We rocked up at the Fair Maid and Falcon at about four in the afternoon of a filthy early October day. Two humans and two dogs, in a big American motorhome, come to run the business while the owners went on holiday. The rain was streaming, it was blowing a gale, and the pub certainly wasn’t appearing to its best advantage.

‘You and the dogs stop in the dry’ Ben said. ‘I’ll go find out where they want us to park.’
I did as he suggested, and he came back about fifteen minutes later looking cross.
‘What?’
‘Oh, the stupid buggers want us to park on the other side of the road in a very muddy field with no water and no lekky hook-up. They don’t want their customers to see the Winnie. He says they have a select clientele who might think the New Age Travellers had moved in.’
‘And what did you say to him, love of my life?’
He grinned. ‘The second word was ‘off’. I’ve left them having a bit of a think.’
I looked at the long, low, flint-walled building squatting moodily at the edge of its sodden beer garden and found myself shivering. ‘I don’t much care for this place’ I said slowly ‘so if the incumbents aren’t prepared to be reasonable I vote for giving them back their deposit and going home. Let them find somebody else to run their fucking gastro pub while they piss off the the Caribbean.’
Ben laughed. ‘Do you think there is anybody else?’
I laughed ruefully. ‘No. I guess not. And I find I don’t much care.’
He patted me companionably ‘Got the willies have you?’
‘Yup. And that’s normally your job…’
‘Yeah. It is. I’ve actually got a few myself. The atmosphere has changed greatly since I came here in June.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t put my finger on precisely what it is, but they seem to be losing it. He’s chain-smoking and his skin is hanging on him. And her? She looks like something the cat brought in and didn’t want. They are also extremely edgy. When I was inside, a door banged somewhere and she jumped about ten feet in the air.’
‘Odd. Marital problems do you think?’
His forehead creased as he considered that idea. ‘No. Doesn’t feel like that. I mean they aren’t exactly playing happy families, but they weren’t in June. This feels new… and nasty.’

Our conversation was interrupted by a timid knock on the door of the camper. Stan and Ollie growled softly and Ben got up to open the door. A skinny young girl in a waitress uniform stood out in the rain.
‘Come in.’
She did as she was told and stood dripping on the floor. ‘They want you to go back in’ she almost whispered. ‘He’s in a terrible temper and threatening all sorts if you don’t. She’s crying. Again.’
Ben looked at the girl from under his blonde eyebrows. ‘Would you go back in there if you were me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s them two. They’ve gone mad. They used to be OK to work for. Hard. But fair. But now they are both completely nuts. He shouts all the time and drinks, and she drinks and cries. This is my last shift. Got a job in Lymington. It’s a drop in pay. But. Told myself it was because its nearer to home. It isn’t though. It’s this place. It has started to give me the serious creeps.’
‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll now go see the charm twins.’

He got up and pulled on his parka. I watched them splashing their way across the car park, with Ben holding our huge red umbrella over the shivering girl, then sat on the rug with the dogs. ‘Well’ I said. ‘What do you two reckon? Stay? Or go?’
They looked solemn, then lay one either side of me and promptly fell asleep.

Ben was gone ages, and I was almost asleep myself when he returned. He looked a bit grim.
‘Problem, love?’
‘I dunno. When I went back inside all was sweetness and light. But I have the willies now. The volte face was too complete. We get to park wherever suits us. Would we like a meal with them in the restaurant tonight? The dogs can use the private garden. There was even the offer of more money.’
‘Shit Ben. They must be desperate. We’re overcharging them now, because you didn’t really want to take the job.’
‘True. But that was different. I just thought he was an asshole. Now he’s a worried asshole.’
‘So? What do we do? We probably have to stay, don’t we?’
‘Yup. Or have the asshole mouthing off all over Facebook and Twitter if we don’t.’
‘Okay then. We do it. But I want it on record that I have the willies.’

Extracted from Who Put Her In? ©️ jane jago

Χαίρετε,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author extraordinaire of the bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, lightsome spirit, and all-round good egg. I come to you today all aflutter with excitement, and with a spring in my delicate heels. Mumsie and I have come into money. Well, Mumsie has, but as she so playfully puts it: “One can’t leave the fruits of one’s fanny out of the treat, even if he is a disappointing plonker, with no charm and less humour.”

And guess what the treat is…?  We are going away on holiday to the sun. To the Greek isles in general and to Mykonos in particular. To the place of dreams, to the wine-dark sea and the retsina. Sadly this visit, which will no doubt refresh my creativity in the home of Calliope herself, is not to occur for some months yet. But even now I am feeling ever more uplifted towards my Muse.

Mumsie says she intends to spend two weeks ‘on the lash’ (whatever vulgarisms that portends) whilst I ‘sort my freaking head out’. As if my beauteous little noddle was in need of ‘sorting’. Be that as it may, one is so excited that one’s breath comes in short pants and one finds oneself almost as excited as an eight-year-old on tuck-box day…

But such delights cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the programme of authorly improvement upon which we have set our feet. En avant ο φίλος μου.

Lesson 24: The Write way to court your Muse

It has been suggested to one that writer’s block is a condition that exists only in the mind of the writer. One would counter that claim with the irrefutable fact that one’s writing emanates from one’s mind. Ergo writer’s block is as real as one’s fingers or toeses. And if it is a real condition of the true literary giant, which it is, it behoves one to search for the remedy which must, as surely as the sun rises, be somewhere in the shining ionosphere

Researching the words the literary glitterati, one hears of stratagems varying from long walks in the countryside, to excessive sexual activity, to the consumption of hallucinogenic substances, to just giving up and going to bed.

In one’s own small experience of the stubbornness of the Muse of literature, one has found that capricious semi-deity can best be summoned by providing an atmosphere conducive to the comfort and delight of a creature accustomed to the finest things this world – and any other – has to offer.

Summon Calliope with soft music. With the scent of burning incense. With the delicate petals of rosebuds. With the richest of fabrics and the softest of cushions. Lay aside the vulgarity of the pad electronic in favour of the smoothest of papers, the blackest of inks and the most beautiful of fountain pens. Gaze upon only the fairest of nature’s creations. Bring yourself into that meditational state advocated by the most practiced of yogis. Do all this and you shall see the return of your faithless mistress to her perch at your shoulder. You shall once again smell the sweetness of her breath, and her inspiration shall once again enter your writing like a soft breath of breeze from the summer sea.

Above all do not despair my student. Apply yourself with humility and love and your Muse will love you once more.

Until next καλή τύχη. And ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Then suddenly a soft voice cut through all the chatter.
“Hey, Isabel.”
I whipped my head up, looking over my open laptop.
It was Tarek.
Jesus. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
I decided to take in the entire sight of him. Since he had addressed me directly, I finally had an excuse to take a good look at him. I decided afterward that it was kind of a mistake.
He was wearing a black T-shirt with dark jeans. His T-shirt hugged his chest, which, like his entire body, was lean and muscular. His short beard and goatee were neatly trimmed. He was certainly dark enough to be what Lara and Eric called “my type,” although I usually went for Latin men. I guessed his age to be about 28, but his eyes held an experience that made him seem more mature.
He wasn’t super-tall. I guessed that he was between 5 feet, 9 inches and 5 feet 10 inches. I was 5’6” so I more or less did a quick comparison. His curly black hair hung in carefully groomed, tight tiny ringlets around his face and almost down to his shoulders. He was incredibly sexy. He probably had to spend a lot of time on his hair, moussing it up, and that if he let it go it would probably be frizzy. His curls reminded me of Lara and her unruly hair, although her ringlets were more tousled and larger, and always framed her beautiful face perfectly. She was forever straightening it, but I kept telling her it looked gorgeous in ringlets, like Tarek’s curls did now. I felt myself softening a little at the thought of my sister, but I steeled my reserve and plastered a semi-scowl on my face. My scowl and general surly attitude were my defense mechanisms. After enough unpleasantness, people generally left me alone. I liked it that way.
Eric, Josh and Dinesh were somehow building up a tolerance for it. It was starting to piss me off.
Lately, everything was pissing me off.
I had to admit, however, that I was intrigued as well as annoyed. Few people had the nerve to come and talk to me like this, with no warning.
I decided not to say anything at first. I just stared and raised my eyebrows.
He waited a good three to four seconds before he spoke. The left corner of my mouth started to go up into a smirk. Invariably, there were only two reasons a guy like this, a semi-stranger no less, would deign to talk to me. If he was going to miss class and wanted to get my notes, he was shit outta luck. And if he wanted a booty call, well, I wasn’t quite sure yet how I would handle that. Little did I know, he wasn’t going to ask me either of those things.

Miscalculated Risks is the first book in the Law School Heretic series written by Maria Riegger. You can find out more about Marie, her writing and the series on her website.

An interview with the author of the Law School Heretic series.

1. In a romance what do you feel is most important: a shared sense of humour, tastes in common, sexual attraction or something else?

One of the most important things is the willingness to seek to understand the other person. In any relationship, romantic or otherwise, there will be differences. Your success depends on how you handle the differences. You need to be willing to try to understand where the other person is coming from. For example, you are a saver and your partner is a spender. But did you think about why your partner spends rather than saves? Is that rooted in his/her childhood?

I have issues with how romances are depicted in some movies and television series (and some books), in that it’s difficult to understand how some characters connect and feel emotionally attracted to each other. The audience usually wants the couple to get together right away, but that’s often not how it works in real life. It’s usually this process of sharing and starting to be vulnerable with each other, and then realizing that there is this emotional and intellectual attraction.

2. If you could meet one author, dead or alive, who would that be and why?

I would love to meet Ken Follett. Eye of the Needle is my favorite thriller of all time. It is a tightly constructed, fast-paced novel with an unlikely (and flawed) female lead. Follett is a terrific multi-genre author. In addition to thrillers, he writes historical fiction as well (Pillars of the Earth, set in medieval England, is another of my favorite novels).

3. What is the one piece of advice would you give your fifteen year-old-self – do you think she would take it?

I would tell her not to sweat the small stuff, and, honestly, 70-80% of it is small stuff. Don’t worry about things that are out of your control. I know it’s easier said than done, but the older I get, the less I tend to worry about outcomes, and the more faith I have that I will be able to deal with whatever is thrown at me.

Would my fifteen-year-old self take the advice? I think she would listen, but then do whatever she wanted.

Maria Riegger is a banking/corporate attorney in Washington, DC by day (please don’t hold that against her), and a fiction author by night. She is a Gemini whose head has always been in the clouds. Indeed, from a young age, her mother scolded her for not paying attention. An irreverent Gen X’er, she writes gritty contemporary romance, with plenty of sarcasm. You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

I order my drink at the bar
The ice-cubes chiming in the glass
“You want a straw with that?”
Pretty plastic colours
I think what I saw
Last night on TV:
An ocean choked
With plastic waste
I say no
The last straw.
Simple.
Really.
Just,
No.

One might never have read this book had it not been that Mumsie decreed it a winter project last year. One resisted as best one might, but in the end it is never wise to argue with one’s mater as a clout around one’s ear with whatever the woman has in her hand at the time can be injurious to both health and beauty.

One attempted to ask what particular merit the uninspiring looking volume was hiding under its brown paper dustcover. But Mumsie merely looked up from her copy of some other boring old book and slapped one large, square hand hard on the boards of the dining table.
“You,” she intoned in a doom-laden voice, “call yourself a writer. So you better effing well learn to write, and you just might do that by reading some people who actually can. Bloody read it. And don’t skip. There will be questions.”

Knowing when discretion is the better part of valour is just one of the things a public school education teaches. So I read it. And here is my review.

Précis: Something happens and lots of people go blind. Then some plants start walking about killing people. And there is a girl.

Review: This is absolutely black, plain and black. There is no artistry in the choice of words. No beauty in the language. No heroism. The story is told as colloquially as if the ‘hero’ (if one could call him such) was talking to his rough chums in some public house. There is no attempt to elevate the story of his struggle beyond the mundane and everyday.
There is not even a decent happy ever after. Does humanity triumph? Or do the plants win?  I couldn’t tell. I was left dissatisfied and unsettled. This is not a nice book.

Two stars. Awarded for proper spelling and punctuation.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Why is Twitter
Full of bitter
Shitters?
Who stick their nebs
In the web
Like celebs.
Why is the net
Full of regret
And lost bets?
From those who lost
Now counting the cost
Of winter’s frost.
Why are kids
Under lids
Or on the skids?
Before you post
Like a ghost
Ask yourself who hurts most
Let’s clean Twitter
Oust the bitter
And replace the
Shitters
With glitter

©️ jane jago 2018

An extract from The Fated Sky - the first book in Fortune's Fools.

The day was beautiful, a jewel of Temsevaran summertime and the thin red sunlight was strong enough to make a shimmer of mist rise from the flat-topped roofs of the brightly painted houses, as Durban made his way towards the plaza. He chose a back street knowing that the main roads would already be jammed solid with people jostling at the barriers to have the first pick of the bargains on offer. Even so, the way he chose had already drawn quite a crowd. Those that knew him smiled and let him pass but others resisted blocking his way with knees and elbows.
“Let me through,” he appealed. “My wife is having a baby – our first child.”
No one stopped to consider why that should be any reason to let him into the plaza, the crowd just drew apart as if by magic and helpful hands guided him to the front whilst congratulations and good wishes were offered. They were very simple folk, the good people of Alfor. As he ducked under the barrier he was challenged by a fierce looking young Zoukai who did not know him. Durban smiled winningly.
“I am the bird doctor,” he explained. The young man stared at him, then spat in the dust.
“So? What’s that to me?”
“Your end of run bonus, I suspect. You see one of the singing birds has feather cramps and if it is not treated immediately that will spread like wildfire. Before you know it – wumph.” He threw up his arms expressively.
The Zoukai struggled with that for a moment.
“Wumph?” he repeated in a doubtful tone.
“Yes, wumph,” Durban’s voice took on a ring of confidential urgency. “All two thousand of CaravansiNedriq’s precious singing birds would go ‘wumph’. And that would be the last you’d hear about your end-of-run bonus, I can tell you.”
He fixed the younger man with a penetrating amber glare. The Zoukai’s confusion seemed to clear at the mention of Nedriq’s name.
“Of course – the bird doctor. Well, you better go in then.”
Durban treated him to his sunniest smile and headed quickly to the nearest caravan, which as he already knew, belonged to Caravansi Nedriq.

E.M. Swift-Hook

When the vulnerable must be hidden
The transgender swept under the bed
Their entitlement is quite forbidden
An uncomfortable truth killed stone dead
When science-based seems like a curse
And diversity causes us fear
To say evidence-based feels perverse
As cluelessness stops up our ears
When the foetus of hope is hung on the rope
Of ignorance foul yet persuasive
Then comes the day when it’s truthful to say
That stupidity is all-pervasive

©️ Jane Jago 2017

Nancy O'Hare an independent traveller with a particular focus on remote, lesser-visited destinations, shares her most poignant experiences. Her stories have emerged over twenty years of living and working in five continents and travelling through more than sixty countries. Here she visits Ollantaytambo which was once a major city of the Incas.

This takes us a step back into the Sacred Valley. This valley was like a pearl necklace that traced Incan villages along the Urubamba River. The narrowly chiselled ravine started at Cusco, the diva of Incan cities, which offered ancient sites, lush accommodation, eclectic restaurants and a peppy personality. The valley then led through a few other Incan villages until it reached Ollantaytambo. Beyond Ollantaytambo, train tracks extended onward to Aguas Calientes, the drop-off point to visit Machu Picchu. The overall circuit contained an interconnected delight of sights in a relatively compact area. Whereas Aguas Calientes turned out to be touristy, busy and verging on tacky, Ollantaytambo remained as composed as it surely was thousands of years ago.
Ancient Incan storehouses towered over one side of the town, while exposed terraced hills crowned with a grand fortress dominated the opposite side. From a distance, the storage huts looked like a piece of honeycomb stuck to the rocky cliff face. After climbing a narrow, dusty track, we could see that the complex was composed of tiered townhouse-like stone structures.
A couple of dogs from town followed us up the narrow and arduous rocky path, familiar with its terrain. They played and wagged their tails for the most part, not noticing the steep ascent. During our return, they proceeded to latch onto the next set of hikers taking the same route. It seemed the dogs had designated themselves as chaperones for anyone climbing to the storehouses.
Expansive views from atop the adjacent terraced hillside exposed the valley beyond. The scene directly below highlighted a maze of ceremonial walls surrounded by the ancient structures from which we had started our climb. In the centre, a strangely familiar Inca Bucks Coffee Shop displayed a neon sign whose lettering imitated an all-too- recognizable green font known to coffee lovers worldwide.
We spent another morning walking alongside the Urubamba River to see an old quarry located six kilometres southeast of town. Little remained except vacant spaces on the rock face. Long ago, heavy boulders had been floated upstream, manually manoeuvered out of the river and then chiselled to engineer the fortress city of Ollantaytambo. An occasional dud stone lingered along the path, apparently unworthy of transporting farther and left where it lay for hundreds of years.
Ollantaytambo was once a hub for the Incas’ administrative, agricultural, religious and military activities. It seemed things had changed little in this town over the years. During our visit, farmers still tilled the fields using plows hauled by pairs of oxen. A father directed while his eldest son balanced on a wooden tee fastened to the cows’ harness. A younger son walked behind to gently steer the contraption. Ancient stone homes were spun around the town square like a spider’s web, yet definitively sturdier. These buildings were once home to ancient Incas and now housed present-day families. Plaster had filled time-worn defects, and new wooden doors updated the entrances. Some panels were freshly painted in a sky blue, while others peeled to reveal layers of faded blue paint curling down to darkened, washed-out wood.

You can find Dust In My Pack on Amazon, iBooks, Indigo, B&N and Smashwords.