It was still dark when the tiny clock in the wall beside Ig’s face bleeped. He wished he could ignore it, but he knew from bitter experience that he had five minutes maximum to be out of bed and dressed or face the consequences.
“Lights on fifty percent.”
Light filled his cell making him blink owlishly. If that was fifty percent, he was a sewer rat, but at least the fragging lights had come on.
He rolled out of bed and turned on the tap in his chipped wash basin. Good. There was water, and it was even warm. Ig briskly sluiced his hands and face before scrambling into his clothes.

He was just adjusting the braces on his coverall when the door banged open with so much force that it bounced off the wall. One of the new intake of sergeants stood in the doorway eyeing him suspiciously. The man’s hard little eyes roamed the cell looking for violations. Ig stood wooden-faced and quiet, looking at a point somewhere between the sergeant’s red face and the twin belts of rank that held up a big, jutting belly. The non-com stalked away, allowing Ig to join the queue for the latrines.

Our hero’s day went downhill from there. The breakfast oatmeal was garnished with burnt bits, and then he found himself under the command of a new intake corporal. It wasn’t good. Corporal Legolas had about as much idea of guard detail as Ig had of the world above ground. First of all they had almost left without the gas rats in their cage, and then the man had attempted to stroke one of the Wardens. Okay, Wardens looked like dogs, he’d give the corporal that much, but not knowing the difference had cost more than one man a hand or arm. Finally he wanted his men to march into the fragging tunnels. Ig got the distinct impression that the explanation of harmonics and echoes had passed over the man’s head, but once the Guard Captain made it a direct order they were okay. Or as okay as a detail under the command of a complete greenhorn was ever going to be.

The attack came as they were almost at the tunnel exit. Twenty or so humanoids rose from their place of concealment among a jumbled pile of rocks. Ig and his companions drew their battle sticks and began the methodical process of beating their assailants about the heads and shoulders to force them back from whence they came. Then Legolas panicked and started shooting – he had a sidearm in either hand and he just let rip. The men in his detail cursed pungently and threw themselves to the ground.

A while later, guard detail AlphaZero exited the tunnel dragging the body of their corporal behind them. He was so full of holes as to resemble one of cookie’s colanders. Ig poked the body with one booted foot.
“Ricochet,” he grunted.

©️ jane jago 2018

You don’t have to agree with me
Or think me in the right
It’s sad that you can’t talk it out
Instead you want to fight
You don’t have to concede my point
Or understand my view
But I wish you’d let me have my turn
As I have tried with you
It seems to me you will not hear
Or try to understand
That you think shouting loudest
Offers you the upper hand
You don’t have to agree with me
I don’t expect you to
But you should know that being rude
Won’t make me side with you

Bonjour mes estudas

It is I, bestselling author and all-round excellent human being, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Here to pass on the fruits of my intellect to those lesser beings – such as yourselves – who struggle through the dilemmas of life, love and literature.

Today we have a question from Ian (is it only I who has noticed what a plain and boring cognomen is Ian?).

Dear Ivy,

Is there a reason I struggle to feel immersed in present tense writing? What, if any, are the pros to writing the seldom appreciated tense when past is available and most prefer it?

Your Adoring Fan,

Ian.

My very dear Ian,

This is the sort of question that exposes the ignorance of one’s little students to the glare of the public eye. One does not, silly boy, write in tense. One writes intensely. When the Muse sits on one’s shoulder and whispers his seduction into one’s shell-like ear one does not allow the constraints of grammar to befoul the flow of beautiful prose from one’s metaphorical pen. One cares not whether one’s protagonist speaks pastly, presently, or futuristically. It matters not. The outpouring of one’s artistic sensibilities will carry the reader of taste along on the flood tide of emotion and adoration.

Good writing, has it not been often said, is timeless. So do not concern yourself with whether the events written are here and now, now and then or soon to be. Ignore the trite distinctions that are mere verb forms and peer more deeply into the flowering blossom of prose. The present is the immortal now and as such is a fitting medium for the more discerning artistes of the literary world. Those who prefer the most opulent and rare of words to cluster in their paragraphs and for whom the tawdry details most lesser authors need to observe are become merely optional as they have grown beyond them.

Oh no, my dear little Ian, immersion in writings should not be a function of tense, person, or voice. Should you fail in your endeavours to understand the writing you are drawn to, there are but two possible reasons for this miserable failure. The first possibility is that you are in the hands of a writer who cannot handle their chosen means of communication. The second, sadly, is that there is a lack in you.

I hope, whilst yet fearing it likely, the latter is not the case, and that you will eventually find an author whose sensibilities march alongside your own. One who will fully immerse you in the embracing sensuality of their prose regardless of tense, gender, sexuality, or language.

Yours with gently reproving affection,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem HERE or contacting me through my Facebook presence. Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

It is not yet winter,
and the race is not yet run,
The bone is yet to splinter,
while there’s still thread to be spun.
The sky is still above us,
below the earth is sweet,
As yet the gods still love us,
though we walk a crooked street.
All is not yet over,
there are still days to be had,
There are still some hours in clover,
and some moments to be sad.
It is not yet winter,
though the days grow shorter now,
We are walkers now, not sprinters,
and we’ve white hairs at our brow.
I will love you in the winter,
as I loved you in the spring,
With a love that bends not splinters,
and a love song still to sing

©️jane jago 2018

Idria, the Dragon Slayer was sitting in a comfortable tavern with her booted feet on the bench opposite, enjoying the most excellent malted ale which the landlord assured her was his own brew.

The sun was shining and through the window, she could see a family of ducks trailing over the millpond.

Life was good and she had not been summoned to slay a dragon for almost a decade now. Which was just as well as she was not sure she could fit in that armour anymore.

It was a hard decision to make. Idria frowned in concentration.

Did she had another ale or maybe ask for another portion of the landlord’s excellent apple pie? The landlord waited, a little impatiently, for her reply. It would be on the house, of course, after all she was The Dragon Slayer.

“Ah tefts! Why not both?”

Decision made Idria relaxed back in her chair and looked out at the peaceful scene beyond the window. Such a perfect day, nothing could spoil it.

Nothing except that small black dot in the sky which she could see getting closer and closer.

Tefts no! Surely not? Not today when she had just ordered –

The magical sound filled her head even before the bird was in clear sight. Around her, the chimes rang out, akin to that of someone dropping a series of metal plates of different sizes onto a bell. A moment later the chiming stopped and Idria was clad in her Dragon Slayer armour.

The good news was that the magic armour fitted. The bad news was – it fitted.

“Tefts! Does my bum look big in this?”

The landlord had just returned with her ale and nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Um – no,” he said colouring. He was not to know the armour gave her the ability to hear his thoughts: No bigger than the rest of you anyway.

Originally written by E.M. Swift-Hook as part of a LiveWrite for the SciFi Roundtable.

If your writing is turgidly lagging
There is no point in you lollygagging
You should furgle with pride
Till it’s dimpsy outside
Then play spillikins with a dragon

©️ Jane Jago 2018

An extract from "The Last Apple," by Devorah Fox, one of the stories in Chosen, A Fantasy Genre Sampler.

Chosen, A Fantasy Genre Sampler  - A bard with the power to bring his tales to life. A Victorian-era protectoress of the Lost Ways to Faerieland. A Korean War vet who becomes Mallworld Gatekeeper after dragons attack. A vision walker who is forced into a portal to another world to save her queen. 
Four new stories. Four chances to escape to another world by Devorah Fox, Kylie Quillinan,‎ Alesha Escobar and Bokerah Brumley 

As it turned out, they both liked savage. A lot. They lay face-to-face and grinned at each other.

“Anna Marshall, you are a constant surprise and delight to me.”

“Ditto.”

She ran her hands up and down his muscular chest.

“I’m impressed. You really must have to put in some work to get a body like this.”

“Oh, I do. I’ve seen too many health professionals who are in crap physical condition. I vowed it wouldn’t be me. And you? How’d you get a body to die for?”

“Oh. I work at it too. Possibly from a different angle. My problem is keeping weight on. I’m naturally as thin as a lath, but if I walk plenty and make sure I eat enough I can be lean rather than thin.”

“I’d say lucky you, but I’m guessing that it all has something to do with the knife throwing incident.”

“Yeah. It was a very dirty knife. I lost some feet of intestines, an ovary, and some other bits.”

Then she looked at him shyly.

“The ovary I lost turned out to have been the only one I had. That’s why I’m infertile.”

He kissed her affectionately.

“I don’t have an excuse. I just fire blanks. And in the end it gave my ex a watertight excuse to divorce me.”

Anna heard the raw pain in his voice.

“Oh Sam,” she said gently. “What a silly girl.”

“Thank you for that, but she had no intention of contemplating a life without children. She had it all planned, you see.”

“Oh, I see, but you can’t plan life. It will get up and bite you if you try. I’m sorry for you Sam, but I think I’m even sorrier for her.”

He thought for a minute.

“Me too. Thanks Anna, I’d never thought of it like that, but you do have a point.”

“I know I do. Life has proved it to me many, many times.”

“So now you know about my marriage. Do you feel like telling me about your love life?”

“I don’t see why not. His name is Ted, and I met him at the home where my mother spent the last years of her life. I used to go every weekend to see Mum and take the dog along for her to cuddle. Ted’s wife is there. She’s only thirty-five, but her mind is completely gone. She is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but that’s about it. She doesn’t recognise him, or remember anything about their life together. Ted and I became friends, then lovers. And that’s about all there is to it. It’s a sad little story, but we never hurt anybody – except maybe ourselves.”

“God, Anna. That is sad. I can see how it must have been.”

She looked at his face for a long moment.

“I believe you do understand. That’s a bit of a miracle in itself.”

She smiled and kissed both his cheeks.

“Now Bonnie needs to go out before it gets too dark. After which, I’ve got chocolate brownies that I need help to eat.”

He grinned like a little boy and jumped out of bed.

“Get on with it, woman. You just promised me cake.”

Leaping into his clothes he jumped out of the camper and dashed off with Bonnie at his heels. Anna found shorts and a tee shirt, picked up her own discarded clothing, and put the wrapped brownies in a low oven to warm through. Sam and Bonnie were down by the stream. He grinned at her then trotted back to the camper, after jumping inside for a minute he walked back over to them with his hands behind his back and an oddly shy expression on his face.

“What’s up Sam?”

“Brought you a present each. Dunno if you’ll like them.”

He brought his right hand out from behind his back and offered Bonnie a paper bag. She put her nose inside and emerged holding a brightly coloured ball, which she promptly dropped at his feet. He picked it up and threw it for the waiting dog, who raced after it happily.

“I know she likes to play ball. It’s a proper dog one, so it won’t burst or anything. And I got this for you.”

He proffered a small, badly-wrapped parcel.

“I’m shit at wrapping.”

Anna smiled, and tore off the paper as eagerly as a child. “Oh Sam,” her voice was a bit tremulous as she held the tiny porcelain Belgian Shepherd in careful hands.

“Saw it in a shop window. Couldn’t resist. Hoped you’d like it.”

“Oh I do like it. Nearly as much as I like you. I don’t have a present for you, but maybe you’d like warm chocolate brownies with vanilla ice cream.”

He laughed.

“I would indeed. Then maybe Anna for afters.”

“I think that could be arranged.”

They whistled up Bonnie, who returned with a face full of ball, and went back to the camper in a mood of happy anticipation.

Jane Jago

The perversity of verse is that it sings inside your head
Inside your mind the words take wing, outside they’re flat and dead
Inside your head the music spirals higher ever higher
Singing point and counterpoint to set the world on fire
The thread of melody teases as you try to bid it linger
It dances, always out of reach. Evades your groping fingers
The irony of poetry is how we try to clasp
Our hands around a lullaby too delicate to grasp
The perversity of verse may not be what it seems to be
Perhaps the fault is ours who try to capture what is free
The irony of poetry and life the way we know it
May only be that poetry has no love for the poet

©️ Jane Jago 2018