Though I’m old, I am not such a fool
As much of the modern gene pool
I don’t need to be told
That ice will be cold
Or detergent’s not food as a rule

© jane jago 2018

When Francesca met Richard they were predisposed by fate to like each other – even though neither of them know it at the time. They were both blandly handsome, both successful, both good-humoured if a little humourless, and both laboured under the disadvantage of unimaginative parents who bestowed on their offspring the sort of names more sensibly found in burlesque than high finance.

Richard (Rich to his very few friends) Dripping was an investment banker. He was a whizz kid and a high flyer, if rather more risk averse than his peers, who was tipped for an early seat on the board of the private bank for whom he worked. Francesca (no diminutives please, the name is Francesca) Phaart was a tax accountant whose forensically detail-orientated carefulness had already earned her a junior partnership and made her not a few enemies.

Quite who thought it might be funny to introduce them to each other is rather lost in the mists of time, although the best guess is an undeniably louche specimen rejoicing in the cognomen Francis Ffotheringham, who was rather in the habit of collecting people with odd names. In the end, of course, it matters not who did the deed because some puckish deity somewhere had decreed that they should not only meet but that they should also fall in love.

For a couple of months Francesca and Rich met every weekend, discovering mutual tastes, mutual interests, and mutual dislikes enough to persuade them that they were well on the way to becoming a serious item. With this in mind, Francesca took Richard to her family home in the Cotswolds, where her parents were favourably impressed by the rather stolid young man on whom their daughter’s fancy had lighted. Their only private caveat was his name. As Papa Phaart remarked to his lady wife in the privacy of their wide, white bed:
“Seems a reasonable sort of a chap, but I’m pretty sure he won’t make the top of the tree with a damned silly name like Dripping.”
His wife nodded wisely and passed him a digestive biscuit.

Two weeks later, Richard and Francesca were on an aeroplane heading for the glass and steel tower in New York which Mr Dripping, the second Mrs Dripping, and Richard’s young half siblings called home. By and large, the visit was a success, with the New York Drippings united in approval of Francesca’s bland blonde handsomeness and her placid uncomplaining nature. The entire family accompanied the young couple to the airport and waved them off with smiling fondness. However, once they were through the departures gate the whole American contingent burst into raucous laughter.
“Phaart. Francesca Phaart.” Papa Dripping was holding his sides and the young Drippings were actually rolling around on the floor of the concourse.
“It’s a very good job,” the second Mrs Dripping opined genially, “that Richard inherited his mother’s sense of humour”.
“The lady doesn’t have a sense of humour,” Dripping senior expostulated.
“Precisely.”

But none of this hilarity was apparent to either Richard or Francesca who sailed serenely towards the next phase of their relationship without a care in the world.

In due course, a reputable jeweller was visited and a diamond of suitable size was purchased. The young couple hosted a dinner party at a fashionable restaurant to celebrate their engagement, and Francesca moved into Richard’s home in leafy Richmond.

Certainly, Francesca was well aware that her name caused a great deal of ribaldry among those she mentally dismissed as the uneducated, but she could see no humour in it herself and nor could she quite understand why certain of her acquaintance seemed to think Richard’s surname a source of ill-bred sniggers.

She might have carried on in blissful ignorance, had she not been placed in a position where she could not avoid overhearing a conversation between two female interns at her place of work. She was in one of the stalls in the female restroom, in fact she was about to emerge, when the sound of two sets of clicking heels stopped her in her tracks.
“…madam Phaart,” the voice was loaded with spite, “and I suppose she thinks that becoming Mrs Dripping will make her less of a household joke”.
“You should watch your mouth,” the other voice was quieter and more refined. “You don’t know who might overhear you.”
“I don’t care. Can’t she even see it?”

See what? Francesca wondered. But she was disturbed enough to mention it to Richard over dinner that night. He shook his head bemusedly.
“I don’t know, dear. Does it worry you?”
Francesca shook her fair head.
“Not really. I suspect it was just more vulgarity.”

And that might have been the end of that had not the bank chairman called Richard into his inner sanctum. They were closeted together for the best part of an hour before the older man wrung Richard’s hand.
“You will think about it then, Richard?”
“I’ll do better than that sir. I will get onto it immediately.”

That night he spoke seriously to Francesca.
“It has been put to me that a seat on the board of the bank is being kept warm for me.”
She looked at his heavily handsome face and felt a glow of pride.
“However, there is a stipulation. It is felt that the name Dripping is unsuitable to elevation to the board.”
“Oh. So what will you do?”
“Choose another. With your assistance, my dear.”
“I don’t think it much matters what. Other than Phaart.”
He smiled his complete understanding.
“I am quite drawn to Smith.”

And so it was that, after a bit of legal sleight of hand, Francesca and Richard became Mr and Mrs Smith and enjoyed many years of happy, if unexciting, marriage.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

Dear People Who Read This,

This is Jacintha Farquhar and I’m the unfortunate mother of Moons – that’s the twonk who usually writes this blog thing for you and always signs himself Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. He wrote a truly dreadful book once called “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and peed himself with excitement (and I am not being metaphorical) when it rose to one million on the Amazon ‘in store’ sales listing. He’d just bought a copy I think.

Anyway, Moons isn’t writing his thing this week because he’s in bed with man flu. Which, now I come to think of it, is probably the manliest thing the miserable little squit has ever laidclaim to in his life. Be that as it may, I even offered to lend him my tablet so he didn’t have to go into that pokey stinking coal-hole he normally writes in and could do so in bed. But he turned me down saying his creative muse was mocking him or some such delirious crap. Honestly, there are days I wonder if they made a mistake at the hospital and I’ve had to bring up some other poor cow’s freak of an offspring. More likely it was that terrible school his sperm-donor insisted he went to. It was all cold showers, canings and stiff upper lips – and stiff other parts too, from what I could tell.

Sec. Bear with. Need a refill.

That’s better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I’m supposed to be doing something about how to write. Moons gave me his notes, but I used them as a coaster and the ink’s gone smudgy with the advocaat. So, you lot will just have to put up with my thoughts instead. I mean, you read his shite week after week so you can’t be very discriminating. Fact is most of you won’t even notice it’s not Moons.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 21: The Write Way

So you really want to know how to write a book?

S’easy. Pick up your frikking metaphorical pen and write the sucker. I remember that some poncey author or another was once asked how he wrote and the big festering gobshite replied ‘one word at a time’. Ha bloody ha ha! Who’s a clever asshole then?

But there is a grain of truth in. You can read enormous amounts of pretentious shite about courting muses, and engaging with your characters, and story arcs, and much other meaningless birdcrap. But as far as I can see that is about as likely to result in a bestseller as any of the puerile stratagems employed by my sad excuse for a son.

Basically, find a rattling good story and tell it. Sprinkle it with the most perverse sex you can imagine. Add a goodly dollop of blood and gore. And don’t forget the happy ever after.

Job done.

Consider this. The horrendous old bat Moons moons over (in a literary way) managed to churn out over 700 of her sickly tales in between interfering in the lives of anybody who would listen to her. By my reckoning, that means anybody should be able to knock out two or three a week. You will be wealthy by Christmas.

Or maybe not.  

Who knows? Who cares?

Coffee time now so you’re on your own. If you get really unlucky, Moons will be back next week.

Go on, piss off then. I’ve said all I’m going to say.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Having slept most of the day away, Phil woke late in the afternoon feeling as though he’d had his first decent sleep since Libby’s passing. Pulling on jeans and a sweater after a shower, he contemplated whether or not he felt any different. Over a coffee and sandwich in the kitchen, he decided to head out to the park to get some fresh air and see if anything had changed.

The air was still, but the carpet of fallen leaves was heavier than it had been the day before.

Perched on her favorite swing, Phil thought about Libby and his conversation with her last night. He definitely felt as though he had found some resolution. Talking to her and sitting with her had calmed him so that, while he still missed her desperately, the heaving sobs of the past week had given way to the gentler grief of deep sighs and languid tears.

He shuddered as a chill crawled across his skin like an icy spider. Weird. He shifted on the swing, looking around to see if the breeze had picked up, but everything was still. The silence struck him as odd – there was no sound of birds or small animals, nor was there any sign of anyone else hanging around, yet he was aware of a distinct impression that he was no longer alone.

You wimp. You’d think if you were going to get creeped out, it would have happened last night when you were sitting in the graveyard. Don’t be so pathetic. 

He waited a while to see if the strange sensations passed, but it only seemed to intensify the more he thought about it. When he could no longer resist the urge to shiver, he decided it was time to head home.

This quietness is really weird. It’s like I’m in some kind of bubble. It’s just not—

Phil jumped when the street light above him fritzed out with a loud pop, leaving him in dim shadows. You are so weak, he admonished himself as he quickened his pace. It’s a coincidence. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the light come back on. Not even realising that he was already running, he let out an involuntary yelp as the next light went out overhead, too.

 ***

 Phil’s father looked up as his son burst through the front door, slammed it behind him and leaned against it, breathing raggedly.

“Phil? What the hell happened?”

“Dad… something weird is going on. The lights went off, and I had this creepy feeling, and—”

“You need a decent feed and some sleep. Staying out all night and moping around all day isn’t doing you any good.”

“No, this is something else. It’s spooky.”

“Spooky? Son, spooky stuff isn’t real. It’s kids’ play at Halloween. Don’t let a couple of bumps in the night mess with your head.”

“Dad, listen. Last night I went to talk to Libby. I sat by her grave all night and—“

“No wonder you’re flipping out. You should eat something and head for bed.”

It was useless to argue. His father was the most stubbornly logical person he knew.

“Come on, son. I can hear the bacon in the fridge calling to us.” Laughing at his lame joke, Phil’s father headed to the kitchen.

For more from Joanne Van Leerdam find her on Facebook or at Wordy Nerd Bird, Wordy Nerd Bird Writes or The Book Squirrel.

Joanne Van Leerdam is a poet, blogger, writer, thinker, puzzler, teacher, traveller, photographer and generally nice person. Despite having lived all her life in Australia, she has, thus, far, avoided being killed or consumed by any of the deadly wildlife, which is probably a good thing.  Other than Australia, Canada is her favourite place in the world.

Q1: What are your favourite, out of the ordinary, words in the English language and why?

 I love the word “defenestrate”. It sounds dirty, but it means to toss someone or something out the window. More than once, I have had this exact conversation:

Me: “Defenestration is too good for him.”
Them: “Why?”
Me: “The building isn’t tall enough.”

 I also love the word “obmutescence”. It means stubborn silence.

My other favourite, which I use fairly regularly at home because the child who occasionally lives with me is the epitome of the word: “tatterdemalion”. It means shabby, ragged or unkempt. Do you remember how Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons used to generate dirt and mess everywhere he went? He has nothing on this kid.

Q2: Which famous fictional character would you most like to be and why?

Elizabeth Bennet. Because… Mr Darcy.
And also because I’m sure Pemberly had a magnificent library.

Q3: Coffee or chocolate and why?

Yes, please. I refuse to choose. Each should be in a food group of their own, at the “eat most” end of that pyramid thing. Add pizza too, while you’re at it.

In addition to writing powerful, thought-provoking poetry and short-but-incredibly meaningful stories, Joanne Van Leerdam keeps teens enthralled in her senior high school English, History and Drama/Peformance classes. She is an active member and performer in her local theatre company and has directed high school musicals for ten years.  

 Her poetry is contemporary, sensual, moody and easy to read - and it will get you in the feelings. Her horror fiction is deliciously creepy and macabre, and should not be read in a graveyard unless you're incredibly brave. Joanne has also written two "reimagined" fairy tales, published in a fabulous collection with stories by five other writers.

You can find Joanne on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr and her own website.

If ever a woman was between two unwanted destinies…

I was sitting astride one of the sturdy roof supports of the smithy with my back against the warm stone of the forge chimney, listening to two men discussing my future.

One was William Smith, a brawny giant of a man who was making nails as he spoke. The other was the Puritan gentleman who now owned my family home.
“Nobody,” the dark-clad man was saying, “is able, or willing, to tell me where I might find the daughter of the house.”
“I shouldn’t think they know,” William’s bass rumble held a thread of amusement.
“And you, master Smith, would you tell me if you knew?”
“That would depend.”
The man rounded on him angrily. “I could turn you out in the streets and have you whipped from the village for your insolence.”
“You could try, but I own this smithy free and clear, and I’m not a man easy to intimidate.”
They stared each other in the eyes for a long moment, and it was the Parliamentarian who looked away first.
“No harm will come to the girl of my doing. I would marry the chit, or, if she will not, her father is alive in the Low Countries with others of his party.”
William made a deep humming noise. “So, the girl must either marry a man she has never set eyes on before, or she must leave her home to follow a father who is as like as not to lose her in a game of cards. Not a lot of choice.”
The dark gent ground his teeth. “Do I not know that? But it is the best I can offer.”
There was a long moment of silence broken only by the musical ring of hammer on anvil as William beat iron into nails.
“And what if there was another way?”
“I am listening.”
“The girl is as wild as one of her father’s hawks. She is not one to be tamed by any man. Marry her against her will and you would spend your life looking behind you. Let her be. It may be that you could come to know her that way and in time.”
“She doesn’t have time. The family of her father’s second wife has designs on her person.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason her father wants her. Money.”
“Money?”
“Aye. The girl is wealthy in her own right and there are many who would use that wealth.”
“Including yourself,” William’s voice was full of contempt.
“Yes. But at least I would use it to address the neglect of her home and it’s acreage. And I would be kind.”
William studied him then shrugged his massive shoulders. He threw the last nail into the bucket and shifted his head to look up to my perch.
“What do you think, Miss Henrietta? Will you marry? Or will you go to your father? Or…”
He held up his arms and I jumped into them before turning to look into the narrow, dark face of the man I was to spend the next fifty years married to.

© jane jago 2017

The Dragon Lady by Angelique S Anderson

This is quite a ride. Steampunk, meets dragon lore, meets romance. A tomboy heroine. A magical watch. A bad lord – and a yummy one. Being in love with your best friend’s fiancé. And dragons. This book has it all…

When Wylie’s father dies she discovers a strange device hidden in his bed, and that’s when the adventure begins. In trying to save her home from being razed to the ground Wylie begins to understand just what she could become. She discovers that she may lose the love of her life in order to fulfil her destiny. Which way will she jump?

All of this is set against a backdrop of nineteenth-century London, a backdrop that is well researched and well written, and doesn’t seek to sugar coat the dirt or the danger to be found on the streets.

Highly recommended.

Jane Jago

The Dragon Lady is the first in The Dracosinum Tales series of books by Angelique S Anderson

I am old and I have a few thoughts
About living the way that we ought
About kindness to all
Whether tiny or tall
And making the planet less fraught

© jane jago 2018

Described by readers as ‘a gripping read’, ‘modern and funny’ and ‘dark and
seductive’ Darkly Dreaming by Chloe Hammond is a literary exploration into a sinister world where vampires lurk in our shadows.

It is dark by the time we get back to the hotel. The night porter pouffs, but otherwise ignores us, so we scuttle guiltily past, aware that the days of being able to charm middle-aged foreign men with our drunken antics seem to be over. Before I go to our room, I pop in to check on Melanie and Liz one last time. I guiltily notice that in my rush to get downstairs to apologise to the freaky people outside earlier, I hadn’t locked their door. Their lights are off so there is only the light from the hallway behind me to illuminate the room as I walk towards Lizzie. I quickly scan the room to see if anything has been moved while we were out, looking for evidence that either of them has been up and about. The curtains have been drawn, but not properly, so I can see the window is still open a crack. Liz’s covers are off her again, and she is lying on her back. At first I take this as a good sign, but there is something slack about her face that causes my heart to tug and stomach to freeze, even before my conscious mind has absorbed the information that she is dead.

I know most people would scream now, but I don’t scream when I’m really scared; I freeze. My hand covers my mouth and my eyes feel like they are popping out of my head. My other arm wraps around my waist, holding myself together. Layla is standing behind me in the doorway. Seeing me freeze, she kicks the door closed and flicks the light on.

‘What?’ she hisses. She has the same instinct to secrecy as me, until we’ve assessed a crisis and decided on our action, we go quiet. As the fluorescent light hums and flickers and finally snaps on, Melanie, face twisted beyond all recognition, rises shrieking from her bed and flies at Layla, latching onto her and burying her face into Layla’s neck. For an instant I think that she’s been terrified by whatever has happened to Lizzie, but Layla is screaming and gurgling and stumbling around trying to push her off. I realise she is tearing at the side of Layla’s throat with her teeth.

For an agonising moment I am transfixed in horror and terror until, in slow motion, I power myself across the room as my friend falls to her knees. I seem to grow as I move, as the decision for fight not flight fills me. I grab Melanie’s hair at the scruff of the neck and wrap it around my wrist, with my other hand I grip her face under the chin and rip it away from Layla’s neck. She slides her chin,  slippery with Layla’s blood, lower in my grip and sinks her teeth into the pad of flesh at the base of my thumb, as I spin her up and away from Layla.

I smash the side of her face into the wall and then smear it across, over to the window, pulling my hand away from her mouth and throwing my weight into her back so I am behind her and pushing as she reaches the window frame. The window flies further open under our weight and her top half tips out. I almost topple with her, but I pull back in time. Without even thinking, I jerk back and down, snatch up her feet and flip her up and out of the window, turning my back quickly so I won’t have to watch her fall.

Bent double and panting, my eyes lock with Layla’s where she lies on the floor. Wordlessly I stand, close the window, and help her up. Slipping my arm under her shoulder, I support her out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me.

‘What the fuck do we do now?’ I gasp as I drag her into our room. She is staggering, barely able to walk. I am speaking to myself; I don’t expect an answer. All I can think is: I’ve just killed someone. I’ve just killed someone, round and round in my head. The vision of Melanie’s feet flipping out through the window is all I can think about. I know Layla is injured and I need to get her help, but I seem stuck and disconnected, like I am watching myself play a role in a drama from a thousand miles away. Picking up the phone is beyond me.

‘Nothing. You do nothing,’ says a voice from behind me.

As interested in our heroines’ emotional changes as their physical transformations, the story leads you through their infection, transformation, and difficult adaption to their strange new life. We experience their hopes and compromises, heartbreaks and rage as deeply as they do. A modern gothic, these vampires aren't the undead, they have been infected by a virus and undergone as physical changes as radical as a butterfly does during metamorphosis. These vampires are as beguiling, cruel and fatal as cats, and just as irresistible.

Non-Kindle users can find Darkly Dreaming here. Find out more on Facebook or Chloe Hammond's Website.

Chloe Hammond is happily married and has been for twelve years. She lives with her husband in little house in the Welsh seaside town of Barry, with great views over the fair and out to sea. They have two rescue dogs, Bonnie and Bella and a fat and fluffy cat called Coco, who is almost as clumsy as her owner. Chloe is the author of the Darkly Vampire series.

1. Who is your favourite literary vampire and why?

2. If you had an evening completely to yourself what would you do?

3. What exotic pet would you be most interested in owning and why?

Born in Liverpool, Chloe Hammond grew up in West Wales. The family didn’t have a television, so she was forced to overcome her difficulties with the written word, and books became her escape of choice. She quickly became addicted. Chloe studied Behavioural Sciences at the University of Glamorgan but pestered her lecturers to be allowed some modules of Creative Writing.

After university, she embarked on an all-encompassing vocation in support work. For twenty years Chloe worked with the homeless, refugees, vulnerable women, and disadvantaged teenagers.

She always planned to write- life just got in the way. Then Chloe found herself losing her joie de vivre, she was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. She needed to completely change her life, and she needed to be open about her diagnosis. Usually very self-sufficient, she refused to give the depression the isolation it craves. She feared judgement, but instead, she discovered gentle compassion and support. Chloe finally made time to write again. Writing soothes and grounds her; exhilarates and stimulates her. Her background in support work allows her great insight into personalities and flavours her multi-faceted and imperfect characters.

You can find Chloe on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Linkedin, Google+, Goodreads and her own website.