Tales From Alternate Earths: Eight broadcasts from parallel dimensions from Inklings Press, reviewed by E.M. Swift-Hook. Since this was written Daniel Benson has won the Best Short-Form Alternate History Sideways Award for his contribution to this anthology 'Treasure Fleet'. Brent A Harris & Ricardo Victoria were also finalists for their 'Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon'.

There is surely no other step-child in the weird and wacky family that makes up the genre known as ‘Speculative Fiction’, which is better suited to the short story format than alternative history. It allows an author to hone in on a point, even a single moment, in history and ask ‘what if something different happened?’ The answer is often not one that needs volumes to explore, but is better left to clever tending by an expert of bonsai literary expression. This anthology is a veritable greenhouse of such well-shaped bonsai.

Nuclear war actually having happened is the theme taken up by two of the authors, but with very different time points: ‘September 26th, 1983’ by Jessica Holmes and 1962 for ‘One World’ by Cathbad Maponus. One explores how Britain might be today if a Russian officer had not used cool headed common-sense back in the Eighties and the other is set in an America where the Cuban Missile crisis reached another possible conclusion.

“So, you said Oxford Street. This is Oxford Street. Anything special you want to see?”

Meteor strikes impacted enough to inspire the work of three of the authors in the anthology. ‘Stargazing on Oxford Street’ by Rob Edwards, has a view of how London could be which is very different to the one we have today. ‘Tunguska, 1987’ by Maria Haskins provides a totally original take on the cataclysmic event that flattened miles of forest in an isolated corner of the vast Siberian hinterland. ‘Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon’ by Brent A Harris & Ricardo Victoria is set in an almost unrecognisable alternative present day earth, but then the timeline as it is pictured here diverged in geological not historical time.

Away from the terrors of technology or the impact of astronomical objects, ‘Treasure Fleet’ by Daniel Bensen and ‘One More Dawn’ by Terri Pray both pose interesting and very human ‘what-ifs?’. ‘Treasure Fleet’ considers the idea of a medieval China converted to Islam and ‘One More Dawn’ is set in Ancient Egypt as a dying Pharaoh is tended by his loving wife.

“Um,” said Ogilvy, “I would say the chances are around a millio…”

Having a favourite in such a strongly written anthology as this is almost as impossible as having a favourite child – and may even be just as unethical, I am not sure. But I have to admit that I do have one: ‘The Secret War’ by Leo McBride. It is the one story that does the utterly unexpected and turns the idea of alternative history as approached by all the other stories in this collection completely on its head: what if a famous fictional story was really true? And then, when we have been brought to realise the impact of that, the author cleverly – and seamlessly – ties it into an equally famous real world event.

This collection of historical ‘what ifs?’ are each a near-perfect miniature cameo and a genuine delight. I can highly recommend it to all connoisseurs of speculative fiction, no matter which branch or sub-branch of the genre is their preferred regular perch. I think the only negative criticism I could offer is that the anthology includes more than one story drawing on the same actual event or very similar scenario. I think I might have possibly enjoyed the book just that little bit more if each story was tackling something unique from all the others – and the stories I appreciated the most were those that moved away from the more explored post-apocalyptic tropes and offered unexpected, unusual ‘what-ifs?’.

I really enjoyed how many of the authors pulled in a second – and sometimes even a third – historical variable, to help expand and explain the events of their stories. All the contributions are well written and polished, all impacting in their own unique ways, offering thought-provoking glimpses of how things could have been – IF….

5 Stars out of 5

This was written when the thought of actually being in an Inklings Press anthology was less than a twinkle in my eye!  Now the exciting news is that the next Inklings alt. hist. anthology will feature a Dai and Julia Mystery written especially and exclusively for it. So watch this space!

As a (more or less) retired whore with an address book full of the names (carefully coded) and preferences of powerful men from all across the globe, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was offered money – a truly obscene amount of money – to write my memoirs.

Being a sensible sort, with her declining years to provide, for I accepted the advance and started writing. But, you know what, I may be an exceptional shag, but as a writer I suck.
*giggles rudely*
No matter how hard I tried, my sordidly erotic life just sounded like a fucking shopping list. I offered the men in suits their money back. But they refused.
“That’s okay,” they said, “we’ll get you a ghost writer”.

And that was another joke. The first one they sent me looked about eighteen and wore a fluffy angora jumper. Having established that she had never even heard of most of the things I did on a regular basis, I sent her away with a few quid for her trouble. The second try was even worse, some sleazy slag who writes porno for a living and who was getting her rocks off just looking at me. I didn’t even let that one in the door.

There was silence for a couple weeks, then I was asked if I minded working with a guy. Which made me laugh. For a moment the suit making the proposition looked at me like I was stupid or something. Then he got the joke. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to do himself a mischief. When he had calmed down he kissed my hand and left, promising to send ‘George’ the very next morning.

Promptly at eight-thirty, before I had even had coffee, the door buzzed. A tall, dark guy with a briefcase and horn-rimmed spectacles stood on the step.
“George?” I hazarded a guess.
He nodded and I buzzed him in.
“Breakfast?” I offered waving a hand at the bacon and things.
“No thanks.” His voice was deep and melodious.

He sat at the table and watched my culinary muddle for about three minutes before removing the frying pan from my grasp and motioning me to be seated. He put a mug of perfectly made coffee in front of me, followed in short order by a full English breakfast.
“You,” he said, “need a housekeeper.”
“If I ever get this effing book finished, I might even be able to afford one.”
He showed me a lot of very white, very even teeth.
“You American?” I asked.
“I am, but how did you know? I don’t think I have an accent.”
“You don’t, it’s the dentistry. In my business you tend to look at teeth carefully.”
It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, but when they did I was rewarded with his pleasingly masculine laughter. “And that”, he remarked with a broad grin, “is the first line of your book…”

We soon settled into a rhythm. George arrived promptly at eight-thirty every morning. He cooked my breakfast and we worked until three when he bowed his head, clicked his heels and left.

Inside a month, we had volume one of my memoirs nailed. It was racy, funny, human, and silly, and not a bit how anybody envisaged a whore’s memoirs. It was also an instant bestseller.

I tried to thank George, but he waved away my words.
“Just doing my job.”
We got stuck into volume two.

By the time we were halfway through writing volume three, I was twenty years old in my memoirs, and forty-seven and wealthy in real life.

Somehow, I never got around to employing a housekeeper, and George still cooked my breakfast and tidied the kitchen before we started work.

I did, however, have a cleaner and it became apparent that I also needed a secretary. My publisher found me Miss Jackson, who was newly retired, and bored and willing to work three afternoons a week. She looked like the worst sort of dried-up spinster, and I was perfectly prepared to hate her. Only appearances can be deceptive. She had about the filthiest sense of humour I have ever encountered and we got along fine.

She and George, on the other hand, eyed each other like tomcats on the back fence. I said little to either, merely determining to keep them apart. As Miss Jackson started her day as George finished his, they really only met on the doorstep. Even so, they managed to build up a head of real dislike, although neither ever said a word to me. I broached the subject with a George once, but he snapped his teeth together hard and I desisted.

I think the situation may have gone on indefinitely had I not discovered the date of Miss Jackson’s birthday and decided to take the old girl out for a treat. When we finished our work that evening I presented her with a birthday card, and a Waterstones voucher, and I suggested pie and mash at my local. We had a blast, and she obviously drunk a deal more than she was used to. As I poured her into a taxi she put a hand on my arm.
“That George,” she said more than a little indistinctly. “You need to find out just what he is. If he’s human I will…” Then she shut her mouth firmly.
I paid the cabby and walked home. Deep in thought.

I was just at the door when I felt cool breath on my neck. I turned, but there was nobody to be seen. I guess I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, even before I caught the faintest whiff of mouthwash and aftershave.
“George. Stop pissing about.”
Then he was in front of me. Looking sheepish.
“You had better come in.”
He followed me in silence, and I was of no mind to say anything quite yet.

Inside the apartment I was in no mood to let him off the hook so I pointed to a chair.
“Sit.”
He was the picture of misery as he folded his long frame into an upright chair.
“Okay buster,” I said severely, “you don’t eat, you don’t drink, you never have a day off sick, and you frighten Miss J shitless. Just what are you?”
He stared at me. “If you noticed all of that why have you never said anything before?”
I crossed my arms in front of my impressive breasts.
“I asked first.”
He looked into my eyes for a moment then squared his shoulders.
“I’m a ghost…” his voice was barely more than a whisper.
That was too much for me and I felt the giggles starting deep in my belly.

Only I could have wound up with a ghost writer who really was a fucking ghost.

When I got myself together, George was looking at me as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
“I take it that means you are not about to run screaming from the room.”
“It does, mate. I’m only worried that you will disappear now I know.”
He thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “I don’t have to, not if you still want me. I could even move in…”
“Okay. But no sneaking up on Miss J. I don’t want the poor old biddy having a conniption fit in my gaff.”
He grinned, a bit nastily, but hastened to give me his promise.

That being a Friday. I didn’t see hide nor hair of my secretary until Monday. She crept in looking more than a bit sheepish and I couldn’t help laughing at the mortified expression on her face.
“Sit down you silly old bat,” I said affectionately. “Sit down and tell me why you don’t trust George.”
She sat, picking at the sleeve of her muddy brown cardigan with nervous fingers. I watched her for a moment then felt so sorry for her manifest discomfort that I caved in.
“Okay. Never mind. Let’s just get to work. I don’t need to know.”
Her eyes raised to meet mine and she actually chuckled.
“You are right, you don’t need to know. But as you have shown me all the kindness I have ever known in nearly seventy human years I do need to tell you. I knew it wasn’t a human man in the same way it should have known I’m not a human woman, but it was too busy watching you to pay any heed to me.”
She sat back in her chair, obviously awaiting some sort of reaction. I wasn’t about to give anybody that much satisfaction, so I kept my voice level and cool.
“Does being whatever you are preclude you functioning as my secretary?”
She shook her head, with its neat grey bun.
“And are you any danger to me?”
“Oh no. I might have been, once, but you befriended me.”
“Shall we get on with our work then?”
Her smile was broad and admiring, and I caught sight of the gnarled old tree spirit that inhabited her wrinkled skin before she whipped out her laptop and began summarising the weekend’s emails.

I curled my feet up under me on the settee and allowed myself an inward smirk. Just as long as George and Mrs Jackson were occupied staring each other out neither one of them was going to spend any time wondering about me. I let my fangs drop for a moment and caressed their razor sharp edges with my tongue, before recalling myself to a sense of duty and listening to the outpourings of human love and lust that my secretary was recounting in a drily amused voice.

© jane jago 2017

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!
Tormented, scraped and cut,
Your entrails ripped out from within,
To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!
Thy glorious grinning face,
Carved from the orange of your skull,
Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!
Upon the doorstep set
Your eldritch light and feral look
Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!
When brightly lit your grin
Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts
And keep us safe within.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Arena do Battaglia just before dawn on the longest day of the year. The place is heaving, every seat and every standing space is taken. People are chanting, and screaming, and eating chilli dogs and churros.

The marching band sweats under the arc lights as it plays songs of the revolution and marches in perfect time. Troupes of mostly naked gymnasts prowl and leap and perform feats of near-impossible balance. There are fire eaters, lion tamers, maestre with their estudas strung behind them collared like dogs, and cages containing every form of maimed and malformed human life are being paraded for the delectation of the baying mob.

Oh yes, all of the starry universe is here, but the multi-tentacled monster that fills the seats from stadium floor to the heights from which the arena seems peopled by ants is barely aware of any of it. It is the main event the crowd wants, and, although it waits good-naturedly now, let the battle commence just one second late and the riot will be unstoppable.

Under the banked seating, the elite competitors wait, oiled, half-naked, and sweating in the sultry air. Every province has sent its best: the golden-haired, golden skinned inhabitants of el norte towering over the swarthy smiling southrons with their gold teeth and elaborately braided hair. Where they have a sisterhood, though is in the breadth of shoulder and massive upper body development. That and the multiplicity of scars on their arms, shoulders and ribcages. The softness of their clean carefully manicured hands, then, is all the more surprising.

The light in the tunnel is reddish and dim and the competitors eye each other unsmilingly. They wait in silence.

As the clocks crawl towards sunrise, the tension in the tunnel becomes so magnified that there is a tang of iron in the air that almost smells like blood. Even the hulking guardsmen with their nerve whips seem uneasy, and watch their charges with care.

A deep-toned bong tolls once, and it is as if the crowd in the stadium is turned to stone. The arena floor empties and there is silence. Then the gong tolls twice.

Two massively muscular guardsmen carry a strange contrivance into the mathematical centre of the arena. It is a tall thin column topped with what looks like a ball of gold. As soon as the men have positioned the column the lights in the stadium go out, save only for one spotlight trained precisely on the ball of gold which now looks as if it is suspended in mid air by magic.

The gong tolls thrice and the entire mob holds its breath, watching the golden ball as a snake watches a hummingbird.

Then a great voice filled the air.
“Cinco”
“Cuatro”
“Tres”
“Dos”
“Uno”

The ball falls with an ear-splitting crash and the doors to the athletes’ tunnel crash back. As the lights in the arena come back on so brightly they all but blind, a hundred battle-scarred women jog out onto the sandy floor.

The crowd bays its appreciation as the women take out their pointed steely weapons.

La batalla de los tejedores* begins…

*The battle of the knitters

© jane jago 2017

You are old, and that should be a sorrow
You should husband the time you have borrowed
Yet you fritter each day
As you laughingly say
What’s the worry, it’s never tomorrow

© jane jago 2017

Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy!

The chopper settled like an ungainly bird and everyone held their breath. Then there was the most humongous explosion, followed by several smaller bangs. The boomer boys seemed to be counting.

“Three to go” one of them said, and two more explosions rent the air.

The silence stretched on, almost uncomfortably, before the last truly massive explosion uprooted several trees on the skyline.

“Clear to piss off,” the smallest boomer boy said with a happy grin. “That last bang was all the fancy cars, and the executive aeroplane. What a shame…”

The chopper left the ground again and set off hedge-hopping at a seemingly reckless speed.

“I do hope your pilot is good,” Sam said mildly.

“He is. He’s the best of the best, and he has no fancy towards spending any more of his life at Her Majesty’s pleasure. So we’re hurrying a bit. Any minute now we’ll be dropping like a stone; over the cliff edge. Then we’ll need to do about fifteen minutes right at sea level, before we turn around and radio Aberdeen for clearance to pass through en route for Glasgow. After that you can make your phone calls.”

“Thanks, mate,” Rod said.

“It’s fine. Your pal is a fucking good doctor. Andy’s shoulder is nearly as good as new, and even the boomer boy’s wrist isn’t hurting. Though he has puked in a bucket.”

“Give him some biscuits from your emergency food store and he’ll probably stop vomiting,” Sam recommended.

The boss grinned.

“Hokay. Somebody give that man a biscuit. Or three!”

There was relative quiet in the belly of the Sikorsky until the pilot’s voice came through their headphones.

“Just turning and contacting Aberdeen.”

“You can use your mobile phones now.”

Rod pulled an iPhone out of his breast pocket and made a call.

“Jim? We’ve got him. He’s OK. Been a bit mistreated, but Sam has seen to him. Now he’s asleep on my chest. When he wakes up. I’ll call you again and you can talk to him.”

He listened for a while then spoke in a hard, cold voice.

“We decided no survivors was a good number. Yeah. Speak soon.”

Sam looked at his friend for a moment, then shrugged. “You’d better call your friend Anna and give her an ETA. You could also ask her to get some clothes for the wee man, daytime stuff and some cozy jammies. He’ll feel better with a shower and a change of clothes, then we can get him into his pyjamas at bedtime. The more normal, the better. And tell her that soft, easy-to-eat food would be best for him this evening.”

“Will do. You ain’t just a pretty face. And the wee man would rest better in some comforting jammies. Plus, Anna will be crawling out of her skin. She loves the Cracksman kids like they were her own. She’ll really want to know when to expect us. I’ll call. Pilot. Do you have an ETA for Glasgow?”

“A couple hours.”

“Thanks.”

He called another number.

“Anna. We’ve got him. He’s okay. We will see you in a couple hours. Can you get him some jammies? And Sam says is a bowl of stew or casserole possible. The little man needs warm simple food. He’s had a rough time.”

He listened for a while, then smiled his nice smile.

“Will do. If you add me and Sam to your insurance we can share the driving. Yep. His name is Samuel Henderson. He’s thirty eight. Clean licence. Doctor. That do? See you…”

He ended the call and smiled at Sam.

“She’s happy. Cried.”

“She one of your girlfriends?”

“Nah. She’s the best friend of my sister-in-law. I’ve known her since I was fourteen when my bro met Pats. I like her a lot, but she don’t do it for me like that. She’s probably more your type. Too intelligent for me.”

Sam laughed.

“Once bitten…”

“Well she certainly ain’t anything like Christina. As I said. I like her. And now I want a piss. Can you cuddle the wee man while I piss in a bottle?”

Sam obliged, feeling the small hands and feet, pleased to note that both felt warm now. The heavy eyelashes fluttered and Sam found William looking up at him.

“Hello little man,” he said.

“Hello doctor Sam. I’m awake now. Do you think I could talk to my mummy?”

“Yes. As soon as Rod finishes piddling in that bottle.”

“Why’s he doing that?”

“Because he needs a wee, and there is no toilet in this chopper.”

The little boy giggled, and his uncle turned around and grinned at him.

“We’ll call your mum as soon as I finish here.”

Rod rearranged his clothing and took out his phone.

“Jim. Got a bloke here wants to talk to Patsy.”

He sat down and handed the phone to William.

“Mummy. It’s me. Yes I’m better now. Doctor Sam looked after me.”

He listened for a while.

“Do you know Doctor Sam? He’s nice. I like his smiley brown face. And he is very kind.”

Again he stopped and listened, before carrying on.

“He stopped me feeling sick. And he gave me his jumper because I was cold. It’s a very nice jumper, and it smells like Daddy.”

Sam found himself with a lump in his throat. He wondered how anyone could treat such a nice little chap so badly. Turning his head, he caught Rod’s eye, to find his friend blinking back tears.

“Yeah. It gets to you don’t it?”

“It does. He’s such a nice little chap.”

William had just finished his call, and smiled sunnily at him. “Am I nice?”

“You are. But cheeky.”

The little boy handed Rod his phone then snuggled up to Sam and looked about him.

“Did all these people come to rescue me?”

“They did,” Rod confirmed.

William ducked his head, then sat up and moved Sam’s headphones aside so he could whisper something. Sam grinned and nodded.

“Listen up everybody,” he said. “Bill here wants to say thank you for coming to his rescue, but he’s feeling a bit shy. I told you wouldn’t mind me saying it for him.”

“That’s fine,” jumpsuit boss said with a grin. “You are more than welcome. Any friend of Rod’s is a friend of ours. So that makes you and Doctor Sam part of the team. I’ll send you each a jumpsuit when we get back to HQ.”

William beamed.

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“I’m called William too. But mostly people call me Will.”

“Thank you Mister Will,” William said politely. “Now I’m feeling sleepy again.”

Rod took his nephew in his arms.

“You go sleep then. I’ve got you.”

As the boy drifted back into sleep, Rod bent and kissed his curly head.

“I can’t believe how evil some people can be,” he whispered.

“Me neither, but the little man is fine. If his parents agree, I’ll be keeping an eye on him for the next few months, just in case. Though I think we got to him in time on all fronts.”

Rod looked seriously at his friend.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What?”

“Bad intentions.” He gestured with his forefinger across his own throat.

“Yes. Sadly. I am. But it didn’t happen.”

“No. But it gives me a cold feeling in my stomach all the same.”

Jumpsuit Will put a hand on Rod’s shoulder.

“Me too mate.’

Jane Jago

You are old, and you are a disgrace
Should be modest and downcast of face
It is so deeply wrong
That you’re wearing a thong
And a peephole in black silk and lace

© jane jago 2017

This is the opening of the new Dai and Julia Mystery 'Dying for a Poppy' which is out today on Amazon and free to read on Kindle Unlimited.

September MDCCLXXVII
Britannia is sweltering under an unseasonable sun.

I

The column of slow and ugly army supply lorries, left Londinium early in the morning, heading north-west on the main road to Viriconium. It was carrying a recently appointed Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, his brand-new force of vigiles, their families and possessions and a vexillation of grim-faced praetorians.

Julia Lucia Maxilla wondered idly why they didn’t use hover vehicles. She mentioned this to her husband of just seven days – who happened to be the Submagistratus – and he laughed.

“Range my lovely, they would need to recharge and there aren’t any charging stations where we are going.”

“Right. Fine. It’s just that I haven’t seen a wheeled vehicle, leave alone been in one, since my brief time as a border guard on the eastern fringes of the Empire.”

Dai looked down into her face.

“By the sound of your voice that wasn’t the most pleasant of secondments.”

“It had its moments. But I met Edbert and found Canis and Lupo so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

She could see he was dying to ask more and felt a surge of affection towards him for the care he always took with her. In the end, though, it seemed he couldn’t resist just one question.
“What was an Inquisitor in the service of the Praetor doing on the Eastern Border?”

She turned in his arms and squinted up at his face. “I wasn’t an Inquisitor. I was a customs officer. Undercover. But those days are gone now. I’m a very proper Roman wife now.”

He laughed and put his hands around her waist. “Not too proper I hope…”

She made a rude noise and crossed her eyes at him. Bending his handsome head, he kissed her into submission.

She giggled, pointing to the man-mountain that was Edbert, her personal bodyguard, who was pretending to be asleep in the opposite corner of the passenger cabin. Dai smiled, then glanced down and his face creased with laughter.

“Will you look at them?”

Julia followed his gaze and saw identical expressions of aristocratic disgust on the faces of Canis and Lupo, her shaggy grey wolfhounds.

When she stopped laughing, she prodded Dai’s chest with a determined forefinger. “Instead of behaving in that extremely un-Roman fashion, why don’t you explain your family to me? Since we are going to be living just outside Viriconium and less than a spit from where they are, I’d like to know a bit more about them.”

“I wondered when you would ask.”

She was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry love. Should I have asked before?”

“No. I’m sort of glad you haven’t. Let’s me know you married me for myself not my prospects.”

“Oh. Do you have prospects?”

“Actually, no. But most people seem to think I have.”

“Me neither, so we’re quits there.”

 Dying for a Poppy is the latest of the The Dai and Julia Mysteries written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, ready and willing to continue our little seminars on the ticklish topic of creating perfect literature. For those poor uneducated few whose unheeding eyes my fame may have passed, I will begin with a trifling resume of my achievements. I am the sole author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and I am now devoting much of my time and effort to the production of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft for the less advantaged.

Lesson 8. The Write Blurb

Oh what an ugly word is blurb, how it cuts through the tenderness of one’s creativity with the hobnailed boots of its harsh ugliness. Oh how one wishes there was a pinker, tenderer, more luminescent word for the promotional literature one has, perforce, to provide alongside the fruits of one’s Muse. Oh words, words, how you torment me. How your twinkling syllables resonate inside my head like the tinkling bells on the ankles of the Muse. Oh words. But I am being sidetracked by ugliness.

The blurb is not only the ill-favoured child of literary composition, it is also that by which you seek to capture the imagination of those for whom your literary genius will become the lodestone of their lives. It is, if you would, the bait dangled in the water to catch a shark. It is, to carry my brilliant analogy to its most logical conclusion, the rotting carcase dragged behind the game fisherman’s boat broadcasting its siren song to the denizens of the deep. Get it right and you will hook a barracuda, get it wrong and your efforts will be rewarded with a white-bearded shrimp.

Your blurb must be as orchidaceously lovely as your main opus, it must sing from the same sheet of great and inspiring music, it must walk in perfect step with your narrative, it must call as the siren on the rocks, but it must never give away your plot.

I append herewith three examples of this type of writing, demonstrating the genre handled its worst and at its best:

The Bad:

A love story.

And what pray does that tell us other than this is the work of a lazy author lacking in the most elementary creativity?

The Better:

Permit Fatswhistle and Buchtooth to clasp your hand in theirs and accompany you on your journey as you laugh, cry, learn and celebrate in the company of two of the most engaging and life-affirming creations of modern mythology. A work of genius not to be missed.

The Best:

After years spent caring for her aging parent, beautiful and virginal, Clothilda is cast penniless on the charity of her cruel, chicken farmer, landlord. Can she win his love with her goodness and innocence, or will she lose everything at the hands of the bitch whore from hell who wants his money and his cock.

Read and learn and inwardly digest my darlings.

And remember. Promotional material is almost more important than that which it promotes.

Next time: Sex Sells. Writing a hot love scene.

A bientot.

Ecrit Bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

[After tragedy struck, Dan Bradfield has offered Sarah Fendhardt a room for the night]

Dan pushed the door open and led me through.

We were in a kitchen. I broke out of my numb state long enough to notice that it was big, but then I stopped noticing. I followed Dan up another level to a hallway with a number of doors. Dan went to the second door and opened it, then he gestured for me to go in ahead of him.

I paid a little more attention this time. The room was a fair size and had a four-poster bed in the middle. A couple of large, colorful paintings were on the walls, although in the dim light that came from the bedside lamp Dan had turned on, it was difficult to examine them. The light of the moon shone through the single window on the far wall.

I went over to the window to let some fresh air in. To my surprise, I could see no way to open it. “I can’t open the window?”

“No.” He opened another door in the room and flicked on a light switch. Through the door I could see a quaint bathroom, just for me. He put my bag down on the bed.

Then he walked over to the window, where I stood. “We have ducted air conditioning throughout the entire house. When we put it in they suggested double glazing the windows and sealing them to keep it cost effective.”

“Oh.” I suppose that was logical. I’d heard of people doing that.

Why then, did it feel as if he was lying to me?

I tried to shake the feeling of suspicion as he continued talking.

“An added advantage of this kind of system is that it’s burglar proof.” He rapped his knuckles on the window. “So you don’t need to be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here.”

How had he known that was what I was most worried about? I suppose, considering what had just happened, it wasn’t a huge surprise.

Unconsciously, I moved closer to his side. Standing in his shadow seemed the only safe place. I looked up at him again, but he dropped his eyes and headed for the door. “I should let you get some sleep. Try, anyway.”

Without realizing what I was doing, I followed him to the door. I didn’t want him to leave.

Perhaps he understood the pathetic look on my face, because he stopped at the doorway. “That’s my room there.” He pointed at the next room, further up the hallway from the stairs. “If you need anything, anything at all, and I don’t care what time it is, you knock on my door. Okay?”

I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes again as he stepped away from me. I had to fight the urge to beg him to stay. I knew I couldn’t keep him. It was well past two. He had to be exhausted

and he had already done so much.

I had to be brave. “Goodnight,” I said, and shut the door.

You can read more about Dan and Sarah in The Heir – Book One of the Verindon Trilogy.

Lynne Stringer has been passionate about writing all her life, beginning with short stories in her primary school days. She began writing professionally as a journalist and was the editor of a small newspaper (later magazine) for seven years, before turning her hand to screenplay writing and novels.

Lynne is the author of the Verindon trilogy, a young adult science fiction romance series released in 2013. Her latest novel, released in October 2016, is Once Confronted, a contemporary drama. Visit lynnestringer.com for more information. Or visit her Amazon Author page for more books or find her on Facebook.