Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Nine – Sister Act

As soon as the old one hit the ground his illusion began to disintegrate. With the enchanted landscape falling apart around her, the Queen sat up straighter. It was as if she was awakening from a deep sleep. She stretched until you could hear her joints pop and looked around her.
The illusion was truly horrible now with trees and stones turning into what looked and smelled like decomposing corpses and the ground beneath our feet running with every imaginable effluvium – and some I didn’t want to imagine. As the landscape stretched and contracted about Her Majesty, the only fixed points were ourselves and the wolves. Those two crouched side by side and I wondered what they were up to. It hit me, about a half a second too late.
Fortunately for the Faerie Queen, Mandrake does do thinking and the burst of blue fire he shot stopped the leaping wolves before they reached her throat.
The Queen froze them where they dropped with blue ice from her fingertips before returning to her accustomed form. She saw Moth and rapped out a question in the fae language – which is beyond my understanding. Moth broke the mind link before responding. To be honest, I didn’t much like her tone, but thus is ever the way between the sisters. And when the two of them stood nose to nose shouting I was glad not to understand what it was they said.
Mandrake wrapped his arms around me and bent to my ear.
“As a dragon should I be offended by the supposition I am incapable of thought?” he whispered.
I turned in his embrace and looked into his eyes to see he was far from angry at my deception. “I nearly got away with it.”
“You did. And to be honest if your folksy milkmaid hadn’t got him to drop his guard as far as it did we were all dead. Whilst he was busy regretting the necessity of killing you, Moth could cast an illusion and I could bash in his brains. Tell me something, though, why did he not see your wise old soul in your eyes?”
I made the tiny shift that gives me guileless brown eyes dimmed with the clouds of cataracts. Mandrake smiled.
“Very clever. Adds to the impression of vulnerability, but doesn’t it affect your vision?”
“Yes. Which is why I only do it in emergencies.”
The conversation between Moth and the Queen was becoming spikier and spikier and I hid my face against Mandrake’s chest.
“What is with those two?” he muttered.
“Apart from the fact they are half-sisters who were brought up to be in constant competition with each other?”
“Yes. Apart from that.”
“The Queen’s Majesty has more than a touch of paranoia when it comes to her siblings. Thinks they’re after her throne. Which is ridiculous. Moth wouldn’t have it as a gift, and their brother, Shadow, is gentle scholarly soul with a club foot and zero ambition. Trouble is, their guardian raised them to believe the throne was their destiny and encouraged the kind of blind ambition that goes with that assumption. I think Moth even bought into it until she found me and we bonded.”
Mandrake rubbed a hand up and down my back. “Not a lot of family feeling then?” I shook my head. “And their carping echoes right through your bones doesn’t it?”
I nodded and he hugged me wrapping one big, warm hand about the back of my neck, where it eased the tension and the headachy feel.
“Thank you, loved dragon.”
He extended his loving protection like a barrier around me and I willingly surrendered to comfort. I don’t know for how long I leaned on his formidable physicality, but I was dragged back to the business in hand by a distraught Moth. She landed on my shoulder and threw her arms around my head hugging as tight as she was able and sobbing broken-heartedly. I put one hand on her heaving shoulders and Mandrake covered it with his. We poured our love into her, and her sobs slowly subsided.
She sat back and knuckled her eyes. I proffered a small handkerchief and she mopped herself efficiently.
“Moth is sorry. Bad things happen. Shadow dead.”
“Oh no.”
Moth hiccuped. “Yes. Stupid sister still won’t see he don’t want throne.”
I sighed. “No. I don’t suppose she can. But what happened?”
“They bring his head.”
“Who?”
“I don’t understand. Black dragon comes. Brings old one. After this Sister remembers not.”
For a brief time I was too absorbed in sorrow for Moth and her gentle brother to notice anything else. However I was dragged into the reality of our situation by the unnatural rigidity of Mandrake’s body. I turned quickly and laid my hands on his face. I had thought him on the edge of the change, but he wasn’t. He was in control, just in a state beyond anger and I understood that he knew who this black dragon must be, and that it was bad.
“Are you sure it was a black dragon?” he managed to be gentle with Moth.
“Yes. Sister says black and gleaming like oiled silk.”
Mandrake made a sound deep in his chest and I felt impelled to touch my hand to his heart.
“Whatever it is, loved one, we are in it together.”
Moth laid her hand over mine. “Together.”
His smile was purest love. “Trust me? I need to do something and there’s no time to explain.”
“With my life and beyond.”
“Moth too.”
Mandrake took a step forward and flamed. Flames of the hottest blue consumed the body of the old enchanter and carried on burning until there was nothing left but a pile of ash. Divining his intention I ran to a huge oriel window and wrenched it open letting in real snow to mix with the rapidly decaying fake. Moth clapped her tiny hands and a wind picked up the sorcerer’s ashes sweeping them out into the snowstorm that now howled about Castel Seelie. When the last fragment was gone I wrestled the window closed and turned to face the fury of the Queen. She pointed a shaking finger at Mandrake.
“How dare you! I will have you skinned alive for that.”
“Won’t,” Moth declared. “Unless you want fight.”
The Queen deflated a bit. “At least tell me why that was necessary. I wanted to send his head to his confederates – as soon as I find out who they are.”
Mandrake showed her his teeth. “Oh yes, and have some necromancer reanimate a creature whose mind is intimately entwined with that of the Queen of the Fairies. That’d be great wouldn’t it?”
The Queen narrowed her eyes and stared at him but then the truth of what he said hit her and she crumpled into her throne, suddenly looking old and afraid.
“I need to stop reacting and start thinking, don’t I?”
I didn’t bother to sugar coat it. “You do. And pretty quickly unless you want to lose your throne to some conniving elf.”
Moth looked severe. “You needs help.”
“But who can I trust?”
Moth shrugged. “Who you likes least.”
“You then.”
“No. I am bonded. I will not.”
“Not even for the fate of your people?”
I stepped in. “Stop trying to manipulate your sister. Or would you contend with me?”
For about ten seconds, I thought she would be that stupid but she pulled back.
“What’s the matter with me? I open my mouth and something stupid comes out.”
It was difficult not to explain that it happened because, on a lot of levels, she was stupid, but I held my tongue. Moth came to my shoulder in search of help and even if I would have refused the silly queen, I could never refuse my bond sister.

Jane Jago

He stalks the night on silent paws
From shadow to shadow like a wraith
Obedient only to his own laws
Glossy and midnight from tail to face
Astride the fence defiance calls
To any who dare his wrath incur
And stands atop the garden wall
Malice hid in silken fur
He walks alone yet has no fear
Of anything the dark may hold
Bright of eye and sharp of ear
Moonlight only makes him bold
Throughout the day he cushioned sleeps
And twitching dreams of silver moons
His human servants fawn and weep
And bring him food on a golden spoon

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

It’s difficult to be afraid when your mind and body have been so augmented that you can no longer feel pain, and although Figgis was outnumbered he crawled into a scrape in the ground beneath his enemies’ transport. 

Whistling soundlessly, he attached one of the limpet mines from his belt then snake-wriggled onto the shelter of the one stubby tree the oasis boasted.

Another entity might have felt a stirring of pity when the slavers herded the children into their transpo just before it exploded.

But it’s difficult to be human when your emotions have been scientifically scraped away…

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“Post-menopausal, wise, calm and risk averse?” Ginny digested the news and grinned wryly. “So I qualify on at least one criterion.”
Agnes, who seemed supremely good at the ‘there, there, never mind’ bits of this conversation, offered a smile of fellow feeling. “You are probably better qualified on all counts than I was when I was Made.”
Em laughed. “You were a dreadful old tart. I was horrified.”
“I still am a dreadful old tart at heart. You’ve just got used to me.”
Ginny gazed from one face to the other. “Just how long have you two been friends?”
“A couple of hundred years, give or take a decade or so.”
Deciding to let that one sit and not think about it right now, Ginny asked the other big question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d seen the vicar become a giant rabbit. A wererabbit, Agnes had said.
 “Given that I have to accept that vampires are real, how many other supernatural beings are more than wild fiction?”
Agnes shrugged. “Most of them. There’s obviously weres and rather a lot of nature spirits. Weres and vampires are natural enemies, so we tend to keep out of each other’s way. And nature spirits are shy. Goblins are a problem if they aren’t regulated as they breed like rabbits and they will eat anything they can catch.”
Caught completely unawares Ginny shook her head. “How do you regulate goblins?”
“There used to be an annual goblin cull, but that got stopped in the last century when we discovered their numbers could be controlled by contraception. Now the females get an annual implant.”
Em looked sternly into Ginny’s face. “Which only leaves elves and fairies.”
Ginny clasped her hands together, her mind full of the flower fairy books she’d adored as a child and the majestic elves of Tolkein she had loved in her teens.
Em made a tutting noise with her tongue behind her teeth. “Never trust a fairy. And if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet an elf, keep your hand on your weapon and don’t take your eyes off the double-dealing little bastard.”
Ginny felt deflated. Was nothing as she had believed it to be? But then she realised she was being told all this for her own protection and sat up straighter. 
“What else do I need to know?”
Agnes picked up the ball. “For now? Not much. Em does the interface between the ‘normal’ community and the local supes, and she will introduce you to the various liaison officers when the occasion allows… Otherwise? Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”
“I think I can manage that bit. Do I get a teacher of any sort?”
“Yes. You get a mentor. Strictly speaking it should be Em. But as she is Queen and has far too much to do already, I’ll be deputising for her.”
Ginny felt a good deal of relief, as she was more than a bit intimidated by the formidably elegant and imposing Em, who raised a finger.
“Before Agnes takes you home and bores you to death with vampire lore I have two things to say. The first is a question. How are you fixed financially?”
Ginny felt herself redden, but realised honesty was the only possible policy. “Truthfully not as well as I had hoped. I can probably just about scrape by until I get my old age pension. If I’m careful.”
Em actually smiled, a kindly sort of a smile. “Sadly, vampires don’t get that pension, but the supernatural scheme is far more generous anyway. It’s kind of like unemployment benefits, but they can’t sanction you. The idea is that if we are given a basic level of support we’ll not be tempted to run riot. You qualify immediately and if you email me your bank details I’ll fill in all the forms for you and get it up and running straight away.”
It all sounded so normal and well organised that Ginny found her underlying anxiety at the strangeness of it all receding. She felt warmed by the thought of financial security, and her relief must have shown in her face because Agnes leaned across and gave her a hug. 
“I live very comfortable on the pension.” Ginny glanced at Em and Agnes laughed a big belly laugh. “No. She doesn’t need a pension –  being filthy rich and all that.”
Em sighed. “Thanks Agnes.”
“Better to get it out in the open. Things only fester in the dark.”
“I suppose so. But the second thing I wanted Ginny to understand is that she is now a Sister of our nest.”
Ginny understood this at some basic level of self. The word ‘nest’ suddenly summoned a powerful sense of belonging and she felt a tear run down her face. “Sisterhood being, if I understand it properly, both a duty and a boon.  You have my word that the concerns of the nest are now my concerns.”
Em inclined her head. “And care for your well-being and happiness is the duty and pleasure of your Sisters.”
Ginny felt as if she had received both a blessing and a task and above all it felt, in her heart of hearts, like coming home.

Part Twenty-One of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

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

Heaven

It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Anno Diocletiani MDCCLXXV Augustus

Temporary border guard, Julia Lucia Maxilla, was both angry and suspicious, but she kept both emotions hidden under a bland expression. The grizzled time-server who was handing out the orders looked a bit puzzled for a moment, but he pressed on.
“Maxilla. Looks as if you have copped the forest road patrol. You should have been with Ampillus but he has the grippe. Nobody scheduled to take his place. So you’re on your own.”
“Dominus,” she said woodenly.

When the briefing was over and the officer had retreated a few of her fellow border guards commiserated.
“That ain’t right,” one of the older women said. “They shouldn’t ought to put anybody on the forest road alone. Let alone a bit of a girl like you. I got a good mind…”
Julia gave the hard, scarred woman her urchin grin.
“I’ll be all right. All else fails I can climb a tree and wait for rescue.”
“Yeah. But this is a three-day shift. Just be careful, kid.”
They headed into the mess tent where they were serving… beans. As Julia held out her plate the server pressed a scrap of paper into her hand. She didn’t react, merely indicating that one scoop of beans in red sauce was quite enough for her. On the pretext of wiping her hand on her trousers, Julia transferred the paper to her pocket and went to sit with a group of the day’s detail.
“Beans aren’t bad today,” one of the youngest lads ventured, “nice and spicy.”
Julia essayed a spoonful to find that, as pork and beans went, this wasn’t bad at all.
“You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” the same youngster opined, only to be given a sharp clip across the ear by the nearest veteran.
Julia laughed. “There isn’t much of me.”
“No. There ain’t.” The young guard was crimson to his eartips and clearly suffering great embarrassment.
“Eat up, you great lump,” a stringy toothless middle-aged professional soldier recommended. “Otherwise we’ll be off before you has finished.”
The youngster subsided and began shovelling his enormous portion of beans into his mouth.
Julia ate quickly and neatly, taking her plate to the wash up on her way out of the tent. She made an unnecessary side trip to the latrines, this being the only place she could be sure of privacy. The one-armed ex-soldier on latrine duty grinned at her.
“Go to the far end and I’ll make sure none of the asshole boys disturbs you.” “Thanks.”
Once seated, she removed the scrap of paper from her pocket.
‘Dont eet stu’. The writing was laboured and at best semi-literate and there was what looked like a drawing of closed eyes. Oh merda, she thought bitterly, somebody had slipped a sleeping potion into her food. There really was something underhand going on.
Carefully shredding the scrap of paper she dropped it into the malodorous pit beneath her and reassembled her clothing. One day, she thought wryly, Rome would give some consideration to the living conditions on the eastern border. Then maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to garrison the forts. She sauntered out of the stink, with her small nose wrinkled.
“Thanks Corvus,” she grinned at the old timer who was one of the few inhabitants of the border fortress to have been consistently kind and considerate to a small female, graduate entrant soldier on secondment to plug a hole in the border troop.

Back in the tiny space she got to call her own Julia packed, carefully adding a number of pieces of contraband from their hiding place in the gel mattress on the unoccupied bunk above hers. She shouldered her pack and went to join the queue at the commissariat. A wooden faced cook handed out packets of food designed to last each soldier for the three days of their shift. When she appeared in front of him he gave her a very shifty look before essaying a smile. He bent down and pulled a parcel out from under the counter.
“Special packet with smaller portions for a little lady,” he leered.
Julia forced herself not to spit into his face as he handed her the ‘special’ food parcel.
I’ll bet it’s special, she thought, but contrived a smile as she passed out onto the parade ground.
She found her group, under the aegis of a big red-faced bully who had made little secret of his contempt for a female soldier of such diminutive size and with what he considered to be an excessive amount of education. However, this particular morning he forbore from comment and even halfway smiled. None of which filled Julia with confidence, but she kept a smooth, bland face even if her mind was racing.
As usual, the centurion in charge of fort number XXVI came out onto the apron of stamped sand outside the guardroom to speak to the detail before they left for their shift.
Julia was too far away to hear whatever inspiring sentiments he was mouthing, instead she studied his handsome face with some contempt. He was too smooth, too comfortable, and altogether too rich for the commander of an unremarkable fort on the thousand-mile eastern border of Imperium Romanum. His wife wore silk and cashmere and the whole family ate the most expensive delicacies off the finest silver-gilt dishes and drank the best Gallic wines out of delicate glassware from Venezia. Oh yes, he was up to something, it was only a matter of proving what.
Her mind went back three months to a private interview with the newly-appointed Tribune in charge of forts number XXI to XL. Decimus Lucius Didero had looked down his formidable patrician nose at her before grinning a wolfish grin.
“There’s too much money sloshing about up there. Rome wants to know where it is coming from. The idea being to plug the hole, or, failing that, to raise some taxes out of it.”
She had nodded, and received an approving pat from a big hand.
“Be careful Julia. Money and power equals danger.”
“I know. But they are a lot less likely to suspect me than a man.”
“As long as they don’t know who you are…”
“That’s your job. I’m just a junior customs officer. You’re the big bad wolf.”
“You are not just a customs officer, though that would be bad enough, you are also the adopted sister of one of the men tasked with putting Rome’s sandalled foot on the back of people’s necks.” He looked down into her smooth little face. “Just be very, very careful.”
And she had been careful. But now she was pretty sure somebody had lined her up for something, probably something unpleasant. She didn’t think she had been rumbled, so what in the name of Jupiter was going on? She would have to wait and see – and walk very carefully in the meantime.
The centurion finished his peroration and disappeared back into the arms of his family. That was the signal for the detail to move out. At first there was properly Roman marching, but once out of sight of the fort, progress became rather less regimented with the detail rapidly dispersing into smaller groups.
“Maxilla,” the red-faced bully of a decanus bellowed.
“Dominus.” “Orelious and his boys will escort you to your guard hut on the way to their patrol area. Keep up now.”
She ducked her head and he took that as respectful assent.
When he had disappeared, the veteran Orelious spat eloquently.
“Cunnus,” he grunted.

You can keep reading about Julia Lucia Maxilla‘s investigation in Dying to be Friends by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

When did it get to be September?
Where did the summer go?
The wind’s slid out of the gentle south
As autumn begins to blow
The earliest trees are painting their leaves
In hues of russet and gold
While busy squirrels fill their cheeks
And watch the nights unfold
The air round our ears is sharp and clear
Though the sky is still duck-egg pale
It feels like the days at this end of the year
Hear the whisper of winter’s cold tale
When did it get to be September?
How are the nights so cold?
Whose is that wrinkled face in the mirror?
When did we grow old?

Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

We stepped into a fairytale. The room seemed to be a clearing in a snowbound winter forest, lit by a gibbous moon. Her Majesty, in roughly human form, sat on a gleaming throne, robed from head to foot in blindingly white fur, and with her glorious hair raining down over her breast like platinum silk. She was eating pink sweetmeats from a silver dish and her lips were sticky with powdered sugar. As we walked forwards, a white wolf uncurled itself from the snow at the Queen’s feet. It snarled, showing sharp teeth that looked stained and yellow against its pristine fur.
Mandrake snarled back at it and it sunk to its haunches.
“One comes.”
It was a second wolf who spoke from the other side of the throne. The Queen looked up briefly. She must have seen us, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. I groaned inwardly and spoke to Moth in my head.
‘Spell caster?’
She concentrated fiercely enough to have an ache beginning at the base of my skull.
‘Under tree.’
Sure enough, if I looked carefully enough I could see a figure beneath the noble oak that dominated the scene. He was broad of shoulder and handsome in a theatrical sort of a way. He was also an elf who radiated power, and some of that power was being expended in weaving a spell he was almost certainly going to cast our way. I felt Moth quietly constructing a screen. When the spell hit it shattered into about a million pieces.
The effect was interesting, and I watched, fascinated, as the bits of broken magic burned holes in the elf’s carefully constructed illusion. He became enormously busy putting out fires, which should have been fine. Except. His little difficulty awoke something older and a thousand times more dangerous.
I bespoke my mates urgently. ‘Some creature is coming and it must think us already enchanted while we figure out how to deal.’
I felt their acquiescence before withdrawing my conscious mind to a remote corner and overlaying it with a blanket of uncomprehending obedience. Moth and Mandrake followed suit, and we were only just in time. This wielder of magic needed no fanfares, nor pyrotechnics, nor tricks of the light. He was an old, bent, grey human, who employed no illusions to disguise that fact. Instead, he rather gloried in his plainness, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff and walking on bare brown feet.
One snap of his fingers restored order and he turned his attention to the now squirming elf.
“Why have you been burning holes in an illusion it took me ten years to craft?”
The question was mild enough, but I was fairly sure the answer needed to be good.
“Interlopers. I was seeking to to defend the Queen from interlopers.”
The old magician looked pained.
“Did you bother to find out who these interlopers might be before you started throwing bolts of lightning about?”
The elf muttered something indistinguishable and the master magician laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
“I thought not. Well I will tell you who they are. They are a female fae of the Queen’s family and her bond-sister who is some sort of half-were. They have lately expanded their bond to include a dragon. It would not be impossible to suppose the fae has brought her new bond-mate to be introduced to her queen. Would it?”
When the elf had no answer, I felt the old one drawing in his will.
“Ten strokes,” he said.
Even as a cruel-looking whip appeared in his hand, I wondered how someone so old and apparently frail would be able to make the elf stand for a beating. But I underestimated his power, because the proud elf drew off his garment and spreadeagled himself against the gnarled bark of the tree, which extruded tendrils and bound him in place. The whistle and snap of the whip echoed around the clearing as did the cries of the suffering elf, but even then the Queen didn’t look up from her greedy enjoyment. This was serious magic, and we were heavily outgunned in that area. We were going to have to rely on guile and brute force – and hope that would be enough.
When the old man had finished punishing the elf the whip dematerialised a she turned his attention to us. I felt the brush of his mind and made sure that he saw a folksy country girl with very little experience of the greater magics. He came over to where we stood and snapped his fingers in front of my face. I allowed my eyes to focus on his face.
“Good day, sir.” I offered him the dimpled smile that has been the downfall of many males, and I felt him soften a little.
“Good day pretty maid.”
I decided that a show of respect would be in order so I curtseyed prettily and manufactured a blush. The sorcerer actually patted my cheek. I managed to resist the temptation to bite off his fingers: just.
“What do they call you?”
“Maisie, sir,” the lie fell from my lips without missing a beat.
“Well, Maisie, what brings you here?”
“We come to introduce our dragon to the Queen’s Majesty, sir.”
He relaxed a little more and creased his face in an approximation of a smile.
“What is your fae called, little one?”
“Her’s called Emily.”
He frowned. “Emily? Since when was that a fae name?”
I showed him a blandly uncomprehending face. “Tis Emily, sir. Like the white star emilies what grow in the woods.”
His demeanour relaxed again. “Ah you mean anemones.”
“Yes, sir. Emilies.”
His smile broadened and I understood he had dismissed me as not too bright and no threat at all.
“And what of your dragon friend?”
“What, Telgar?”
“Yes. Telgar.”
I all but scratched my head. “He’s just a dragon.”
“Indeed. But why do you need a dragon?”
“Because travelling herbalists need security. And he’s a very good…” I let the sentence tail off and hung my head.
“I understand,” he said. “But does he have no other function?”
I shrugged. “He’s a dragon, sir, good for fighting and stuff.”
“But what does he think?”
I managed a look of incomprehension. “He’s a dragon, sir. I don’t suppose he do think.”
Which seemed to satisfy my interlocutor. He regarded me fixedly for a few seconds.
“All of which leaves me with the question of what I do about you.”
“Do about me?”
“Yes, about you and your mates. By rights I should kill you. But you are such a sweet thing.”
I staggered as if he had hit me. “Kill Maisie sir? But I’m a good girl.”
“I daresay, but I can’t have you going around talking about what you’ve seen.”
“What us’s seen? I don’t understand.”
He chuckled, although the sound was humourless and unfeeling.
“I don’t suppose you do.”
He stood for several minutes with his head sunk into his chest and I got the sense of him thinking through his options. For a brief time, I thought my innocent country maiden act had bought us the freedom to walk out of the illusion, however, that wasn’t what the magic wielder decided. It would, I thought, cause him a moment of regret but I saw the second he resolved to kill us where we stood. Me first.
He assembled his features into what he thought was a friendly smile and lifted his hands. I knew my options were few, or perhaps even none, and I resolved to face my fate as bravely as I knew how.
The old one had opened his mouth to say who knew what when there came the sound of a footfall from among the trees behind him.
“Who comes?”
His head snapped around as if on a spring and that was his undoing. He never saw Mandrake move, and I’m fairly sure he didn’t feel the blow that felled him like a rotten tree. Even a powerful sorcerer isn’t proof against having his head stoved in by an infuriated dragon protecting his mates.

Jane Jago

Benjo was an alley cat who lived in Devil’s Lane
He was the biggest alley cat and quite a frigging pain
The children loved to pet him when they came home from school
But Benjo was just letting them, ‘cos Benjo was no fool.

Benjo was the father of every kitten in the ‘hood
It’s not so much that he was bad, it’s more he was too good
At rooting in the rubbish and hunting out each rat
So all night long there was a din, none slept as he got fat.

And when the people rose each morn with bags below their eyes
They’d see Benjo relaxing having won his nightly prize
And though the grown-ups muttered than the damn cat had to go
The children wouldn’t hear of it for all so loved Benjo.

So no one dared remove the dreaded Benjo from his lair
He’d claws as sharp as scimitars if an adult did appear
And though he made a misery of every sleepless night
Benjo was the biggest cat and never lost a fight.

Until one night the neighbourhood was plunged into such quiet
That all who woke, for once refreshed, the mystery enquired
For Devil’s Lane was catless and no one for sure could say
Where Benjo had vanished to upon that fateful day.

Benjo was an alley cat who lived in Devil’s Lane
Until he left the rats behind and ne’re went there again
Now he is a purry cat on pillows stuffed with foam
For Benjo was a clever cat who found himself a home.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

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

Jane Jago