Dai Llewellyn was all but home when a gigantic figure loomed out of the darkness.
“Edbert, you spado, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“No. I’m trying to save your life.”
“Come again?”
Edbert’s laughter rumbled deep in his massive barrel of a chest.
“Julia has been in the kitchen. All day.”
“Julia? In the kitchen?”
“Yes. She has decided she should learn to cook.”
Dai digested that one and braced himself just in time not to buckle at the knees when Edbert clapped him on the shoulder.

Julia met him at the door with Canis and Lupo at her heels. He bent to kiss her and she dimpled demurely.
“Good day, love?” He asked with careful mildness.
She lifted a shoulder. “Same old. Same old.”
He grinned down into her face, noticing signs of frustration at the back of her bitter chocolate eyes but deeming it safest to say nothing.
“Go and wash your hands, supper is ready.”
Dai ambled off, and he could swear he felt his wife’s eyes boring into his back. This, he thought, could be about to get sticky.

He returned to the winter sitting room, to find the table set and have his nostrils assailed by a savoury aroma.
“Something smells good.”
She showed him her small, white teeth and he gave her his best grin in return.
“Sit,” she said firmly, before serving him with a bowl of thick soup and a hunk of buttered bread.
She brought her own smaller portion and sat opposite him watching as he dipped his spoon into the bowl. He tasted with some trepidation but the soup was fine. It wasn’t as delicately flavoured by any means as Cookie’s handiwork but it was hot and meaty and filling and he had no complaints. He ate his bowlful and cleaned out the bowl with the end of his bread. Julia eyed him narrowly, and he smiled into her eyes.
“What’s up love?”
“Nothing. Why do you think there is something the matter?”
She got up with what was perilously close to a flounce and whisked away his bowl and side plate.
“Cheesecake?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
Julia brought a glass stand to the table, on which rested a cake decorated with raspberry sauce.
“That looks nice.”
She frowned at him and put a knife into the confection, which promptly collapsed with its undercooked centre dripping over the edges of the serving dish.
Dai knew he had to act quickly to avert a potential meltdown, so he stuck his finger in the gooey mess and licked it.
“Yum, yum,” he said before taking another dollop of goo and spreading it on his wife’s face.
She opened her mouth to protest and he forestalled her by pulling her across the table and licking her face, to which treatment she responded with some enthusiasm.

A considerable time later she lay in his arms and he grinned down at her.
“You can cook anytime you like….”

©️ Jane Jago

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

I hate being called ‘dear’

I may be as old as dirt. But that doesn’t make it okay for you to patronise me, or not bother to ascertain my name. So many times I have ambled up to a plexiglass screen to be faced by a face with a lot of orange make-up and nothing going on behind the eyes, who will then refer to me as ‘dear’ throughout.

I read the other day about an old lady in Utah, who suddenly got out a gun and blew off a bank clerk’s face. I rather suspect she had been called ‘dear’ once too often 

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

affrection (noun) – the fondness a male feels for his partner while his penis is turgid

chocoalte (noun) – high caused by the overconsumption of Cadbury Flake

defract (verb) – not to reflect

ehter (noun) – one who believes a kebab is the cure for all evils and later loses same kebab in the gutter someplace 

friedns (noun) – crispy bits of chip and batter from the bottom of a deep frier

frisustrate (verb) – to cook bacon until it resembles roof slates

gassropper (noun) – smaller relative of the praying mantis that lives on the smell of farts

lifst (adverb) – of walking, to lift the feet very high and put them down gently as if creeping upstairs drunk

meman (noun) – northern expression indicating the speaker’s husband

osmat (noun) – prayer mat for antipodean use

pruitan (adjective) – of dress, spectacularly slutty

recongise (verb) – to throw dog toy again

reserach (noun) – little-known dialect spoken among the nomadic peoples who roam the western borders of Germany

sxe (verb) – to establish the gender of baby rats

topato (noun) – vegetable, not one of five a day, always served fried 

wehat (noun) – small headgear

zbeu (adjective) – having the texture of elderly porridge

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

“The moon is in the seventh house…” Natasha lowered her voice to a thrilling whisper. “You need people around you, sensitive, loving people.”
She made three syllables of ‘loving’.
Her client shifted impatiently.
“Yes but will I get married this year?”
Natasha hated direct questions like that.
“The tides of fate do not ebb and flow in human time,” she said quickly and moved on.
“Jupiter is aligning with Mars in your sign of Capricorn. That will give you great energy. Abundant energy.”
Her client left soon after and decided to enter the marathon rather than propose to his girlfriend.

E.M. Swift-Hook

My apartment was, annoyingly, on the third floor. Annoyingly, because I needed to use the service elevator and the thing was designed to move slower than mucus. It added almost a quarter again to the time of my commute. I’d been looking for a ground floor place in a good part of the city since the day I moved in, but, on my pay, it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Sitting there waiting to reach my floor was the time I always felt the most frustration and the time I always seemed to get the same thought: I could’ve retired and lived a very different kind of life.

Maybe I should have.

It was touch and go if I’d even live at the time. You don’t walk away from that kind of damage whistling. I’ve worked out the pension they’d have given me would’ve been five times or more than the amount I get now. That is calculated under the ‘local adjustment’ rules, designed to avoid having us CSF personnel out in the sticks living it up like a powerbroker from Central. Of course expenses are available when needed, but those you’ve got to justify to a fussy AI with zero ability to be flexible outside the permitted parameters.

But no, I chose this.

I didn’t want to give up doing the job I loved just because some of the bastards I was trying to stop had made mincemeat out of me from the pelvis down and left most of the rest shattered and broken. When they assigned me to this placement, it was in the expectation I’d be doing a lot of data collection and providing hosting support for those who were sent in to clean up any real problems—people like Grim Dugsdall. And yes, I did a fair amount of that, but I also pulled my weight and more with the workload. They hadn’t expected that.

Home was my personal sanctuary and the one place in the entire galaxy I could feel at ease. Here, everything worked for me and around what I needed. It had taken some setting up, but it meant from the moment I got in through the door I could feel relaxed. Normally I’d have an ambiance selected on the way home so the stiff grey furnishings would be overlain with the appearance of opulence or grandeur, depending on my mood or more usually set to cosy, But today I didn’t bother, just cancelled the quiet music which I had preset to greet me and made sure the internal monitoring system for the apartment was shut off.

My hiding place for the few unauthorised items I kept handy wouldn’t fool anyone in the CSF for long, but then that was never my intention. If ever my own people came searching my home, I’d have lost the plot and be in freefall. I licked my fingers and pressed. The wall panel behind my bed slid open as its biometric sensors read my DNA.

From ‘The Invisible Event’ a Fortune’s Fools story by E.M. Swift-Hook, in the Challenge Accepted anthology.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Telephone Sales

There is no way this ‘elderly lady’ is going to be buying anything on the telephone. Which means I need to have developed coping strategies.

I have three:

Sometimes I just take the phone outside and leave it in the garden. I pick it up later.

Sometimes I blow a very loud whistle I happen to possess in close proximity to the phone.

Or if I am feeling particularly sadistic I play along – confusedly dim. Until they want money when I sweetly say my son has power of attorney and he will call them when he is finished in court…

On a world somewhat like Earth, but three thousand light-years nearer to the centre of the Milky Way galaxy, three rebellious young aliens met in secret to ready a spaceship for a forbidden adventure…

 “We will be violating our most profound taboo,” said Novan in his voice of doom. “Traveling to unknown worlds—unauthorized primitive unclaimed worlds—looking for living beings we are commanded to leave alone.” His full name was Rleza-novan-nga, engineer and navigator. He had recently transitioned to his male phase.
“Yes! Won’t it be fun?” responded Alala. Analala-noa, still early in her female phase, was the researcher and inventor, and was deeply attracted to newly-male Novan. “And why are you using the language of the Talkis, Novan, instead of our beautiful Singi voice? You think just because you’ve made your transition to male you should talk like a tall upright Type 1?”
Novan stood erect on eight tentacles, balling up his four front foot tentacles. His newly-emerging male skin pattern and texture shone deep red. 
“Look, he thinks he is a tall Type 1, lording it over us,” scoffed Alala. “Why don’t you stand on just two tentacles, like a real Type 1 biped?” She tried to push him off balance; then he chased her around the enclosure, making hooting noises. She squealed with joy, her skin patches glowing bright pink.
Nala ignored their chase. “Are you having second thoughts, Novan?” she asked. Bvar-nala-nga, also a young female, was the chronicler and songteller. Her pale green and mauve skin patches rippled rhythmically. “We all know this is crazy. We risk everything if we do this. 
Novan spoke: “Yes, we’ve all traveled to the tame worlds of the Confederation. On this trip we’ll face so many more hazards. We’re likely to die. We plan to jump to worlds never before visited by any from the Confederation. No idea what we will encounter. Life forms inimical to our health and survival. Microbes that aren’t controlled by our toxin protocols. Alien races that view us as hostile invaders. “
“We won’t land on worlds until we’ve evaluated the hazards,” Alala replied, still enthusiastic. “Look at the other side. Suppose we discover exciting new worlds. When we return we’ll be greeted as heroes.
“If our leaders allow us to return. Such trips are forbidden. They’re likely to lock us up as soon as we land, to prevent us from telling others of our exploits. We’ll be shamed and shunned and exiled.” 
Alala said to him, more sober now, “It’s not too late to turn back or follow a different path. We could send out robotic probes to these worlds and not travel there ourselves, therefore be less likely to get into trouble.”
“No,” Nala said, crossing her arm tentacles in a sign of negation. “Ever since we deciphered the song of the crystal,” she said, looking at the small piece of metal on the table, “we’ve known we were going. None of us would be satisfied if we changed our minds now.”
“Agreed,” said Alala. “We have but one chance. If we don’t take this adventure now, we never will. The Elders will take control of our lives. You, Novan, will be assigned to a drab male existence far from our clan Haw. Nala, you’ll have to sing the propaganda songs of the Elders, meant to keep our people in check. And I? Assigned to raise juveniles I have no clan connection with.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Nala. “We’ve all agreed that our fates if we remain on this world are worse than death. Thus undertaking a hazardous journey loses us nothing. Death is the worst that can happen to us.”
The two females gazed intently at Novan, who drooped his eyestalks. “I agree with you. I’m not having second thoughts. I just wanted to make sure we all know that this is a perilous journey we are undertaking, not a childish lark.”

A Bite of… Mike van Horn

How much of you is in your hero/villain?

A lot. My heroine, Selena M, is a singer. She writes deep soulful songs but is afraid to perform them in public. I write deep philosophical pieces that I’ve never shared with anybody. She got rich performing maudlin country ballads. Her most famous is “Cotton Candy Lovin,” which she’s sick of, but is the most requested. I’ve written twenty-some business books, which powered my business for a quarter century, but my heart is in my science fiction stories. 
But see, she had a singing alien that showed up and together they rekindled her passion for singing. My alien muses are of the insubstantial nature, but they do keep me focused on sci fi.

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

I write the worlds I’d like to live in. Most of my stories take place on Earth in the near future, so it’s pretty familiar. I’d love to go to the clubs Selena performs at: Berzerkly, Club Xanadu, Slick Slims Slither Inn. They don’t exist, but they should. 
I would also love to have Selena’s spaceship and travel to the worlds she goes to, and hobnob with her alien buddies. 
I don’t do dystopias, hostile alien invasions, or evil monsters. 

Who are the four people–living, dead, or fictional–you would most like to entertain at a dinner party?

I’ll invite Elon Musk and Neil deGrasse Tyson, because I’ve modeled two of my main characters after them.
I’d bring back Ursula LeGuin, because I love her stories, and she’d be an excellent counterbalance to these two powerful men.
And of course I’ll include my heroine, Selena M, because she’s a sassy chick who takes no guff, and she’d love to hang out with these folks. 

Mike van Horn in his own words:

I started writing science fiction over thirty years ago, but writing to make a living got in the way. Lots of how-to books aimed at small business owners. Two books published traditionally, plus a dozen self-published, all built around our consulting business, The Business Group.
A few years ago I saw that if I was ever going to get my stories told in this lifetime I’d better get going! Since then I have concentrated on sci-fi. Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard started out as a short story, but metastasized into a trilogy, and I’m now working on Book 4.
I have an MBA from UCLA, and most of my career I’ve run small consulting firms. I’ve also started a restaurant, fixed up old apartment buildings, and run an export management firm. One thing I’ve never done is work for a large corporation.
Writing science fiction is by far the most fun!
My wife BJ is also a writer and a consultant. We live north of San Francisco in a house that’s too big, surrounded by oak trees.

The best place to find Mike is on his website where you can also find his blog and sign up for his newsletter. As Crazy Alien Escapade is yet to be published you can check out Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard, the first book in the Agate and Breadbox trilogy, while you are waiting.

A niche beside the doorstep once held a scraper to clean mucky boots, but as long as I could remember we’d called it ‘the begonia niche’.

The key was there, under a bulbous pot of begonias. I picked it up and for a moment, I was just home from school to a house of baking smells and laughter.

It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted – the photograph album, the mantle-piece clock, a few trinkets – parts of my history.

When I left, I slipped the key back under the begonias – so the house clearance people could find it.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

“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 21 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

The empty seat
Beneath the light
Where they would meet
And bless the night
But idle words
And ageless war
Tore them apart
They come no more

©️Jane Jago 2020