The Warrior Princess and the Pea (part 1)

Author’s Note: This is a daft idea that came to my head one morning as I was lying in bed musing: what if the princess in Hans Christian Anderson’s tale wasn’t as fragile as she seemed? I did think it was a bit silly that women might be expected to be so dainty, but at the same time, didn’t reckon with the possibility (as I later read) that it might be a satire of the ‘upper crust’! Nevertheless, the idea was intriguing, and given what you might have noticed is my somewhat awkward fascination with warrior women and a love/hate relationship with the notion of royalty, decided to write it as a sort of fantasy tale. Whether I finish it or not, of course, remains to be seen, but I’ll try…

The name “Malthus” was indeed based on the fellow who had certain still-controversial theories on overpopulation way back when, but such notions have nothing to do with the characters of the people so named.

A long time ago on some far-distant planet with uncanny similarities to our own, there lay a small Kingdom in the shadow of the Grey Mountains, called Melitania, on account of the fact that the honey produced there was famously regarded as the sweetest in the world- although, as everyone knows, it is not the sweetness of its honey that makes a country rich. Liquid gold carries not the worth of solid. It was fortunate, then, for that Kingdom, that there was, as they say, plenty of gold in them there hills, enough to furnish the royal palace with all manner of exotic luxuries, to clothe its principal inhabitants in glittering array, and still have so much left over that the great treasury door could barely be shut at night. All those riches, needless to say, come with a price- there are many neighbouring kingdoms who, should such a Kingdom lack a suitable heir to its throne, might find reason to invade and take that wealth for their very own.

It was hardly true that the Kingdom of Melitania, at the time our story will be told, lacked a suitable heir, though it would soon lack a King, suitable or otherwise. It so happened one day that when the royal chef de cuisine was personally preparing the rare dish of roast Kratchian fire lizard for the high table of King Malthus XVII himself, his hand slipped whilst performing the delicate task of removing the lizard’s deadly poison sac, unbeknownst to anyone until the King tucked in and, after guzzling down an entire pitcher of wine in a desperate attempt to sooth his burning palate, collapsed back on his seat with a heavy thud, then promptly plunged face-forward into his trencher, dead, much to the shock of the entire court.

Whilst in time the throne would pass to his only son – Prince Malthus, eighteenth of his name – it was not the Melitanian custom that a mere boy of sixteen should be crowned King until the time he turned twenty-one, and had taken a wife to his bed. Both of these things were required before one could become a man. Once upon a time, he would have had to kill a cave bear and bring back its head, too, but cave bears were scarce these days in the vicinity of the Grey Mountains, and were a protected species by royal decree. It would, though, have suited the Prince fine, since he was far more interested in hunting than in finding a wife; or, when not hunting, then fencing; or, when not fencing, then his favourite pursuit of all, falconry. Or so it would have seemed, for in truth he had been far more interested in the falcon-mistress, Yelenn, a sturdy young woman whose appearance every man from Lords of the Council down to the lowest kitchen-whelp thought far too butch for their liking, but not the young Prince. It was fortunate, then, that Malthus soon became fond of the birds that were Yelenn’s charge, not to mention the tasty game they retrieved; for his long-suffering mother, Queen Regent Marcia, tasked with overseeing the affairs of state until the Prince came of age, was determined that her son should find a woman more in-keeping with his station than a mere servant, and dismissed Yelenn for a man more suited to the job.

It would have been enough for Queen Marcia if her son’s betrothed were a princess, and the kingdoms round about had many virgin royal daughters who would have made a prodigious match, not to mention the benefits that an alliance with those kingdoms would bring. But she had to contend with her nemesis, Queen Maud the Dowager Queen Mother, who had very particular ideas about what manner of princess her grandson must wed- she must, indeed, be a “true” princess, one who was as fair as she was delicate, much as the gnarled old hag had claimed to be long ago, before her body had caught up with her soul. Both were, at least, agreed on one point: that in no wise should any common hussy be permitted to pollute the blood royal with any child she bore.

And so it came to pass that, from the Northern wastes to the deserts of the South, from westwards to the Great Sea and the islands beyond, from every land, came visiting delegations to the great royal palace in the city of Water’s Edge, by the Kraken Lake. They brought with them princesses of all kinds. Some were very young and some less so; some short, some tall; some all painted-up, decked in gold and jewels and arrayed in lace and frills and finery, others dressed simply but elegantly; some demure and shy, others brimming in confidence, eager to display their accomplishments. But there was always something wrong with them- her nose was just the wrong shape, her skin was the wrong shade, she was too fat, she was too thin, her dowry was insufficient… not that any of this mattered to the Prince, however. None could compare to his beloved Yelenn, from whom he had been so cruelly parted. Inwardly he pined for her, but outwardly remained stoic, for no boy who wanted to be a real man dared show tears. And so it was until no eligible royal daughter could be found for Malthus in all the Western Lands- neither of Their Majesties would contemplate finding him a barbarian bride in the strange lands east of the Mountains. And the Prince retreated to the open country, with no company save his attendants, the falcon-master, his horse Thunder, and his favourite bird, Lightning.

Of the Myth and the Reality- a tale of Telanna and her lover – Prologue

Author’s note: This is the beginning of a short story set in what is meant to be a much larger one, entitled “The Saga Of Telanna”. The Telanna (a.k.a. Tanna Maneldri) of the title is a semi-immortal warrior woman, sometime queen, sometime goddess-figure, sometime adventurer, sometime “antiquities expert” (imagine a cross between a female Connor MacLeod, Xena, and Lara Croft, only slightly more twisted!) who inhabits an unknown alien world and, along with a number of other individuals, gained superhuman abilities after being abducted by another, more advanced alien race. This occurs somewhat after the ending of what would have been the original stories I had mentally planned out, which concerned her origin and quest for vengeance over her extinguished tribe; another detailing the ongoing conflict with another of her kind, the Emperor Marenden. This short story, though, is intended largely as a discussion/deconstruction of certain cliched tropes about warrior women and immortals, an exploration of how real-life events might be mythologized over the aeons, and the like. As for our roguish protagonist, the amusingly named “Chad Edge”- well you can work out what he is soon enough. I want to have a bit of fun with certain idiotic internet memes pertaining to his name, too…

Chad Edge had not normally been fond of books before, even antiquarian books. He had, of course, been fond of any… opportunity he could manage to gain himself profit from the unwary businessman, though. Though it had but barely taught him the art of literacy, that was one thing the Guild had taught him well. Of course, now, he had developed a fondness for Tanna, who herself was more than fond of not only books but all things antiquarian. Seven thousand years upon this earth had, she had told him, given her ample opportunity to learn to appreciate the finer things in life- and to separate the silver from the dross. He, in turn, had much more quickly learned that it was possible to combine both his fondnesses to his own advantage.

It was for this reason that, three months into their joint sojourn in the city of Mexen Tegani, that he found himself frequenting the Bookseller’s Row more often than not. It was an important centre for the book trade renowned throughout the country of Laxam Yegna. Histories, scientific treatises, reference works, myths, legends, fantasies, romances of every description, the new and the old, the cheap shilling paperback and the ten-crown gilt edged parchment, hand bound in finest yilkskin. If he had any interest whatsoever in these tomes, though, it had little to do with what was printed in them. The prospect of actually sitting down and reading dry, dead words on a dry, dead page would surely send him to sleep before he’d even tried- he preferred the raw excitement of living reality. But the fact was that there were those who not only read and studied the things with great enthusiasm, but they were willing to pay considerable sums for them. So much so that the denizens of Booksellers’ Row made a tidy profit out of the fact. Profit made from, as far as Chad Edge was concerned, nothing more than extracting value from the desperate and the gullible. Did these people set the type and work the presses? Did they, in other words, do any real work, anything to, as “regular, decent folks” were bound to say, “add value to society” worthy of their fortunes? If not, it was hardly as if what he was trying to do was any more immoral, was it?

The method by which Chad performed his little enterprise was, he thought, subtle but ingenious. After all, any fool could walk in with a loaded crossbow and a mask pulled over his face, ordering whatever hapless clerk behind the desk to empty the cash-register or crouch helpless on the floor whilst he stripped the shelves of whatever was of value. Any fool, that is, who wanted half the city watch surrounding him at sword-point before he had chance to blink- which they certainly would in those streets where gentlefolk went about their business. No, it required careful observation and understanding of the mark, some clues as to their trade and their behaviour. All this he’d made note of every time Tanna dragged him into yet another shop looking for whatever rare and hard-to-find title she required this time round. At first, he’d got used to standing patiently and listening to her engaging with some shopkeeper about some particular rare volume she desired at that particular moment, whilst making careful note of the words they used- odd terms like “foxing”. Of particular interest, too, was their habits. Especially the fact that they tended to keep the most valuable items in some hidden backroom which, for some of the grey-haired old duffers who ran the “quainter” places (more for love than money), could take hours in fulfilling your particular request. Enough time to, if he was quick and quiet about it, help himself to a few of the more modestly priced titles and run them to Menam Tengi’s for a valuation, and be back in time for the senile old fool to let you know that alas, he couldn’t find what you said you were looking for in stock. Then back to Tengi’s to collect whatever… fair price he dictated.

Of course, the same trick would never work on Tengi, the stingy old miser. He was one of those most shrewd of merchants- and one of those most rich. For one thing, he would never dirty his shoes in those cavernous vaults of his- he had assistants for that kind of thing, usually some skinny, wet-behind-the-ears young lad with inch-thick eyeglasses who was too young even for a wisp of the neatly-trimmed Yegnan moustache their master sported. And he had the eyes of a threc- spotting even the smallest compact you snuck out of the bargain section at the far end without paying the fourpence it was worth. Yet when it came to his payment, the tight-fisted bastard wouldn’t give you a tenth of the book’s real price, and unlike any Yegnan on the face of the island, wouldn’t even haggle. Still, he was reliable, and didn’t ask too many awkward questions. Neither did some of the old duffers down the road- and they were easier to wring money out of, but less reliably so. And of course, you could never be too careful. You had to know which ones were easiest, and to play to their particular quirks.

Still, by now, he had it worked out pretty firmly by now- or so he told himself. He’d claim to be on some errand for Tanna, when she was busy with some affairs of state; or browsing the antique markets on the other side of town, whose golden items were far too valuable to simply liberate (if you wanted your fingers intact); or (rarely) going off on some expedition to recover some priceless rarities not found in the shops; or (much more often) going incognito into some sleazy dive, waiting for the chance to enact her peculiar form of justice- the sort which usually resulted in broken tables and congealed blood staining the tiles, yet she with barely a scar on her by the time she got home. He knew from experience exactly the sort of title she might be claiming to look for – often on some arcane topic – for it to appear believable. And then, he would put his plan into motion. It was a slow but steady income, and one he didn’t especially need, but it was one that, in his own estimation, was his. Or at least, did not depend on her– and in turn, not on the “regular, decent folks” who paid their taxes.

The Genesis of Jenny Everywhere (parts 1-2, pre-alpha version, re-upload)

[Obligatory notice: The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

‘BBC’, ‘BBC Home Service’ and the Today programme belong to the BBC, and are included for reasons of affectionate parody only.

All other characters, institutions and the story itself belong to the author, and should not be used without permission. Any similarities to real life entities are either coincidental or not intended with offence in mind.

Content warning: occasional racial and gendered slurs, purely for the sake of the narrative, possible stereotyping. Needless to say I don’t condone this language in real life, nor is any characterization meant to be generally reflective of any group.]

Author’s note

This is a re-upload of an unfinished Jenny Everywhere story I wrote circa 2014 and had up on the Republic of Lyniezia blog. As the title suggests it’s very much a work in progress and I’m not entirely happy with it. In retrospect, less so- in light of the increased awareness being placed upon racial issues in recent years, I am concerned that the character of Jenny’s Mum might in particular be reflective of the “tiger mother” archetype- which was intentional but I definitely don’t want to make out this this is reflective of all women of (implicitly) East Asian origin! Her actual origins, whilst implicitly not British, or Japanese, is left vague perhaps for this reason. Even though this story is meant to be taken from Jenny’s persepctive, I do think I could have made her Mum a more sympathetic character somehow, or at least give her a rationale.

I’ve also tweaked it to add in some of the “colourful metaphors” as it were.

This isn’t exactly meant to be the absolute origins of Jenny- after all she’s supposed to exist in every possible reality, probably at any point in history as well. Rather, it’s meant to be the story of how one particular Jenny discovers that she is, in fact, a Jenny Everywhere. After all, there must be millions of them, and they have to start somewhere. And her surname isn’t Everywhere to begin with either- it’s sort of a moniker, a general name used to denote the state of being Jenny Everywhere, in this version at least.

And don’t ask where Levendale City is. The real Levendale is a small suburb somewhere in the vicinity of a small town called Yarm. This isn’t it. It’s a lot bigger, for one thing. Like Springfield, it’s everywhere- in fact, just like Jenny. And yet, nowhere.

Part 1

Levendale City, on a September morning

“Wake up, Jenny!” came a shout from below stairs. It was Jenny’s mother, trying hard to get her up for yet another dreary school day. “It’s half past seven, young lady, and if you do not get up now, you’ll be late!”

“Yeah, OK Mum,” moaned Jenny drearily. “I’ll be up shortly.”

“Shortly’s not good enough! Now!”

The last thing Jenny wanted to do was get up, however: she was having far too much fun dreaming, and just wanted to roll over and doze off so she could continue for just five minutes more. When she dreamed, she could be anything she wanted to be, fly off to distant worlds and have all manner of crazy adventures. But her mother would have none of it, not when there were studies to be done and exams to be passed. Battling airship pirates over the Alps, riding your mammoth across the steppe or trekking though the Amazon searching for the treasures of El Dorado wouldn’t help you pass Geography or Further Maths. As for getting up late, why the heck that woman classed half past seven in the morning as late was beyond Jenny’s comprehension. School didn’t even start until nine, and it was only five minutes up the road.

“You’ve got to be early, got to make a good impression!” she would tell Jenny.

When all it would really mean is standing around the yard in the freezing cold whilst the other girls made fun of crazy Jenny with her silly goggles and scarf, always dreaming of adventures that would never happen; when she should be fawning over some boy-band member, arguing over who was going to win the latest reality TV contest or which shade of foundation was right for you. None of which interested Jenny in the least, any more than learning to solve differential equations so you could pass Further Maths or learning about the drought problems of the Democratic Republic of Muganda. School was just one big drag. Mum, though, didn’t seem to realise any of this. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“Hurry up Jenny! Get dressed! I made you some toast, your favourite, and there’s some tea in the pot waiting for you to pour it out! It’s twenty five to eight! You have no alarm clock or something?”

It was no use arguing. Begrudgingly, she dragged herself out of bed.

**********************************

Part 2

[Warning: contains some slightly strong language and one arguable racial slur. Apologies to the BBC who own the Today programme- this is meant as affectionate parody, I hold no rights to it.]

The faint strains of John Whatshisname roasting another politician for breakfast could be heard coming from the radio downstairs, whilst in the distance the low hum of a zeppelin and the odd whoosh of early morning traffic punctuated the silence, but this would hardly motivate Jenny to do anything other than flop back onto the bed and return to her reverie. As per her usual solution to the problem, she reached up to the shelf and picked out a cartridge at random from the pile, too tired and bleary-eyed to care which one, leaving the rest to clatter to the floor. Loading the cartridge into the player with a satisfying ‘click!’ the noise of a funky beat and slap bass soon drowned out the background. Jenny splashed some water on her face, changed out of her nightdress and threw on a few clothes: off-white blouse, dark blue sweater dark blue slacks, bomber jacket- and of course her trademark aviator goggles and scarf. (Since Mum had insisted the green-and-purple Levendale United one was not to be worn except on match days, a perhaps more appropriate silk scarf had to suffice.) A quick check in the mirror and it was off to face the day. The Bitch Squad would probably still be wondering what top matched what skirt or ensuring their eyeliner was applied just so, no doubt, she mused.

Several minutes later, Jenny clumped down the stairs nonchalantly just as Sister Belinda Snodgrass was just summing up her thought for the day and handing over to the weather forecast. Mum had by this point gone outside to hang the washing outside, leaving Dad sat at the table, munching on toast whilst mulling over the copy of the Morning Post spread out of the table in front of him, mumbling something about the “bloody Japs” entering Outer Mongolia, briefly looking up at his daughter and uttering a casual “Morning, Jenny” before returning his gaze to the newspaper. After a few moments, he added that there might be some tea left in the pot and that Jenny could help herself, which sitting down at the table, she did, along with some toast. Having cooled down too much, the toast lacked that warm, just-done feel but still went nicely spread with butter. Mmm. Her thoughts then wandered, and in her mind’s eye she was flying high in the skies above Mongolia, one of the bombers of the Imperial Japanese air force in her sights, fingers at the trigger ready to fire. But before she could her father’s voice brought her crashing back down to earth, not Mongolia but a kitchen table in England.

“So… penny for them young lady?” he inquired. Jenny took a while to collect her thoughts, before replying:

“Oh, erm… I imagined I was fighting the Japanese. Silly really…”

“Well,” he chuckled, “with you at the front I’m sure they’d not even be able to hold Manchuria! But if you want to do something about it, you know, you do have to stop just dreaming and work at it…”

“You’re beginning to sound like her,” exclaimed Jenny, gesturing towards the back window.

“Never mind,” replied he consolingly. “Friday today, and it’s the big match tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah,” she replied. (Going to the football with her Dad was probably amongst the other of the few other real-life pleasures she had; the fact that she was a girl made no difference even though he insisted it was very much a “man’s game” and she’d never yet persuaded him to go along with her to one of the women’s matches.) “Cranchester without a chance I’ll bet. Got to be three-nil at least…”

“Don’t bet on it, now they’ve got Jefferson back in-”

At which point Mum had just opened the back door, looking worn out and none too pleased. Looking at Dad with that stare, she scolded him:

“You should be encouraging your daughter in her studies, not talking about silly games!”

“I’ll have you know that football is not some ‘silly game’! It’s the Beautiful Game! And it’s something we take very seriously here, if you don’t mind…”

“Studies are still more important, and Jenny is starting her A-levels, so she needs to focus!”

“Mum…” interjected Jenny.

“Less of that young lady! This is no joke, you know! This is the rest of your life you are talking about, so you need to knuckle down! No more football, and no more silly dreams! Finish your breakfast and get ready! What have you got on today?”

Jenny sighed.
“Double maths, biology, some film about Japanese knotweed…”

“You see,” joked Dad, “even the Jap plants are out to get us. They take over Asia whilst their plants are busy taking over Brit-”

“You stay out of this,” scolded his wife.

It was a pity, thought Jenny, that knotweed wasn’t like a real evil plant, grabbing you by the ankle with its tendrils and dragging you down into the depths like in the movies. Then, at least Biology might be worth staying awake for, rather than drifting off and thinking about riding across the plains on your trusty steed or shooting down Japanese bombers. But alas, it was not to be.

“…beep, beeeeep!” went the radio, signalling the hour. “You’re listening to the Today programme on the BBC Home Service…”

“See?” said Mum. Eight o’clock already! Get a move on! And take those silly goggles off before you go!” Jenny reluctantly wolfed down the rest of her toast, downed the mug of tea, got up, grabbed her books and shoved them into the satchel (along with portable cartridge player and a few tapes from the former pile) before hurrying out of the door, slamming it angrily behind her… still wearing her goggles.

“Hey, Jenny!” called a voice from behind her. “Wait up!”

Jenny turned around to see the source of the voice, a small girl with messy, mid-length blonde hair, pretty but with the lack of personal grooming which would make the Bitch Squad turn their faces in disgust, dressed in a loose T-shirt (yea, even in this weather), jacket and jeans, backpack slung over her shoulder and wheeling a bike beside her.

“Oh… hi Leelee,” she replied. “Bloody heck, not like you to be up this early!”

Leah “Leelee” Jones was probably the closest thing Jenny had to a friend, even though she was still only a fourth-former and could be intensely annoying at times. Not so much of the cling-to-you-like-a-limpet-and-don’t-leave-you-alone kind of annoying as she used to be when she’d first joined secondary school and started hanging around Jenny because she was “really cool”, but still overbearing and silly with a sense of priorities even Jenny felt worrying. Like, for example, she’d be nowhere to be seen for three days and then suddenly she’d show up for school one morning, asking Jenny a ton of questions about what adventures she’d dreamed up this time and begging her to go hang around in the park with her because she didn’t feel like going to school that day. Never mind that there were studies to do and things to be learned, and a mother to give you what-for if you so much as slipped behind an inch. (Not that Leelee’s uncle and sole guardian could care less, despite the concerned and pleading letters from Levendale West Academy that popped onto his doormat on a weekly basis, the most they could do since truancy laws were a thing of the past, a thing even Jenny’s Dad dismissed as “bloody Libertarian nonsense”.) Even when she did go to school, it was usually straggling in two minutes after the bell had called students in for registration, so to see Leelee up at a mere ten past eight was little short of a miracle.

“Well, I dunno, don’t think I could sleep or something, like,” was how she explained it. “Uncle Joe got drunk again and he started snoring like a pig so I thought I’d nip out without him noticing.” She giggled uncontrollably.

“Is that the only reason you’re up?” asked Jenny.

“I think so,” replied Leelee. “Maybe there was something on first period that was interesting, can’t remember…”
The girl was impossible. One minute she couldn’t care less about school, the next raring to get there because something caught her fancy that day? Make your bleeping mind up, lass!

“Hmmm,” remarked Jenny in snarking tone. “’Interesting’ and ‘first period’ aren’t exactly the sort of terms I’d put together. Do enlighten me…”

“What’s ‘enlighten’?”

“I mean, what have you got on that’s so interesting?”

“Dunno, history I think. Sounded interesting yesterday.”

Leelee was clearly bored with this line of conversation, and after a short pause changed the subject.

“So, tell me about your adventures again Jenny! Pleeease?”

“Not now Leelee. I keep telling you I’m not a storyteller. Can’t we just talk about something normal for a change, like how United are going to thrash Cranchester three nil tomorrow…”

“Foot-bore! Foot-bore!” chanted Leelee mockingly.

“You should come to the match tomorrow with me and Dad, you might like it.”

“You know I don’t like football! Come on Jenny, tell me about your adventures…”

Sometimes Jenny wished Leelee might actually start being interested in fashion, pop music and boys like most other girls her age. At least she might stop reverting back to behaving like a six-year-old, not the 14 she actually was. Maybe in one of her better moods, she might make some lad’s ideal Manic Pixie Dream Girl, fun-loving, crazy and demanding as she was. But then again, if she were any different she’d not be the Leelee Jenny actually liked anymore, just another member of the herd, leaving her with nothing but herself and her dreams to shield her from this dreary world.

“Oh, all right then,” she said with a sigh, going on to relate last night’s dream involving shootouts with gangsters in a run-down part of some American city. And charging the Mongol hordes astride a mammoth. And walking on the Moon.

It was about twenty-to-nine by the time the two girls finally reached the imposing gates of Levendale West Academy. (Mum would not have been pleased with such tardiness.) Students could be seen milling around both inside and out, mucking around and being hounded down by the exasperated teacher-on-duty, or chatting about the upcoming weekend.

“Once more unto the breach dear friend, once more…” said Jenny to a puzzled Leelee. “Oh, come on, you are doing Henry V in English this year? You know, Shakespeare?”

“Meh, English is bo-ring,” replied Leelee dismissively. “Who wants to know about some old king talking in thees and thous instead of flying your airship through the mountains, you know like you, Jen? Or maybe riding round the park scaring off the ducks like me?”

And getting wolf-whistled and cat-called by all the perverts on the benches by the fountain, which you wouldn’t even think about would you Leelee? thought Jenny. Anyway, who wouldn’t want to be stirred up to battle by that rousing speech, stiffen up the sinews, summon up the blood and all that? (That speech was one of the few bits that actually made Shakespeare, and English lessons in general worthwhile, in her eyes.)

Never mind that, though, as no sooner had they reached the yard, than Charlotte’s Posse descended upon them, perfectly manicured claws ready to sink in. Charlotte Mitchell was probably Alpha Bitch of the worst brigade of the Bitch Squad, period.

“Look at them,” she shouted out at them, ostensibly addressing her loyal followers. “Where you off this time, Amy Johnson? Australia? America? Cloud Cuckoo Land? You can take Leelee right back home whilst you’re at it!”

“Go fly a kite, Charlie,” Jenny shouted back. “In fact, go take a long kite-surf off a short pier. At least then you might get some real excitement before the waves take you. Except you can’t, that’d make your mascara run, I’ll bet.”

“Oooh, feisty!” mocked Charlotte. “And did you just call me Charlie? You know that’s Not My Name, don’t you? It’s Charlotte and don’t you forget it…” The Posse gathered round, closing in for the kill. Not before Jenny had one last trick up her sleeve, though:

“Well… that probably because you’re a right one, eh?”

“Give it a rest, Charlotte Mitchell!” shouted a male voice. It belonged to Mr. James, head of Maths and the teacher on duty that morning. “Leave poor Jenny alone for once. I know she’s a bit… odd, but that’s no excuse for you to go around harassing her! Besides, you should be setting an example for the younger students, like our Leah here.” (Jenny grimaced at the teacher’s insinuations but was secretly relieved at the same time.)

“Sorry sir,” replied Charlotte with mock sincerity. “We didn’t mean to be nasty, did we girls?

“No, Charlotte,” replied the Posse in unison. “How would we do a thing like that?” And so on.

“No excuses girls. Any more of this and you’ll be spending lunchtime in detention. I can still do that, you know. Now get out of my sight!”

Off went the Posse, dejected.

“Thanks, sir,” said Jenny to the teacher begrudgingly.

“Don’t think this is scot-free for you though Miss Bainbridge,” said James, using her actual last name. “We want you solving integrals, not breaking the air speed record in 1934,” he continued, glancing at the strange pair of vintage aviator goggles atop her head. (Jenny sighed.) “And as for you Leah… a good effort for once, but do try to turn up for lessons, not just registration? I don’t want to have to be writing to your uncle yet again, do I?”

“It’s Leelee, and… no sir,” replied Leelee, trying to wriggle out of the situation. Mr. James was not finished, though.
“Good. Now registration is at nine sharp, remember?”

“Yes sir.”

“And class is at two on the dot, don’t be late.”

“…yes.. sir…” she mumbled.

Mr. James’ attention was suddenly distracted by a group of first-form boys attacking each other with spitballs.

“Can’t we go to the park instead Jen?” pleaded Leelee, somewhat put off the whole school lark by the previous events.

“No,” replied Jenny.

“The shopping centre?”

“No!”

“Up the cycleway to the airport?”

“No!”

“Pictures? Grenadier Mary and the Great Zombie Massacre of 1987* is on this aft-”

“NO! I don’t care what you uncle says Leelee, but my Mum will kill me if I miss school again!”

“Pfft, suit yourself,” said Leelee, mounting her bike as if to make off back through the gate before Mr. James collared her.

“Oh no you don’t Leah, put it in the shed and lock it away,” he scolded.

Jenny let out a long and exasperated sigh. If only I could disappear from this shithole…

Perhaps, it turned out, she could…

In our next episode, the school day drags on and on, Jenny gains an unwanted admirer of the male sort… and Leelee, watch out for that bus…

The Writer’s Block, or, Where My Characters Go when the Story is Not Finished; A Self-Parody (part 2)

Finally, the long overdue second part, which I have no excuse not to have uploaded by now.

For Jenny Everywhere rights, see part 1.

Warning for occasional swear words and comedic threats of violence. Nothing nasty actually happens, though…

On the ground floor

Mystique Lastrange knew something was amiss with the room she had just entered into. Of course, this floor of the M.J.T. was being refurbished, so what a suite of rooms might otherwise look like differed greatly in appearance to what lay before her- a small, unfurnished, plain looking room with metal blinds drawn against the window- but it certainly did not look like this. Keeping her pistol drawn and cocked ready in one hand, she tentatively poked at the blinds for some hopeful indication she hadn’t suddenly disappeared into some Backrooms-esque hellhole of urban legend. The darkness which lay beyond did little to ease her mind. Turning cautiously around, gun pointed in front of her at all times, she noticed that even the door out of the room didn’t look like the one she’d come through- a plain wooden construction with a wire mesh glass panel up top and an old-fashioned mechanical lock instead of the keycard-operated electronic sort the original door had been. What appeared to be some sort of open foyer could be seen through the panel, but not much could be discerned in the dull ambient light which lit the space. Instinct immediately pushed Mystique to make herself well-hidden and, though her current attire wasn’t exactly suited to comfortable crouching, she ducked out of sight of whoever might enter the foyer.

Sitting down on the ground, she shed the wide-brimmed hat and high-heeled shoes she had been wearing, the better to appear undetected. She resisted the urge to tear her tight-fitting dress to allow for greater freedom of movement, lest the sound draw attention. Changing into her getaway clothes would probably make things easier on that score, but the time it took would leave her defenceless and that certainly wouldn’t do. Mystique jolly well intended to live every single minute of every day that it took to see her plans come to fruition. Making as little noise as she could, she shimmied up towards the door handle on her knees, and slowly pulled on the handle with her free hand, opening the door ajar and peering into the semi-darkness beyond. A loud clatter, which she only too late realised was coming from the outer door, startled her and she fired two shots blindly… fortunately for the door and whoever was behind it, both ended up embedded in the walls opposite, sending splinters of wood panelling flying.
The clattering on the door was replaced by a momentary “Bugger!” in a voice that sounded oddly familiar as a flash of scarlet illuminated by the glare of a pair of car headlights could be briefly seen as, with the frantic clomping of heels on concrete, whoever it was scurried for cover.

Moments later, there followed a clattering of more footsteps and a sputtering from above as the foyer was filled with light…

Meanwhile, on the second floor…

“Please stop tossing and turning will you, Alice?” asked Jenny in soporific frustration. “I’d really rather just get some sleep after that long trek.”

“I’m sorry, darling, I just can’t,” Alice replied. “It’s that lot and their constant bickering upstairs. How’s anyone supposed to sleep with that?”

“Just block it out, dear, I always do…”

The sound of gunfire from below put paid to any chance of peace and quiet the two ladies might have hoped for. Two shots, coming from somewhere near the entrance lobby and barely muffled by the intervening floors and ceilings, followed shortly after by the noises of clattering doors and a rush of footsteps coming through from the floor above.

“O holy mother goddess, grant us strength,” Jenny moaned, before dragging off the covers and tumbling out of bed. Alice followed suit.

“O divine one, please forgive the impertinence of Thy servant Jenny,” muttered Alice. “Grant us Thy nurturing strength. Blessed Athena, do Thou also grant us Thy favour, Thy wisdom and protection…”

“Might have known you’d take the gods seriously,” Jenny interjected. “Not like they’re actually bloody listening…”

“How do you know?”

“Well it’s all down to the bloody Author isn’t it, cursed be His name. If He chooses to write it it’ll happen. Nothing your goddesses will do to change that…”

“How do you know the Author really exists? This whole setup we’re living in could be just one more elaborate ruse by that Jenny Nowhere…”

“Let’s just get dressed and get this over with, shall we?” Jenny said with an air of finality, as she hastily yanked her jacket on over her nightie, wrapped a gunbelt around her waist, shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, and made for the door, not bothering with any trademark accessories. “You coming with, or..?”

“I think I’d better go upstairs and see about the others,” Alice replied. “I’m not sure all this Wild West business is good for the constitution. I’d much sooner stay in one piece.”

“Suit yourself.”

Alice pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers, and as Jenny left for the door, turned on the light and quickly checked herself over in the makeup mirror she kept by the bed, trying her best to get her hair straight before she left the room. No use in dying looking a mess, she joked to herself mentally. With the others doing their best to deal with whatever was downstairs, she supposed she could afford to take a little time. What was the worst that could happen when you’re already living in a building full of Amazons, adventurers and psychopathic killers?

Previously, on the third floor…

The door finally opened and in walked Makie, Arty, Laura and Mike, the latter not sure what to expect but with a look of trepidation on both their faces.

“Ah, little Miss Makie has arrived at long last, with our new arrivals I see,” Princess Lucidity said haughtily, doing her best to look regal and imposing. (Which, given her size, wasn’t that hard.) “Darling, aren’t you going to introduce them properly?”

“Don’t bother, we all know who you are,” retorted Marieka, fumbling with the ring on a can of lager.

“That will be enough, hussy,” scolded the Princess. “Manners are manners.”

“One day I’ll show you where you can stick yer manners, yer big green haired cunt,” the barbarian muttered, half to herself.

Makie rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Can’t be gone two minutes…

“Arty, if you’d be so kind,” Lucidity went on.

“Ah, erm… Your Highness, may I present Miss Laura Mycarina and Mr. Michael Moheden. Erm… my friends, may I present Her Highness, Princess Lucidity Morningstar, First Lady of Eta Carinae Prime.”

“Erm… hello… much obliged, your highness,” replied Laura, not quite sure how to address a Princess. Especially one that looked like her. “I’m not supposed to curtsey or anything am I?”

“I’m not Queen Victoria, you know,” Lucidity replied. “You’re about a thousand years late for all that antiquated nonsense, darling. Oh, and call me Lucidity… everybody else does.” Lucidity’s gaze fell in steely manner upon Mike, who was trying his best not to appear intimidated. There was something about the woman which had a profound effect on his nerves.

“Evening, min yensa,” he said, curtly.

The doorbell rang. Moments later, so did several gunshots.

“Ah, that’ll be the next new guests,” Lucidity went on. “The damned elusive Delaval and herself. I’ll deal with this one if you don’t mind. Alone.”