The Elf King was owed a princess, and a princess he was going to get. Just not the one he expected. Princess Marianne was a delicate fairylike beauty, and, in her father’s estimation, far too valuable to waste on a promise. Princess Ella, by contrast, was plain and meek and only too aware that her father had cheated.
It took all her courage to look into the Elf King’s face. To her surprise the tall brown-skinned monarch laughed.
“I do not,” he said, “value human beauty highly. But I am enamoured of bravery.”
He held out his twiggy hand.

©️Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Profundity

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro-fun-ditty) A song much in favour of, and used to advocate the enjoyment of, ill-advised jollity.
   Example: The whole pub broke into a profundity.
2. (noun – pronunciation note: prof-fund-itty) An extremely small academic research grant.
   Example: Professor Smith visited a food bank as she was unable to live on her profundity.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

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

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Metronome

1. (noun, pronunciation note: metro-nome) Garden ornament travelling on the Paris underground railway, usually sending ‘witty’ postal communications from famous landmarks as it travels. Notable for exquisite timing.
   Example: The metronome arrived just in time for Roger’s big bash.

2. (noun, pronunciation note: met-rown-home)
A type of dating app for those seeking to gondola-share in Venice.
Example. Luigi relied on a metronome to manage his love life around his career.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

The last train passed a while ago
The whistle no longer sounds
It’s a silent track, no clickety-clack
No wheels going round and round
The last train steamed to the quiet sky
On a Sunday afternoon
But I sometimes hear its wheels pass by
Under a gibbous moon

jj 2023

Prandium was a pleasant meal, with Aelwen dispensing smiles and cuddles and the adults chatting lightly. By the time everyone had progressed to spiced milk and tiny cakes, Aelwen’s head was drooping like a poppy on its stalk so Julia buzzed Luned who came and bore the little one away for her afternoon nap.
Once they were gone, Julia looked shrewdly at her guests. “There is a fire in my sitting room, and a decanter of Llewelyn brandy. We can be comfortable and undisturbed, and you can tell me what the problem is.”
Lavinia took Marcella’s arm. “I told you Julia would see there was something wrong.”
“You did, Mater, and you were right. The question is more whether or not she believes me.”
“When we are all sitting by the fire you can try me.” Julia ushered them into her sitting room and closed the door. 
Lavinia settled her daughter on a deeply cushioned settee and sat beside her. Vulpes came to stand beside his mistress with his big head on her lap. She smoothed his ears and turned her sightless eyes on Julia.
“I heard somebody being killed last night.” When Julia didn’t react she carried on speaking. “Because I’m first violin, and because I’m blind and need a dog, Vulpes and I merit a dressing room to ourselves.  Anyway, after the performance last night somebody from the hotel where we are staying was supposed to come and collect me. But they must have forgotten. It wouldn’t be the first time. And somebody always remembers in the end.” She patted her mother’s arm. “It’s okay, fach, as long as I have Vulpes with me I’m fine.  But I digress. There is a big sofa in my dressing room, so Vulpes and me cuddled up. I must have nodded off, because I woke up feeling a bit disoriented. Vulpes was growling softly, but I shushed him and pulled a blanket over us both. He remained alert and I became aware of voices. Quiet voices, three or maybe four, arguing viciously. They seemed to me to be talking about some sort of a scam or con trick. One of them wanted out, but the others weren’t having any. Said he was in too deep to quit. He suddenly seemed to snap, and shouted. ‘I’m out and you can’t stop me.’ One of the others laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then I heard a sort of a muffled pop. And the sound of something heavy falling to the floor. I didn’t dare move or make a sound, and even Vulpes kept silent although all the hairs on his spine stood on end. We heard something being dragged along the corridor outside. Then whoever came back. Laughing. Said something like ‘nobody will find him there’. Then they went away. I was just wondering what I should do when I heard a familiar footstep. It was Claudius, my umm… sort-of boyfriend, come to find me. For some reason I didn’t want to rock the boat, even with him, so I kept my mouth shut and just pretended to be asleep…”
Marcella wound down and, by the look of her, she was on the verge of tears, but Julia’s investigative instincts hadn’t been blunted by her time out of official law enforcement.
“That isn’t all, though, is it?”
Marcella stopped stroking Vulpes and her hands writhed together miserably in her lap.
“No,” she whispered. “I think somebody suspects I heard. And I don’t think they are the sort to leave living witnesses behind.”

From ‘Dying to be Believed’ one of the exclusive bonus short stories in The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

When the bat man finally turned up Em wasn’t impressed. He was skinny, largely bearded and unpleasantly sweaty, he also wore sandals with socks and baggy khaki shorts. He shook hands rather too vigorously and introduced himself in a surprisingly bass voice, although he appeared to communicate with the world via the use of a few words as possible.
He was hung about with boxes and bags, and as Em followed his red gooseberry-like calves through the lich gate she sincerely hoped he was more useful than he looked. The church door stood open and he strode in with his sandals slapping on the ancient stone.
“Where bats?”
“Belfry.”
He turned to smile at her, revealing a set of long, yellow teeth that made Em think of the donkey sanctuary.
“Pipistrelle?”
“Nah. Bigger.”
He spared her a disbelieving sneer before heading towards the vestry door.
Em enjoyed a silent moment of glee and waited for him to admit his error. It took a while but he eventually reemerged.
“Where staircase.”
Em pointed to the door that was almost hidden in the linenfold panelling that covered the white stone walls up to a height of about seven feet. Batman disappeared again and Em composed herself to wait. There came a disturbance in the air and Erasmus appeared on her shoulder. He was giggling. 
“I’m glad I stayed awake to watch the fun,” his voice in her mind was full of unholy glee. “The guy with the beard is getting on Enoch’s nerves.”
“Enoch?”
“Head of the family of small bats. He is so gonna shit on the human’s head. Just waiting for him to take his hat off.”
A faint scream attested to the validity of Erasmus’ instincts before the sound of careful footfalls had him fading abruptly into the background. Arnold came down the aisle walking softly and carrying a large broom. Em grinned and cocked her chin towards the open belfry door. Arnold sat beside her putting something small and black in her hands as he sat. It was a knitted bat, perfect in every detail and Em could feel her face creasing into a doting smile. Erasmus’ voice in her head was awestruck. 
“How’d he make a woolly me?”
“I dunno, boy, it’s beyond my skills.”
Arnold just grinned.
The sound of sandals slapping on the difficult spiral of the old stone stairs alerted them to the arrival of a hyperventilating bat man. He just about fell into the nave, with his beard full of bat shit and his eyes ablaze with missionary zeal.
“Rhinolophus hipposideros. The biggest colony I have ever seen. I will be writing this up immediately.”
He bobbed his head to Em, in a sort of a gesture of respect, before almost running out of the building. 
“Rudolph’s hippopotamus?”
Arnold’s grin grew wider. “Lesser Horseshoe Bat. Rare.
Em nodded and she and Arnold sat in companionable silence for a while, with neither being quite sure what to make of the odd little man’s shenanigans.
Em was thinking about going home when she felt an inimical presence coming close. Being who she was she wasn’t about to run away, but neither was she up for a confrontation with something she had yet to suss out. So she took the third way. She drew in a deep breath and held it, gently willing herself to be unremarkable and at one with the old building. Years of practice ensured that she succeeded to the extent that the light passed through her instead of around her and she became effectively invisible.  Arnold picked up his broom and began methodically sweeping the worn flagstones of the church floor. He had just progressed to the corner by the belfry and quietly closed the door when the vicar swept into the building like an avenging vicar.
“Arnold. Who was that strange little man I just passed?”
“Which strange little man, vicar?” Arnold was the picture of bucolic stupidity as he blinked down at the smaller man.
“The one with the unkempt ginger beard and all the bags.”
“Oh that one. I don’t rightly know. He was messing about in the churchyard. Then he run off. Why?”
The vicar waved a distracted hand. “Never mind. Just so long as he wasn’t… I mean… Well… See there’s a strange car parked outside that nosey bitch Vanderbilt’s house. So I wondered if he was anything to do with her.”
Arnold grunted. “Mrs Vanderbilt don’t usually have no truck with men. Strange or not.”
“Maybe you are right. But doesn’t the old bat seem a bit strange to you.”
“Her’s a woman. They’m all strange.” Arnold shrugged about a yard and a half of shoulder and carried on with his slow methodical sweeping.
The vicar stared at him for quite some time before seeming to come to the conclusion that his employee was just as slow on the uptake as he appeared. He turned on his heel, as if about to leave the building, when he must have caught on to something not quite right. His eyes rounded and his nose became damp and pink and twitchy as he stood very still – scenting the air and finding something not to his taste.
“Arnold,” he said sharply, “can you not smell something?”
“All’s I can smell is bat shit.”
The vicar shook his head and his features rearranged themselves back to handsome human mode. “Oh yes. Maybe it’s the inimical winged rats I can feel. Carry on with your work.”
And he was gone.
Em would normally have dropped the concealment immediately, but some seventh sense had her remain hidden. Which was just as well, as only five or so minutes had passed before the vestry door sprang open to reveal the vicar’s suspicious face.His eyes raked the building before he pulled his head back and closed the door with bang.
Walking home a while later Em was troubled.
“What are you?” she asked herself. “What the heck are you?”

Part 7 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Space is a vacuum, so what the smeg was the guy tapping on the window of my flitter even breathing. I was deeply rattled and that must have been why I opened communication with the hull.
“Who are you?”
“Adam.”
I laughed.
“My name is Eve.”
“You? Eve?”
“Yes.”
He put his hands on the airlock door and just pulled it open. He appeared on the bridge, threw me over his shoulder and walked out of the ship – into the unexpected.
This planetoid is called Eden, and all on it belongs to us save for the tree and the snake…

©️Jane Jago

Man shall not live by prose alone, so I offer here some bouquets plucked from my garden of the Muses. Perhaps they might inspire you to attempt your own meagre efforts at the high art of poetry. Do not be discouraged if what you dribble onto the page is vastly less illustrious than my own pure poems. It is not given to all of us to be the Chosen One of Erato…

Haiku -1

The white purity
Of my poetical soul
Illuminatus

Haiku -2

A flower petal
Weighted down under raindrops
Visceral delight

Haiku -3

I despicable
Fighting hourly temptation
Scratching succubus

Heavenly Host

I wondered, lonely and so proud
My thoughts so high, oe’r window sills
When all at once I was endowed
With views through neighbour’s curtain frills.

I glimpsed the barest hint of skin
As through my bedroom blinds I’d peek.
To speculate who was within
The electoral roll didst seek.

I glimpsed again and flesh did see
That lofted oe’r sleek curves and tan
But then Mama did answer me:
“Moons? That new neighbour? It’s a man.”

So yet I peer the blinds between
And linger on the vision there
The secret seer, sight unseen
So it’s a man? I could not care!

Scream

The primal scream in my Underpants
As I caress my own Pomposity
Can be heard Echoing
In the emptiness that is My Cranium
I speak of the Mythologies as the Harpies
Gather their dead Syllable by Syllable
Where is your
Dragon
Now?

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.

A double celebration as our blog turns six this week just as our US readers are having fireworks for a completely unrelated reason!

Yes, six years ago two slightly eccentric women got together and decided to change the world…

Well, that idea didn’t make it passed the first brainstorming session, so instead we settled on making a blog of odd bits and pieces to add a lift to your day – every day (and for some years it was even twice a day!). We couldn’t think of a name for the project by the time it went live so we stuck with what we had on the header: ‘Working Title Blogspot’.

Over the years we have introduced you to some interesting characters such as Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV (and his indomitable mother Jacintha), our feisty Granny with her pearls of wisdom and her rants, the astrologer Madam Pendulica (and her cat, Ailuros!), Lucida the (very alternative) Lifestyle Coach, Nanny Bee, the Gnomes and others. We have drabbled and rhymed, serialised and serenaded – all just for you!

Thanks for keeping with us!

It is traditional for us to have something a bit interactive for our anniversary. This year if you’d like to get in touch or leave a comment and tell us who your favourite character ever on the blog has been, we’ll do a special anniversary appearance, next month, of whoever gets the most votes !

Happy Fourth of July!

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook