The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica...

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid tan the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return...

In all his days Kgabu had never seen water coming from the sky. At first he was afraid and hid beneath Unina, but he slowly grew bolder running among the drops and rolling in the wet grasses. It felt good and he dashed about until his paws were thick with sticky brown stuff. 

It was annoying, so he sat down and carefully cleaned the mess from each of his feet, even the tricky bits between the claws. 

While he worked, the water stopped and ilanga filled the sky with his golden radiance.

Unina smiled, “your face is dirty my son….”

©jj 2019

The Master Stonemason was in his eightieth summer and he was all but blind, still his hands knew their work and each chisel stroke was as clean and precise as it had been in his youth. Once he had cut and carved he began the laborious task of polishing, trusting nothing to the hands of his sons, or his grandsons, or the apprentices who watched in something like awe. When one of his sons would have intervened to help the old man, his only surviving daughter stepped in front of her brother.
“Leave him. Let him make his last work as glorious as his first.”
When the last letter was incised and the last square inch of the finest Carrera marble was polished to a soft pure shine, the old man lifted his eyes to the sky and rested at last.
One by one, each man in the yard stepped up and laid a gentle hand on this thing of beauty the old man had crafted.
Last forward was the Master’s daughter. Her homely features were shaped into the tenderest of smiles and she laid her cheek against the cool marble.
“It is perfect,” she said softly, “now come home to your dinner”.
The old man took her proffered hand and they walked away together – leaving the young men to carry the headstone the Master had created to its place on the grave of his beloved wife.

©️jane jago 2018

Prison was a room high in a tower, with wide windows and balconies. Every day she awoke to sunshine and to the awareness that someone watched her as she slept. But who? And why?

As sunlit day followed sunlit day she was no nearer to understanding. And then….

It was afternoon and bees were droning in the roses that scrambled around her balcony when a blue butterfly alighted on her hand. It lazily moved its wings. 

She remembered.

They took her wings the day they brought her here, and the crystal brightness of remembered agony stole her breath. 

She jumped… 

©jj 2019

The ‘pulling the rug’ trilogy by Jane Jago is a set of responses to the banana skins and unexpected bonuses we all find in our everyday lives. The three books have just gained cool new covers to celebrate the re-release of number three....

From ‘The Lassitude of Lilacs’ – a modern fable in pulling the rug iii about the futility of war and the redemptive quality of love…

They were playing croquet. Again. Fortunately for a small store of patience worn thin by pregnancy and the inane laughter of the ‘in crowd’, the weight of the heir on her much abused inner organs excused non-participation. Instead, she reclined in the cushioned comfort of an old steamer chair and allowed her mind to wander.

She closed her eyes, and it was as though she was transported back to another summer, in another garden, but with the same background laughter and the same heavy scent of lilac blossoms. There had, she remembered with diamond bright clarity, been tennis – and she and her father had beaten all opponents with a mixture of athleticism and barefaced cheating. Just as they had all thrown themselves into a variety of garden chairs, all bewailing the wartime shortage of gin, the gate had clicked and Bunty had  hurried into the garden.

The scene played out on her closed eyelids as his tall, athletic figure strode across the grass and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a broken voice.

And at that second she knew.

She remembered putting her fingers across his mouth as if to stop the words, thinking in some foolish corner of her mind that if he didn’t say it it might not be so. But he took her hands in his and he did say it. 

“It’s Archie, old thing. Shot down over Cologne. Went down in a fireball. Didn’t stand a chance.”

For a moment, the pain was as fierce as it had been on that day, and her hands moved to the tumulus of her pregnant belly drawing comfort from the life she carried….

You can find out how the story unfolds in pulling the rug iii and pick up more quirky takes on life in pulling the rug and pulling the rug ii

When Shem’s mother came to stay, Mila smothered a sigh and greeted the old woman with a smoothly smiling countenance. Her pinpricks started immediately. The children would have openly rebelled had not Mila spoken words of gentle reproof.

On Sunday mother-in-law took over the kitchen, relegating Mila to dishwashing.

“I am making Shem’s favourite.”

Mila managed not to smile as the sultanas in the curry swelled to epic proportions. Shem hated sultanas in his dinner.

The old lady served huge platefuls and smiled triumphantly.

Shem looked warily at his plate.

“Why is there rabbit shit in my dinner?”

© jj 2019

If ever he could afford to buy a proper house in Central, Grim reflected, this would be the kind of place he would most want to live. It was not one of the elite suburbs. Those incredible places where you had a neat patchwork of huge mansions set in massive gardens and anything that was not automated was dealt with by discreet servants all with the same universal smile and self-effacing manner. He had been in such places on occasion in the course of his investigations. They always made him feel like a mangy stray walking in on the life of pampered lapdogs. It was not the kind of lifestyle he could ever imagine himself having or even wanting to have.
But this was a bit more real.
More his scale of aspirational.
The houses were all large, but not so big you needed more than normal amounts of automation to live comfortably in them. The gates were low enough to see over and he liked that on the other side of the narrow roadway was what looked like a public park. The road was designed to be just wide enough for PTVs or delivery drones to land. These were more like real homes and less status-symbol fortresses.
Like everywhere else in Central, transport was discreet, automated and instantly available on request. But he landed the PTV at the end of the roadway so he could walk up. He wanted to do some thinking and get a feel for the locality.

Much as he admired it, this was a very different environment from any he had ever lived in. He could only wonder what it must be like to feel belonging in this sort of place. The sense of security and even entitlement that it must bestow. But maybe that was ungenerous. There were some people here who took a very active role in trying to right some of the wrongs in broader society. People like the mother of the person he was here to visit. But the majority, he suspected, took all this tranquillity, security and beauty for granted and never questioned it.
The metropolis was called Sungold and this suburb was Fairweather. It did indeed seem to have the advantage of a wonderful, sunny, climate. He suspected the weather was controlled, with the necessary rain only being permitted to fall in the sleeping hours so as not to disturb the perfect lives of the local inhabitants.
It was just a bit different from the place he called home. That was a two room, eightieth-floor apartment that he shared with Mabs, in one of the recently built sprawling townships on a ‘new’ Central world. New because it was not one of the first settled Central planets, but one close enough to be drawn in a few generations later and made to serve as a kind of holding bay and access gate for those unable to afford a more traditional Central lifestyle. The kind of traditional Central lifestyle these beautiful houses in Fairweather, Sungold typified.
Grim stopped by the house he had come to find. It looked little different to any of the others. Each might have its own unique addition and styling to distinguish it very slightly from the neighbours, but they were all enough of a type for their uniformity to be visible even through the remodelling and the repainting of the facades. Lovely as they were, they were all still mass produced by construction gantries, to the same key design from identical materials. It was just a few whistles and bells and a bit of cosmetic tinkering that made one any different from another.
This particular one was styled in simple, classic stone with rimmed pillars by the door and supporting the small porch. There was even a privately owned PTV parked up under the protection of a pillared canopy beside the house. A mark of wealth and status in a place where the norm was to link for an auto-ride.
He tried the gate and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. It was low enough that he could have vaulted over it easily, but that would have been a bit intrusive so, instead, he used the link-point on the gate post.
“Can I help you?” A polite, cultured, Central accent replied almost at once. Grim smiled to show he was pretty harmless. She could see him even if he could not see her.
“Sorry to disturb you, I was wanting to speak with Var Sweetling, if she is available.”

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

The Countess knew what they called her, but how should she care? What else was she to do when the men had ridden away in search of glory, leaving the land unprotected and the crops unharvested?

They hadn’t been gone long when the long ships arrived. 

There was no battle.

Who was left to fight them?

Erik the Red took her for his leman, promising in return the safety of the duchy and its young women.

When the longboats left at the end of summer Erik took his Red Queen with him. They had to lash her to the mast.

© jj 2019

Sentinel’s Rise the book that follows on from Yvette Bostic's Light in the Darkness Series, is out tomorrow.  

Before the world goes to Hell…

“I think you should come with us, Sara,” Andrew said. “When was the last time you were at the beach?”
“Let’s see,” Sara replied. “Three years ago, and we had to pay Weasel five-hundred dollars to feed the horses.”
“But it was worth it,” Andrew insisted. 
Darian watched a smile slide across her face, and he knew a barrage of sarcasm was imminent. He leaned against the tree behind him and smiled.
“Oh, yes! Watching a bunch of old men with pot bellies and farmer’s tans fall off their surf boards was hysterical. You guys should’ve gotten paid for the entertainment.”
She set her coffee cup on a wicker table and rubbed her chest. Darian straightened and almost left, but Andrew continued the conversation as if he didn’t notice her discomfort.
“I’m not old,” he argued. “I’m just a little seasoned.” 
He grinned at his wife, and she returned his smile. He reached for her hand, the one hovering just below her neck, and took it in his.
“Get that looked at while I’m gone,” he said, his blond eyebrows furrowing. “It’s too high to be your heart, but acid reflux is serious and very treatable.”
“I will, I promise,” she replied, smiling gently. “Will you come home before going to the airport tomorrow, or are you going straight from work?”
“Probably straight from work,” Andrew said, still holding her hand. “I’ve only got three hours between end of shift and the plane taking off. I think I’d rather wait at the airport than take a chance of missing my flight.”
“Good idea.”
Darian’s stomach rolled. She would be alone if the demons attacked. Andrew wasn’t a fighter, but he would do everything he could to protect her. His thoughts wandered back to the note Stephen found at the Citadel; it was still in his pocket. Did Zar’Asur know where Seraphina was? He had to assume so. Could he spare one of his scouts to watch her home? If he knew for certain that the UN meeting wasn’t at risk, he would have one of them stay. 
Indecision rolled through him as he watched his Sentinel rise from her wicker rocker and go inside, rubbing her chest once again. He now regretted each time he stepped back from taking Seraphina. The Council needed the strength of the Watcher and Sentinel bond, and Darian failed them. 
Even as he teleported back to Chicago to collect his weapons and prepare for the coming battle, the burn in Darian’s chest didn’t subside.

If you enjoyed this extract and have not yet read the series, you can begin your journey with Light’s Rise. For current readers, Sentinel’s Rise will be available on Kindle Unlimited upon release and for the first week will be on sale for $1.99. After the first week, the price will go back to $3.99.

A bite of... Yvette Bostic

Question 1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?

I believe a little of me is in all my characters. My heroes get my best attributes, along with those things I wish I could be. My villains get my worst characteristics, along with all the stuff my demented imagination can come up with. My husband has accused me of putting too much of myself into Seraphina, the main character in Sentinel’s Rise. I might be a tad sarcastic, a little stubborn and sometimes irrational, but not as much as my main character. It’s my story; I can tell it however I want!

Question 2: Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

That’s a hard question. I really like my life as it is, regardless of any hardships that stumble my way. But I’d sure love to be able to teleport anywhere I want. Having magic in the world would be cool and terrifying. I don’t believe humanity is capable of wielding power without corruption. We can’t do it now without magic.

Question 3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Is Chocolate-coffee cake an answer? I love both and putting coffee and chocolate together is amazing. I could love one without the other, but why would I? Unless there is an evil plot to remove chocolate from the world. Or coffee! I don’t even want to think about it.
Example- Dunkacchino.

Yvette has been a passionate reader for decades, but her writing interests didn’t surface until her youngest son left home to join the adult world. The Empty-Nest Syndrome assaulted her with relentless fury, and she fought back with a surprising determination of her own. She’s now deeply entrenched in the lives of her characters and strives to bring their hopes, dreams, pain, losses, and success to her readers. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and her own webpage.

She cleaned houses as an antidote to loneliness. And when the day she had to retire came, she faced the sterility of her once again empty life with real fear.

On her last day of ‘usefulness’ she found her feet dragging as she walked home. Surprisingly, there was a figure on her doorstep. It was the man her daughter had discarded like an old sock when richer pickings came along. He got to his feet at her approach, bending to kiss her cheek.

“Happy birthday,” he said quietly then put a small brown puppy in her hands before turning away.

© jj 2019