From ‘Follow That Dragon’ one of the stories in The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago

“And keep your eyes open for a dragon on a Harley Davidson.”
Constable Willet stopped in his tracks.
“A what?”
The desk sergeant looked up from his computer.
“You heard me.”
Outside the station, the young policeman looked down at his partner. Badger cocked an ear.
“What’s your problem?”
“Dragons can’t ride motorcycles.”
The canine cop stopped in his tracks.
“You may have a point.”
Willet grinned.
“See, I’m not completely stupid.”
He wasn’t to know what Badger thought of that because the distinctive note of a Harley Davidson engine split the air. The motorcycle careered around the corner, rearing up onto one wheel and mounting the pavement before hurtling down the road bouncing off street furniture as it went.
Badger sat back on his haunches.
“That proves your point. Dragons really can’t ride motorbikes.”
Willet grasped Badger’s harness in one hand as he unfurled his wings.
“Operation intercept,” he said happily as they took to the air.
It didn’t take long to overhaul the motorcycle, as the riding became more and more eccentric with the Harley yawing from side to side and scraping its footrests at every movement. When they caught up, it had just made a sharp left onto a mercifully deserted football pitch. Willet made a long arm and pulled out the kill switch. The engine died and the bike slewed to a halt before slowly toppling over onto its side. The stubby golden dragon just managed to slip from the saddle in time to avoid being trapped by the fallen machine.
Badger gave the rider a very stern look.
“What’s on here, my laddo,” he said firmly.
“Steady down Badger. It’s only a hatchling. And I don’t think it’s a laddo.”
And then the sky was full of panicky dragons bugling their alarm and distress. A good dozen circled Willet, Badger and the hatchling making agitated noises.
“Thief, thief,” the biggest one cried in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Thieves and kidnappers. Where are the rest of our little ones?”
Willet knew that dragons broadcasting distress could easily spark a riot, so he stepped forward.
“Calm down and stop being silly. Nobody kidnapped anybody, although it does seem that those charged with the care of your hatchlings have failed in their duties.”
The lead dragon turned an unfriendly eye on him.
“How does a human dare to so address a dragon?”
Badger laughed sardonically.
“Hush now,” Willet admonished, “and stand back, I’m going to have to make the change before this lot get right out of hand.”
Badger backed off and Willet flowed into his true form.
The dragons quieted appreciably as a huge winged centaur stood facing them with condemnation writ large on his classically handsome features.
“Are dragons too proud to converse with a centaur?” he asked coolly.
The big blue female dipped her head.
“We are not.”
The dragonet meanwhile was watching the happenings with multi-faceted jewel-bright eyes.
“Mama. Where Mama?” The voice was hesitant but definitely female.
“Mama will be here soon,” Willet assured her. “Now tell me where your friends are.”
The dragonet shook her head.
“Mustn’t tell,” she whispered.
Willet concentrated briefly then smiled.
“N’a’mma tell Willet,” he cajoled.
“What Willet?”
“Willet name.”
“Not….”
The centaur laughed, then turned to the hovering dragons above.
“I have seen this little one’s thoughts. The hatchlings found a portal, and while their nursemaid slept they all sneaked through.”
There was a rustle of agitated leathery wings and voices were raised in condemnation of a nursemaid who slept on duty.
“Quiet,” Willet commanded. “Instead of flapping about like chickens, you should be asking yourselves some searching questions.”
One of the smaller blue dragons seemed a bit quicker on the uptake than her sisters.
“Questions like why was there only one nursemaid. Questions like who opened the portal in the first place. Questions like who knew enough to send us here.”
“Yes. Questions like those. But the first question is where are the other dragonets?”
The blue dragon changed her wing shape and landed neatly beside the bemused N’a’mma.
“Where friends? Must tell…”
The dragonet wrinkled her brow.
“Auntie say must not tell.”
“Auntie?”
N’a’mma closed her mouth and looked mulish.
“Where’s her Mama?”
“Dragonheart.”
“We need her. Can any of you bespeak A’a’shanto?”
The little blue pointed to the big female with the squeaky voice.
“She can. But she probably won’t do it.”
Willet laughed.
“She will.” Then he raised his voice. “Dragon. Will you bespeak my friend A’a’shanto, or would you have me do it?”
The big female looked about as offended as a dragon can.
“I will bespeak our master.” Then she looked at the centaur in some puzzlement. “What must I say?”
“Tell your master that there is an unregistered portal that the hatchlings found and escaped through. That we need this little one’s Mama in order that we can find out what she knows…”
“Oh. Very well.”
Badger flattened his ears and Willet looked at him with some sympathy.
“Bloody loud isn’t she?”
“She is.”
The subliminal buzzing stopped, to be followed by the snap of leathery wings. Two more dragons appeared and landed with minimal fuss. One was the black-skinned master, the other a truly spectacular golden queen. As soon as they set claw to the ground, the atmosphere seemed to thicken, and the mating instinct hit Willet like a mailed fist. He only just managed not to swear. The queen was in season, and they would be lucky if they managed to prevent a city-wide orgy. He ruthlessly squashed the heaviness in the pit of his own stomach and looked briefly at Badger who was already communicating with headquarters.
Willet pulled himself together and faced the dragons, at least one of whom was hugely amused by the situation. Willet bowed respectfully.
“Master dragon.”
A’a’shanto stopped smirking and inclined his head.
Before anyone else could speak or react the dragonet waddled over to the queen as fast as she could go.
“Mama. Mama.”
Her mother looked down a long draconic snout at the rotund form of her hatchling. She smiled a maternal smile.
“N’a’mma. What have you been up to now?”
The dragonet shuffled her feet.
“Noffink Mama.”
“Tell Mama, and stop fibbing.”
“We finds portal. Auntie shows us. And we comes through.”
“Where are your friends?”
“Me don’t know. Me plays with hrrrdudu…”
“And where did you get the hrrdudu?”
“Man talking to Auntie has. N’a’mma borrows.”
Willet looked at Badger.
“Can you backtrack it?”
“Can try.”
Willet called up two beat rats to guard the motorcycle, before Badger sniffed the tyres of the Harley, then the now giggling dragonet. He scented the air for a moment, then he put his nose to the ground and headed off in the direction from which the motorbike had come.
“Got you, you bastards,” Willet murmured and followed the upraised tail.

Jane Jago

The sword that stands within the stone
Sings inside the soul
Cries come to me and grasp my hilt
If you would once be whole
And all the knights who come to look
With hard ambitious eyes
Who kingship see in glory clad
As life’s most precious prize
Ambition eats their steel-clad souls
And whispers in their brains
The lake blows mists into their ears
They ride away insane
And all the time I sit and wait
For him who stands above
For only whom the waters break
The bear lord, and my love

©️JJ 2019

It was a wet weekend so I was poking through the crumbling and dusty ancient tomes in Mumsie’s personal library, some of which even date back in history to before the early 1990s, in search of something worthy of my attention. As I pulled out a slender volume of poetry, a rather wide and heavy paperback was dislodged and fell from the shelf to impact my naked toes.

After I had finished hopping around and cursing my maternal parent for the disorganised teetering piles of books she has adorning her shelves, I picked up the book and examined it. In the absence of anything else appealing, I decided to read it.

Review of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

The first thing I noticed is that all the major characters in the book are dead. Which one would think might mean they were thus safer than those who were alive. Indeed, the few who first appear alive usually do wind up dead, but those who are dead also end up deader. Confusing? I think it is meant to be.

For example, there is a little girl who starts being alive, then is dead but still a character active in the book – and then is dead and no longer a character active in the book. Except in the past tense where she remains very active.

The hero of the book is truly Byronesque, bemoaning the nature of the human condition – for those humans who are dead as he is. His nobility is the only saving grace of this book. That and the erotic elements. And Lestat.

Read it if you have a wet weekend that needs filling and have no boxed sets left to binge on.

Two stars – one for each day of that wet weekend it filled and a bonus star for the attractiveness of the real hero, Lestat.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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

“We’re in space. There cannot be water dripping.”

“No. What’s that smegging noise then?”

“There is no noise.”

But Zammo knew there was noise. He also knew nobody was gonna do smeg. So he suited up. Getting one of the more reliable drones to man the airlock he went out. He turned his face to the direction from which the noise had come, and his jaw dropped so fast it cracked against the plexiglass of his helmet. His feet were on solid ground, and there was vegetation around him. He took off his helmet and walked away from the ship.

©jane jago

I was:
Fifteen when I first set eyes on him.
Seventeen when he fed me red wine, popped my cherry and walked away.
Thirty-one when he walked into a very boring cocktail party. I recognised him immediately; he was even dressed very much the same in faded blue jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up his brawny forearms. He scanned the room with his denim-blue eyes and I was immediately transported back fourteen years to another party in another world.
He had materialised at my elbow with a glass of red wine in each hand.
“I can’t bear to see a pretty girl not drinking.”
It was so vivid that I could even smell the crushed grass underfoot in the marquee.
I snapped back to the twenty-first century in time to see those eyes skip over me, then back, narrowing in recognition.
I put down my glass, walked quietly out of the party and hailed a cab.
Three days later I received a text.
Three days after that I was in his bed.
I rolled over and gave him my best slumbrous look.
“You wanna play a game?”
He was intrigued enough to fall in with my plan.
Three hours later he was tied naked to the bed and I was writing uncomplimentary things about his sexual prowess on his torso with a sharpie.
The photographs were an internet sensation.
Oh yes, revenge is a dish best eaten cold…..

© jane jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old and I really don’t care
If I’m wrinkled and grey in the hair
I don’t care if you slight me
But don’t try to fight me
I’ll still whop your ass if you dare

© jane jago

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

agnoy (noun) – pain caused to head by the repeated losing of one’s shit

becaise (noun) – handbag in which to carry insects

bretsa (adjective) – of politicians, unintelligent and noisy, often venial and basically dishonest 

differnet – (noun) a branch of the Internet wholly concerned with  arcane magics

flase (adjective) – of adolescent boys having a great deal of testosterone and no outlet except exploding zits

geak (noun) – the nose of a computer savvy teenager

hopw (noun) – native American tribe with Welsh connections 

menatlly (adverb) – of looking at women as if they are food

mucyh (adjective) – of cookery getting the whole kitchen covered with a fine film of flour

secude (verb) – to exude a weird kind of sexuality with a particular emphasis on slippers and cardigans

srop (noun) –  very heavy cough medicine with much sugar

tantarula (noun) – dance performed by woman who sees a spider in her bathroom

unsuirable (adjective) – beyond belief, as in ‘I’ve never had any surgeries‘

werble (verb) – to sing off key with a finger in one ear, most often heard on open mike nights at folk clubs 

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

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter.

Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom. Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.

It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs.

His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.

“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

©jane jago

From Haruspex:A Walking Shadow a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The big man, with his little dog trotting at his heels, walked out of the Tavern quietly and without waking anyone. Which was probably just as well, Archanbor decided, as Ritter wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t like being locked up. Outside the streets of Keran were mostly deserted and Archanbor moved with silent speed avoiding those few who were up and around.
“No point startling folks is there Ritter?” Archanbor observed as he opened up the low shed beside the workshops attached to the space port. The small dog seemed to agree and watched as his master rolled the heavy felt cloth back over the body of a PTV.
“Well, if he’d not locked us up I’d have offered him a fair hire price – but he doesn’t bloody deserve it now – that was so not a nice thing to do.”
“What isn’t nice, Drum?”
Archanbor spun on his heel and would have fired if Ritter hadn’t barked a sharp warning and run over to sniff at the figure standing in the door, his tail wagging happily.
“Pan? You look as beautiful as ever,” Archanbor opened his arms to offer her a hug. She didn’t move from the doorway, just stood there arms crossed all disapproving.
“You borrowing Gernie’s PTV then Drum?”
Archanbor lowered his arms sheepishly and tucked the energy snub away out of sight. He nodded.
“Oh aye. I was planning on it. Me and Ritts we need to get to Tabruth and it’s a bloody parlous long walk and swim if not.”
Pan nodded agreement.
“It would be. Not at all safe,” she agreed. “So what business do you and Ritter have in Tabruth? I hear that’s where the Overlord has his capital – you got trade with him, Drum?”
Archanbor rubbed his nose a few times and glanced down at Ritter for inspiration.
“Of a sort,” he said eventually.
Pan looked almost stern.
“You mean – your old trade? The one you promised Ritter you’d give up?”
That was so not fair. Even Ritter growled.
“What’s it bloody matter to you?” Archanbor demanded.
“To me? Not much. But to you it could matter. I know for a fact the Overlord has visitors right now and they are a bit out of your league for nowadays, Drum. I just wouldn’t want to see – see Ritter get hurt.”
Which showed what little she knew.
“If I don’t go Ritter will get hurt. And it’s not like I’m going to drop anyone. Just borrow – like I’m borrowing Tavi’s PTV. It’ll all be fine in the end.”
Pan was shaking her head.
“You go borrowing people you could wind up breaking them, Drum. You don’t want that. We’re all getting too old for it. Why don’t you come have a cup of tea with me before you go, at the least? I got a biscuit for Ritter too.”
He looked at the little dog who was standing head on one side.
“He’s not been eating biscuits recently. I think he’s off them,” Archanbor shot a worried look at Pan. “You think he might be not so well?”
She looked anywhere but at the dog, her face considering.
“He might be. If he is, taking him off out to Tabruth won’t help him get any better. Why not come have that tea and let him curl up by my fire for a few, Drum? Maybe that’ll help him some.”
Ritter barked and showed what he thought of that idea. Archanbor laughed. He wouldn’t be sorry to have some tea, it might help settle out his hangover.
“Alright, lass – and thank you.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

You are old and you ought to shed tears
As you look back through your many years
But you say that nostalgia 
Just gives you neuralgia 
Which you combat with numberless beers

© jane jago