This, for some obscure reason beyond one’s not inconsiderable intellect, is one of Mummy’s all-time favourites. She starts reading it on the first of December each year, carefully husbanding it so that she reads the last few pages on Christmas Eve – inevitably drunk and crying snottily. I have been a party to this inexplicable ritual for most of my life, and, until I reached adulthood, Mumsie was in the habit of sitting on the side of my bed and reading this to me in instalments. In retrospect, this may perhaps have coloured my perception of Mr Dickens’ slight little thing. However, we shall persevere – because discipline is good for the soul.

A Christmas Carol.

A Christmas classic.

Let us examine why.

In one’s estimation , his book taps into all the overused and overexposed ideas of Christmas sensibility. A major character called Scrooge. A major character notable for his meanness and lack of empathy…. Tell me how that is not jumping on the bandwagon of that name denoting meanness and lack of empathy. Yuletide ghosts. The deserving poor. A crippled child that is so sickeningly cute one almost wishes it would meet with an accident. The lack of originality in this thing almost beggars belief. And the story. The story is the apotheosis of predictability, it is the absolute nemesis of creative thought. Does it not glorify the mundane and deify that which is unbeautiful? Is it not the histoire of a plain old man with little to recommend him beyond his wealth? And by the end of this horrible little book is he not giving his wealth away? One. Does. Not. Comprehend.

In synopsis: An unpleasant old man meets some ghosts and becomes somewhat less unpleasant as a consequence. A story peopled with every overused Christmas stereotype the author could find.

Conclusion: Not for one of one’s exquisite sensibilities. However one must acknowledge its appeal to the undereducated, the maudlinly sentimental, the intoxicated, and those with an oleaginous attachment to an unrealistic ideal of Christmas.

Star rating: No stars for originality. No stars for narrative arc. No stars for one’s own literary tastes. However one must award this author many shiny bright celestial beings for his ability to grasp the populace by its collective scrotum and insert his scribbling into the conscious of a whole nation. One must bow one’s head in the face of such financial acumen.

Read it and weep tears of frustration.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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(Christmas version)

#43 The Christmas Cake

Conventional wisdom will tell you that you should have baked a fruit cake of the size and consistency of a breeze block sometime last January and that you should have been feeding it brandy weekly ever since. That you should have handcrafted marzipan from ground almonds and other ingredients too numerous to mention. That you should have spent many hours making Holly Leaves and Christmas Roses from sugar paste. And that your icing should be as smooth and hard as a frozen pond.

Pfft, I say. And again pfft.

Number one. Nobody eats Christmas Cake.

Number two. If they did it’s fattening.

Number three. Whatever…

But:

If you must make a cake, just chuck together whatever is your usual fruit cake recipe and shove a quarter bottle of rum in the mix. Buy a slab of ready rolled marzipan, ditto icing. Shove on cake. Sprinkle Maltesers, chocolate raisins, and dark chocolate buttons. Job done. If you can be arsed.

More sensibly, pop along to Waitrose and buy a (insert name of famous chef here)  thing. It will taste like shite but the neighbours will be impressed….

 

 

Minna was sitting on her grandfather’s lap. They had eaten supper and now they were watching the sky spit shards of ice onto the frozen fields.
“Gramps,” she asked softly, “what’s a white Christmas?”
“A white Christmas is one where there is snow on the ground.”
“Have you ever seen such a thing?”
“No, I have never. I’m eighty-four years old and I’ve only seen snow twice in my life.”
Minna thought for a long time, then asked. “What’s snow?”
Gramps grunted as he marshalled his thoughts. “It’s frozen rain.”
“Like hail and ice storms?”
“No. Not a bit like that. It’s white and it’s soft and it makes everything look beautiful.”
“I wish I could see that.”
Gramps rested his chin on her head. “I wish you could see it too.”
They were quiet for a long moment then he lifted his head and spoke again. “There’s another thing we have to talk about.”
Minna looked into his worried eyes.
“It’s about Father isn’t it? Father has to choose a new wife.”
“Where did you hear that missy?”
“Father came and sat on my bed the last time he was home and we talked.”
Gramps looked amazed and Minna giggled.
“It’s our secret, Gramps. Big strong Hunters aren’t supposed to talk to little girls. But Father said I could tell you because you would understand.”
Gramps gave Minna a big hug then he smiled down at her.
“Oh yes. I understand. I used to have secret talks with your Mama when she was a little girl. Now tell me what you think about Father marrying again.”
Minna wrinkled her forehead. “Does it matter what I think? If it doesn’t matter whether or not Father wants a wife, why would anybody care what I think?”
For a long time Gramps didn’t answer. When he did speak his voice was slow and sad. “It matters to me what you think. And I’m sure it matters to your Father.”
“It’s all right Gramps. Just as long as Father chooses well it will be all right.”

Winter wore on and Minna kept a smile on her face, but inside she wasn’t at all sure it would be all right. She had seen all the unmarried girls fluttering their eyelashes at Father. And she had heard their whispered conversations about her and Gramps.
“Be nice to the brat and the old man.”
“Give him a couple of strapping sons and the girl can be fostered and the old one sent away.”
“Smile at the fool.”
“Make him think you are as soft as the one that died.”
Minna listened and shivered, but she held her peace. Father was having a difficult enough time knowing he had to take a second wife without her burdening him with her fears.

It was nearly time, only days before the Yule Log would be lit in the meeting house, and Father would announce his choice of bride to the world. One girl appeared to have outstripped the others in the race to be that bride. Her name was Annelise, and the families thought her ideal. She was pretty, and clever, and her father was rich. It seemed not to matter that she was cold, and vain and cruel, or that her blue eyes grew as hard and icy as marbles whenever they rested on the child whose stepmother she hoped to be.

Christmas Eve, and Father only returned from the hunt a scant hour before the lighting of the Log. He bathed, and dressed, and Minna combed his beard and braided his hair. He kissed her, then smiled a wicked smile before swinging her up onto his shoulders and heading for the meeting house.

Inside, it was packed to the rafters with all the Families from across the valley. There was music and mead, and laughter. Minna forgot her woes as she and Father shared a sweetmeat purloined from the Christmas tree.

And then the chief of all the elders stepped forward. He spoke directly to Father.
“Hunter. Have you made your choice?”
“I have.” Annelise preened, but his eyes passed over her to where a sweet-faced young widow sat, with her infant daughter in a basket at her feet. He bowed very low.
“Ellath,” he said and his slow deep voice sounded very loud in the suddenly silent room. “Will you be my wife.”
“I will.”
The elder spoke, “Hunter and Ellath are here declared betrothed.”
Minna joined in the joyful congratulations with a full heart.

When Father said it was time to leave, Minna pulled on his sleeve. He bent to listen to her.
“You should stay, Father,” she whispered. “You should stay and dance with your betrothed. I will take Gramps home and make sure he gets to bed.”
Father laughed, but when he spoke it was as if he had a lump in his throat and he kissed her with great tenderness. “Go along then. Take your grandfather home.”

Minna and Gramps carefully negotiated the frozen street, Gramps had his stick and Minna carried a lantern held high. When they got indoors Gramps produced a small flask from one of the capacious pockets of his greatcoat, and a packet of squashy white marshmallows from another
“Chocolate,” he said proudly, “hot chocolate.”
Minna fetched mugs, and before long the two of them were in their favourite seat looking out onto the frozen landscape as they sipped their rare treat. Gramps turned the lamp down low, so they could better see stars in the navy blue of the sky and the skeleton trees in the moonlight. While they watched and sipped the clouds scudded in from the east and the landscape outside the big window grew dark. Just as Gramps was about to turn up the lamp again, a slice of moonlight illuminated the sky, and Minna could see flakes of whiteness drifting down to lie pillowy on the frozen earth.
“Oh look,” she sighed. “Snow.”

© Jane Jago 2017

You are old and the grooves in your skin
Speak volumes of cigarettes and gin
But you feel no blame
Not one inkling of shame
At the outward display of your sins

© jane jago 2017

A collaborative effort between two authors – E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago – and a brilliant illustrator, Ian Bristow. This is a story in rhyme that is perfect for reading out loud to children of all ages over the festive season.

You can snag a copy of A Christmas Tail or read it free on Kindle Unlimited if you are a subscriber.

I am old and I have no illusions
I have not yet succumbed to confusion
But when you ask me ‘why?’
I can see in your eye
That you think me the prey of delusion

© jane jago 2017

 

CHAPTER THREE

At about the time Bill was calling his parents, a man went into a pub in Edinburgh. He was broad-shouldered, bulky, exquisitely tailored, and obviously deeply annoyed.

“Where is she?” he snapped at the skinny little man behind the bar.

“She’s in the snug. Says to go in. But your goons stay out here.”

“I go nowhere without my bodyguards.”

“So fuck off then” the little man said without any particular heat. As he spoke he brought a sawn-off shotgun out from under the bar, and pointed it at the biggest of the ‘goons’ who had his hand inside his jacket.

He smiled, showing a mouthful of very bad teeth.

“I’m no a very good shot, and I’m worse if I’m nervous. So just keep  your hands where I can see them. I’m sure nobody wants a nervous man blasting around with a six-gauge in this confined space.”

Whether or not he would have been obeyed became immaterial as the man with his hand in his pocket gave a queer cough and collapsed. His companions looked down briefly to see a dart sticking out of the side of his neck.

“Double top,” a jeering voice said. As one man they turned their eyes towards a raddled-looking whore and a couple of beefy young men who had moved their attention from the dartboard to the entertainment at the bar. One of the men cracked his knuckles, and the sound it made fell loudly into the now silent room.

“Well then, big man. Are you going in to see herself? Or are you leaving? Choice is yours.’

For a moment the besuited man’s reaction hung in the balance. Then he shrugged.

“Wait here” he snapped then walked through the half glazed door into an almost dark room, where a woman sat nursing a large drink.

“You decided to be sensible then,” she said in a husky half-whisper.

The man ground his teeth together as he visibly fought for control.

“I have business with you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“My principal is not pleased. We paid you for protection. And what happened?”

She spat accurately between his highly polished shoes.

“You paid me so that the local plod would look the other way, and so that nobody from Edinburgh would interfere with you. I kept my end of the bargain. If you were stupid enough to piss off people from elsewhere who play very rough, that’s your problem.”

“Why you…”

He took a step forward and found himself literally looking down the barrel of a very businesslike gun, held in a perfectly steady hand.

“It’s a Glock. And at this range it would actually shoot off your face. I’d quite like to see that.”

The man stood very still. His companion laughed harshly.

“Whatever possessed you to think you’d get away with it?”

“Why not? It was only some Rom kid whose father had annoyed the wrong people. It would have made a change to mix business with pleasure. The little bastard would have screamed for a very long time.”

He licked his lips, then shrugged his heavy shoulders. His hot eyes met the woman’s cold gaze, and he flinched, but he spoke with undiminished arrogance.

“We aren’t here to talk about some brat. I’m here to tell you that my boss isn’t pleased with you. And to explain what the consequences will be if you fail him again…”

“Don’t bother yourself. I have absolutely no interest in anything you might have to say. You are actually here because I have something to say to you.”

The man tensed.

“If you move, I’ll shoot off your testicles. Now. Back off, sit in the chair behind you, and listen.”

He sat, more than a little unnerved by the unwavering eye of the big, black pistol. For a moment there was silence, and the man had to fight an urge to break and run. His tormentor must have seen something in his eyes as she laughed again.

“Testicles” she reminded him. “You are here because there are some people who need to learn what is and is not acceptable. Torturing wains to death comes under is not.”

He opened his mouth and the Glock swung unerringly towards his crotch.

“Unacceptable. Intolerable. So. An example needs to be made. It looks as if you just volunteered.”

He surged from the chair, only to be caught and held fast by two pairs of iron hands.

“Take him away, and do to him what he was going to do to that wee lad. I’ll be interested to know how long he screams for. And when he can scream no more, bleed him out. We’ll be sending his remains to his boss in a body bag and we wouldn’t want it leaking would we?”

“No boss,” the voice was deep and cold, and seemed to be barely masking huge anger.

“We’ll see he feels the full benefit before we tidy him up for transportation.’

“You do that.”

 

As he was being dragged away the bulky man screwed his head around to look at the woman by the bar.

“You are a dead person walking,” he hissed.

“Aren’t we all you evil bastard. Aren’t we all?”

 

When the door closed behind her unpleasant guest, the woman at the bar went grey under her make-up, and she seemed to sag on her barstool.

“I’ll have a wee sniff of that oxygen now, if nobody minds. It was a bit of a strain not shooting that creature. Only the knowledge that he needs to suffer stayed my hand.”

A younger woman in a nurse’s uniform came out from behind the bar an put an oxygen mask on the face of her suffering patient.

“Dead person walking indeed… Here, let’s get you back in your wheelchair you stubborn fool.”

A big soft-footed man came quietly into the room. “Bodyguards deceased. Mister X is being taken somewhere where nobody can hear him scream. Now. Will you please go home and rest?”

His boss lifted her oxygen mask.

“Aye. I will. But I want to know how long bigmouth lasts.”

He smiled grimly.

“Me too.”

In Devon, the railway runs right by the beaches
Past small sandy inlets and bright golden reaches
Then follows the river whose tides are so steep
Over salt-smelling marshes and waters so deep
In summer the sea is as blue as the sky
And reflects the white seagulls as they hover by
But in winter the waves crashing over the line
Carry the feeling of wildwind and brine
And over the railway the white salty spume
Collects in a way that defies any broom
In Devon the railway runs right by the sea
Which is almost as nice as you think it might be

©️jane jago 2017

 

 

From A Walking Shadow, the final book in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune's Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

“How long you friend to Avilon?” In the flickering light from the fire, it was hard to see the other man’s face clearly, but there was genuine curiosity in his tone. It was odd, though, how he pronounced the name with the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

Jaz gave a slight shrug. “If you add it all up – including our time in the Specials I’d say around fourteen, fifteen years.”

The other man seemed thoughtful.

“Avilon have many?”

Friends, presumably. That was easy.

“No. I think I was about the only one for most of that time. Now – he has more. And a woman too.”

“He is – change? Not the same?”

There was clear concern in the question. Concern Jaz couldn’t lay to rest. He nodded briefly and felt his breath escape in a slight sigh.

“Yeah. Much changed. Not the same at all.”

“But – he is Avilon?”

Jaz had no idea how to answer that. It was something he struggled with himself over the past few years. There had to be something or he wouldn’t have kept with the grindingly thankless task of nurturing the empty shell he found in the Specials. But sometimes – and more often now than before – he was left wondering how much of that had been wishful thinking and how much had been real. How much he needed it to be Avilon as opposed to how much it actually was.

“Sometimes it’s like you can see a ghost of who he was,” he said, at last.

“Ghost?”

“Uh – yeah – like a shadow of who he was.” Jaz moved his arm so the firelight sent his own shadow reaching away and gestured to that with his other hand. “He’s like a walking shadow of the man he used to be.”

“Shadow – yes.” The Overlord nodded, moving his hand to match the shadow. Jaz noticed the triple line of scarring on the back of the hand, identical to the scarring Avilon had brought back from Temsevar. He put a finger towards it, running his hand through the air as if drawing three fast lines.

“What is that about? Avilon has it also.”

The Overlord looked at him as if he wasn’t sure that the question could be a serious one, but he must have seen from Jaz’s expression that it was. Then he nodded slowly and shrugged off his coat, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt so his shoulder was exposed. Jaz saw a crude raised mark that he took a moment to realise was caused by some kind of strike branding process. He knew Avilon was similarly scarred but not with the same design. The other man covered his shoulder again and pulled his coat back on. “Slave mark,” he said. Then closed his fist so the three scars on his hand stood out. “Fighting slave mark.”

Jaz had no idea what he could say to that, but the other man went on, hunting for words. Clearly struggling, but wanting Jaz to understand. His gaze intense with it.

“Avilon make him – made him -” The Overlord broke off and started again. “He made his choice. To be fighting slave – to find me. To free me.”

Something shifted in Jaz and he suddenly understood what this man must have meant to Avilon and had no doubt at all what Avilon was to him. He held the intense gaze and gave a slight nod, then reached out his hand. The other man took it, his grip strong.

“You’re my brother’s friend,” Jaz said, making each word clear so he could be sure he was understood. “That makes you my friend.”

The other man nodded.

“My friend.”

A Walking Shadow is out now on Amazon and free to read on KU.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

As I must always – please let me introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV author of both this loquacious and erudite series of lessons on ‘How To Write a Book’ and of the increasingly highly-regarded and hard to put down, soon-to-be classic in the genre of speculative fiction “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”.

The formalities out of the way, let me tell you how I came upon the theme of today’s peregrination into the perfection of prose. I had ventured forth from my writing space and after blinking a little in the overbright sunshine of a winter’s afternoon. I found Mumsie seated in front of that obnoxious rectangle of recreation known as the television. By seated, I mean she was lounging as might a Roman courtesan upon the more well cushioned of our settees and by ‘television’ I mean a high-tech, high-definition, high-priced object which covers a goodly portion of one living room wall.

I do not recall what was showing on the screen, something with children and dogs I think because I was too distracted by the gentle burps and sniffles emanating from my maternal parent as she dabbed her eyes. “So sad,” she was murmuring to herself, oblivious to my intrusion. “So, fucking sad.”

Not wanting to disturb her evident immersion and enjoyment in some overacted televisual drama, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my writing cavern and realised it was time to initiate you, my beloved students into the dark arts.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 15: The Write Emotion.

You, my dear RWW, must be as a magician and a puppet-master. Your prose must produce profound palpitations deep within the psyche of your reader. You have only words with which to weave this wonder but fret not, for I shall make plain the mysteries for your eyes only.

The secret lies in the profuse and prodigious application of adverbs and adjectives.  Let dozens of delightful descriptors dance from your fingers. They shall be as the flash of lightning which brought life to Mary Shelley’s creature of parts. By that same magic, they will bring the glory of gut-churning emotion to your predictably flat writing.

Allow me to demonstrate.

Tears flowed from her eyes.

This tells your reader nothing of what is occurring within the breast of your beautiful heroine. Mayhap she was chopping onions or perchance these are tears of mirth. No, it needs the artistry of a literary maestro to tease out the subtle nuances that allow your reader to enter into the moment and feel as one with the character.

Like soft pellucid rain-drops flowing freely and unstoppably in the grim dark deluge of a bitter summer storm, slow and copious tears ran from her reddened eyes achingly, ardently and arrestingly, sliding slowly down her curvaceous cheeks, glistening as they glided gracefully drawn by both the gravity of this blessed earth and the gravity of her perilous situation.

But, I hear you say, sometimes I need to set the mood in a moment, what should I do then, oh sensei of the written word? First, I would chide you for your impatience and for selling both yourself and your reader short. You owe it to your art to take the time and the words needed to amply fulfil the emotional needs of the story. But yes, I hear you riposte, we don’t all have the effing time to dance around with all this fancy crap, Ivy. So I shall lift my hand in silent admonition and admit there is another way. The punchy, no-nonsense give-it-to-them straight style:

She felt shite.

I hope you have read and learned my dear RWW. If not, go back to the top of the page and start again.

Bon ecrit.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.