Darkling Drabble – 13

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The squire’s daughter had few friends, and many enemies. But, friend or foe, they were appalled when her father gave her in marriage to the bony octogenarian who was the king’s tax collector.

Next year, a much younger man came to collect the taxes. When asked where his predecessor was he laughed a cold sort of a laugh.

“My father is no longer with us. It is often thus when a foolish old man takes a bride young enough to be his daughter. The woman? She lies at his side as a good wife should. I cut her throat myself.”

©jj 2022

Sir Barnabas and the Dragon – Five

The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…

The watchers on the high hill to the east of the castle looked at each other with identical expressions of resignation.
Needless to say, it was Salazar who found his voice first.
“It’s up to you, sir knight. But strictly speaking we ought to go and rescue that female.”
Barney looked down at his utilitarian garb and winced. When his companion would have spoken again, he held up a hand for silence.
“Hush now. I’m thinking.”
The big horse subsided.
“Okay my friend, this is what we are going to do.” Barney unhooked something from Salazar’s saddle as he spoke, but whatever else he might have been going to say was strangled in his throat by the sound and down-draught from a pair of massive leathern wings. A huge shadow blotted out the sun before there was a sound almost too loud to hear and the earth beneath their feet shook as a humongous dragon crash landed in the grass about three man lengths in front of the duo. It wasn’t the handsomest of mythical creatures, and it didn’t seem at all happy to be doing whatever it was doing.
“Why isn’t the earth flatter?” a somewhat peevish voice complained. “It isn’t as if…”
Barney cocked the crossbow he had unhooked just seconds before and levelled it at the saurian head.
The creature held up its forelegs with their massively taloned claws.
“I say,” it said plaintively, “there’s no need for that y’know. If I’d have wanted to hurt you I’d have flamed from up there. You two would have been toast. Literally.”
It laughed gleefully at its own joke, but Barney kept his crossbow pointed to where it would do most harm. Once it got over its pleasure at its own wit the dragon sobered sufficiently to speak about the situation.
“I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but I’m suffering somewhat of a moral dilemma. Rather hoped you chaps could assist one.”
“Moral dilemma?”
“Yes. Y’see there’s a young woman down there. Chained to Dragon Rock. Offered as a sacrifice…”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to eat her.”
“Well don’t then.”
The dragon sighed. “If I was to give you my word not to harm you, or your noble steed, would you please put the crossbow down and let me explain?”
“Salazar. Are we trusting the lizard?”
“Yeah. So long as you stop insulting it.”
Barney lowered the bow. “Explain then.”
“When the humans chain a virgin to that rock a dragon has to come. Unfortunately for me, I was watch dragon when they locked the last chain about her waist. One minute I was reading a fascinating treatise on medical herbs, the next… boom. Just had time to remove m’spectacles before I found myself hovering over this hilltop.”
“Spectacles? I never heard of a dragon wearing spectacles.” Barney had the distinct impression that Salazar would have scratched his head if he could.
The dragon looked pained. “I don’t suppose you did. Look. I’m a librarian. All I want to do with my life is curate books. But I’m here. And the only way I can get home is by touching the Dragon Rock.”
“So. Touch it and go home.”
“I can’t. If that young woman down there is really a virgin I will eat her. I won’t be able to help myself. That’s just how it is.”
A huge and boiling tear ran down the dragon’s scaly cheek. It had Barney and Slazar leaping backwards to avoid being scalded, and the dragon looked truly abashed.
Salazar grunted. “So. If I have this right you were brought here against your will. You can’t go back without touching that rock. And if that’s a virgin you won’t be able to stop yourself from eating her.”
“Yes, noble steed. You have the right of it.”
“Cut it out with the noble steed. The name’s Salazar. And the human is Sir Barnabas. We will try to help you as soon as we can think of a way.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you Sir Barnabas and Salazar. My name is Cicero.”
“I’m assuming we can’t just go and set the young female free.”
“No, noble Salazar. There will be watchers. With weapons trained on the Stone. They really aren’t going to let anyone remove their sacrifice before I get there.”
Barney scratched at his incipient beard. “When you get down there do you have to eat the virgin immediately?”
“No. I will be tempted, but until I touch the Stone I should be able to hold out for a while. Although I don’t know where that is going to get you. And before you suggest it I won’t be able to let you just take the virgin and run away. I will want to but the compulsion is too strong. If she were not a virgin…”

This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…

Dragon

Now comes the day of fire and a knight of courage rare
Who bears the blade of Dragon’s Bane and braves the dragon’s lair
Who fights upon the bones of all who’ve been devoured there
Who fights the ancient dragon, where none before would dare. 

The clouds above are sundered, shedding endless, saltless, tears
As lightning cleaves the sky across and strikes our very fears
And mighty roars the thunder, as the echo fills our ears
The dragon’s doom has come after a thousand tortured years.

The ocean deeps are riven as the chasms break apart
And lift the land that’s living forth from the seas that part
As massive waves are driven on far shores no one can chart
For Dragon’s Bane has sunk into the dragon’s very heart.

The earth itself bears witness to the moment of the deed
The gems and precious metals, plundered by draconic greed
Reclaimed by chthonic forces that had been made to cede
As on the stony ground, the dragon now doth bleed.

And in the mists of evening, when once the blood is shed,
People come a dancing, who would have been dragon’s bread
Had Dragon’s Bane not pierced scale or severed dragon’s head
And now there is rejoicing for the dragon’s surely dead.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Weekend Wind Down – On The Beach

Augustus MDCCLXXXIII Anno Diocletiani

There were, Dai decided as his two children buried him in the sand on the beach at Traeth Abermaw for the third time that day, far worse times of year to be placed on gardening leave from his job as Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii.
It was not that he was under real suspicion, that had been made clear several times by the Magistratus Domina Agrippina Julius Valerius Apollinara, but the fact remained that Caeso Maol had been an acquaintance of his and he had not only been the one to find the body, but he had also been in the next room when the murder took place and so it was simply a matter of propriety and perception (her exact words) that Dai should be kept out of the gaze of both the public and officialdom whilst his wife Julia, who happened to be the other Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, found out who had actually done it.
However, just because he was not involved in the investigation did not mean that, up to his neck in sand, arms behind his head, he could not spend some time considering it. The murder had taken place at an informal gathering of some of the well to do men of Viriconium. Dai had gone along as the guest of Paulus Vinicius Cato, a lawyer friend, who had virtually begged him to be there in order to make a gods-awful social commitment into something bearable.
“You can not imagine what these dos are like,” Paulus had told him on the drive to the baths, “everyone trying to both show off how wonderful and independently successful they are and all at the same time trying to get the support of others for whatever their present pet project in self-promotion might be. I have to attend as half my clients go.”
Dai could imagine, and had imagined, and had been close to making some careful social excuse to avoid the misery right at the last minute, but Paulus was a good friend and it was not a bad notion anyway for Dai to mix a bit with the kind of community that were attending.
They were almost exclusively Romano-British, with names that reflected the fact. Most had the defensive pride which many non-native Romans developed, seeing themselves one step up from their British neighbours, but never quite able to feel they were fully equal to a Roman citizen from Italia itself. And, to be fair, Dai knew that was not entirely their own fault. He, too, straddled that boundary and grappled with being seen as too Roman by the British and too British by the Romans. But he was fortunate in that his family was one that carried a lot of respect in the area and he had good friends in Rome, being married to a woman the Praetor regarded as a foster sister.
But for those without such advantages allowing them to maintain and deepen their connections in both directions, being Romano-British put them into an uncomfortable middle ground and, as a group, they tended to keep together.
That evening’s gathering reflected a painful awareness of their cultural insecurity. It was held at the baths in Viriconium and then was to include a meal at Aureum Anatisa, the Golden Duck, a very expensive caupona, on the banks of the river. The Duck was one of less than a handful of exclusive sub aquila places in Viriconium, a building where the eagle above the entrance declared it was reserved exclusively for Citizens. But, ironically, the Duck was renowned for its excellent British menu. Dai had a feeling that the owners had cleverly, and cynically, carved their niche, by playing on the insecurities of these cross-culture families.
He had no opportunity to find out though, because whilst they were all having a post bathe massage before heading to the caupona, a scream from one of the staff had shattered his relaxation. The woman was screaming because there was blood trickling out from a changing cubicle and when Dai had pulled the door open, the body of Caeso Maol had literally fallen into his arms.
There would have been no suspicion of Dai at all had he not needed to use the urinal and left the main party for a few minutes shortly before the body was discovered. Which meant, in theory, he could have had time to kill poor Caeso. It did not help that earlier Caeso had been regalling the company as they sat in the hot room with tales from his schooldays—schooldays he had shared with Dai as they had happened to be in the same class—and not all the stories had been that complimentary to Dai, who had been a rather shy and studious nerd at that time.
So, expressing her profound regret at having to do so, the Magistratus had told Dai to take paid leave of absence and enjoy the summer sunshine and his children’s company until the matter had been resolved.
He had decamped for the week to Traeth Abermaw taking his daughter, five year old Aelwen and her three year old brother, Rhodri together with their nursemaid, Luned and a discreet individual called Duggan—though whether that was his first or last name Dai was not entirely certain. The Magistratus had insisted on Duggan accompanying them to ensure their security. Dai had initially objected seeing no reason to have a bodyguard on a family holiday in the place where he himself had spent many happy such as a child, but Pina had simply knitted her brows and given him a stern look.
“Until we know what went on,” she told him in a tone that was filled with the gravitas of her Imperial heritage, “we have no idea whether your being a witness might place you at an additional risk.”
He could not argue that and to be fair to Duggan, the man was so little in evidence that Dai sometimes wondered if he had neglected his duty altogether and sloped off to the nearest taberna. So he was a bit surprised when he heard Luned say the man’s name and opened his eyes to see the compactly muscular, steel eyed Duggan looking down at him.
“Someone named Cartival, dominus, says he knows you.”
Dai tried to sit up, but the sand the children had packed firmly around him did not give way.
“Er—yes, that’s Bryn,” he said quickly, feeling acutely embarrassed to be stuck immobile in the sand. “Bryn Cartival is indeed a friend of mine. Thank you, Duggan.”
The man gave a terse nod and Dai was sure there was a grin breaking out as he turned away, but perhaps that was just his own humiliation.
By the time Bryn had strolled over, carrying five dripping ice creams, Dai had managed to free himself from the beach, with the enthusiastic assistance of his two children and was dusting down the damp sand with a towel.

From Dying as a Spy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Glossary of Latin and Other Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
caupona – an inn or hotel
Demetae and Cornovii – Wales and several English Midland counties including Shropshire
domin-a/us – Ma’am/Sir. Used to superiors both in rank and social status
Italia – we would call it Italy
magistratus – senior official with legal jurisdiction over an area
sub aquila – literally ‘under the eagle’. An eagle above the entrance of any building means it is Citizen access only – aside for those who might work there of course
submagistratus – a more junior official with legal jurisdiction over an area, under the authority of a magistratus
taberna – pub/bar
Traeth Abermaw – we would call it Barmouth Beach
Viriconium – we would call it Wroxeter. The area capital of Demetae and Cornovii

Words

Words can be weapons
Words can seduce
They can cause conflict
Or they can reduce

Words taste like sugar
Or dark as finest wine
Words can last forever
Or just a blink of time

Words are the tools we use
The building blocks of tales
Depending on the words we choose
Our art succeeds, or fails…

Jane Jago

Granny Knows Best – Internet ‘Scientists’

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

You know who you are. The boys and girls who do their research via Google as they evacuate their bowels in the mornings.
Which odd behaviour would be no more than your own business if you didn’t immediately fire up whatever brand of antisocial medium that is your particular poison and broadcast your findings as being the words of one with superior knowledge.
They aren’t. And neither are you. Think on.

You can’t cure Covid with infusions of black treacle.
You can’t change people’s sexual orientation by sending them to boot camp.
The royal family are probably not lizards.
Donald Trump did not win the last American election.
Ukraine is not run by nazis.
And it’s highly unlikely that a Covid vaccination is going to render you infertile (even if the rest of the world might wish it did).

In the end it comes down to the old chestnut of internet anonymity. You can sit with your underwear around your ankles and postulate anything you like without fear of consequences.
However. If you had to stand on a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner and defend your opinions against the slings and arrows of ridicule (or thrown missiles), you might have another think.
It’s the same in microcosm if you voice patently under thought and unresearched twaddle in the presence of a group of people in a pub (or wherever you may now meet your peers). Somebody is going to take you up on what you have to say and punches may ensue.

This, therefore, should be your mantra. If you are not prepared to stand naked in front of the world and defend your ‘scientific findings’ with reasoned argument and provable data, it might be a better idea to just finish your crap and get some breakfast without enlightening the world with the half-baked ideas you borrowed from some other eejit!

Darkling Drabble – 12

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The vigilantes had been hunting her for three generations, though they no longer had any idea why. 

In a street of tamped earth next to a stockyard full of bawling beeves, they finally found her. Tiny, she was and as wizened as a season-dead black beetle, but the twin sixguns were rock steady in her hands.

The shooting commenced, and she pretty soon took four loads of buckshot which all but blew her in half.

Only she wouldn’t die. Just kept on shooting.

When they were all gone, she grinned toothlessly and turned back to her interrupted poker game.

©jj 2022

Coffee Break Read – One Zero Three

Picking up our packs we took to the kitchen roof, running barefoot and silent along the ridge in the darkness. At the far end of the kitchens, we dropped into the roof of a bank of sheds housing goats and chickens, before sliding down a convenient drainpipe into the darkest corner of the kitchen yard. From there, it was a relatively simple matter to scale a wooden fence and follow a dry ditch to the edge of the woods. Once in the woodlands, we climbed a big oak tree and settled ourselves in a comfortable crook in its crown, from whence we could command a view of the front of the building whilst remaining unseen.
Pulling on woollen socks, plus the fur-lined boots and thick coats our unknown benefactor had gifted us, we settled down to wait. It seemed to me that this raid was something outside what we had heard of before. There seemed to be many men, and much weaponry, involved. The moonlight was bright, and as we watched, a stream of servants issued from the kitchen end of the building. They were hustled off by a group of armed men. They lit out running, and we thought that the raiders had let them go. It was not so. There came a sudden yappity yap, which we realised was gunfire, and the running figures all fell to the ground. The gunmen strolled over to the bodies, laughing as they went, and emptied more rounds into the rows, just to make sure. Beside me, eight gave a low moan, and I gripped her hand tightly.
‘Shush.’ I murmured. ‘If we’re found that could be us.’
She gripped back, and I could feel the effort with which she kept silence.
Then two things happened, which at least distracted us from the callous killing of innocent serving women.
Firstly, we became aware of something, or someone, moving cautiously in the woodland below us. We froze. Then eight grabbed my shoulder in a death grip and pointed to the roof of the breeders’ place. A slight figure was racing along the ridge at breakneck speed. At first it was hard to make out who it was, and what it was wearing. I stared harder, then realised it was one zero three, and she was half naked. She reached the end of the roof, and, without abating her speed, ran gracefully along the garden wall. We held our breath. The wall top is only about six inches wide, and, she seemed to be very exposed as she ran. If anyone looked out of the windows at the back of the house, she was a sitting duck. It was a relief to see her drop to the ground, and roll into that same dry ditch we had entered from the kitchen quarters. She had further to crawl than had we, and it took many minutes before we spotted her head peeping over the earthy dyke. She gave a low tuneless whistle, which was repeated from a thicket of low-growing shrubs about twenty feet from our hiding place. We scarcely dared breathe.
One zero three leapt out of the ditch and sprinted across the moonlit turf to the concealment of the shadowy forest. We peered down and were able to make out another figure, and two horses. The other woman handed over a bundle of clothing, and we could hear our erstwhile companion’s teeth chattering as she dressed herself.
‘Is it not a bit cold for nude running?’
‘Very funny Clo. I’d not have gotten here in clinging bright pink draperies. Which is all most of the breeders are allowed. Even the two who run daily do so in pink breeches, pink shirts, and no shoes.’
‘I see. Have you found aught?’
‘No. Just more suspicions to add to the ones we had already.’
‘Well, whatever. We need to get away. Now. In case some enterprising type decides to search the woods, or strafe the trees, or set fire to them, or…’
The two women mounted up and set off cautiously, picking their way through the trees and undergrowth, careful to make no noise, and leave no trail. Neither looked back.

From The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago.

It’s A Writer’s Life – Tools of the Trade

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Coffee apparently fuels
Authors and other like fools
But for my own sake
I have brandy and cake
As my preferred writing tools

Jane Jago

Mrs Jago’s Handy Guide to the Meaning Behind Typographical Errors XLIV

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

belive (imprecation) – the opposite to be dead

cocnern (noun) – unreliable dildo

defrentiate (verb) – to unfriend in a history group 

egnlish (noun) – language of ladies who lunch

extatic (adjective) – applies only to men watching porn – exceptionally happy

gate hred (noun) – man who sits in the road by the gatehouse exposing himself to passing women

hiar (verb) – of upper-class twits to rent a posh car

improtent (adjective) – of high value but sexually incapable 

jealsoy (noun) – thick salty sauce

legmue (noun) – knee that appears to be pulling a face 

lubmer (noun) – person who thinks he’d like to be a sailor but is sick when he puts too much water in the bath 

nuremous (adjective) – of families, possessing many rodentine offspring

obnexyus (adjective) – having a very long neck

raibb (noun) – a weapon that shoots death rays and pieces of potato

seeance (noun) – three old ladies with a ouija board and a bottle of port

tuaght (adverb) – of speech, clipped and mildly threatening

tuseday (noun) – day on which it is legal to kill annoying people

vergin (noun) – pure young woman who doesn’t eat meat 

vigenar (noun) – lady bits

yur (noun) – the way year is pronounced by any royal correspondent on television 

zologoist (noun) – supernatural creature that manifests itself during seances by farting

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

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