Face the front, class and present your fingernails for inspection.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV is in the room. Your beloved pedagogue has arrived. For those, newly joined here, whose education may have skipped over the genius that is one, I am the orchidaceous creator of that classic of superlative speculative fiction ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and the selfless purveyor of wisdom whose tablets of stone bring you ‘The Thinking Quill’ – wherein one strives against almost overwhelming odds to bring to your dreary little scribblings some iota of the polished grandeur of one’s own published words.

It’s a lovely autumn day, and the crispy, crunchy leaves make your Teacher think of the golden flakes in his breakfast bowl, drenched with icy-cold milk. We were, if memory serves, going to discuss the essential points of cover art, but my mood is too lightsome for such an arduous task today and my spirit is too refined to be constrained by such febrile chains of commitment. In brief, I can’t be arsed.

Instead, we shall touch upon a topic so close to my soul as to be all but embedded in my skin. Yes, my children, rejoice, rejoice. Today we shall speak of verse…

Lesson 12. The Write Wrhyme

Oh what joy it is to write in the iambic pentameter. Oh how one’s soul rejoices at the birth of a sonnet. How the haiku spears one’s very vitals, and how the execution of the perfect marriage of rhyme and metre donates a pleasure as visceral as masturbation.

We shall begin with the haiku. Hands up if any child in the class can tell me what this exquisite word connotes.

Yes. The rule of seventeen. What joy. What bliss.

A flower petal
 Weighted down under raindrops
 Visceral delight

The purity of oriental form within that which enriches the soul must be expressed in seventeen syllables. Five. Seven. Five. With nary a drop wasted. The distillate of overwhelming emotion into a corseted form that screams of pain and coercion. Think, thou of forcing the white wobbliness of English thighs into the snug elastication of skinny jeans. Feel that pain, but think of the sculpted beauty that emerges from the chrysalis of dimpled flesh and apply that sharp constriction to your work.

Too difficult? Do not fret, mes petites, haiku is the quintessence of the poetic form and not a plaything for the amateur.

Very well. Let us look instead at rhyme and metre.

Hibiscus bloom of palest pink
 I have not words, I have not ink
 To speak of love’s bepetalled face
 Watch from afar who walks in grace
 Who walks in beauty as the dawn
 Who in my breast true love doth spawn
 Who shines like effervescent gold
 Who shall not wither, nor grow old
 Hibiscus bloom thy petals ope
 And face the sun and dash my hopes
 Hibiscus bloom of palest hue
 Who murders hope with lies untrue
 Hibiscus bloom of stainless steel
 Who stamps my love beneath her heel 

 

Read this, the least of my works, aloud and ponder my skill with the runaway horse that is metre. Admire my virtuosity as I wrestle the alligator of rhyme. Beguile your commonplace little intelligences with the mind-pictures drawn by a pen whose skill you can never hope to emulate. See how the hibiscus blooms in your very soul as you read and envy….

Then try a little verse of your own.

Should you be pleased with your tiny efforts then by all means post them on my Facebook page where I shall be sure to make the effort to read them. If I am not too busy.

Until a sennight. Dormez bien and ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

I wonder if I leave a body behind. In my mind, I imagine Will and Robert burying my remains, carefully so they don’t catch the plague from my lifeless body.

I don’t want to be added to the pile of unnamed dead in Will’s hastily dug ditch more than six hundred years ago. Maybe I vanish like I appear. I prefer that idea, but worry it might bother Will. Like I never existed in the first place. I don’t like that idea after all.

This is what I’m thinking as I sit in the doctor’s office staring blankly at the art on the wall, my fingers worrying the fabric on the arms of my chair. The picture is beginning to freak me out. The impression of a landscape has a skeleton in the centre made to look like a live horse. Is it meant to be real or dead? I can’t drag my eyes away.

“When did this first occur?” the doctor asks.

“She was ten,” Mum says from her chair next to mine. Her foot taps the carpet making me grit my teeth.

“Eleven. It was my eleventh birthday,” I correct.

The conversation continues as if I never spoke. I’m not even in the room. I’m in a halfway place with the skeleton horse. Breathing is becoming difficult. I think I want my body to have vanished. I don’t want to be another nameless pile of bones in a trench by a village church. I was there, wasn’t I? It was so real.

The doctor studies the pages in front of him. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t fit in. No one likes me. I’m sad, all the time when I’m not with Will. Tell me why I am so different from everyone around me. Tell me what is wrong with me as a person.

I don’t say these things out loud. The doctor and Mum aren’t interested. They’re looking for something they can see, something that can be fixed.

“This is the third time this has happened?” The doctor’s pen hovers over his note pad.

“Yes.”

“No,” I say at the same time.

I probably should keep my mouth shut so I’m not asked to explain, but I’m frustrated with being ignored. This is me they’re talking about. I’m not invisible. I’m here.

“No?” the doctor repeats.

“Stop being difficult, Lucy.” Mum turns to address the doctor. “Lucy has difficulty differentiating between reality and fantasy. After the first time she ended up in hospital, she told me a wild story about how she’d been living in Africa with a bunch of cavemen!”

I didn’t think she remembered that. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at her. At least it’s taken my eyes off the skeleton horse picture.

“So where were you this time, hanging out with the dinosaurs?”

“Like you care,” I throw back at her.

“I think we are getting a little off topic here. There have been studies of people in comas living entirely different lives in their heads, but Lucy wasn’t technically in a coma. She was asleep.” The doctor shuffles his paperwork before looking up at us.

“Isn’t there some sort of medication you can give her?” Mum asks.

“There is nothing to medicate. All her tests came back fine. I’ll give you a referral to a neurosurgeon, but there will be a wait for an appointment. They’re always extremely busy and Lucy’s condition is not affecting her adversely.”

The doctor types out the referral, prints it and slides it across to Mum who dabs her eyes with a tissue from the box on his desk. He glances at the door. I take the hint and stand. Mum continues to sit for a few more moments, reluctant to leave. She wants to fix me, but she can’t see that part of me is not broken. I don’t want my ‘dreams’ to be fixed. It’s the only way I can see Will.

If I Wake is written by Nikki Moyes.

Q1: Why did you choose themes many would find profoundly disturbing to make the focus of “If I Wake”?

I had severe depression while I was at University. I remember reading ‘Thirteen Reasons Why’ and being intrigued by a writer broaching the subject of suicide but also disturbed by the fact it glorified suicide and the main character didn’t even have depression. I wanted to write a story that could start a conversation about mental health while showing what depression is like. I wanted to make sure my story didn’t glorify suicide and instead it could show that as long as there is life, there is still hope.

Q2: What did you find the hardest aspect to write about?

The part I find hardest about writing is getting the ideas out of my head – to sit down in front of the computer and stop procrastinating. I actually surprised myself with how well the aspects of this story came together. The emotional aspects of this story came easily as they were emotions I was familiar with. I had to do a fair amount of research for this book as it contains multiple times and locations.

Q3: If you were going to choose an optimistic and upbeat topic to write about in a book in the same kind of depth, what would you choose?

I like books that make me feel – the ones that make me laugh or cry. I have a few vague ideas for some ‘funny’ books, but I haven’t started writing them yet. At the moment I am working on a Young Adult sci-fi/fantasy/romance series. The first book has a bit of a ‘Bachelorette’ theme going on which my critique group love. I’ve recently published a short story called ‘The Castle’ which reveals the backstory of one of the secondary characters. That character’s story will be continued in the prequel which is in a very-rough draft stage.

I normally write Young Adult Speculative Fiction, but earlier this year I published a travelogue style book about a 96 kilometre trek I completed through the Papua New Guinea jungle where my grandad fought during WWII. It’s called ‘Kokoda Trek:75^th anniversary’.

Nikki Moyes writes YA fiction and her first book, 'If I Wake' was published in 2016. She was born in Victoria and has moved around Australia amassing an eclectic range of occupations including tallship watch leader, apiarist, rose farm hand, and sandwich artist. In her spare time she learns tissu, static trapeze, and aerial hoop (she couldn’t decide on one) in case she needs to run off and join the circus. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.

Despite living in Wilmington, Delaware for over a decade, Moira had never understood the point of Thanksgiving. She was a proud Scot by birth and she came from a long line of proud Scots. Not that she was unfriendly or anti-social, her knitting circle and reading group were always well attended and her role as librarian was highly respected.

She had moved to the US from Linwood in Renfrewshire when her husband died. Her only daughter being, at that time, herself a widowed single-mother in Wilmington. For a few years, Moira had spent Thanksgivings with her daughter and grandchildren, always a bit bemused at having another major family festival so near to the one she saw as more traditional – a secular Christmas. But, when in Rome, she told herself.

Then three years previously her daughter had remarried to another man in the armed forces and was off to live where he was based in California. Moira looked at the climate charts and decided that she was most decidedly not going to move to anywhere like that. She liked the climate in Wilmington, it made her think of her childhood home.

So for the last two years Moira had not celebrated Thanksgiving and had been happy to stay at home for the holiday, Skype with the grandchildren and catch up with her reading. This year, however, it was not proving so simple. Anna, who attended both Moira’s knitting circle and her reading group, started asking about what she would be doing for Thanksgiving.

“Oh, it’s not my festival is it?” Moira said, and gave a short laugh. “It’s for you who had ancestors here in sixteen hundred and frozen to death. The ones who had a big party with some local inhabitants who helped your ancestors survive. Or something like that. Nothing to do with me, really. I’m Scottish.’

Anna had put down her knitting, a sharply orange and cream acrylic and wool mix which she was turning into a bolero, and stared in disbelief.

“Now where do you get that from? My ancestors didn’t move to the United States until early last century. In fact, if only the descendents of those who were at the original Thanksgiving ever celebrated it then I would think it had died out as a custom long since.”

Moira’s lips twitched into a tight line.

“You have been brought up with it, Anna. You were born American.”

The other woman stared a little.

“Part of Thanksgiving is celebrating a welcome to those from other cultures – even Scots,” she added tartly.

“It is a classic family festival,” Moira said, “and my family is in California not Delaware.”

Anna looked as though she was going to argue but instead gave a small sigh and returned to her knitting.

Thanksgiving came and Moira had enjoyed a brief Skype with her family and was just wondering what to eat when the doorbell rang. A little irritated as today was not a day she had planned for visitors and so her usually immaculate bun was replaced by a cascade of unruly wavy hair, Moira answered the door.

Outside stood Anna, her husband their children and the grandparents. All of them burdened by savoury smelling boxes or bags. Moira opened her mouth to speak and Anna gently grasped her arm and led her back inside her house. As Anna’s family unpacked the well-cooked, Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings, Anna hugged Moira.

“The local inhabitants have come to save you and celebrate,” she said, “and we are not taking no for an answer.”

It was the best kind of Thanksgiving for all of them – but for Moira the first of many more.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Stormhaven Rising: The world is about to end – but no one is telling…

Okay. Mindbending. And so possible. Another one of those books that has you looking over your shoulder. But. Exquisitely written. I may be in love.

Jane Jago.

Stormhaven Rising is a multifaceted story based around the prospect of an Asteroid hitting the earth at breakneck speed and the lengths that could be taken if something like that were to happen. The story is told from several perspectives, from a political and scientific standpoint.

The plot was slightly reminiscent, and please don’t judge me for comparing a book to a film (or films, in this case), but it reminded me of a cross between Deep Impact and Armageddon…but only in places.

There was a fair bit of dialogue in this story, which was really well done. I love a book with a great dialogue and this one ticked all the boxes. I have to say, this is probably the longest book I’ve ever read, but by no means was it boring…in fact, it was the complete opposite. I found it difficult to put down, but I knew I would get the sack if I didn’t XD.

Long story short, if you like epic, well written Sci-fi novels, with the odd reference to Star Trek…yes, I did notice the references =)…then you’ll love this book.

L.N. Denison.

Prometheus and the Dragon – A book with maximum impact

“Does anybody else feel like we’ve just been made responsible for the entire future?”

‘Prometheus and the Dragon’ is the aptly named second book in the ‘Atlas and the Winds’ series and follows up on ‘Stormhaven Rising’ with a powerful continuation of the story.

Antu is coming – a lump of rock which will destroy human life on earth. Instead of co-operating to meet the challenge, the world has fragmented and there are various nations attempting individual projects to deflect it. But some seem to think the chance of those efforts failing is high and prefer to invest in lunar colonies – or in repositories of genetic material: human, animal and vegetable.
The technology exists to deflect Antu and is already doing its job. Given just a reasonable modicum of good fortune the world will be saved. But a string of accidents and disasters could still seal the fate of Planet Earth and bring disaster instead of survival.

“If it weren’t for you, we’d have no hope at all”

The people most at home on the moon are Colton Taylor’s future-tech company. They already have solutions to many of the problems the other lunar colonies have yet to even think about. I liked it that in this book that we get to know their people (and AI) in a bit more depth and start to see the reality of the man behind them. They are the real heroes of this story and it is their people we shadow most closely and come to care most about – except possibly the US President whose ‘pink fuzzy slippers’ moment is one I cherish.

This book has insight and insanity, humour and horror, courageous feats and catastrophic fiascos, it shows humanity at its finest and its most feral. And as with all good literature, it turns the mirror back on those who are its readers, challenging them to consider where they would stand or how they would fall.

“We’ve still got work to do out here. Suck it up for now, and let’s get through what we’ve got in front of us. We can both fall apart later.”

So what is not like? Not much – very little in fact. I still struggled a bit with what I felt was an overlarge cast of characters, leading to frequent shifts in viewpoint and all too often it seemed we only met someone so they could die horribly a few pages later. I also found the description of the logistical detail a little overwhelming – but I do recognise that this is something another reader could find adds verisimilitude and solid foundations to the story. But these minor issues were not enough for me to be taken away from the roller-coaster ride of immersion in a storyline which put a bit extra into ‘existential’.

This is a very well written and compelling book and if you enjoy political thrillers, near future dystopias, apocalyptic sci-fi – or seek a thought-provoking and plausible insight into one way humanity could react in the face of such an extreme crisis, I would recommend this book wholeheartedly. But I would also recommend reading ‘Stormhaven Rising’ first or you will miss out on some valuable scene setting and a thundering good tale.

For myself, I am looking forward to seeing how the story continues and develops in the next book which I hope will be out in the not too distant future.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Stormhaven Rising and Prometheus and the Dragon are the first two books in the Atlas and the Winds series of books by Eric Michael Craig.

Oh what is this buzzing my dear
And why does it fill me with fear
Is it mere susurration
Or colonisation
Of flesh-eating insects, I hear

© jane jago 2017

Amanda Siegrist

Jane Jago

Bea Cannon

Dwayne Fry

Kathryn Meyer Griffith

Lyra Shanti

V.M. Sawh

David M. Kelly

Kimelene Carr

C.B. Archer

Christina McMullen

If I tweet
Will my feet
Compete

If I fart
Will the art
Depart

If I sneeze
Will my knees
Freeze

If I poo
What will you
Do

If I twitter
Is the babysitter
Bitter

If I read
Will I need
Feed

If I critique
Will I speak
Greek

If I rhyme
May I waste
Time

© jane jago 2017

Please note this short story has adult themes.

Underneath the blanket, the girl was mother naked. She shivered lightly, but whether it was fear or excitement she couldn’t tell. She watched her new master as he walked around the room. He too was naked and the firelight placed on the flat planes of his stomach and the corded muscles in his arms and legs. She swallowed nervously and closed her eyes, peeping through the forest of her eyelashes as he turned and come towards her.
“Do you feign sleep?” his deep rather lazy voice mocked her.
“I feign nothing. I just don’t want to see…”
“See what?”
“See your… Your.”
He laughed, but this time the laughter wasn’t mocking.
“Have you never seen a naked man before?”
“No.”
“Well open your eyes and look.”
She shook her head and screwed her eyes tighter shut.
He put one big hand under her chin.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She opened her eyes and found herself looking into a pair of bright amber orbs. They were amused, but also seemed to her to be understanding of her predicament.

He took his hand from under her chin.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She sat up, clutching the rough blanket to her small breasts.
“I don’t exactly know.”
“Well roughly then.”
She lifted a slender shoulder. “About seventeen,” she hazarded.
“And how close is that likely to be?”
“I’m a slave lord. Nobody takes any notice of what age a slave might be. I started to bleed two summers ago, and they thought about selling my virginity. But then Madam said not. Said to keep me untouched until somebody with money came along.”
He looked into her eyes, and whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.

“Drop the blanket then.”
The girl obeyed and her master’s eyes roamed her smooth pale skin.
“Very pretty,” he said and reached out a hand to caress her throat.

She swallowed and his smile became feral. He bent his head and nipped the tender skin beneath her ear. She drew in a shaky breath and his mouth roamed lower.

Some considerable while later, the girl stirred in her master’s arms. She stretched like a cat and made a small sound in the back of her throat.
“Master,” she said quietly.
He grunted encouragingly.
“Master, what is Eden?”
He sat up and grasped her shoulders.
“What do you know about Eden?”
His hands were biting into her flesh and she flinched, but he did not loosen his grip.
“Eden,” he demanded harshly.
“They brought me here. Madam and the sergeant of your guard. And I heard them. He laughed and touched my face. It’s a waste, he said, she’s a pretty little thing, and he’s destined for Eden.”
He let go of her shoulders and laughed.
“Oh. That’s what he thinks is it? We shall see.”
He rolled over and pinned the not unwilling girl under his heavy body.

After another interval, he lay on his back, with the girl draped across his body. He ran a hand down her spine.
“Will you help me?”
She lifted her face and smiled down at him.
“If I can.”
“Oh. You can. But you will need to be brave.”
“I think I can be brave. What do you need?”
“I need the sergeant in here.”
“Will he come if I start screaming?”
“He will. But then…”
“But then what?”
“Then I have to kill him.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“And there is a bit more to it. I will need to paint some symbols on your body with his blood. And make love to you whilst you are painted.”
She shrugged and showed him her small, white teeth.

And then she started screaming.

The door burst open and the sergeant rushed in with his sword drawn. The girl stood up, giving him a view of her white nakedness. Her master kicked the door shut and his knife took the sergeant beneath his chin cutting the arteries in his throat. The girl dropped a heavy bar into slots in the door and turned to watch the soldier with bright pitiless eyes.
“Does Death not worry you, little one?”
“I’m a slave. I’ve seen death all my life. How should it worry me?”
The man dipped his finger in the pulsing red blood and began to paint the girl’s naked body with oddly disturbing symbols.

When he had finished he tumbled her to the mattress and took her roughly. At the moment when her eyes became blind in her own ecstasy he slipped his long, thin knife between her ribs.

“Eden” he cried in a great voice, and when the girl’s spirit left her body he saw for an instant a white and golden angel who took that spirit in his corded arms and ascended into the light.

The master dressed himself meditatively and slipped out of the window into the ever thickening darkness of the night.

© jane jago 2017

After a most satisfactory hug, which included a wildly wagging dog, the four of them sat down to Anna’s boeuf bourguignon with softly creamed potatoes, followed by ice cream with chocolate fudge sauce. At the end of the meal, the grown-ups got coffee, and Bill had a mug of warm milk. He patted his little round tummy.

“Thank you Anna, that was lovely. I was very hungry.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. When we’ve had a bit of a sit, you can take Bonnie into the garden for her wees, then we’ll pack the camper and be off. It’s past your bedtime you know.”

“How is that? It isn’t even dark. Your clock must be wrong.”

Anna and Sam drunk their coffee, while Rod explained about the north, with its long days in summer and short ones in winter. Bill was particularly enchanted by the thought of the very far north and twenty-four hour daylight in the summer.

“I don’t really understand it, but it’s most interesting. I’d like to see a night where it stayed day.”

“Well, you shall then. I’ll bring you to see some friends of mine who live at a place called Lerwick on an island called Shetland. They have a daughter of about your age and she can show you all sorts of wild creatures. Would you like that?”

“Oh. I would. I would.”

“Then it’s a done deal.”

Soon after that, they got up from the table and made ready to leave. Bonnie got her play in the garden before Sam, Rod and Anna donned cotton tracksuit trousers and loose tops. “We can sleep and drive in these,” Sam explained. “But you aren’t driving, so Anna has some jammies for you.”

“Good. I was wondering what I was going to wear in bed. Grampa Cracksman sleeps in his vest and pants, but Mummy says that’s unsanitary. Can I have my softy jumper in bed with me?”

“You can,” Anna said. “And Bonnie, and one of us.”

“Oh that sounds fun. Which one of you?”

“We will take it in turns. It will be Rod first.”

Rod looked as if he was about to argue, then changed his mind and yawned hugely. He grinned at Bill.

“You better not snore.”

Bill pulled a cheeky face.

“You neither.”

When everyone was ready, they trooped out to the camper. As they were about out of the door, Rod fished in his pocket for something he shoved under the coffee pot on the kitchen table.

“Just a tip for the cleaner,” he said.

“Rod,” Anna sounded a bit scandalised. “That’s a fifty.”

“And?”

“Oh. And nothing, I suppose.”

He laughed and patted her.

“Let’s get this show on the road. I’m shattered. C’mon Bill. What side of the bed do you want?”

“Me and Bonnie would like inside, please.’

“Good enough. If you want to make wees in the night you wake me up and I’ll help you out of bed. OK?”

“OK.”

By the time Anna and Sam had settled themselves in the camper cab, Rod, Billy and Bonnie were already in bed. Billy had Bonnie by his feet, and was cuddling his cashmere jumper.

“Night Bill.”

“Night Uncle Rod.'”

Billy snuggled his back against his uncle’s side, gave a tiny sigh and was immediately asleep. Rod laid a huge hand gently on the little boy’s head and promptly fell asleep himself.

Anna smiled at Sam.

“I’ll drive first, if you like. Do you need to sleep?”

“Not for a while. I’m not as exhausted as Rod; he had a rough time of it. Worrying about Bill, and holding it together has been hard on him. I had it easier. I was worried and disgusted, but I hadn’t met Bill until we got him out. So I  wasn’t as emotionally involved. Until now. You must be pretty wiped out.”

“Not as bad as Rod. He’s a good deal more imaginative than he seems, and he is very, very close to Billy. Me? Life has taught me to hold my emotions in check. Though I expect I’ll have a meltdown after we get the little man home.”

He smiled at her.

“I know. When I think of what could have happened it makes my stomach go cold.”

“Yes. Rod dropped the theory he wasn’t meant to survive in my lap. Do you buy into it?”

“Oh yeah. Not just that, but they intended him to suffer before they ended him. There were all number of nasty things in the room where they had him, plus video equipment to record his suffering. It was vile.”

“Good god. I didn’t know people could be that evil.”

“Oh. They can. I found that out when I was working with Medecins sans Frontiers. I spent two years helping kids who had been rescued from the sex trade. It still leaves a nasty taste. But at least it means I have a good idea of how to look after little Bill.”

“Yes. And thank goodness you do. His parents are hugely grateful.”

“No need. It’s what I do. Though I’m an orthopaedic surgeon by trade, anyone who worked in Thailand can’t help having an interest in children’s health and wellbeing. But talking about Bill’s parents, I do need to talk to them before we get him home.”

“You can call them now, if you like. My phone is on the centre console there. They are in the book as Jim and Pats.”

“I will. Thanks. While those two are very deeply asleep.”

He picked up the phone.

“Hello. Jim Cracksman? I’m Sam Henderson. Bill calls me Doctor Sam. Don’t mention it. But there are a couple of things you need to know before he gets home. First. He just told me how he was taken. Yes. That’s what he said. The au pair. Bitch. Done a runner has she? Oh how surprising. Now. To how Bill is coping. Basically, he’s good, but he will have wobbles. He may seem a bit clingy and babyish for a while, but just cuddle him and accept it. I will wear off. If he needs a cry, you have to let him cry. If he wants to shout and swear a bit, let him do that. If he wants to talk about what happened to him, let him do that too. It’s normal. Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not. Your mother is a wise woman, and she’s right about the others. You do need to tell them. Yes. I know you would rather not, but for Bill’s sake you have to. They need to know that he could be wobbling, and why. School? No. It’s only a month or so till the end of term. If it was me I’d not send him back until September. He’s bright enough for it not to matter. Yeah. I’d be more than willing to keep an eye on him. He’s a great kid. Yes. I’ll see you then.”

Jane Jago