Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Whatever else the Expansion had done, the beach steps were the same. And so was the fishing pier. The beach itself was unchanged too and it didn’t take her very long to realise that wherever Ruffkin had gone, he wasn’t there.
Beginning to feel concerned now, she ran back up the steps and headed for One Eye’s stall. But it was gone. For a moment she felt her throat constrict with misery and fear. Her eyes misted with tears.
“Hey up young’un!”
The familiar voice had her spinning round. There, across the way from where the stall had been was a proper shop with a sign outside that read ‘One Eye Rye Provisions’. One Eye himself stood in the door grinning like he’d just caught the biggest fish in the Silent Sea.
Milla had to resist the temptation to rush over and throw herself at him. Instead she managed to restrain herself and dodging around some barrels, followed him into the shop.
One Eye swept his arms out to show the crowded shelves and bulging baskets all around. “Seems like we had the Expansion and I have to say I think I like it. I’m no longer having to buy fish from those Visitors, now they have to come to me to buy their provisions.” He grinned again and gestured towards her. “And look at you.”
For the first time, Milla glanced down and realised she was wearing a very different outfit from before. Now she was dressed like all the adult ryeshor, the elegant shimmering robes, split to accommodate her tail and her body was longer, sleeker and smoother.
“Oh my!” It was a very odd feeling.
“See? You are all growed up now.”
But Milla barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the pendant which was now definitely glowing and maybe even pulsing slightly. Holding it up she showed One Eye.
“What do you think…?”
He wrinkled his snout. “No idea on that young’un. But I’m aguessing you’ll be finding that out before too long. That’s how things go after Expansions.”
Which was what reminded Milla of why she had come to see him. Letting the pendant fall back around her neck she spoke quickly. “Have you seen Ruffkin? He wasn’t there when I woke up. I thought he might…”
Something in One Eye’s expression sucked the last words into silence and the breath from her lungs. He reached over and patted her shoulder gently.
“Well that is the thing about Expansions. We don’t all… Well, some times some of us just… Well…”
“Well what?”
“Vanish. Some people just aren’t there anymore.”
Milla shook her head.
“No. Not Ruffkin. What did he ever do to deserve vanishing?”
“Excuse me.”
The door was filled by a robe-clad ryeshor, wearing amulets, rings and wristlets and holding a staff that glowed, runes dancing in the air around it.His red robe glimmered and shimmered around him almost as if it were a living thing.
Clearly a Visitor.
Oddly, a ryeshor Visitor.
Milla blinked.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, good people. I’m not from around here but if I could be of any assistance? I do run to a location spell.”
Visitors had never spoken to Milla before. She had thought for a while they maybe couldn’t see her, until she found they would step around her if she was in their path. She looked instinctively towards One Eye but he just gave her a reassuring grin.
“I – I would be most grateful,” she mumbled, wondering if the Visitor could hear her now.
It seemed he could because he gave a slight grin and gestured with his staff. A spray of sparkling runes exploded around him as he released a spell.
“I hate to ask,” he said as the dazzling shimmers faded again, “but I am a little short on the essentials for my ventures. Is there anything available as recompense for locating this canine?”
Milla shuffled her feet a bit.
“He wants to know what’s the reward for helping you find Ruffkin,” One Eye said.
“Oh!” She knew her collection pouch was empty and she didn’t have anything else except… “You can have this.” She held up the pendant. She had no idea what it did but whatever that was it wasn’t going to be worth more than Ruffkin’s life.
The robed ryeshor Visitor bowed elegantly. “That is a treasure beyond price. For that I will not only locate the encaved canine, I will travel with you to ensure you redeem him safely.”
“Er… Right. Encaved?”
The Visitor nodded. “My location spell is telling me that even now your beloved companion animal is beneath the ground. Under that pyramid over there, in fact, if I am not misled by my magics.”
“Under?” Milla squeaked the word. “Poor Ruffkin! I’ve got to find him.”
“Fair lady, I shall accompany you and keep you safe from all danger.”
“I’m Milla,” she said quickly, wondering why it was whenever they spoke to locals the Visitors all began sounding like this, but amongst themselves, they seemed much less formal.
“And I am the noble Firecaster Pewpowerpwnsyou.” He bowed lavishly. “Your servant, Lady Milla.”
Behind her One Eye cleared his throat.
“You’d better take this, young’un if you going on a venture. Provisions.”
Milla took the small pack One Eye was holding out and shrugged it onto her shoulders. Yes, she supposed she was.
She was going on a venture.
With a Visitor.
Her.
Little Milla.
On a venture with a Visitor.
It was unbelievable. If she hadn’t been so worried about Ruffkin she would have been out and out excited at the thought.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 4th Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Although the peacock feather fan was old it was as glorious as the day it left Constantinopolis in the baggage of a queen.

Beauty cared not that fans were thought unfashionable. She set fashion, and the swishing feathers perfectly expressed her moods. A jealous hand came over her shoulder and snatched the pretty thing, throwing it pettishly towards the roaring log fire. 

But somehow it fell short and a handsome gentleman returned it with a bow and a smile.

She whose hand sought destruction felt as though she had grasped both fire and ice. Her palm bore the cicatrise forever…

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

aminal (noun) – furry critter that lives in an ozo

arsenule (noun) – pet name of the former Gunners manager

arsonal (adjective) – prone to spontaneous combustion 

beson (noun) – horned animal ridden by brave witches

cgiar (noun) – smoking material rolled on the thighs of retired steelworkers

cosret (noun) – tight undergarment prone to autowedgie

csent (noun) – cheap perfume hugely reminiscent of aerosol flykiller

enlior (noun) – a shy elfin creature that can be found hiding behind a big fat woman with a bad attitude 

exspoe (noun) – experimental novella mixing hard science fiction with pornography and colouring

gebril (noun) – flower hugely valued by florists having the face of a sleeping rodent at its heart

lana (adverb) – of walking, a peculiarity of the gait looking as if there is some obstruction of the rear passage

pino greego (noun) – red wine beloved of motorcyclists 

poage (noun) – wet breakfast comestibles made from toast soaked in gin

radeo (noun) – loud music played during bull riding events

runign (adjective) – of noses the attribute of retaining a dewdrop for many hours 

scrachc (verb) – to poke a bottle brush between the cheeks of one’s bum

tnaks (noun) – dinosaur testicles

wnaky (adjective) – of or pertaining to autoeroticism. Unsuccessful 

zodiak (noun) – street racing vehicle constructed by the uneasy marriage of an elderly Ford car and a go-kart. Characterised by immense instability when cornering and crap brakes

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Having a Blast

The secret of living, I know,
Is all about having a go.
You don’t have to be fast
If you’re having a blast
A comfortable screw can be slow!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

One cannot help but feel that one scarcely needs to trouble oneself with an introduction. The trademark quill? The eloquent and sophisticated writing style? It could be none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – acclaimed and admired author of “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” whose fantastical and fortuitous adventures through the megaplex-multiverse have been my life’s work.

And, as Mumsie so eloquently put it, “Moony, you little tosspot, you have been  writing that freaking crap for so long now – if the poor unfortunate sods who read it don’t know your name by this time they ain’t never gonna learn.” As I recall it, she then spat reflectively into the fire and a gobbet of saliva and mucus bubbled gently on the artificial logs.

And so to our next lesson. Sit up straight and pay attention. There may be an examination later.

The Write Price

Yes my panting little followers, let us for just one moment pretend that you have come so far as to be able to offer a book of your own creation up for the delectation of that cruel and capricious bitch that is the reading public. You have crossed every eye and dotted every tee, you have edited and subedited, you have begged the opinion of many readers (none of whom will agree on any point, leaving you to either start again from scratch or ignore them all) and placed your precious manuscript into the hands of the holy angel Kindle. All is going swimmingly, and then you are asked what price you wish to place upon this darling offspring of your imagination. Your mind will be in turmoil. What should I do? The question reverberating around the cold, damp, muddy canyons of your simple little psyche.

Is it wise to charge the mean 99p/99c? For those whose virginity had yet to be breached in this area of life, this is the smallest moiety Dame Kindle allows her charges to place on their literary efforts. Many so-called wise heads will tell you that this is the course of wisdom and the road by which your little effort may reach the hearts and minds of the greatest number of possible new lovers of your precious prose. These prophets of doom will say unto you that you are a new author and you should be properly humble and have low expectations of the sales and monetary gain to be expected from a self-published novel from the pen of an unknown.

I say. Fie upon them. And again fie upon them.

Let not such smallness ever press its skinny little fingers into the soft pink marshmallowiness of your flesh. Let not such paucity of ambition sully the pristine pathways in your little head.

Never price a book below Ten Pounds Sterling.

Whatever that may be in colonial currencies (eleven euros or thirteen dollars, Mumsie tells me). Whether she be correct or as far off the beam as the mad old bat usually is matters not here. We are speaking of principle here, of the sale of our heart’s blood, of the prostitution of the children of our mind. Therefore let us at least ask a fair price for our endeavours. 

Ten Pounds Sterling – and not a penny less!

And while the rightness and wrongness of pricing is on my mind there is one other thing we must discuss. The promotion. The book sale. The freebie. The so-called  holy grail of marketing, supposed to garner you sales ranking and reviews. Well it’s just so much pish and tush. I am here to tell you not to bother. One, having once been inveigled into allowing one’s masterpiece to be offered free of charge for a whole week, knows of what one speaks. And how many downloads did that garner? And how many reviews followed? One download (which turned out to be Mumsie who was too stingy to buy it before). I repeat One Download And No Reviews.

So don’t do it. Price in a way that reflects the love and inspiration you have put in your magnum opus – and stick with it.

Until next. Remember to wash behind your ears and ecrit  bon

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

I did not know
When I kissed him all those years ago
In the snow 
He would take my life in his keeping
And never let me go
I did not know 
In that moment I had found the life of my life
I did not know 
That with that kiss I promised to be his wife
And now I’m old
And we kiss each night
Goodnight my love, we say
And we both remember a snowy kiss
That begun our love. That day

Jane Jago

It was midnight in the stacks, and the air was filled with tiny rhythmic noises of a sort that the fanciful might have thought of as books snoring. The young woman busily shelving books was obviously not fanciful though, as she worked efficiently, serene and undisturbed by the night and its secrets.
She positioned each volume carefully – tutting occasionally as she unbent dogeared corners and removed unsuitable objects being used as ‘bookmarks’.
It was right at the end of her task when she was briskly dealing with the ugly temperament of a couple of grimoires that something outside the usual caught her attention. Being of a methodical turn of mind she completed her task before investigating the source of an undefinable disquiet.
It felt as if the source of the problem, whatever it might be, was the children’s literature section, so once she had replaced her trolley in the storeroom she walked that way on quiet feet. The closer she came to the area dedicated to myth and legend for young readers the more she understood there was definitely something needing her attention.
As yet she had no notion what was afoot, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to disturb the serenity of the sleeping books, to the extent that they were huddling together in clumps. Once she set foot in the aisle between the worst affected volumes, she could hear a susurrating sound as if a breeze moved through the pages. The books were actually shivering with fear.
“Calmly now,” she said infusing her voice with both confidence and command. “Calm yourselves. I am here.”
It was as if a sigh of relief ran through the shelved books.
A small black bird flew from the pages of a venerable volume on the topmost shelf. It was pursued by a set of snapping teeth which were rapidly gaining as it flapped its tiny wings in near desperation. The Night Librarian held out a small freckled hand and the bird clung to her. The snapping teeth stopped in their tracks before a voice laced with menace spoke.
“I am hunger.”
It was joined by another voice, and another and another…
“I am cold.”
“I am fear.”
“I am pain.”
More and more voices joined in until a cacophonous litany of pain and anger filled the night air.
The night librarian waited a beat then spoke a single word of power.
There was silence.
“Better. Now who speaks for the displaced ones?”
The voice that answered her was colder than a north wind and angrier than a volcano.
“I speak for all. And if you let us drink your blood and eat your story we will leave the dry books to their desiccated little lives.”
The librarian put her free hand in the sagging pocket of her cardigan.
“Show yourselves then.” She spoke with quiet dignity.
The angry one laughed. “I do enjoy a courageous meal.” Then it began to laugh. An insane, humourless sound that beat against the venerable timbers of the library. When it regained its breath it spoke sneeringly. 
“Do you have any idea what you are asking.”
“Several. Now show yourself if you don’t fear me.”
The very air seemed to hold its breath.
“Me. Fear you?”
Came a bang and a flash and a dark figure stood in the aisle facing the librarian and the terrified bird. It made to snatch the feathered one, but failed as the young woman simply twitched her hand out of reach.
“There is nothing for you here. Go home.” She spoke without inflection, but even so the darkling shuddered right down to its misshapen shoes.
When it answered her it sounded fretful.
“I shall go nowhere. You cannot banish me.”
“Can I not?”
All around there was a sound as of rushing wind, or rustling leaves and the whispers started up again.
“You can not banish us…”
The librarian took a knobbly stick from her pocket.
“Can I not?” she repeated softly.
The winds about her grew fiercer and whipped her skirts and sandy hair into disarray.
“Not even with your little wand.”
“Shall I banish you by name?”
It was as if a hurricane blew the pages of the shrinking books and tried to snatch the knobbly little stick from its owner’s grasp.
“Nooooooo…..”
The librarian sighed and concentrated.
“Rumplestiltskin. Begone.”
The darkling went leaving behind only a sour smell and the memory of fear. The librarian soothed the books before going back to her unending round of the tasks the day librarians thought themselves too beautiful to be worried by.

‘The Story Eaters’ is one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Milla found herself feeling like a fish in a rockpool after the tide had pulled back. One single sentence overheard staying with her, trapping her mind.
“One Eye, what’s an expac?”
“Ah.” He stopped arranging the fish on his stall and scratched at his head between the ridges of his crest. “An Expansion. The last one was before your time, so you’d not be knowing. It’s a lot of change. When the whole world shifts and nothing is ever quite the same after. New lands appear and new things. New people.”
Milla wrinkled her snout.
“You mean more Visitors?”
“No. I mean new people in the new lands.” He went back to sorting the fish, sliding them into place by size and colour. “Before the last Expansion I had my stall in a big city on the other side of the Silent Sea. It was my home. The only place I remembered. Then after the Expansion I found myself here and realised this was the place I’d come from. Wrathburnt Sands and the lands beyond are home to the ryeshor. So I belong here. So do you.”
His words reminded her of the really strange thing she had heard said.
“One Visitor said that when the world expands the ryeshor will become a playable race. What did they mean? Will the Visitors start to hunt us like they hunt the sandylions?”
For a moment she thought One Eye wasn’t going to answer her. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze with his good eye. Then he straightened up and sighed.
“I don’t know for sure. But before the last Expansion, the Visitors said the same of the kitta and wolfen folk.”
That didn’t sound too worrying. Milla had never heard of the Visitor’s hunting them. Indeed some Visitors were kitta and wolfen folk.
“Sooo…?”
“So, before the last Expansion, when I lived in that city, no Visitors were ever kittafolk or wolfenfolk. After the Expansion…”
Milla thought some more.
“So after this Expansion we might become Visitors? We might travel the world and do ventures?” She found it hard to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“Maybe.” But One Eye didn’t sound too convinced.
There was one more thing Milla had to ask.
“Is it very frightening when it happens?”
“What?”
“The Expansion. You said it changes things. Is it frightening?”
That made One Eye grin.
“Not in the least, young’un. You’ll sleep right through it. I promise.”

In that as in most things she ever asked him, One Eye Rye proved right.
Milla woke up one morning to find her little hut on the foreshore was now a very comfortable house. She was very glad One Eye had told her about the Expansion and how it changed the world in odd ways or she might have been frightened to find her home so different. But it was as if the force behind the Expansion knew exactly how she would like her house to be and had made it so.
There was a cozy hearth for the cooler evenings and to cook, a sleeping platform with a window that had a view over the sea where she and Ruffkin could settle comfortably on a mattress stuffed with dried seaweed.
“This is amazing!” she said, looking around for the little hound. He had gone to sleep curled beside her so she was surprised he was not right there when she woke up. Scrambling down the ladder-stairs she found there were new cushions and chests, a table and chairs and a cupboard full of food. But no sign of Ruffkin.
Sometimes he would get up and take a walk on his own, have a scamper along the beach and wait for her to join him. So she snatched her collecting bag and hurried out side.
Whoa! Things had really changed.
The village had grown and now looked a bit more like a small town. The houses were built of the same creamy stone her new home was made of, with dried palm leaves trimmed to make the roofs. The tavern had a big sign outside, and behind it, where the rubble of the ancient ruins had been, there was now a towering pyramid, twice the height of the highest house and with the sun glinting off the golden eye on its capstone.
Milla stood there in surprise, her mouth open and her frill-spines spread, for the length of several breaths. It was simply beautiful. But then she remembered and made herself turn away and head for the steps that led down to the beach.
The dock had grown and now more and bigger ships could harbour there. The land around the dock had a shambles of small lean-tos and pokey alleyways that looked oddly inviting, but also held a sense of danger that made her shiver. Even in the bright sunlight, they looked preternaturally dark.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 3rd Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

The little man with the beaky nose started the chant, and all the cross-legged celebrants joined in. As the smoke from the incense burners filled the air with heavy sweetness, the people began to sway from side to side – moving in disturbing unison.

The cat, Bast, stalked into the centre of the circle, and all around her the foreheads touched the ground in profound respect.

“Lighten our darkness.”

The yellow eyes studied her disciples. One fell face down. Speaking in tongues.

“The way of Enlightenment is a stony road.” 

As a mark of favour, the cat pissed on him.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

abaresque (adjective) – of or relating to scandipop

bedthong (noun) – alternative nightwear for those hot summer nights

carcodile (adjective) – queue of Chelsea Tractors outside a Montessori School at three pm

claimign (verb) – walking very carefully as if one has had a spoon inserted in one’s rectum

expsired (adjective) – father unknown likely to be an alien

imajine (verb) – to think weird stuff when very drunk

inaccrate (adjective) – travelling in a very old car

insipration (noun) – an attempt to breathe in that is frustrated by a cat sitting on your chest

migic (adjective) – shiny and full of spurious joyfulness

phre (adjective) – slightly sweaty and deeply afraid

rednack (adjective) – sunburned wedding tackle among the lower classes

retcal (adjective) – of thermometers, spectacularly inaccurate

therecus (noun) – small rat living in the underwear of obese teenagers

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.