You are old, will you please tell me this
When was the last time you were kissed?
It was late Saturday
Having my wicked way
With a body too good to be missed

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour mes enfants,

It is I, the exquisitely lubricious Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Ivy to one’s chums and Moons to one’s deliciously outre Maman. I am, of course, the pen behind that seminal work of imagination and anal rectitude ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and the unimaginably enormous and generous intellect behind this programme of tutorials on the art of putting one’s soul onto paper.

I know you are all in awe of the crystalline perfection of my prose, and the lyrical lusciousness of my verse, and I know deep in my artistic soul that I cannot ever hope to raise the standards of your poverty-stricken scribbling to anywhere near the opalescent splendour of my smallest mark on paper. But it is my sacred mission to teach you little minnows sufficient that you may become sharklettes in the murky ponds of your own miserable literary existences.

With which in mind we shall proceed.

Lesson 11. The Write conclusion

Or, as Mama might say, “Famous last words, Moons. Fucking famous last words.”

You will, of course, be racking your teeny weeny little minds for the reason why the last words in a work can have any importance at all. I shall elucidate, beginning in the world of the moving picture theatre, a podium not dissimilar to the efforts of the literary genius…

Some examples:

Should one pronounce the phrase:

‘It was beauty killed the beast’

all of you will prick up your little ears and a spark will kindle in the dullness of your crania. Upon some basic level, too elementary to be called thought, you will know that ‘King Kong’ is being evoked.

Similarly:

‘tomorrow is another day’

brings to the screen behind the dullness of your eyes the face of Scarlett O’Hara and the flavour of ‘Gone with the Wind’.

Do you begin to discern my meaning?

And so to literary conclusions.

One will admit to being less than a fan of Mister Dickens’ turgid Victorian drama but he did possess the ability to pen an ending that etches itself into the consciousness.

There is no need whatsoever to have read ‘A Tale of two Cities’ to know that it concludes thus:

‘…it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known’

Equally it is true to say that not one in a thousand of those who quote Tiny Tim’s valedictory speech at the end of ‘A Christmas Carol’ will have so much as opened the book. Notwithstanding this fact ‘God bless us. Every one.’ has become just as much a symbol of the festive season as brandy butter and Boxing Day divorce.

Boiled down to its very essence, today’s message is both excruciatingly simple and exquisitely obscure. If your last few words are as strong as Sampson, as sexy as Rod Stewart, and as breathtaking as a sussurating sunset, it matters not a jot what the rest of the endeavour is.

Oh yes, my hopeful scribblers. A memorable last line will enshrine your work in the canon of literary excellence…

Consider your options carefully and remember the final words of my own magnum opus as Fatswhistle lays his heart and his fortune at the feet of Buchtooth:

“Piss off Fats, I’m dying for a crap.”

Craft carefully mes estudas. Next week. The cover….

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

…I take the book and shove my Marlboros into my pocket with a small red lighter. I see light brown hair hanging over the back of an armchair. Ron Wilson is reading the news on Channel 10. I sit on a couch to the left of the armchair, opposite the windows. I look at a young girl in jeans and a light blue t-shirt. I guess she’s about eighteen or nineteen and when she turns to look at me I see those steel-blue eyes again. She has an oval-shaped face and the eyes are clear like the sky now. She’s slim and wearing black runners. She has a wide mouth with full lips. No lipstick. A black mole above her right eye sticks out and she smiles at me.
‘You recognise me from last night,’ she says. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement. I feel myself blushing and hate it. She smiles again and says, ‘My name is Kelly Landry. How old are you?’

‘Thirty. And my name is Benjamin.’
‘But Ben is okay, right?’
‘Right.’
‘When you looked at me last night I couldn’t quite tell how old you are. You look old around the eyes, some strong lines but you have a young face.’
‘Yeah, I remember you,’ I manage to say.
‘Hey, what’re you reading?’
‘Twelve by Nick McDonnell. Do you know it?’
‘No. Have you read Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami?’
‘Yeah, I have. Um, that’s about the last thing I thought you’d ask me.’
‘I wanted your full attention. Do you know my favourite part of that book is when Midori
gets angry with Toru because he didn’t notice her new haircut? Is that stupid? With all the drama going on that conversation sticks with me, always.’

I look at her for a few long seconds trying to work her out and then say, ‘No, I totally agree. No wait. I need to think about something like that. It’s important.’
Nothing gets said for a minute. Ron Wilson tells us about some bushfires in the Margaret
River region and I say, ‘Have you read Murakami’s After Dark?’
‘Yes. He’s my go-to man at the moment. I went through a Kerouac phase and I carried Girl, Interrupted around with me for a year or so but at the moment it’s Murakami.’
‘Is that the book they based the film with Winona Rider and—?’
‘Yeah, the book is by Sussana Kayson. You’d like it if you like Norwegian Wood. Another
crazy girl.’

‘I’ll try and find it in a bookshop. You should read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest if you
like crazy people and sad stories about them.’
‘I will. I bet you’re surprised you’re talking about all this; you know, about books and things, here in this pub in Geraldton with a skimpy girl.’ She’s made me turn red again but this time it’s because I’m a little ashamed that she could read my mind and how puerile and small-minded my thoughts were.
‘I guess I am. I … by the way how old are you?’
‘By the way I’m twenty-eight. I have to go to work now. You can come and talk to me there if it doesn’t embarrass you.’
‘Maybe not. Say, is there a good beach here? I mean there must be. Somewhere along the
road that runs by the ocean? Come to the beach with me tomorrow.’

‘Alright, I’ll knock on your door. You do know we’re the only two people living here.’ She
gets up and walks out and I see the line of her frilly light blue knickers above the back
waistband of her hipster jeans. I think about the beads of perspiration I saw on her stomach and breasts. Wow. She rocked me. She’s beautiful and smart and her eyes, they seem to change colour with her mood. In the bar, cold and blue but here, talking with me, they became calm and sky blue. I put my feet up on the small coffee table, pretty happy that it’s just the two of us living here. I shake a Marlboro Light out of my soft packet and light up, blow smoke into the roof and smile. She likes, no, she loves books. I butt my cigarette and go downstairs.

Sean O'Leary is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. His fiction, non-fiction and interviews have been published in Quadrant, FourW, Page Seventeen, Bravado, Takahé, Wetink, Famous Reporter and @ www.crimetime.co.uk. He has published two short story collections, 'My Town' and 'Walking'. His novella, 'Drifting' was the winner of 'The Great Novella Search 2016' and was published in September, 2017 by Busybird Publishing.

Q1: You win either a house on the beach or a house in the mountains. Which do you accept?

By the sea, because you can swim in summer and the beach in winter is also great because it is deserted and brilliant for walking. I go to Apollo Bay on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria a couple of times a year and I lived in Bondi Beach for a decade in the 90’s.

Q2: If you had to write under a different what would it be and why would you choose that name?

Um, I think, Dekker. It is the name of Harrison Ford’s character in Blade Runner, which is one of my all time favourite films. I love the scene where Rutger Hauer dies.

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe...”

Q3: For you, which technology is the closest thing to real magic?

Q3. Virtual Reality. I think that this technology is just going to go ballistic. It has good and bad implications. For people with a disability it could change their lives, they could experience things that they never thought possible. It could also hugely change the porn and recreational drug use industries…for better or worse…it’s already here and going to get bigger and wilder, so get ready.

You can catch up with Sean O’Leary on Goodreads and on his website.

Probably the most popular character in Fortune's Fools, this is the first glimpse a reader gets of Durban Chola in Transgressor in The Fated Sky.

Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face.

Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing.

But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road.

“Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of QabalVyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?”

If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.”

Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.”

Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle.

“And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost.

The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile.

“I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.”

Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear.

“I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is doubtless Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner.

Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.

From Transgressor 1: The Fated Sky by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Lying hands, untruthful fingers
Truth may die
Dissembling lingers
Smiling eyes, with hate beneath
Chew through lives
With sharpened teeth
Lying kisses, cold caresses
Love denied
The heart distresses
Lying hands that grip and hold
Steal the warmth
And leave the cold

© jane jago 2017

Dystopic Directives, Deceit and Double-Crosses.

“You human, you are the problem. A miserable, short life is your just reward for your species treatment of this planet.”

The world has died, murdered by humanity and the Temple never lets those who still live on the Mother, crushed physically and psychologically into the crowded Plena to forget that and forget the guilt debt they owe to Her. Valko Gangleri is a Moderator, a sort of policeman but more along the lines of Judge Dredd, harsh, callous and uncaring – unless he is under the influence of the NOTT drug that unlocks his empathy. When a sequence of murders and the subsequent investigations lead Valko to some disturbing discoveries about himself, the phrase ‘all is not what it seems’ springs to mind in huge neon letters.

This is a dystopian sci-fi set in a post-apocalyptic world – but one in which there seem to have been numerous causes of the final apocalyptic event. It has all the classic hallmarks of the genre – enclosed humanity, uninhabitable world, oppression by a faceless elite that dominate all aspects of life. It also has something unique which only clicks in half-way through the book and from then on expands into strange and unpredictable pathways. Imagine Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil’ meeting ‘Logan’s Run’ and you have a good idea of what to expect.

‘The wind had become Death’s steed: on it rode humanity’s suicide machines, now registering at one part per billion.’

The strength of this book is in its worldbuilding. You get the impression that the author walked the streets and breathed the polluted air himself, making notes and mapping as he went. It is that good. However, sometimes it is also a bit overwhelming and it slows the opening of the book to a very turgid pace. There are frequent digressions to explain how something came about, which are usually handled well, but occasionally the reader is left with a sense of being lectured by an unseen authorial voice.

The characters are very well drawn and engaging, especially Valko and the transformation of his personality is crafted impeccably. The supporting cast is well written too, though I did feel Davidson in his deeds did not live up to what we were continually being told about the man. The pace is never really full on action speed, even in the tensest moment and sometimes slipped to slow.

“Oshi, there have been too many lies – too much manipulation of both our minds.”

For me, the book was too long – and it is a long book. The story doesn’t really get into ‘meaningful’ until the half-way mark. Before that, there is an excessive – possibly obsessive – amount of set-up and world-building IMO. The story itself could have been better told in fewer words, IMO. Although I enjoyed the reading, I will admit to wanting to skip forwards quite often and undoubtedly I wound up skimming over parts where the plot was not being progressed, excessive flashbacks, which added nothing much I could find of value, for example.

Overall I enjoyed this book a lot and would recommend it to anyone who loves detailed world-building and a different twist to the dystopian sci-fi genre.

Review by E.M. Swift-Hook. Mercury's Son is written by Luke E.T. Hindmarsh.

A spectral figure in a mist-grey coat,
running on soundless feet
A silent scream rent from a broken throat,
a life now incomplete
Whose feet and legs still know the ground,
whose body no substance feels
The storm that blew the forest down,
yet snapping at her heels
Pity the Dryad who lost her tree,
the dragon who lost her egg
Pity the one who runs foolishly,
who stops by the wayside to beg
Pity them all yet stay away
from the jagged stumps and mosses
He who enters the forest today
may not live to count his losses

© jane jago 2017

When the last thing you remember is something that feels like a bee sting on the side of your neck, and you open your eyes to see a skeleton sitting in a wing-backed chair, apparently reading what looks like a very dog-eared copy of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ by the light of a hissing Tilley lamp, the temptation has to be to close your eyes and wait for it to go away. So I tried that. But it was no manner of use. All that happened was that I heard a dry bone-ish sort of chuckle inside my head.

I opened my eyes again and regarded the ossified one with some dissatisfaction. Then I noticed the spectacles – and that was the moment when hysteria almost overtook me. In order to wear spectacles the frames have to rest on your nose and your ears. Of course, a skeleton has neither but, nevertheless, these horn-rimmed spectacles hovered in approximately the correct position and hideously magnified a pair of bloodshot eyeballs, which seemed to be studying me in much the way a schoolboy studies a bug on a pin.

In an effort at nonchalance I snorted indelicately and sat up.

Bones averted its gaze, which alerted me to the fact I was completely naked.
“Can you cover yourself please?” The voice in my head was almost plaintive. “Normally I wouldn’t care, but I’ve been reading this…”
I laughed and pulled the bedclothes up to my armpits.

Bedclothes? At this point, my hair all but stood on end and it was only iron self-control, and the discipline of years, that enabled me to pull myself together.

I looked around me to discover I was in an enormous barrel-vaulted chamber – windowless except for one narrow slit high on the ceiling which threw a line of light on a clock face equally high on the opposite wall. This would seem to be suggesting that it was three o’clock in the afternoon. I registered that piece of information and filed it in my brain for future reference, before carrying on with the catalogue of my situation. I was sitting on what was possibly a tomb or, more likely, some sort of an altar, on a thick soft mattress and I had a downy coverlet pulled over me. At the side of my ‘bed’ there was a small pile of clothing: not mine. There was also a leather satchel – which was mine, and which I was very pleased to behold.

A deep, cool voice from behind me all but had me snapping my head around in surprise.
“Is there aught you require, lady?”
I turned around with calculated slowness to find myself looking into the eyes of an obviously female stone sphinx.
“My own clothes” I said coolly “and food”.
The creature met my stare head on for a moment before inclining her cranium ironically. She whistled shrilly, and a troupe of fauns clattered into view, bearing various items of clothing and a basket from which the scent of new bread oozed its enchantment. I inclined my own head as the little males disposed their burdens on the coverlet at my feet.
“Right boys” I said briskly “everyone turn away so I can dress in peace.”
They all turned, except the sphinx.
“You too sister. I have no desire to wring your little marble heart with my beauty.”
She snarled, but turned to face outward.

Once I was dressed in leather trousers and a form-fitting multi-pocketed weskit I opened the basket to find bread, bacon, honey, and a flask of wine.
“You can turn back now thank you” I remarked “and can somebody please take the bacon. I don’t eat flesh.”
One of the fauns trotted over and showed me its sharp little teeth in a feral grin as it took the lump of fat bacon out of the basket….

This is an extract from ‘The Nature of the Beast’. Just one of the stories in ‘Pulling the Rug 2’ by Jane Jago. Out today.

These are the cobbles
The paved pathway of your life
Mourn each stone unturned.

These are the strong bones,
The skeleton of your life,
Each one shapes your form.

These are the waters
The ebb and flow of your life
The tides of tears shed.

These are the zephyrs
The very breath of your life
Soft hope-bearing winds.

These are the embers
The sustenance of your life
The courageous flame.

These are the moments
The measurement of your life
Each a priceless gem.

E.M. Swift-Hook.