Two Women and Some Books
We tried to catch the wind today
My fickle friend and me
But as the zephyr flew this way
My friend deserted me
We tried to catch a friend today
The winter wind and I
But as my friend came out to play
The breeze did wave goodbye
Oh you may have the wind he sighed
Should that be as you choose
Or you may have me at your side
You win one, one you lose
We tried to catch the wind today
A wind to sail us home
But fickle fate gangs aft agley
And now I cry alone
© jane jago 2017
Sunday lunch, and Caroline carefully masticated her roast lamb and over-cooked vegetables whilst attempting to tune out the carefully genteel tones of her mother-in-law, Marjorie, as she treated them to her own version of the Sunday sermon. Today it was immigrants. And the EU, of course. But that was a blessed relief from child care ‘hints’ and open criticism of the way she and her sister-in-law dressed, spoke, and, one very memorable Sunday indeed, even how they smelled.
‘Yaddah, Yaddah’ she thought as she tried to push the two-hour journey home, with its inevitable sugar-induced tantrums and car sickness, to the back of her mind. She must have been doing quite well, because she was dragged back to the world of serviettes and Sunday best china by a derisive snort from her left-hand neighbour. She turned a polite face to her husband’s younger brother, who wagged his head at her. Tuning back into the Sunday homily she realised why even he was pissed off. Marjorie was busily assuring her grandchildren that of course the going rate for the tooth fairy had gone up in line with inflation. About five pounds per tooth would be fair, she thought.
Caroline sighed inwardly and decided she couldn’t face any more lunch. She put her knife and fork down and fished about in her head for something uncontroversial to say.
Before she had a chance to speak, and in an almost unheard of break from the rigidly enforced etiquette which normally prevailed, her husband leaned across from his seat on the other side of the table and whispered in her ear.
‘Never mind the bloody tooth fairy. I’d rather like there to be a Shut up Mother fairy.’
In a rare moment of whimsy Caroline grinned at him. ‘You never know, there might be. But you have to invite her in.’
He grinned back at her, though the lines of tension that bracketed his mouth from the moment they arrived at his mother’s house until the moment they left were still etched into his skin. ‘I do, don’t I? Very well.’ He closed his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Shut up Mother fairy, I most humbly invite you into this house.’
He sat back in his chair, and the air filled with mocking laughter. At the head of the table Marjorie’s mouth kept right on moving, but now she no longer made a sound…
I wondered, lonely and so proud
My thoughts so high, oe’r window sills
When all at once I was endowed
With views through neighbours curtain frills.
I glimpsed the barest hint of skin
As through my bedroom blinds I’d peek.
To speculate who was within
The electoral roll didst seek.
I glimpsed again and flesh did see
That lofted oe’r sleek curves and tan
But then Mama did answer me:
“Moons? That new neighbour? It’s a man.”
So yet I peer the blinds between
And linger on the vision there
The secret seer, sight unseen
So it’s a man? I could not care!
A flash fiction written especially for us by Jayden Hunter.
Two giant eyes appeared in the sky last Tuesday. The bright globes seemed alive, and their movements gave me the impression they were watching humanity.
Like a disembodied God.
Or a scientist observing the behavior of ants.
One eye was a dark chocolate brown.
The other green, which was unusual enough, considering it’s not normal for two giant eyes to appear in the sky. The mismatched eyes only made the whole situation stranger—although why this was—I could never put my finger on.
“Why not three eyes?” an unnamed stranger asked the gathering crowd.
“Huh?”
“You know, like a trinity of eyes?”
“Father, Son, and Spirit?” a frog asked.
“Wait a minute, there’s talking frogs in this story?” a pretty woman wondered–out loud–but to nobody in particular.
“I was a Prince,” the frog said. “Just last Thursday.”
I contemplated the frog, the giant eyes, and the woman. Sometimes, in life, you have to keep unusual things separated in your mind with reminders (to yourself) that not everything is at it seems. I was reasonably confident I’d not ingested any mushrooms (or other drugs). I knew I wasn’t hooked up to any virtual reality gear. I wasn’t floating in nano-liquid. The Body-Pod by EvialgorCorp hadn’t been invented yet, although, to be completely honest, I couldn’t swear I hadn’t been in the future yesterday. I might have jumped into a time travel worm-hole and blacked out.
It happens.
I figured I’d take charge of the situation. I screamed at the eyes, “What do you want?”
Due to the fact that no mouth appeared in the sky, there was no answer.
Or, possibly, whatever being was behind the eyes refused to speak. Maybe it was a God, I thought, more than a few times.
Gods tend to be reticent.
Eyeballs.
That was it.
“I’m not sure there are any ears,” the frog observed.
“I noticed that,” I said while eyeing, slyly I thought, the woman. She’d become, in my mind, more attractive during the period the crowd grew in size. I’d later find out her name was Fiona. Whenever we were alone, she seemed quite average, but get her in a crowd and all of a sudden she was a supermodel. Don’t ask me to explain this, I can’t. Sorry.
“You don’t appear to have any ears,” Fiona said to the frog. “But you hear just fine.”
“That I don’t seem to have any ears is correct. But I have frog ears. It’s obvious. I’m talking to you, for instance.”
“I’m not sure that proves anything,” she countered. “In these situations, nothing is absolute.”
“Everything is subjective,” I stated. I felt sort of stupid after I said this, but…wait!
Wait, a minute. I’m remembering this slightly wrong. Here is what I actually shouted boldly was this: “Nothing in life is certain!”
“True,” Fiona said.
“But, I am certain I like you,” I said. Perhaps a bit shyly, but I didn’t want to scare her.
I hate it when a woman bolts when all I wanted to do was marry her or something equally foolish, like go for a mint chip ice cream. Anyway, the day was strange enough without having to deal with tragic loss, so I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
The frog smiled (don’t ask me how I knew he was smiling–I just did). “You’d feel a tragic loss if you scared off a woman you only just met?” the frog asked me.
“You’re a mind reader, too?” I asked him. Or her. It’s hard to tell with frogs.
“But, of course,” he replied after capturing a fly in his long, sticky tongue. He ate it in one swallow.
“Well then,” I suggested, “tell us what the mind behind those eyes is thinking.”
“Hmm,” the green, tailless amphibian hummed. His short, squat body, moist from a recent dip in fresh waters, lurched forward. His long powerful legs twitched. He seemed to think for a long time, but I think, in retrospect, it was only for a minute. Or two. “There’s nothing there.”
“So, it’s an illusion?” I asked.
“Indeed.”
“Would you care to join me for lunch?” I asked the pretty woman.
“Sure,” she said.
And that was how I met my wife.
More of Jayden’s writing can be found here.
Jonas got to the Hiring Fair just after dawn and headed straight for the place where soldiers’ widows could be found.
He saw her immediately, with the early morning sun setting her hair aflame. She was sitting on her trunk with a small girl child playing some complex game in the dust around her skirts. He strode over, and she came to her feet, albeit somewhat uncertainly. The child hid behind her, becoming all but invisible among the folds of shabby cloth.
“I’m looking for a housekeeper. One who won’t mind hard work and who don’t crave company.”
“Farmer are you?”
He nodded, suddenly feeling that his hands and feet were too big and his boots were too dusty. But she smiled.
“I’m a farmer’s daughter. Three-day ride to the nearest neighbour.”
“I’m not that far out. Just a day from town, so long as the roads aren’t frozen or flooded.” He found himself feeling unaccountably cheered by the idea this woman might consider him.
Before he had the chance to say any more he was roughly shoved aside by two big rough-looking men. They made way for a middle-aged man of the merchant classes, whose clothing proclaimed him as well-to-do and whose small close-set eyes stripped the woman of both her clothes and her dignity.
“You are hired,” he said.
“I’m sorry sir. I have already given my token to this gentleman.”
The man spat on the floor at her feet.
“Your loss,” he snarled before passing along the line of waiting women assessing each with his hard little eyes.
Under the cover of this rude bustle the woman quietly handed a small copper token to Jonas. He smiled ruefully.
“I won’t refuse this, although it isn’t much of a compliment being preferred to him.” He indicated the merchant with a jerk of one thumb.
Her answering smile brought a furtive dimple to one cheek.
“It truly isn’t, but I was going to accept you. If you offered.”
“I’m offering now. Twenty-five silver coins. Bed and board for you and the little girl. Plus fabrics to clothe you both.”
“That is more than generous.”
“Oh. You’ll work for it. The place hasn’t seen a woman’s hand since my sister married her man at Eastertide. Now. How do they call you?”
“I’m Hannah and this is Hepzibah”
The child gave him a gap-toothed grin and he responded with a smile of his own.
“I’m Jonas. Well met Hannah and Hepzibah.”
He bent and shouldered their trunk.
“Buckboard is this way.”
After a night spent on the road, they entered the farm at just before noon on a brisk morning.
“The house is about two miles now.”
Hannah smiled at him and he felt warmed by her smile.
He looked at the log and fieldstone cabin with suddenly critical eyes.
“It ain’t much,” he mumbled, and Hannah actually laughed.
“It looks nice and homely to me. If there were flowers growing in those beds by the door it would be perfect”
When the horses stopped, gratefully scenting their own stable, Jonas jumped down, turning to lift Hannah and Hepzibah onto the grassy bank that fronted the cabin. Hepzibah looked to her mother, and Jonas laughed.
“Let her run, she can come to no harm here.”
The little girl needed no second bidding and set off to explore, accompanied by one of the farm dogs.
Hannah walked into the house and set to work.
***
Three months later, with winter drawing in, the house and garden looked almost the way Jonas remembered it as looking when his mother was alive, and he derived a great deal of quiet pleasure in watching Hannah about her work. Being by nature both shy and taciturn he said little, although anyone with eyes in their head could notice how his face warmed and softened when he looked at his housekeeper and her child.
It was time for his last trip into town before the road became too difficult, and he found himself reluctant to leave the womenfolk behind. Hannah laughed kindly.
“Go on with you. We have the dogs and Jim Shepherd. We will be fine.”
On his way into town, Jonas mused on how much more pleasant was his life with two females in his house, and he remembered his father’s words about womenfolk with an inward smile. And then it was as if he heard his mother whisper in his ear.
“You know what you need to do, son.”
He hurried his business, eager for the comfort of his own fireside, and was home inside four days. Jim Shepherd came to the horses’ heads and the cabin door opened. Hepzibah flew out and he lifted her to his shoulder before grabbing two bags from the back of the buckboard. Jim led the horses away and Jonas carried the little girl into the cabin. Hannah was waiting for him with a smile and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss her smooth brown cheek before sitting in his accustomed chair and drawing off his boots.
“It’s good to be home.”
Little more was said until after supper when Hepzibah was in bed asleep. Jonas took a sheaf of packages out of his inside pocket and handed them to Hannah. She took them, and then coloured with pleasure as she saw they were packets of flower seeds.
“I know my garden is plain and bare, and I know these will be no use until the spring…”
He got no further because Hannah surprised herself by kissing him on the lips.
“Thank you.”
He captured her face in his big hands.
“My father used to say that a house without womenfolk is like a garden without flowers. Will you and Hepzibah plant some flowers in my heart to go with the ones you will plant in the garden?”
Hannah couldn’t speak for the tears that clotted her throat. But she could nod.
And that was enough…
Dear Reader Who Writes,
One somehow cannot bring oneself to address you as ‘Dear RWW’. Mummy has always insisted that one should be punctiliously polite (a skill she herself was taught by the nuns at a frightfully expensive Swiss Finishing School). Thus such a contraction of the words feels too informal for a budding relationship, although please know that is how one thinks of you, one’s little chums, since we have become so much better acquainted. I shall, however, make free use of that reduction in the main body of my text. You will have heard I am known as ‘Ivy’ to those whom I allow close familiarity – but you may call me Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
As the author of science fiction and fantasy – “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” – Amazon’s one millionth on the bestseller charts and a masterclass in ‘how to’ in its own right – I feel I have the perfect credentials to offer you the highest of heuristic insights to release your own inner writer.
For those of you who have been following one’s bon mots, one will continue to offer you the benefit of one’s deep and sympathetic wisdom. And to those who have only just had the inestimable good fortune to discover my erudition and brilliance, I bid you welcome.
Tuneful tintinnabulation: Summoning the muse with music has its antecedents in acts of sympathetic magic from across our spinning globe. Like summons like. So with the aid of Eurtepe and Aoede we may bring forth Erato and Calliope. One’s musical accompaniment should be reproduced in the most audiologically pleasing manner that one’s pecuniary resources may obtain.
Oh how one longs for a full orchestra, seated in the shrubbery and serenading as one captures the essence of the Muse! But that is not to be, and, as Mummy genteelly opined when I requested this: ‘Don’t be such a twat, Moony, the bastards would only trample the euphorbia’.
Therefore one has had the inestimable good fortune to become acquainted with a young lady named Alexa, who responds to one’s every whim and command. Sympatico….
Before I even think of adding a single word to my new magnum opus ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth Go Forth’, I must first suffuse the atmosphere with my own especially blended symphony of scent (see the last lesson) and listen to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth exactly eight times. I follow this with the closing sequence of the 1812 Overture – ensuring that it is a recording with real cannon – to awaken my inner author from his sophoric slumbers deep within. Then either ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’ or Handel’s ‘Music for the Royal Fireworks’, so as to appease the higher cognitive aspects of my psyche. I am then ready to soothe the sybaritic segregations of my soul with something profound and sensitive and will put on Pure Peruvian Flutes, Whale Songs or Perry Como.
Please, gentle RWW, do not be fooled into thinking I actually write to any of this. No – this is all about preparing the psyche from heights to depths in order that the eventual overlay of choice melodies, selected to match the mood and theme of one’s authorial flow, can wash deeper into the creative mind. It is indeed a ritual akin to religious profundity and it is worth the hour and a half which one gives over to it before one begins to write. Without it, one could not unlock the core of one’s essence and allow the riches within to leach from one’s tender soul onto the polished whiteness of the page.
You are welcome to adopt my musical rites of pre-writing within your own sanctuary to the muses, or develop your own as mine are intended only for a higher mind which is capable of scaling the peaks of literary prowess.
Until next. Adieu estudas. Bon Ecrit!
“Are you Raonal?”
I looked over my shoulder at a hulking brute leading a bevy of other brutes. “Who asks?”
“I am Immanhov, the estate’s sineigs. I am to escort you to your quarters, where you will have the peace required to finish your commission.”
I quirked an eyebrow at that statement. “I was unaware that boarding came with the bargain. I have already made arrangements for -“
“Tell me where, and arrangements will be made for your rent to be canceled and your coin returned.”
“Why would I wish to stay in a flea-infested inn? The stars are roof enough for me, and the breeze a better companion than any amount of groans and screams through thin walls.”
Put a wolf in a cage, and all you get is an angry wolf. Is this a cage, or are they really being polite?
“Then it is settled. You will stay at the castle. We have a large tower room reserved for those who prefer light and air to damp and dark.”
“And I am certain you expect me to live on … Pray tell who the special order is for?”
“Her Eminence, Seonase, our Prince’s consort.”
With a sigh, I rolled my carpet. What a tangled path I walk. How did I find myself caught up in this sun-blighted, web-spawned mess? I was free just a few marks ago, now I am expected to stay in one place until when?
I followed Immanhov into the castle and down more corridors than I could count. How I missed the flat smell of an undead when the commission was made I could not guess. Even with my sensitive nose, the scents around the market must have masked it, and I had been too eager to get some real coin. Now, all I could smell were the vampires that lived in this pile of stone.
When Immanhov opened the door to my quarters, I stopped and stared. Compared to the Courts, the heavy wood and gilt highlights were mere tawdry trinkets. Compared to the quarters I had while traveling with Master Gil, these quarters were fit for royalty-something I knew I was not. I looked at my guide, mouth working but not making a sound as I tried to ask if these luxurious quarters were for me. I cannot if the brutes that accompanied us thought I was refusing, or simply stalling. Two hands-one on either shoulder-gave me a hard push through the door. As my heel cleared the threshold, the door slammed shut and I heard a heavy bar drop across it on the other side.
Just great. Not only am I going to be forced to be in one place for ages, I will do so as a prisoner.
With a groan, I dropped my pack to the floor, forgetting that I had not properly stored my wares. A “thunk” made hitting the stone proved to be phials I kept from Master Gil’s stash breaking. Their stench soon overpowered the room as I tried in vain to open a window. The window finally swung open enough that air could seep in around it, and some of the stench could seep out. When I felt the first tentative wisps coming in, I stuck my nose into the crack and dragged in a lungful of the uncontaminated air with as much gratitude as I could muster.
I hope I can wash that stench away. I do not look forward to living in it until it fades. Knowing what it did to the vixens at Court, I can only imagine what it would do here. I will not survive those encounters, no matter what my stamina is.
After a few breaths to clear my lungs, I forced the window open even further, creating a hand’s width gap between the upright and the sill. Knowing I had to get everything out of my storage pocket before the scents permeated the thin barrier between here and there, I searched through the quarters until I found a semi-empty room I could use for a workroom. As quickly as I could, I unloaded everything I had stored through a secondary access I quickly created.
I wish those phials had not broken. The more accesses I make, the more likely I will lose something I do not intend to. I cannot move the access from the bottom of the pack to comfort level without reaching through the spilled perfumes, and I know how long they will take to wear off my skin – more than five anni.
Whew, that stuff smells good.
With everything piled up on the floor – my worktable, the hides and fae linen bolts, thread, spare clothes, and other miscellaneous items, the room had the appearance of the most organized lady’s bower in the world. I shuffled through the pile, looking for my curing frames so I could finish curing the rest of the hides I needed.
To read more, check out K. Caffee’s Amazon page or the Followers of Torments series blog.
The short answer for “what is a pukah” is that they are mischievous little faerie cross breeds who enjoy inspiring others, bringing laughter, love, and humor into the lives of all who cross their paths. They also are wonderful little helpers, so long as you remember to tell them when to quit – otherwise, they don’t realize when enough is enough. The long answer can be found here.
As for how they affect my world? Again, there’s a short answer and a long answer.
The short answer – I can’t get away from them. From making sure I can’t find things that I need (pranks) to ensuring other things I forgot, or left behind, are at hand (helpful) I get the entire spectrum. At times, they’ll even make sure I stay cool with nice breezes or light mists when I’m out in the heat, or warm with pockets of warm that hang around when I’m out in the bitter cold.
The long answer – I don’t live with Murphy’s Law so much as I live with a pukah’s prank. I’m sure Murphy figures in to an extent, but when things go really wrong, or really right, I first have to look to myself and what I have/haven’t done for the pukah recently. They aren’t so much finicky around me, as picky. If they pull a prank and I don’t react I can guarantee they’ll pull another one with worse results before too long. If they help, and I don’t give thanks – it’s a guarantee they’ll be back to let me know their displeasure.
Since the pukah have taken up permanent residence in my life, I’ve discovered there isn’t much that I can unconditionally qualify as “coincidence” any longer. About the only thing they haven’t done (yet – and I’m hoping this doesn’t give them too many ideas) is to take up physical residence as well as spiritual. Right now, I just don’t have the extra room to accommodate a wolf/lynx/horse/lizard/human body alongside the ones that already inhabit the house. Nor do I have the capacity to explain to the neighbors why a house just popped up overnight in my yard.
Not sure about my readers, to be honest. I know that when I’m reading something on the darker side of the spectrum, it’s because I have something bothering me that I want to demolish – and those stories have a nice, safe place to do that.
For my writing, it’s similar to when I read. Writing through the darker aspects allows me to purge a bad day, a bad client, or anything else that manages to grate on my nerves. It also is a safe place to explore what, and how, someone may react negatively in a safe way. After all, going out and killing someone just because they said “no” in reality is not a safe (or healthy) thing to do. I’ve also discovered that writing on the darker end of the spectrum lets me really look at various social injustices from the inside out. Not just
the ones we hear about constantly-such as racism, bigotry, or general injustice-but also things like speciesism, slavery, and self-suppression.
I keep trying to move over to the lighter side, but I keep getting pulled back into the darkness. At some point, there will be a middle ground, though likely that won’t happen until the world no longer needs the mirrors showing just how ugly the darkness can be and that there’s hope for that darkness to be dissolved.
::Soft chuckle:: This one is personally rather ironically funny. I’ve always been someone who has to know why – why do I have to do something; why does this work, but that doesn’t; why anything? To that end, I’ve shaped my schooling for a career in a psychological field. I’ve always been “that” person who seems to be everyone’s listening ear. Sometimes I’ve had the right words to say, other times I’ve just been the one to listen without judgment. However, I almost always have the same questions rattling around in the back of my head – why is this happening to you and not me? Or, at times, why did this happen to both?
At times I get caught in what I call a “holding pattern” – when I know I’m on the cusp of a knowledge breakthrough, or a life-related change in understanding. Breaking out of that, in most cases, comes with answering that critical question – “Why?” Once I can do that, I start moving again. Because of this, having more knowledge about psychology, and the way people think helps shorten the waiting period. Any idea why that is?
You can catch up with K. Caffee on Facebook, Twitter and her Website.
“The hell is your problem?” A snarl leaves Jacob’s lips as he takes a sharp step forward. The searing heat of the day washes over him in waves. His shirt clings to his sweat-soaked skin. It begins to dry almost immediately and the man flexes his hands, feeling his palms both cracked and slick all at once.
The other man does not back down, however. He merely raises his head, pale grey eyes narrowed in protest. He refuses to speak, though, intent on keeping his eyes locked on the other man. Jacob can see the sweat that trails down his temples, sticking his hair damply to his dirty face and neck.
“Oh, so you’re giving me the silent treatment now, man? How fucking mature of you.” It is at this point that Jacob shoves his friend. His hands collide with hard, toned muscle and the smaller man stumbles back a step. The sun’s reflection on the sand makes it hard to focus on his face.
Still, he can make out the way the grey eyes light up at the suggestion of taking their rather one-sided argument to the physical level. His friend runs a hand through his short locks so that they no longer cling to his face and coughs into a clenched fist.
Jacob takes another step forward but, before he can raise his hand again, the other man slams a fist into his gut. Hard.
Refusing to be so easily toppled, he swings another punch at his friend’s jaw.
The fight begins.
It is a rough, unconventional tussle marbled with the skilled strikes of soldiers. The desert air is oppressive around them as the sun sears the skin beneath their clothes. In their messy scrabble of cloth on flesh, sheer strength is the victor. Sand rains down upon them as the grey-eyed soldier is pinned against the wall of a tent, the smallest sliver of shade. He watches Jacob shake the grit from his sweat-soaked hair, teeth bared all the while. Sand covers the side of pinned man’s face, lines of sweat breaking through as they trail down over cracked lips, mingling with blood. Sand everywhere, as if it will forever be a part of them.
In the shadows, Jacob’s violence melts into something else as he catches a strange emotion in the grey eyes that steadily avoid his gaze. He releases his hard grip on the other man’s shoulders, though he refuses to reduce their proximity. Gazing steadily, searchingly, at his friend’s expressive features – he frowns.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a low husk. “What are you so scared of?” he asks, watching blood drip slowly from the pinned man’s lips. A drop falls from his chin and soaks into the ground below, becoming part of the desert.
For a moment, the grey eyes flicker and the man’s mouth opens. He stops himself quickly, seeing no point in answering with the generic ‘nothing’. He glances at the ground for a few moments before raising his head suddenly to meet Jacob’s gaze.
Then, he looks behind the man. Jacob can hear it, too: the low drone of something mechanical clogged with dust and grit. Something to take them deeper into the heat and the suffocating dryness.
When finally he answers, his friend’s voice is barely a whisper, carried off by the thick desert air. “Everything…”
Brhi Stokes. From Out of the Darkness & Into the Night. Sign up to her newsletter to receive a free copy.
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