Getting on with getting on
Work until the fear is gone
Or at least that’s the idea
In the morning bright and clear
But before it’s time for tea
The raised hand of anxiety 
Says surely you can see that you
Are unworthy, stupid too
So just assume a foetal state
Beneath the griping claws of fate
But wait. A hero strong and dear 
Brings smiles, and chocolate cake, and beer
And maybe just one shining day
We’ll send anxiety away
And dance beneath the setting sun
You. Me. And a job well done

©️Jane Jago 2020

Aaspa’s Imps have all grown up and are ready to take on the worlds in this sequel to the highly original fantasy, Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago.

My earliest memories are of misery and darkness. In those days I had no name and no voice. I was constantly hungry, and alone save for the chained slaves around me and the hellhound puppy whose fur kept me from freezing to death at night. 
    All that changed at the moment Mother found me in that stinking prison and picked me up in her tender arms. From then on Puppy and I had love to fill our hearts and food to fill our bellies. We became members of Aascko and Aaspa’s big rambling family, and I acquired a name. I became Silver, the beloved child of a high status household, and I and my brothers and sisters were given every advantage that wealth, privilege, and, above all, love can give.
    At the time of my adoption Mother and Father already had three imps. First there was Owlet, whose mama was Owl and whose papa was unknown. After him Mother and Father adopted Tiger and Puma, whose mama was Small Cat and whose papa was Aanjo which died in prison. Not too long after me there came Tawny and Eagle, whose mama was Owl and whose papa was our Father, Aascko. Later, Mother and Father were to adopt Oak and Willow, whose papa was a cousin of our Father and whose mama poisoned her Mate to steal his money. When she was caught she was permitted to kill herself, and Oak and Willow became our nest siblings. Those were the imps of Aaspa’s family.
    Not long after I joined the household, there came a change in the family circumstances when our GreatFather Aasgo, whom we all call Papa, became the Master Hunter and we moved to the citadel. This move could have been hard on me, because I have weak legs as a result of near starvation when I was tiny and the citadel is ancient and rambling with many staircases, and corridors with worn stone floors. But my family had no intention of allowing me to suffer any inconvenience because of my disability and we lived in a pleasant set of modern ground floor rooms opening onto their own enclosed garden. 
    For the first ten winters of our life in the citadel I learned my lessons with the drone Branwen, swam daily in the warm waters of the hot springs, and played with my siblings. I don’t think any of us had any idea how important our family was and we were the happier for not knowing. 
    It is my thought that Mother and Father would have kept us in innocence longer had there not been an attempt to kidnap Puma.
    It happened on a warm spring morning when we eight, and our teacher, were taking a gentle walk in the meadows where the earliest flowers were already blooming. We had no inkling of trouble ahead, and had not Puppy sensed the reception committee and set up a tremendous barking we would have walked into a carefully laid trap. As it was, my hellhound scented trouble and she herded us away from the defile where the bad people were hidden, all the while keeping up her ferocious barking. Branwen firmed its chin and grasped Tawny and Eagle, but I thought it looked afraid, while Tiger took hold of Puma, Oak held Willow, and Owl put his arms about me with the obvious intention of protecting us from whatever had so disturbed Puppy. As the would-be kidnappers rose up out of the long grass and rushed towards us, we heard the snap of leathery wings and Mother, Father and a group of our fighters landed between us and the assorted elves, vampires and orcs who had thought to take us unawares.
    “Keep one to talk to,” Father said tautly as half the fighters formed a protective ring around us while the other half engaged the poorly disciplined rabble with savage efficiency. 
    Tiger put his hands over Puma’s eyes, and Oak did the same for Willow, but Owlet knew better than to try and protect me from the reality of our situation so I watched as our attackers were summarily dealt with. When the last but one fell to Mother’s expertly wielded blade I took a deep breath.
    “What did they want?”
    “I don’t know,” Owlet was grave. “But I suspect that Mother and Father will find out.”
    Father looked at us. “You should go home.”
    Mother placed a hand on his arm. “Too late for that, love, they need to see this through.”
    “Why?” Father sounded almost immeasurably weary. “Didn’t we work to protect them from even knowing about this sort of treachery.”
    “We did. And we have. But we can do that no longer. They are none of them babies any more. If we let them see precisely what happened and what we will do to protect them it will be better than trying to push the events of this morning to the backs of their minds where such memories could fester.”
Father pulled her into his arms and laid his cheek briefly against the glossy black curls of her crest.
    “You are only right, love,” then his voice changed. “Bring that here, Aanda.”
    The grizzled fighter dragged a surly-looking male elf over to where Mother and Father stood.
    “Talk,” Mother said softly.
    “Make me,” the elf hissed. 
    Mother laughed and tossed her curls. “You will talk renegade elf, you will even sing should I so choose.” She turned her face to Father. “Would you invite Witness Aanan to join us.”
    He grinned grimly before throwing back his head and roaring. 
    Our honorary uncle arrived swiftly and with no ceremony. He walked over to Mother who pulled his head down and whispered in his ear. He chuckled mirthlessly.
    I could see the flaw in the air as he formed a portal.  A familiar figure strolled out onto the warm grass with a metal-studded oaken club balanced negligently on one shoulder. It was the alpha female troll, Mabel. She grinned as us before turning her countenance on the by now shrinking elf in Aanda’s grasp.

To keep reading, just snag a copy of Aaspa’s Imps by Jane Jago.

The road forever runs never passing by my home
I walk the way it wends but I always walk alone
And every hill I climb and every vale I delve
I have to find the way and walk it myself.

I’ve ne’er found someone to walk along the road with me
Though now and then I’ll have a companion that I see
Who walks along the same way and maybe shares a smile
To make the way seem smoother, less lonely for a while.

But always comes that hill too steep or that path too far
Then they take another way to follow their own star.
The road is always winding and beckoning ahead
And all I am is shaped by the way that it has led.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Why all the fuss about the first day of May? 

It’s the 122nd day of 366, and is steeped in the history of labour relations. But of course, that doesn’t interest you lot a bit, now does it?

Oh no, you airheads want the ‘Obby ‘Oss, the Morris Dancers, children whose mothers have confiscated their phones clomping gracelessly around the Maypole, some prim child all tricked out as The May Queen, and strange songs with incomprehensible lyrics, and so on. You really do worry me…

Before you abuse me as a miserable old bag with no sense of tradition, perhaps you might consider taking a closer look at the May Day traditions that charm you so.

The ‘Obby ‘Oss is probably a leftover from the Beltane Sacrifices of pre Christian faiths, thus symbolising the poor animal (or human) being led to the slaughter.

Morris Dancing is a generally harmless excuse for men to go from pub to pub in the hope of free beer. Though I would dispute any suggestion it’s entertainment.

The Maypole Dance, on the other side of the coin, is a fertility ritual and, as such, extremely unsuitable for children. 

Ditto the May Queen who is either a fertility symbol or, even more worryingly, The Maiden who would be sacrificed to ensure a good harvest. (Think on this very carefully before you engage in a fistfight with twenty other yummy mummies in order that little Susquehanna can wear the diadem.)

Need I continue?

In conclusion, get your heads out of whatever orifices you currently have them in and think about International Labour Day and how much all you miserable little so and so’s owe to the trade union movement.

Now buzz off. You are making my brandy curdle.

*throws dog ends and dried cow turds at departing readership*

While Yannis put the clock forward an hour I lay and watched the play of muscle and sinew under his skin.

“It would be nice,” I said idly, “if we could turn the clocks far enough forward to bypass corona virus.”

“Be careful what you wish for. Have you never heard of Rip Van Winkle?”

I laughed and snuggled into his broad back.

I awoke at daylight, and looked over at Yannis – finding in his stead an old white-haired man.  I reached a wrinkled hand out to him.

He clasped it and smiled.

“That virus lasted a long time.”

©️jj 2020

Aaspa’s Imps, the sequel to the highly original fantasy, Aaspa’s Eyes  by Jane Jago is about to escape into the world. Take a sneak peek before it does…

We sat there, halfway up a rocky escarpment, watching four hefty thuggish humans and their helpless captive with our mouths open. What was the captive?  It was something all our teachers had told us was no more than a myth. I looked at Aazba and he shrugged although there was anger in the back of his handsome eyes. He hates cruelty. And what we were looking at was certainly cruel. Tethered to the ground by chains around its limbs and barbed hooks through the membranes of its wings was what I realised had to be a dragon. It was about the size of a full-grown hell hound with a dull looking yellowish skin and leathery wings. It looked sick to me and I found myself thinking we couldn’t leave the poor creature to suffer.    
    Pity cranked up to killing rage as I got a glimpse inside its mind and heard it calling for its mother. Aazba obviously heard it too as his head came up and his nostrils flared. We were looking at each other in fury when the final straw ignited us into action. One of the thugs took a length of lead piping from amongst his clothing.
    “Time to break the bones in its wings,” he said gleefully. “It don’t need to be able to fly to lay eggs. Plus. If we keep it hungry and teach it to be afraid, it’ll always do just what we tell it.” 
    He stepped towards the terrified creature and Aazba and I exploded from our hiding place. I took out three of the thugs with darts tipped with spider milk, and they fell in  boneless heap. The one with the lead pipe didn’t get off so easy. Aazba was in one of his rare rages. While he beat the human senseless with its own lead pipe I carefully approached the cringing dragon. I cut the straps on the hooks and carefully eased them out of its wings. Impelled by some female emotion I’d normally be ashamed of cradled its lizard-like head in my arms.
    “See mother soon,” I murmured, not expecting it to understand, just hoping the soothing tone of my voice may help it to feel less fearful. To my surprise I heard  small voice inside my mind.
    “You promises?”
    “I do. We’ll return you to your mother as soon as may be possible.”
    The creature relaxed against me and, remembering my own Mother’s way of calming infant fears, I hummed gently to it. Aazba finished with the thug and walked towards us. The dragon shrank from him. 
    “Hush little one, Aazba won’t hurt you. He is not like them humans.” I turned my attention to my Partner. “This imp is hungry and sick. Will you see if you can find the keys to her shackles, then maybe sprint back through the portal and call for help.”
    Aazba dangled a bunch of keys before my eyes then lit out as if all the demons of Hades were after him.
    “He goes for help.” I explained as I unlocked the heavy chains. The infant sagged against me.
    “Free. Thankings.”
    “Can you stand?”
    “Yes. Can.”
    She made a brave effort and I went over to the hut where the thugs had been living. I found a bucket of meat pieces. They were not the best quality, but the dragon was very hungry. I brought the bucket to where she swayed on her feet. 
    “Slow,” I warned. “You don’t want to be sick.”
    I let her eat about half the bucket, then moved it.
    “More soon.”
    She sighed. “Thirsty.”
    I found another bucket, which her tormentors had been using for their drinking water, it was almost full. The dragon imp drank, but then she seemed too exhausted to do any more. 

You can preorder your copy of Aaspa’s Imps right now.

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

The limerick’s a thing of great beauty 
Although it’s both vulgar and fruity
For rhythm and rhyme 
It’s ahead of its time
And the entendres do double duty

©️jj

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

afert (noun) – Egyptian goddess of typos

anywya (noun) – a strangely compelling haircut that looks like a haystack. Other haircuts are available to politicians but this one seems to work best

beign (adjective) – of underwear that peculiarly greyish beige that comes from many washes with the black sock that always sneaks into the machine

efort (noun) – safe storage for your computer

ehr (interjection) – the noise made by certain politicians when they can’t answer a simple question

exewrcise (group noun) – a bitchfest of yummy mummies with iPhones strapped to their skinny arms competing fiercely for who has the cutest running shorts

itisi (adverb) – of walking giving the appearance of having the cheeks of one’s bum tied together

londong (noun) estuarine penis

peopel (group noun) – a crowd of middle-aged women busily being outraged by modern life

slive (noun) – the piece left at the end of the cake from which the dog has licked the icing

stange (noun) – the smell of hair singeing

umbiquitous (adjective) – unsure whether or not one is omnipresent

viloence (noun) – the sound made by a female cat when she is looking for a mate

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

“It’s a bloody disgrace. Goodbye.”

Trish bit back a rude retort.

“Thank you, caller, have a nice day.”

She was speaking to a disconnected line.

It was raining as she walked home from the call centre. Trish had half her attention on avoiding being splashed by passing cars and stepping in puddles, but mostly she wondered about what dangers she’d face that evening.

Home.

Nuke a quick meal then go online.

“Chiarania, where’ve you been? Get here quick, we’ve got a new mission!”

Call centre life forgotten, Emergency Medic Chiariana of LSS Explorer, grabbed her kit and hurried into action.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Caer sat on his pony looking at the dead body on the ground and wondering if he should send more scouts back towards the road, almost a day’s trek behind the caravan. This man had been alone, half-mad and no threat to the caravan, but others might even now be following the same path that they had taken from the road and for the same reason they had taken it: others who were scouts for brigands, bandits or bigger caravans than his own.
He spat in the dirt and narrowed his eyes as he looked past the file of wagons, ponies and people. It was late afternoon and his breath misted slightly in the air. The long cold winter was over, but in the barren Wastelands, spring was always slow to come. The air still carried a biting chill, even in the heat of the day and the distant peaks kept their mantle of snow and ice, tinged with crimson by the light of the huge red sun. Spring was having to claw its way free of winter’s greedy clutches so that Temsevar could bask in an all too brief season of warmth and growth.
The Wastelands were vast and magnificent. Here and there, standing proud and alone in the plain, like the lost sentinels of a forgotten age, were towering flat-topped mountains of rock, some so massive they were too big to cross in a day on foot. It was as though at some point in the distant past the ground had simply dropped away, leaving the high plateaux stranded above, like giant stepping stones, creating a two-tier terrain. If in the winter, these high grounds were the coldest and most exposed, in the spring they seemed always flushed with new vegetation before any managed to creep out of the more parched stones below.
Caer made his decision. With the work to be done, the four men he already had out scouting their back trail were all he could spare for the moment. He called to one of the mounted men who was riding with the caravan.
“Shevek, we are camping here.”
The man he spoke to wheeled his pony away and rode at a brisk pace towards the front of the train of wagons and animals, issuing sharp orders to make the night’s camp around the rocky debris beneath the steep cliff face of one of the high monoliths. Caer felt a familiar sense of satisfaction as those orders turned the straggling ranks of moving people, ponies and wagons into a brief flurry of chaos, before brightly coloured awnings, tents and pavilions sprung up from the chaos, like strange blossoms. Caer and his men rode through the quickly forming encampment, shouting instructions, solving problems, helping secure ropes and encouraging any who were slow to respond with the whips they carried curled in their belts.
In a remarkably short time, the caravan resembled a miniature town with streets and open spaces, stables, and pens. Fires were being kindled, children tending the animals as women kneaded dough and cut the vegetables for the evening meal. Toddlers screamed and got underfoot or rolled like puppies amongst the big, sharp-toothed dogs, which ignored them and begged for scraps with soulful eyes and then turned on each other snapping and snarling when an unsavoury morsel was cast their way.
Once the familiar routine was well established, Caer’s men guided their mounts towards the middle of the camp. The ponies’ short stubby ears, thick coats, wall-eyed glares and powerful necks, made them far from beautiful to look upon, but their split hooves could splay to grip surefooted even on snow and ice or could run fast on firmer ground. It was their broad backs which carried the burden of human traffic in both trade and war with a sturdy strength and agility which, for Caer, had a beauty all of its own.
The men who rode were as tough as their ponies. The older ones amongst them wore their hair long, stained red and tied back into a heavy braid, the greater length of the braid telling of ever greater age and experience. The youngest men had their hair shaved so close to the scalp as to seem bald. They were not even allowed to begin to grow a braid until they had served a year of apprenticeship with the caravans. All the men wore coats made from a brightly coloured heavy-felt cloth, over shirts with billowing sleeves, patterned skirted jerkins made from fleeced hides and plain felt britches which gathered loosely into calf-high boots. All were armed: every man wore a bandolier of wooden cartridge boxes over one shoulder and carried a crude pistol; one or two had a long-barrelled musket or rifled carbine, on their backs and each wore a long-bladed knife with an ornately carved hilt and whips hung looped at their belts.
These men were of the Zoukai, a brotherhood of warrior guardians, hiring themselves to protect the caravans which carried the trade of Temsevar. Named after the swift and ruthless, red-plumed predatory birds which hunted from the skies in these very wastes, they were bound by a strict code of honour which placed loyalty to their captain and their caravan above all else.

The opening of The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.