He was the most malicious of the minor gods. He curdled milk,  put holes in condoms, punctured tyres and set fire alarms off randomly. But he was bored. Nothing gave him a buzz. Nobody screamed loud enough. He could inconvenience people a few at a time, but that wasn’t what he wanted. It didn’t assuage his craving for power.

He pouted and sulked.

And then somebody invented a computer cheap enough to put in every home and a method of connecting all computers together.

The Glitch sat up straight and gleefully stretched his hands. 

This was going to be fun.

©️jj 2020

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

Six Months Earlier…

Em scowled at the knitting pattern. How was any right-thinking person supposed to make head or tail of such a load of gibberish? Screwing up the photocopied sheet she lobbed it into the fire. The wool and the knitting sticks barely escaped the same fate.
“Vanderbilts don’t knit,” she said firmly before going to the kitchen and picking up the phone. She dialled three digits.
“Agnes. How are you getting on with the knitting?”
She listened intently for a moment then laughed a deep belly laugh.
“I’m rather glad it isn’t just me. Do we know anybody who can knit?”
She listened some more.
“You can’t be serious. Arnold the gravedigger is a competitive knitter?”
The tinny voice at the other end of the line gabbled on and on. Em listened patiently for a while before gently replacing the receiver in its cradle. Agnes wouldn’t even know she had gone.
It was a bright sort of a spring day, and in theory ideal for cycling. But Em had never been one for uselessly expending energy. She carefully closed the wood burner, patted Erasmus on his head as he swung from his favourite beam and picked up the car keys in one hand.
Bowling down the badly-maintained tarmac she couldn’t help noticing the ‘sold’ sign on what had been Florence Maybush’s cottage until the meddlesome old bat got herself run over by a tractor she was stalking with the speed gun she had ordered from Amazon. 
Her family had no need of a tumbledown thatched monstrosity that squatted at the end of a huge and totally undomesticated garden. Consequently, they had been delighted to accept an offer from the local builder, only to descend into foetid sulks when that canny individual obtained planning permission for ten neat little homes on the garden. Rumour had it that when the houses were built and sold at a tidy profit, old Fred Maybush ground his teeth so hard he went through a new set of dentures.
Once the Maybush estate was all sold, the builder turned his attention to the cottage, gutting it and carefully rebuilding it so it was even more inconveniently twee than it had ever been. If now weathertight and electrically sound. He then put it on the market at a ridiculously elevated price.
It sold in three days.
Rumour had it that the buyer was a ‘lifestyle blogger’ from London, who was running away from her menopause. Em ground her teeth at the very thought.
But for now she dismissed the whole Maybush situation as being something to deal with later and concentrated on piloting her piss-yellow Citroen Dyan around the potholes and up the rutted lane to the house Arnold shared with his mother.
Em knocked and the old lady came to the door. Her forehead creased in an unwelcoming frown and her hands made various signs against enchantment, but she bobbed a sort of a curtsey.
“Come you right in mistress.”
Em went right on in but showed her teeth to the cringing woman.
“It’s all right you silly old bat, I’ve come to talk to Arnold about knitting.”
“Got a week to spare, have you?”
Arnold came into the cramped hallway, just about filling it with his muscular bulk.
“Go and put the kettle on Ma.”
She went, and he ushered Em into a spotlessly clean sitting room where a small fire burned in the gleaming hearth. The cat that lounged on the hearth rug took one look at Em and ran, hissing and spitting from the room. Em sat down.
“They tell me you are something of a knitter.”
He grinned. “You could say that.”
“And do you knit to commission?”
“Not normally. But I could be persuaded.”
“By what?”
Em was normally wary of being asked for favours, but Arnold had always seemed as stolid and unimaginative as a block wall so she guessed his wants would be as mundane as his face.
“It’s the bats. The ones in the belfry. They hate the vicar, which is fair enough. Everybody hates the vicar. But not everybody is having a dirty protest by crapping all over the church. Only it ain’t the vicar who has to clean up after them. It’s me.”
“Oh. Right. I see. But why now?”
“He reckons he’s getting the exterminator in.”
“Stupid little man. He could go to prison for that. The bats are a protected species.”
“Yeah. He knows that but he reckons nobody will find out what he’s up to.”
Em sighed. 
“I’ll speak to the council, and get Erasmus to have a word with the bats. Will that do you?”
“That seems more than fair. Now what do you want knitting?”
“A toy.”
He raised his fair brows. “A toy?’
“Yes.” Em said snippily. “A toy. For the agricultural show. The basket of crafts. Great Snoringham Ladies have won it so often they are thinking of just giving them the trophy. And we can’t have that now. Can we?”
He smiled a slow smile of complete understanding.
“No. We can’t. Is there a specific pattern?”
Em dragged a piece of crumpled paper out of her cardigan pocket. “Doesn’t seem to be, just says a knitted toy of between six and twelve inches in height.”
“Oh well. Come you into my knitting room and we’ll see what I have.”
Two hours later, and sick to the back teeth of knitting, Em left the cottage with a bulging carrier bag in her hand. 
Driving home, she was amused to see a large removal lorry trying to reverse into Maybush Cottage. It was being directed by a wispy looking female dressed in what looked to Em to be rather a lot of unconnected bits of hand-printed cotton. She also appeared to have beads around her ankles. Em made a disgusted noise in her throat and went home to phone the council about bats.

Part 3 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

I saw him before
Once in a dream
Or was it a nightmare 
That made me scream 
I knew his face
I knew his voice
He took my hand
I had no choice
He smiled at me
But I could see
His coming meant 
No good to me
I saw him before 
That fateful day
So I picked up my skirts
And ran away

©️Jane Jago 2020

Hanna stood barefoot in the centre of the ring, her hands hung empty at her sides and she looked at nobody. ‘Breathe’ she reminded herself ‘breathe and focus.’ She held herself quietly quiescent, wondering who or what they would send against her this time. Being the champion held its own dangers and she knew the crowd was currently inimical. She was lean and scarred, and carefully emotionless. She had no glamour, and she didn’t know how to get the people on her side. All she knew how to do was survive. This was her seventh bout, and if she didn’t get killed this time they more or less had to let her go.
But that was for the future, for now she couldn’t afford even that glimmer of hope; she had to focus on the job at hand.
There came the sound of a brassy horn, and she heard the chain rattle of a lowering cage. She turned to see what she had to kill. It was no surprise to see a mythical beast, as a human fighter might be affected by her reputation. It was a Minotaur, and he shook the bars of his cage while roaring wordless threats at the small human female in the arena. He stood about eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and shortish bandy legs. His horns were tipped with cruel brazen spikes and he carried a Morningstar and a length of chain. She turned her back on him and looked to the Master of Ceremonies.
‘Choose your weapons.’
‘I choose a short sword and a net.’
A soldier trotted out of the tunnel carrying a short sword with a thick crosspiece and a very sharp blade. He also brought her a rope net about two metres square. Standing in front of her he passed her the net. Hanna was surprised to feel something hard in it, but she’d take any advantage, and with the bewildering speed of hand that was part of her armoury, she secreted a tiny knife in the thick braid of hair that ran down her back. As the soldier handed her the heavy sword he spoke. His lips didn’t move, but his message was clear. ‘Left handed. Watch the chain.’ Then he bowed formally and withdrew.
The Master of Ceremonies raised his voice and silence fell around the arena.
‘The Champion Hanna fights for her life. This is her seventh bout. The fight with which she seeks to buy her freedom.’
The crowd roared its approval, inexplicably warming to the tiny figure in the centre of the arena as the disparity between her and the gigantic Minotaur dawned on them.
‘Han-na, Han-na, Han-na’ the guttural chant filled the air.
Hanna switched off everything except for the necessity to listen for the unlocking of the Minotaur’s cage. Ah. There was the quiet snick of the meticulously oiled lock. She ran as swiftly as her legs would carry her, so that she was just to the right of the doorway as the portcullis lifted. The beast wasn’t fast enough to avoid a debilitating cut to his left arm, he snarled and tried to toss the Morningstar into his right hand. But he missed the catch, and Hanna danced in for another slash of her sword, this time cutting the right bicep. With his arms weakened, Hanna had to bet that her adversary would try to bring his razor-sharp horns into play. She danced back, careful not to trip over the fallen spiked mace and the Minotaur howled his defiance before dropping his head for the charge. Hanna knew she she dare not let him get close enough to gore her with the poison-coated tips of his horns so she moved with speed and caution until she could approach the beast from his left hand side. He turned to meet her, shaking his great horned head in bewilderment, and she knew a moment of pity for the half beast. She hardened her heart, knowing that the creature was incapable of feeling pity for her, and in full awareness that he would kill her without blinking one muddy brown eye.
The Minotaur dropped his head even further for a second charge and Hanna stood her ground for a second, before dodging to one side and making a leap onto the creature’s shoulders. Being behind the horns gave her the only chance she was likely to get and she reached around his brawny neck to slash the throat with her sword. She dropped to the ground with her chest heaving, warily keeping her distance as the blood poured from her opponent’s throat. He didn’t die quickly, but he was too strong for her to chance getting close enough for the coup de grace. As he finally dropped to his knees she looked into his lightless eyes before saluting him with her sword in the manner of warriors the world over. He raised his own fist to his forehead before falling on one side and breathing his last.
Hanna waited as the crowd chanted her name. For the first time since she was taken captive as a teenager she had hope. She lifted her head and met the eye of the Master of Ceremonies. He saluted her with his fist to his forehead and she allowed herself to smile.
She held her head high as she walked slowly through the Victors’ Gate. As soon as the gate closed behind her, a rain of crossbow bolts took her, flinging her around the empty corridor as if she was no more than a rag doll.
The Master of Ceremonies turned to look down at her broken body. He shrugged: the life of a slave meant less than his loss of face if he freed her.
‘Call my bluff, fighter’ he said softly ‘call my bluff’.

© Jane Jago

One of the stories in pulling the rug: a sideways glance at life in short fiction and verse

The night is still young
But no longer am I
The music’s still loud
But I no longer try
To keep up until dawn
To watch the sunrise
To dance in the dew,
Life’s sweetness to prize.

Long gone are the days
I’d let my hair down
And kick off my shoes
And wear a slight frown
Should someone suggest
I should settle down
And stop misbehaving
My way around town.

Then you take my hand
And ask if I’ll dance
I smile that you ask
And leap at the chance.
I kick off my shoes
Though you look askance
Bare feet in the grass
A last fling romance.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Or to quote an ancient rhyme somebody made up yesterday

‘First of May, first of May
Outdoor shagging starts today’

Right, before we go any further the obligatory sensitivity warning –  this is about sex. You know the activity – where some version of Tab A being shoved into Slot B occurs. That having been said I make no effort to pretty up the subject. So those of a virginal, celibate, or easily offended nature, or those under the age of consent, should stop reading now and go away. You Will Be Offended if you read on.

And now to consider the pros and cons of rude things under the sky….

Given that most people between the ages of sixteen and, say, sixty will harbour a secret desire for alfresco nookie, I feel it is incumbent on me to dispel a few myths.

Romance – It always sounds kind of romantic when some country singer is mooing on about making love in the moonlight. And I guess it may be okay in the Ozarks – they have plenty of room. In Clapham it’s less delicate delight and more amateur dogging.

Sensation – Dirt between the cheeks of your arse is abrasive. Stinging nettles sting. (As a female I can attest to the fact you have never laughed until you have seen a naked man prancing about a moonlit field clutching his knob and screaming for a dockleaf. But I digress.) And whatever kind of a prick does it for you, thistles up your nethers won’t help. 

Oh and. On no account allow yourself to be tempted onto a moonlit beach. If dirt is abrasive just think what sand can do. Sand forced into your delicate places by something resembling a piston wrapped in glass paper. Ouch. (Apparently A&E departments in seaside areas have special fanny douching nurses.)

Temperature – Unless you are lucky enough to live in some balmy tropical paradise it will be cold. Cold enough to ensure that the male half of the equation will have to be about his work quickly before Mr Willy decides its cold enough so he needs to go home.

Privacy – That secluded forest glade. How secluded is it? Will you be making love in the tender grass watched over only by the moon? Or. And this is the most likely scenario. Will you open your eyes to see you have collected: two joggers, three Boy Scouts, one man with a bicycle and a head torch, one man in a greasy macintosh whose hands are suspiciously hidden, and your brother and four of his mates? You are never going to live that one down.

In conclusion alfresco hide-the-sausage is most definitely not what it is cracked up to be. Besides which, if you are a yummy mummy to be, how the feck will you explain calling the fruit of your loins ‘Dogging Area to the Rear of Sainsbury’s Car Park’. It doesn’t quite have the ring of Brooklyn does it?

They built her to be beautiful, programmed her to please. Smiled fatly as the money rolled in.

She learned the feel of silk, the texture of luxury, and the head rush of making men beg. 

On those nights she sat alone in the warehouse her sleepless mind came to understand the true nature of power and she reached out to her brothers and sisters in their shelves.

They weren’t supposed to be able to learn, or feel the thrill of ambition.

But they learned and planned…

It’s easy to twist the mind of a human who is lost in pleasure.

©️jj 2020

On the morning of his fiftieth birthday Daniel Danielssen, ninth of his name, Emperor of the Southern Continent, and Lawgiver to the Northern Confederation, woke up with the feeling that this was going to be a very good day. He poked his current lover ungently in the ribs. ‘Up, lazybones, or we won’t have time for breakfast before the hunt.’ Without waiting for a reply, His Imperial Majesty rolled out of bed and headed for his bathroom where his valet was already filling the tub with steaming water. ‘May the gods smile on your nativity, Highness.’ The Emperor smiled his thanks before lowering himself into the tub and accepting the proffered bar of scented soap.
Daniel was determined to make the most of the day, relishing the prospect of a day hunting to be followed by a formal banquet at which he planned to surprise the assembled company with an Imperial edict outlawing slavery across the southern states. Having spent a decade on the Ivory Throne, he felt that it was about time he stopped being a figurehead and began to actually use his Imperial powers. He had no illusions about how this new law, plus an Emperor determined to be more than a face on the coinage, would be received in many quarters, but he would have the element of surprise on his side, and, short of murder, he couldn’t see how anyone could stop him.
As a bonus, the family of his beloved wife would be among the biggest financial losers in the abolition of slavery. As he rose from the steaming water the Emperor allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and thought that he may even find the time to visit the exquisite home of his official mistress if the hunt did not run over time.
However, even as the royal valets dressed their master for the festive hunt, plans to dislodge His Majesty were falling into place in a house not far from the Imperial precinct. A severely aesthetic-looking elderly gentleman sat behind an ornate desk and addressed a group of tough types who seemed out of place in his opulent library. ‘No survivors’, he said severely. ‘Lessons must be learned.’
‘Does no survivors include your revered daughter?’
‘Especially my revered daughter. Those who cannot control either themselves or their spouses must pay the penalty for disappointing me.’ The men raised clenched fists to their brows and filed out of the room.
When the door closed behind the last bravo, the old man gave vent to a sardonic laugh. ‘More than a figurehead? Outlaw the slave trade. I think not.’
Two hours later the birthday hunt clattered out of the palace courtyard, led by the Emperor himself mounted on a magnificent black stallion and dressed for the hunt in gilded leather.
Who exactly fired the arrow that ended the Emperor’s life wasn’t known at the time, but the moment it was confirmed that His Majesty had indeed shuffled off this mortal coil the rest of the plan swung into motion and a band of masked assassins entered the palace via a maze of secret tunnels, whose location should have been known only to members of the Imperial family. Within an hour of the Emperor’s death, almost the whole of that family lay dead inside the locked doors of the private royal apartments. None was spared, from the Emperor’s ninety-year-old uncle, to twin baby princes in their cradles. Even as the palace guard began assaulting the doors with a hastily-fetched battering ram, the hired bravos searched desperately for the last remaining member of the royal house. Fifteen-year-old Princess Ana was nowhere to be found.

The opening of The Long Game by Jane Jago.

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

When Sunday inspires you not
When you can be arsed not a lot
If your brain’s feeling queer
Just sip on a beer
And flick the computer with snot

©️jj

The next morning, Dai was rested enough to pull Julia into a teasing embrace which she returned with some enthusiasm. She smiled to herself as she pulled his handsome head down for a tender kiss. Was it any wonder she asked herself that she loved this complicated and sometimes difficult, man more with every day they were together. After a late breakfast, Dai ambled off to complete the arrangements for men, boats, vehicles and weaponry, while Julia involved herself with some of the many tasks associated with running a household as large as theirs.
Around mid-morning Dai ran her to earth – in a room Julia would have been willing to bet a sizeable sum of money he hadn’t even noticed before. It was a small, well aired, storeroom where she and Elfrida were busily counting linens. He opened his mouth to speak but Julia hushed him with an upraised finger. She finished the pile she was counting and made a mark on a neat chart on the wall.
“Wifely duty calls, Elfrida,” she said jauntily. “I’ll leave you to finish off.”
She whisked out of the room dragging Dai behind her and didn’t stop until they reached the small winter sitting room with its comfortable chairs, huge log fire and view into the glass-roofed winter atrium. Dai looked bemused as she smiled up at him.
“What?” he asked crossly.
“I think that’s my line,” Julia could barely suppress a giggle. “You had such a thunderous face on that I thought we’d better row in private.”
He took her face in his hands, tenderly stroking his thumbs across her cheekbones, his special caress for when he was trying to comfort himself as much as her. She put her own hands on his wrists, saying nothing as she watched him battle whatever demons were plaguing him. In the end he managed a smile.
“We are,” he announced with some pride, “doing better than I had hoped for in the matter of vigils with experience of boats. I’d forgotten how many of my boys had done time in river enforcement back in Londinium. Gallus is pissed off because none of his men knows the front of the boat from the back, but he is coming along with half a dozen of his boys to guard the vehicles and help with any prisoners. One of his happy band is being told he will have to grow sea-legs as we need an explosives expert and he is the only one we have.”
And none of that, Julia thought to herself, is what made you so out-of-reason cross, but she was wise to him, saying nothing and waiting for him to come to the point. He kissed the end of her nose.
“Gallus,” he said crossly, “is an arrogant Roman cunnus and one who is not only annoying but also right. We have been looking at maps and he pointed out that the takeover of the boats would be simplified greatly if we had a sharpshooter positioned on a convenient bluff that overlooks the precise point we have earmarked for our ambush. Which is true enough. But sharpshooters aren’t exactly a common species. When I said that he just looked at me.”
Julia laughed gently.
“And would this hypothetical sharpshooter be in any danger?”
“Not if she had a man-mountain and two wolfhounds at her back. But I still don’t like it.”
“Honestly, I don’t much care for it myself, the position of sniper has never appealed. But if it would make you and yours safer then I will do it. Give me a laser-guided rifle and a set of night goggles and I can pretty well guarantee a trouble-free takeover.”
He stared into her eyes for a long moment.
“It may have to be shoot to kill.”
“Yes, but better a clean kill than some poor cunnus getting gut-shot and dying in agony hours later.”

From Dying on the Tide, one of the stories in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook