cheek.
“I will make sure that your husband is kind.”
Then she was gone, leaving Rebekah to return to her duties with a calm face, but a very flustered mind.

The weeks leading up to The Hiring ran smoothly, with Mother settled and Rebekah resigned.

On the day of the Michaelmas Fair, Mother and Mister Brown went out straight after breakfast, leaving Rebekah on her honour not to leave the house. They need not have worried, as she had precious little taste for the noise and laxity of the street fair and no coin to spend had it been her wish to venture out. Instead, she brought her spinning wheel beside the kitchen fire and sat singing quietly as she worked. The only other living creature in the house was the kitchen cat who came and sat on the floor at her feet. It was about two hours before the street door opened and Mother’s voice called out.
“It is us, Rebekah, put the kettle to boil like a good child.” She sounded happy, and Rebekah hastened to move the kettle onto the hot plate atop the closed stove.

She returned her spinning wheel to the corner and quickly swept up the little bits of wool that flew from the wheel. She was just wondering what to do next when Mother and Mister Brown came into the kitchen. He regarded her sternly, and looked around the room for signs of disorder. Finding none, he so far relaxed as to smile, although no warmth reached his hard little eyes. Mother lifted her left hand, and Rebekah saw the gleam of gold. She cast down her eyes, lest anyone see her dismay.
“My felicitations Mister and Mistress Brown. May your union be long and blessed.”
She looked up to find both beaming at her. She must have said the right thing. Mister Brown even unbent enough to address her directly.
“Fairly spoken, girl,” then he coughed. “You must understand that my refusal to adopt you is no reflection on your character. For all I have seen you are a modest and hardworking female.”
Rebekah bent her head, and Mother actually chuckled.
“The child is unused to compliments.” Then she turned her attention to her daughter. “There are three offers for your hand that we deem suitable. It appears fair to both my husband and I that you should select from them for yourself. Sit at the table and read. I will make hot tea.”
Rebekah sat, feeling as if she dreamed, and her mother’s husband placed three packets at her elbow.
“We have,” he said in a surprisingly careful voice, “ascertained that these three men have a reputation for kindliness as well as being suitable in all other ways”.

Rebekah read the three letters carefully.

Jane Jago.

We have twenty-three minutes to live
The inexorable numbers tick past
We have given the most we can give
And the seconds are running down fast
We have no contact with home
There is no way we can say goodbye
In the end we will each die alone
Wink out in the blink of an eye
We have twenty-two minutes to live
Each breath is becoming a task
Like sands through an eternal sieve
Our lives are away dropping fast
The clock is irrelevant now
As each chest heaves and ratchets in pain
Oh Lords let us end it all now
Whilst we still have the function of brain
We have twenty-one moments to live
But the numbers are clearly a lie
I whisper, my darling forgive
As I cut both my wrists and I die

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour mes braves,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. The teacher beloved of your hearts and minds. The author of the remarkable and much remarked upon science fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. The pedagogue on whose delicate prose depends your understanding of the literary arts. That happy man who breaks from the few moments of ecstasy this life will allow him to present you with the fruits of his mind and the essences of his labours.

Lesson 34: The Write Denouement

Thus far one has been leading you gently by the hand through the rose garden of the literary arts, providing you with the petals of perennial wisdom and alerting you to the sharp, tearing thorns that await the unwary novice as you struggle with your first stumbling steps into the wonders of writing.

Today though, one shall thrust into the meat of the matter, penetrate boldly into the underbrush with decisively strong and muscular intent. For this is the climactic moment of your novel and it needs to leave your reader breathless and fulfilled.

Ah yes, the denouement.

That moment when all becomes clear. That place to which one has been leading, through passages and parlance, the unveiling of understanding where one’s magnum opus finally brings the reader.

It is the climax if you will.

The crescendo when the conductor brings his baton crashing down and the horns blow, and the drums crash, and the strings wail. It is that place where you offer some reason for all that those who travelled stumble-footed through your works endured. That place where you choose whether to bring your reader laughter or tears, happiness or despair, completion or destruction.

It is your big moment. Treasure it. And write it from the bottom of your soul. Use words that drip with drama and exude emotion. Drench it delicious descriptors – all those admirable adjectives and adverbs you have been practising so assiduously. Pump up your prose, that your words are wrought with wonder. Spare not the syllables, for this is the place to prove your true literary worth!

If it is sad, make of it a tragedy. Ensure that it wrenches tears and painful sobs from your reader’s very soul. If it is happy, make it joyous and life-affirming, let it fizz through the bloodstream like champagne and uplift the spirit into ecstatic rapture.

I offer for you one humble exemplar:

When the doorway brought the golden one to his eyes, he felt tears of pain and anticipation sting at the back of his own orbs. Would he be sufficient that such magnificence even deign to notice him? Would he be able to speak around the thorny lump in his throat? Would the dampness of his palms give him away? And what was that hot and heavy sensation in his hitherto unfulfilled loins? He dropped his eyes in real fear, and did not see his destiny approaching him. It was not until a voice like unto nothing he had ever heard before bespoke him that he dared to raise his eyes. He found himself transfixed by a warmly golden gaze and his lips turned up into a smile as the golden one cupped his chin in long fingers and traced the contours of his mouth with the forefinger of the other hand.
“Why do you tremble, pretty one? I won’t hurt you. Much.”

And whether this ending is happy or sad I neither know nor care…

Study well my children.

Next time. Erotica.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

The dragon regarded his talons with elaborate casualness.
“And this concerns me because?”
The woman cast down her eyes so he couldn’t see the flare of anger in their depths.
“It concerns you because you were supposed to be guarding her.”
“She dismissed me,” the dragon sounded defiant.
“And this concerns me because?” The woman’s voice was as cold and pointed as a steel blade.
He lifted his eyes and stared at his interlocutor.
“By what right does a human question a dragon?”
“The right of a child whose mother was murdered while her guard dragon slept.”
B’a’al snarled savagely then flowed into his human form, standing naked in front of the woman.
“There is a forfeit to be paid by humans who dare question dragonkind,” he sneered, and moved towards the delicate red-haired woman who had dared to speak to him with contempt in her voice. “I will take my payment here and now…”

She held up a hand and he found himself stopped in his tracks as if held by a giant claw. The woman made a tutting noise.
“Arrogance, arrogance,” she muttered before making her own change.

B’a’al found himself looking into the eyes of something he had never seen before. She was like him, only not, and probably outweighed him by half.
“There is a forfeit to be paid by dragons who are stupid enough to quarrel with wyverns” she said before she casually ripped his head off and ate it.

© jane jago 2017