Sanity slept in one of the wells below the deepest workings of the abandoned mine.
Yris knew because he dreamed of her often, dressed in pink froth and smiling with glass eyes at the abyssal dark. She had left him so many years ago and she had left the child with him. Perhaps she thought it a fair exchange, but she was wrong. Without her, he found being had long since become more than a burden. But he had continued to be, even so.
One hundred years to the day.
Nothing reached out from the past to offer solace. Only the weary shades of loss and bitter disappointment – of hopes raised only to plummet, like burnt out comets no longer trailing their glory and fire. The uncertain light flickered on the marl-plastered wall which held the record of those years. A private diary of his humiliation. Half his life lived out in these caverns.
Yris ran a hand over the protruding notches of stone he had set in the wall at the end of each year, the last still warm to the touch from the rock-melting heat of the energy weapon he had used to fix it in place. He thought about the final vial of life, cradled in its hiding place and wondered if he was right to wait longer.
“Will you at least eat?”
The voice made him turn, startled, but slower than he should. His ears, even with the deft enhancements he had created, no longer warned him of quiet footsteps on the cavern floor. He felt himself a fool for his moment of panic. The child was now a woman, this woman, who held out a bowl of something edible. He had long since stopped asking what. Her expression held pity. It perturbed him.
He should pity her, one who had lived out her whole life in the dark here with him,one who had no haunting memories of sunlight and open skies. No haunting, taunting, memories, echoing with the long silent voices of a lost time. And the laughter. He did remember the laughter – the taunting laughter – and sanity crying.
“You should eat, Gran’pa.” She put the bowl on his table, the one not covered with broken and disembowelled technology others had scavenged so he might build yet another wingless hope. Now she came over. Close to, he remembered this was not the child grown to a woman, this was the child of that woman’s child, also now grown. He could see nothing of sanity in her. His legs weakened as that realization grew stronger.
One hundred years.

The start of the story Tongueless Caverns by E.M. Swift-Hook, a Fortune's Fools story from the Inklings Press anthology Tales From The Underground.

From The Artist by Lyra Shanti.

Christmas was filled with sensation: bareness of skin, glowing golden in hues of candlelit moonlight. It was my hand upon her hip, her thigh around my knee, and all the places of unknown tenderness. I had no idea how much I had been kept unaware.
She said she would sleep with me until breakfast, and I found myself passed out like a drunkard. My dreams were like the visions of a drugged shaman, searching for answers to long lost questions that had only, until then, belonged to the Sleeping Spirits.
When I woke, the innkeeper’s niece had disappeared with the dawn and I spent Christmas morning in a confused, yet liberated daze. I immediately took out my journal, as to gain some kind of stability.

Christmas Morning 10:25 AM
What wonders are held for all the infidels and artists? Have I come to the pearly gates of Hell, or the fiery entrance to Heaven? Is freedom a price to pay for sanity?
No! I now know that my sanity is a small sacrifice for what I must do. I MUST become a madman and a genius. Whatever it takes to feel life beyond those who study and cloister their hearts away from any sort of passionate existence.
So be it! I am a madman now! I am a slave reborn! I am wild like a wolf on the hunt! No more carefulness and classes. No more doing it exactly right! From now on, I WILL BE WILD!

A Bite of... Paul aka The Artist

Question one: As an artist, what is your greatest inspiration?

Paul: <<grins>> I have to be honest; the female form inspires me greater than any other subject. However, I am often inspired by other things, such as lovers kissing, a powerful symphony, or perhaps a rain storm. Anything has the power to inspire, if the artist is truly open.

Question two: At what age did you realise that your talent was such that it was your fate to be both artist and musician. And how did the realisation come to you?

Paul: Well… my father, Victor, was a serious musician, albeit not that well known. He began teaching me the piano forte at an early age… Around three or four years old. He also noticed my ability to draw and paint soon afterward. By the time I was seven, he wanted me to become the famous artist and composer he never was. I suppose it was fate, but only one of his making.

Question three: Who is your greatest friend, and who is your greatest enemy? And why?

Paul: My greatest friend? Hmm… True friends are hard to come by for me. They usually either become competitive or lusty. But… I do have a beautiful black dog whom I consider a dear friend. His name is Gabriel, and he’s rather loyal.
My greatest enemy? That’s easy. My own self. No one is as critical or cruel as I am to myself. But aren’t all creative types the same? In the effort to create beauty, pain, and passion, we often nearly destroy ourselves in the process. It’s a blessing…and a curse. Wouldn’t you agree?

Lyra Shanti is a novelist, poet, playwright, and songwriter who currently lives in Florida with partner and spouse, Timothy, and their two insane cats. A lover of nature, animals, anime, music, theatre, movies, myths, and of course, great books, Lyra seeks inspiration from everywhere possible! 
Author of the award winning sci-fi series, Shiva XIV, Lyra is a dreamer of worlds far away. Further information about Lyra's stories, music, and more can be found on her website.

 

A couple of hours later, Sam and Anna left. Bonnie shook her fur very firmly and jumped into the car with a look of relief on her face.

“Good girl, Bon Bon,” Anna said, “you were so patient.”

“She’s remarkable,” Sam said. “She has put up with being hugged and kissed and mauled about. I can see how relieved she is to leave. So how does she put up with it?”

“Honestly, Sam, I don’t know. She just always has. She is a certificated PAT dog, but that doesn’t explain it either. Florence, used to be just the same. My best guess is that they somehow know those people can’t help it, so they adjust.”

“Whatever it is, Bonnie is a brilliant dog. Now where are we going?”

“To buy me that kick-ass dress I mentioned.”

 

The boutique was a small, narrow shop, half-hidden in Brighton’s rambling lanes. The shop owner obviously knew Anna and Bonnie well, greeting them both with affection. “And who do we have here?”

“Mine,” Anna said laughingly.

“Well keep a tight hold on him. Now what can I do for you today?”

“I need a kick-ass dress for a big bash.”

“How kick ass?”

“Right up there.”

“I got three real belters in your size. You want to try them and let mister sexy have a say?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

 

The first dress was vintage, bronze-gold velvet. Sam hated it and said so. Number two was apricot silk jersey. Sam liked it better, but wasn’t knocked out. Anna shrugged and went back for number three. When she emerged from the changing room, Sam let out a low whistle. Anna stood before him in a skin-tight deceptively simple sheath of grey fabric shot with rainbow shades. Whenever Anna moved, a thread of colour picked up the light. He was stunned.

“That’s it princess. That’s kick-ass if ever I saw it.”

“I thought so too. I’ve got some dangly earrings, so jewellery is covered. Gotta get shoes, though.”

 

Shoes came from another shop in the Lanes; skinny strapped sandals with toothpick heels.

“My feet are going to hate you, Sam. I’ll be expecting a foot rub at the end of the evening.”

“That’s a deal, and those shoes are so sexy that I can promise more than your feet getting rubbed.”

She snickered wickedly.

“Now. What about you?”

“Got a monkey suit. Clean too. Still in the cleaner’s bag from the last time. Got shoes. Might need a new silly shirt. Think the old one is a bit crap.”

“Well. We’ll get that too. And a new bow tie. A proper one.”

“Shit Anna. I can’t tie one of those things.”

“I can.”

“Oh well. In that case.”

They finished their shopping happily and were just meandering back to the car when Sam stopped suddenly. He stood stock still in front of the window of a tiny jeweller’s shop.

“Look Anna.”

“Look at what?”

He pointed to a ring box in the corner of the window.

“Oh,” Anna said softly, “how lovely”.

“I thought so too. Let’s go see if it’s your size.”

He grabbed her unresisting hand and towed her into the shop with Bonnie at her heels.

“Can we see the emerald and diamond ring in the window please?”

The man got up from behind the counter and unlocked the window.

“This one?”

“No. The one in the red leather box.”

“Ah yes. That’s exquisite. But it is rather expensive.”

“Let’s see if it fits the lady before we talk money,” Sam said firmly.

 

The square-cut emerald was flanked with blue-white baguette-cut diamonds, and the ring slid onto Anna’s finger as if it had been made for her.

“Like it?” Sam asked tenderly.

“Love it. But it’s a lot of money…”

“So? You can’t have a cheap engagement ring.”

Anna couldn’t speak, so she just blinked and nodded her head. Sam turned to the shopkeeper.

“I think the lady likes it. We’ll take it.”

The jeweller’s face was wreathed in smiles.

“I have a particular fondness for that ring, and it looks as if it was made for your fiancée. It’s early twentieth century and was pretty battered when I bought it. I spent many hours restoring it. If it’s your engagement ring, I’ll throw in the matching wedding ring as part of the deal. It’s platinum too, set with diamond chips, and carved to match the shoulders of the engagement ring. How will you be paying?”

“Debit card all right?”

“Certainly.”

“Done.”

 

While Sam and the jeweller did business, Anna stood looking at the lovely ring on her hand. Then she bent and showed it to Bonnie, who wagged approvingly.

“I think this means you and me will be marrying Sam. Do you approve?” she whispered into one soft, black ear. Bonnie flattened those ears and wagged harder. Anna hugged her dog, too happy to be sensible. When she came back to herself, Sam had finished his business with the jeweller and was smiling down at her.

“Come on lovely, we’re cluttering up the nice man’s shop.”

He held out his hand and Anna put her own in it.

 

They left the shop handfast, clutching multiple shopping bags, and followed by a happy-looking black dog. The jeweller shook his head and smiled.

“Stupid with happiness,” he remarked to nobody in particular, “I wish them well.”

 

When they got back to the car, Sam stowed the bags and belted Bonnie into the back seat. Anna, still in a happy daze, just stood staring at the emerald as it winked green fire at her. Sam scooped her into the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

“Now,” he said on a laugh, “you do realise you just promised to marry me, don’t you?”

“I guess I did. But it’s OK, Bonnie approves.”

He laughed, then leaned over to kiss his lady love.

“I ought to ask you properly, though. I love you, will you please marry me?”

“I love you back much harder, and of course I’ll marry you.”

“Good. Now direct me to the Lamb and Flag.”

“Not simple. I’d better drive. I just need to moon over being engaged to you for another five minutes, then I’ll be OK.”

 

In the end, they both mooned, entranced by the beauty of the ring and the sweet promise of a life together. They were brought back to earth by Bonnie’s wet, warm tongue.  Sam laughed until he nearly cried.

“That’s us told. We’ve done sentimental for long enough.”

“We have,” Anna grinned appreciatively at him. “Let’s go book in and take little miss impatience for a good walk.”

The rest of the weekend passed happily. They ate an excellent dinner in the Lamb and Flag’s cozy dining room, where Sam and Ted discovered they had more in common than affection for Anna. In the end she sat back and listened to their banter, learning things about both men she hadn’t thought too much about before: Sam’s year working with Medecins sans Frontiers; Ted’s gap year working in a school in China; Sam’s encyclopaedic knowledge of Monty Python; Ted’s ability to do Margaret Thatcher’s voice; and a whole lot more.

 

The next morning, Sam and Anna drove to Ted’s house where Anna’s car awaited them, ready packed with her stuff. Sam whistled appreciatively when he saw the black Range Rover.

“That makes the Audi look a bit sick.”

She smirked.

“Yeah, but so would Little Noddy’s car.”

He made a grab for her, and they wound up chasing around the Audi with Bonnie capering beside them. Ted stood in his doorway laughing out loud.

“You are so good for her,” he said to Sam, “the dignified and rather sad Miss Marshall seems to be a person of the past.”

“Thanks, Ted,” Anna snorted.

“Get along with you,” he grinned. “Go home. Drive safely.”

They loaded Bonnie back into the Audi with Sam driving, Anna took the wheel of the stately Range Rover, and they went home.

Jane Jago

You are old, don’t you see it’s too late
You can no longer procrastinate
But you’re riding the sleeper
Towards the grim reaper
Still flicking two fingers at fate

© jane jago 2017

Sam Nero’s office can be found on the fifty-fifth level of the City. It’s not the mean streets, but it’s not exactly busted flush territory either. The outer office is skinny and dusty and inhabited by a peroxide blonde named Sugar. Sam’s inner sanctum, should you ever find yourself there, boasts a scratched leather-topped desk, an upright visitor’s chair, and a statue of an ugly bird that sits on the window ledge…

 

The moment she walked into my office, I knew she was trouble. Any private eye worth his salt knows that a dame like that in a dive like this spells trouble for somebody.

She was classy, and way out of my orbit. Even the sound of silk on silk as she crossed her legs spoke of money beyond my imagination. She uncrossed those legs, leaned forward, and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her handbag. I took my cue, lighting the end of her cigarette with my brass Zippo.

Leaning back in the tatty office chair, my visitor smiled a feline smile. She smoked in silence for a moment, and it crossed my mind that she looked as out of place as an orchid in a ditch.

When she spoke, her voice was almost as wealthy as her appearance. It was smoky, and sexy, and carefully modulated.

“If a person wanted to have somebody rubbed out, where would that person go?”

“The eraser factory?”

She leaned back and blew a smoke ring. “Very funny, Mister Nero. But I asked you a serious question.”

“I’m a private investigator, not a facilitator.”

My visitor laughed, low and husky. “Very good. And I’m not asking you to facilitate a murder. I’m asking you to investigate one.”

I leaned my elbows on the desk. “Aren’t the police investigating?”

“No. Or I wouldn’t be slumming it.”

“Two questions. Who died? And why not some up-level investigator with a shiny office and an even shinier reputation?”

She stared at me before leaning forward and stubbing out her cigarette with vicious little stabs. I couldn’t help noticing the perfection of her manicure and mentally pricing the job at more than what I earned in a month.

“Not so stupid, then.” Her voice lost some of its melody and grated a little on the ear. “I came to you because I heard you were honest, and maybe not afraid of getting your hands dirty. And who died? Lefty Galento. My father.”

It was my turn to stare. Then I spoke in carefully neutral tones. “Lefty died of natural causes.”

“Oh sure,” she said harshly, “if you call being smothered with his own pillow natural.”

“What do you mean, smothered? The newsfeed said he died peacefully in his bed. And Meditech agreed.”

“You have clearance for Meditech?”

I wriggled my fingers, and the ghost of a smile passed across her features. “If you had to hack in, why did you bother?” She sounded curious.

“Because Lefty and me went back a way. And I wondered which of his family got greedy.”

“That’s what I wonder too. And what I want to know before they start dividing up the assets.” She regarded me somberly for a minute, then appeared to come to a decision. “As far as the family is concerned, I am one of Daddy’s assets. I just want to make sure that whoever they want me to marry didn’t pay his nurse to hold a pillow over his face.”

She got up from her seat and reached into her bag once more, pulling out a fat brown envelope. “There should be enough cash there to engage your services. I’ll be back in three days.”

She left my office with a swing of her hips.

All she left behind her was an image burned into my retinas and the suggestion of her perfume. Oh, and an envelope of cash.

I put the envelope in the drawer of my desk and waited.

It wasn’t long before the office door was flung open with a crash. I only just had time to wonder how a holographic door could make a noise, when a pair of huge hands with black hairs crawling across the backs of them grabbed me by the shirt front. The goon grunted as he attempted to drag me out of my seat, but I’m a big boy and I don’t drag easily. I heard the material of my shirt tear, and that annoyed me. I don’t have enough shirts to destroy them without a backward glance. I put my hands around the goon’s wrists and squeezed, gently at first, then with progressively more force. The goon left hold of my shirt and started to whimper.

I waited until he dropped to his knees, then let go. He was dumb enough to go for whatever was in the holster under his left armpit. I coughed gently and he looked up right into the barrel of a blaster disguised as a vintage Colt .45. And those barrels look mighty big when they are right up close to your eyes.

“Down, boy.” The voice that spoke from my doorway was educated, with mild undertones of thug, and the goon was obviously in fear of the owner of that voice, because he scrambled to his feet and hung his head.

“Sorry, boss,” he mumbled.

“Just go. Wait for me outside and make sure we are not disturbed.”

The goon went, and I eyeballed my second visitor with some interest. He was slim and dark and good-looking, and he exuded dangerous with every breath.

He sat where the dame had been only minutes before, and I found myself thinking they had to be related.

“I understand you just had a visit from my cousin.”

“Classy broad, about so high, wearing a red suit?”

He nodded.

“Then I did.”

“What did she want?”

“Hadn’t you better ask her?”

“I’m asking you.”

I looked at him for a few seconds, noticing that the whites of his eyes showed all the way around the dark brown irises, before replying in carefully colourless tones. “She wanted me to find out who disposed of Lefty Galento.”

“And what did you say, my large friend?”

Thanking all the gods and all the techs for my excellent poker face, I looked at him blandly. “As far as I am aware, Lefty died of natural causes.”

From Sam Nero - PI by Jane Jago one of the stories in Dust Publishing's anthology The Last City.

 

Above,
On wings,
A flight achieved

Beyond
The reach
Of human scope,

Clouded
Skies embrace
The solitary spirit.

Dreams
That lift
The humbled mind

Endure,
And ride
The silent wind

Forever,
Through clouds
Imbued with gentle grey.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Howdy again,

It is I, your inspirational instructor in the arcane literary arts, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Again it falls to me to remind you of my impeccable credentials as the author of ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, once described as ‘amazingly….written….incredible….story’. One comes to you this week, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. If a little physically worn. One comes to you in the full flood of joy. One comes to you in the full knowledge that one is becoming a better and more sensitive writer day on day. One comes to you replete, but still hungering. One comes to you with reluctance but determination. A teacher must teach, I tell myself. A teacher must teach. So teach one shall.

Today’s lesson concerns a literary device about which one has mixed feelings, but one it is unwise to ignore as its usefulness cannot be overstated, although it can be overused. Of what does your beloved pedagogue speak?

Lesson 32: The Write Cliffhanger

Ah yes. The cliffhanger. Those little hooks of anticipation one sets in the flesh of one’s besotted readership leaving them like the cocaine addict without his fix, like the lover deprived of an adored one’s skin, like half of a loving pair left suddenly alone. Craving. Craving….

Properly used, the cliffhanger can ensure that one’s readership awaits with baited breath the next instalment. That they turn the page with shaking hands barely able to contain the excitement that one’s literary efforts stir in their innocent breasts.

Improperly used, the cliffhanger becomes as the drumbeat of the music that ends each episode of some trashy soap opera or another. It becomes as the dying fall at the end of a popular melody. As the cawing and rook-like scratching of the comic-book hero who will live to fight another day be it limbless or headless.

Beware the crass and sensational.

Compare and contrast.

• Artimesius lay bound and gagged across the cruel iron of the railway lines and even as he strained and writhed in his bonds the vibration through the unyielding metal to which he was tethered told him that the seventeen-twenty to Euston was on time.

 

• Arty: tied to the railway, screaming inside, hearing the scream of an approaching express train. Will our hero survive?

I rest my case as I rest my head as on a lover’s breast.

I leave you to consider the use of the cliffhanger with an example from my own literal life.

Last time one left you in the knowledge that some great and cataclysmic occurrence had brought a newness and brightness to one’s life. Now read on.

It was nine of the clock and the front door of Myrtle Villa was flung open with such force as to throw it back against the fading floral print of the wallpaper with a reverberating crash.
“Moons, I’m home…” Mumsie’s voice was slurred almost beyond recognition and I readied myself for either maudlin sentiment or vicious physical attack. But it was neither of those things. It was much worse. “I’ve brought the gang along. We’re going to have a welcome home Moons party.”
One quickly gathered together one’s papers and secreted them in the depths of a cretonne cushioned ottoman before assembling a welcoming smile and turning to face the doorway. The usual gang of halfwits, deadbeats, alcoholics, out-of-work whores, and accountants began to dribble into the room. And each found it necessary to greet one either with loose-lipped and unpleasant kisses or by slapping one painfully about the back and shoulders.
And then IT happened. Just as suddenly as that. One minute one was cringing in the corner. The next instant…

What?

You will find out next time. Perhaps…

Until then. Hasta la vista muchachos!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

I was:

Fifteen when I first set eyes on him.

Seventeen when he fed me red wine, popped my cherry and walked away.

Thirty-one when he walked into a very boring cocktail party. I recognised him immediately; he was even dressed very much the same in faded blue jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up his brawny forearms. He scanned the room with his denim-blue eyes and I was immediately transported back fourteen years to another party in another world.

He had materialised at my elbow with a glass of red wine in each hand.
“I can’t bear to see a pretty girl not drinking.”
It was so vivid that I could even smell the crushed grass underfoot in the marquee.

I snapped back to the twenty-first century in time to see those eyes skip over me, then back, narrowing in recognition.

I put down my glass, walked quietly out of the party and hailed a cab.

Three days later I received a text.

Three days after that I was in his bed.

I rolled over and gave him my best slumbrous look.
“You wanna play a game?”
He was intrigued enough to fall in with my plan.

Three hours later he was tied naked to the bed and I was writing uncomplimentary things about his sexual prowess on his torso with a sharpie.

The photographs were an internet sensation.

Oh yes, revenge is a dish best eaten cold…..

© jane jago 2017

 

Time is certainly a tricky thing. Mumsie seems to have scant grasp of it for sure. The amount of occasions she has declared she would be visiting the local tawdry tavern for ‘a quick one’, vowing to return within the hour, only to roll back inebriated post-midnight, are too numerous to count.

Indeed, it was whilst awaiting her return one such evening that I came upon a slender tome, a mere novella, which claimed to be a true classic of speculative fiction by a gentleman who preferred to be known by his initials, as is now such a modern trend. I recalled reading some platitudinous parable by the same author when I was at school, the story of a sighted man who discovers a country where everyone else is blind. But this, the cover blurb assured me, was no such. It was science fiction!

So to the review.

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells

A man makes a time machine and is doing a lecture tour about it. He uses the device, goes hundreds of thousands of years into the future and lands in a social allegory. Here the effete and pretty Eloi (think elves) are hunted by the troglodytic Morlocks (think orcs). Our hero completely messes up when he tries to save the day, loses the girl (who is killed) and runs off in his time machine. He then stops at a couple more pointless and empty places on equally ridiculous timescales, before he somehow winds up back where he started in time for his next lecture.

One star for encouraging the entrepreneurial spirit by advocating lecture tours for scientists.

M F Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

 

“Left a bit.”
*Baaaaa-chink*
“Right – no left. LEFT!
*Cree-chink!*
“Shit! You guys suck at this. Gricks, get back round and we’ll – ”
*Froooo–rooo—jik”
“WHO THE – ?”
“Sorry Boss. Thought I was in with a pretty good -”
“Shut up Gricks! Just get back and we’ll give it one more try.”
*Foooooooo-rooo—jik*
*Cree-baaa-creeee-baaa*
*Clunk*
*Clunk*
*THUNK*
“Yeeee-Haaa!”
“Wooooo-woooooo!”
“Way to go people! Grats – we all just made a million creds.”
“Squeeee!”
“Yea – you too Gricks! Just get it in the salvage bay careful like, right? This is a piece of centuries old human history you got there, not some of your people’s modern space junk!”

E.M. Swift-Hook