Pure exhilaration.

His hair blown back in the wind, the thunder of hooves on the broad open tundra, racing flat-out to where the sky kissed the ground in the dizzying distance. To someone born and raised in the mountains, the featureless plain was disorienting and despite having lived here now for half a year, Durban still struggled with the odd mix of wonder and uneasiness it provoked. He let out a whoop as his pony reached the lonely, stunted tree that marked the turning point of the race.  Well ahead of his rival, he pulled his mount around almost on the spot, forcing it back on its haunches briefly, before releasing it to spring forward, back the way they had just come.

Now the horizon before him was not empty because the skyline was broken by the city of Keran. Standing proud, in bold-cut silhouette, buildings in all shades of brown and yellow mud-brick against a sky turning from grey to pink as the red sun slid down. The low-rise two or three storey houses were dominated to one side by the proud stone towers of the fortress citadel and to the other by the dual-domed spaceport which crouched like an alien on its edge of the city.

The other rider in this race, shouted a curse as Durban galloped past, flattened along the neck of his mount. Durban raised one hand in an insulting gesture and laughed as his fleet-footed pony galloped back to the start line.

He was standing beside the pony, loosening its girth when the other rider arrived, mount blown. That one was the better of the two beasts and in an even race would have won, but the bearded man who rode it was twice the bulk of Durban. He dismounted shaking his head and uncinched the saddle before leaving the pony to pull at the terse grass.

“Aye, well you won fair and square and I’m a man of my word. But don’t think I like it.”

Durban felt a glow of delight and could not keep the smile from spreading over his face.

“You’ll take me then?”

The other man wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, letting his breath out in a sigh. Then he closed the space between them and put his arms around Durban, holding him close for a moment, his cheek turned to rest on Durban’s hair.

“I’d not take anyone I cared for to the ‘City and I’d for certain and more not take you. I should never have agreed to your wager. I would never have if I’d not been so bloody drunk — ” he broke off and Durban looked up to see the bearded face set in a grim expression. His own smile faded a little and he reached out a hand to caress the back of the older man’s neck, running fingers through the shoulder length hair that was flecked here and there with grey.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Durban told him, “but I’m not. I really want this — need this. I have to get away from here.”

“But why the bloody ‘City? They’ll eat someone like you alive and spit out the pips. Have you looked in the mirror recently? You — you look like a little girl, you are just too bloody young and innocent, you…”

Durban silenced the words by pulling the other man’s face gently down to meet his own for a kiss.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Willow’s human had lost a trial of physical strength, and now he was committed to an action of stupendous boneheadedness. He had given his word that he would marry the very next single woman he spoke to.

Willow had ensured he missed two calls from unsuitable candidates. But now he needed to put down his tools and pay attention.

She waited until the optimum moment before leaping on his broad back and sinking her claws in.

This broke his concentration just in time to take the call from a cat-loving librarian.

“Hey there Sukie. You fancy getting married Saturday?”

©jj 2019

Twice the Man completes the Bete Trilogy by Stephanie Barr.

Six months ago, a cargo ship loaded with teens and kids fleeing a war on their homeworld accidentally get tossed across the universe via wormhole and crash-land on a beautiful, life-filled planet. But all is not paradise. Shapeshifters among these castaways must use their powers to fight not only the planet’s dangers but also those among the humans who equate the shapeshifters (Bete) with demons. In books one and two (Beast Within and Nine Lives), these threats are addressed.

In Twice the Man, Rem, who shifts into a primitive man, and Cil, the Jade Cobra take center stage and must face the worst threat yet, the natives of this planet who have the power to take their powers away. The Bete will have to face who they are outside their talents, forge new alliances, and find a way to survive this most deadly challenge yet. And all before nightfall

“Rem,” Sinda said, lowering her voice to an intent whisper. “Try to teleport out of here. Now while no one’s watching.”
Rem, who had still not opened his eyes, used all of his consciousness to visualize Cil and will himself there. The pain neither abated nor increased. But he went nowhere. He willed himself to grow, to become his other form, but, if there was even the slightest change, he could not detect it. 
“No joy, eh?”
“None at all,” he whispered. “What now? I’d ask my talent, but I don’t have one anymore.”
He felt a slap on his arm, hard enough he opened his eyes without thinking, then reeled a couple of moments.
“Don’t you ever,” she hissed, “talk like that again. If you start moaning that you’re worthless, I will totally lose my temper. I can’t shift into anything and I haven’t exhibited even one tiny talent, but you think I’m worthwhile. And you’re right! Because I’m smart and capable and don’t just curl up and die when challenged. And neither do you. Last time you had an impossible problem, you developed a new talent instantly. Not that I’d turn it away today but say that doesn’t happen.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. 
“Yeah, boo-hoo. Grieve later, we got stuff to do. Gonna give up, let the bad guys win, fall all to pieces just because you’re down to the same set of tools the rest of us humans have? If you do, I’ll know your tolerance of humans was a lie from the beginning as well as every word of admiration you’ve ever given me.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I’ve heard you and Xander say that no one is superior to anyone else, that there isn’t Prime and sub-Prime and, I presume, humans a step below that. If you truly believe that, you need to snap out of it. I get that losing a super-cool set of tools to play with is a bummer, but we don’t have time for that. You have all the gifts of the smartest humans I know. Use ’em and let’s figure out a way out of this mess, and, yes that may mean never getting your powers back. I promise, if you help find a way free, I’ll let you wallow in your disappointment for two whole weeks, but only when we have the time to spare.”
Rem had put his hand over his abused eyes, but he lifted it to regard Sinda through one eye. She really was wrong. She was still beautiful. “If I come up with a way out of this and it works, will you take my interest in you seriously? Treat me enough like a grownup that I have a chance to woo you?”
“Woo?” she went into a peal of laughter. “We’re surrounded by hostiles who have purged the magic out of everyone, we are facing death, torment, or enslavement, and you want to woo me?”
“What better time will I ever have?”

A bite of... Stephanie Barr

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

I’d have to be the hero. To me, evil is illogical. Power and wealth for its own sake is meaningless and I don’t understand (even today after tons of study) why it has driven so much pain and destruction, why people have accepted it as natural for it to be a driver. Power and money buy you what? I don’t get it. And the people most driven to obtain it do so much damage and the after effects are almost always the opposite of what they intended (ignominy and self-destruction) because history is clear that pure drive for these things end in failure in the long run (always). Other drivers less universal but still common for villains: revenge, one-up-manship for the glory of one-up-manship, and lust strike me as equally stupid. Justice is fine but not revenge, else you become no better than the monster you’re fighting. And I think we need to walk away from the notion that people can’t control lust as plausible. Check yourself into a mental hospital. Kindness, empathy, tolerance understanding cooperation: everything good we have today came from these things. If I’m not supporting them, I’m way too short-sighted to be intelligent.

So, the problem with me being the villain is I’d have to be stupid. And I don’t like playing stupid characters.  

Q2: What is worse, ignorance or stupidity?

Stupidity. Ignorance can be cured with will, education, and experience. Stupidity tends to willfully reject anything that challenges its supremacy. 

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Coffee cake. I like chocolate all right, but it tends to be too sweet (I prefer dark chocolate) whereas I love cinnamon, butter and, on a really good day, cream cheese. Always.

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part time novelist and full-time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next! You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, her blog, her webpage or sign up for her newsletter to keep in touch.

Anemones reminded Agnes of the rustling scarlet taffeta gown Lady Maude Cliffe had worn on a stiflingly hot night in Monte Carlo. 

Her ladyship set out for the casino in tearing spirits. In the morning they found her taffeta clad body floating in the harbour.

Society turned accusing eyes on her cuckolded husband, but the coroner disagreed. He ruled that Maude had got even drunker than usual and decided on a midnight dip. She kept her dress on – with fatal consequences.

Rodney Cliffe turned his back on London society, moving to an obscure village where his second wife grew anemones.

©jj 2019

A young nun shepherded Valentina away and Patsy dropped her head on Anna’s shoulder.
“She’s dying, you know.”
“I didn’t, though it explains what was puzzling me. By my calculations she is only about sixty. But looking at her.”
Patsy swiped a tired hand over her eyes to the great detriment of her make-up and sniffed inelegantly.
“Bone cancer. In its final stages. She’s quite prepared to die. It’s just leaving her son. Shit Anna, it breaks your heart.”
Anna opened her arms and hugged her friend, before dredging up a handkerchief and doing her best with the ruin of Patsy’s carefully applied make-up.
“C’mon Pats. Let’s go bookend Rod. He’s kind of comforting when you are blue.”
“True. He is.”
The two women held hands like children as they crossed to where Rod sat on a huge sofa. He looked up from his phone and smiled.
“Good news girls. There’s a chopper on its way. Even if I have to stay here and sort the bomb fallout, I reckon you two need to go home. Come and sit down now.”
They sat either side of him and he draped an arm around each of them. Patsy sighed.
“It’s been a bit of a day…”
Rod dropped a affectionate kiss on the top of her blonde head.
“I reckon it has.”
After that there seemed to be very little to say so they sat quietly. Anna thought Patsy might be dozing until her friend spoke in a little thread of a voice.
“Rod. Why am I feeling so guilty about shooting that man? I mean, if I hadn’t got good and angry he was prepared to kill Valentina, and us, and then blame us for her death. So why am I halfway to being sick about it?”
When Rod answered, his voice seemed even deeper than ever, and he spoke without any of his usual humour.
“You are experiencing what all decent human beings feel the first time they encounter extreme violence. It’s reaction. Anna will be feeling much the same even though it was you pulled the trigger. My advice is just sit quiet and try if you can doze a bit.”
Anna thought he was talking rubbish, but found herself suddenly unaccountably tired so she rested her head on his obliging chest and just let herself drift.
The next thing she was aware of was the sound of a familiar voice.
“Wake up love, it’s time to go home.”
She opened her eyes to see Sam smiling down at her.
“Sam. How did you…”
“Came on a helicopter. Me and Jim thought you two might be pleased to see us.”
Anna hurled herself into his arms. He received her with evident pleasure and buried his face in her hair.
“Don’t frighten me like that again. Please. When they said the Range Rover had been car bombed I thought my heart would stop.”
“We were in here when the car went up.”
“I know love. But it made me realise that you were dealing with people who didn’t care who they killed.”
“I guess that is true. But Pats had it worse.”
“Yeah. Rod called and said she needed Jim.”
Anna turned her head to see Patsy all but extinguished by Jim’s huge embrace.
“Yeah. She did. And I got you as a bonus.”
Rod stretched until his joints cracked.
“It’s a good job you men turned up. I was getting serious backache acting as a double pillow.”
Patsy snaked out a hand and boxed his ears, at which he grinned delightedly.
Jim lifted his head and grinned at his brother.
“Shall we go home, bro?”

THE END

Jane Jago

‘The Cracksman Code’ will be available as a complete book later this year. Keep an eye out for a new Sunday Serial coming next week!

Very little the biggers got up to passed without notice. The gnomes knew what the alpha male did to the female that used the writing machine, and what games Mother played in the dark shed.

They saw it as their place to say nothing. 

But.

When the fat bigger with the hairy chest cornered a frightened young female, their neutrality deserted them. 

They erupted from every bush and tree, biting and scratching and emitting eerie eldritch sounds. The fat bigger ran away as fast as he could with his garment around his knees.

The female kissed Big Eric, who blushed….

©jj 2019

We have twenty-three minutes to live
The inexorable numbers tick past
We have given the most we can give
And the seconds are running down fast
We have no contact with home
There is no way we can say goodbye
In the end we will each die alone
Wink out in the blink of an eye
We have twenty-two minutes to live
Each breath is becoming a task
Like sands through an eternal sieve
Our lives are away dropping fast
The clock is irrelevant now
As each chest heaves and ratchets in pain
Oh Lords let us end it all now
Whilst we still have the function of brain
We have twenty-one moments to live
But the numbers are clearly a lie
I whisper, my darling forgive
As I cut both my wrists and I die

© jane jago 2017

The unborn exist in the place between reality and dreams. They wink into being at their appointed time and dance excitedly around the firmament awaiting their chance at life. Each shines like a small star as it anticipates that moment when a fertile womb opens to receive the gift of being. 

In the beginning, The Creator set Their thumbprint on a ball of mud before breathing fire into a cloud of gases to warm Their newest toy.  As life took its tentative first steps, the unborn came swarming from the place beyond – avid to share the youngness of this place – and the creatures that walked on the ball of mud loved them. There was competition for each birth, and the unborn blazed with life and vitality as the excitement of the future animated their flight. As century rolled into century there always seemed to be a mother awaiting the blessing of a child, and each spark of newness found a place in which to grow.

Satisfied that all was good The Creator turned Their eyes away from this thing They had made and sought Their entertainment elsewhere. 

For many times many turns of the wheel the creatures on the ball of mud lives simple blameless lives, looking only to have enough to eat and occasionally bash their enemies on the head with wooden clubs. They were uninteresting, and The Creator’s influence bypassed that little corner of infinity, eventually waning to such an extent that The Opposite was able to stand on His own scaly feet on that insignificant ball of mud spreading knowledge and malice, and laughing as the creatures around Him lost their innocence.

Even then, The Creator were so wrapped up in more interesting species that They failed to notice how the creatures that walked on the ball of mud turned their eyes away from the skies. 

Instead, they scuttled around in the dirt, digging and scrabbling and fighting among themselves. They forgot their covenant with The Creator. They forgot their responsibilities towards the planet on which they walked. And they even forgot the need to continue their own species in the selfish drive to grasp as much as possible and hold it.  

For the first time since the Creator set this being into motion the unborn were unwanted. They grew pale and sickly, and in the end they began to will themselves out of existence, going from glorious and golden, to green and feeble, and eventually ceasing to be.

Called away from greater pleasures by the gnawing pain of the unborn, The Creator turned Their eyes on that which They had made and found it no longer good. They wrung Their hands in agonised indecision torn between what was right and Their avowed intent never to interfere with a created species. 

In the end, the pain of the unborn persuaded The Creator that steps must be taken and they sent their own unborn as Mashiach. He put his white feet on the spinning rock and spoke of love and salvation, but the creatures listened not. He stood on the mountain they called Zahyeet and spoke of the joy of family and the care of children. But the creatures turned their faces from him, indeed some among their number threw stones at him and called him ignorant, immigrant, impious. Then they turned their backs on his fair visage and went on with their games and power plays. They stopped their ears with the wax of money and power. And they lost even further the memory of what they were intended to be. Mashiach felt such sorrow that he took himself into the desert – and where his tears fell there bloomed an oasis of such beauty that the creatures made war on each other for the ownership of that tiny strip of green. And if, somehow in their vicious struggles, the pale Mashiach died, who was to care. 

The Creator watched. Their horror and revulsion was such that Their cries could be heard as thunder all about Their creation, and the one great tear that ran down Their face created a tsunami on the spinning rock that drowned countries and cities with indiscriminate malice. But even events of such magnitude could not call the creatures away from the abyss of self-seeking and loveless interaction. 

The unborn wailed in their despair and, even as another group winked out of being, The Creator lifted Their head. 

It came to Them, on a wave of sorrowful realisation, that this creation was beyond Their help and they turned Their face from it knowing in Their heart what They must do.

The last of the unborn willed themselves out of existence as The Creator reached one hand across the firmament and plucked the ball of burning gas from the sky. They crushed it in Their hand and the ball of mud went dark..

©️ Jane Jago 2018

There were butterflies in the garden, and the air was filled with the drone of bees and the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle. Annis sat back on her heels and sighed. Five years ago today the last man had come back to the farm.

All home safe. Except her Tom.

As she thought of his name, a shadow fell across her and she looked up into remembered pale blue eyes.

“Tom. My lover. But ain’t you dead?”

“I am. And if you comes with me you will be too.”

She put her hand in his and stepped out of her body.

©️jj 2019

Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.

So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.

But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?

As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create…

E.M. Swift-Hook