Misery is a-coming like a train down a track
You gonna get quite flattened ‘cos you just can’t fight back
Pessimism’s rising optimism’s had its day
And along comes the snowplough to push it away.

You gotta roll with the bad times like you danced in the good
Make the most of what you got like you know you should
Things might look quite bad now but they could be much worse
You gotta get up and tango not lie down and curse.

But when your dancing feet are so broken and sore
You can’t get up and dance about, or even walk no more
You hear the train of misery bringing the bad times back
But no matter what you want to do you can’t get off the track.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The pottery shattered as it hit the stone wall and the wine splashed out in a liquid corona, staining the fine fabric of the hangings and seeping over the floor like blood flowing from a wound. The music slid to a discordant halt as the musicians scattered quickly and a single shriek from one of the serving girls ended the tune.
Jariq Zarengor sat still, holding the cup which he had been filling from the wine jug, a motionless figure in a sudden sea of movement as the other patrons of the inn decided it was wiser to be elsewhere. Ralik stood by the wall, arms folded watching, as the Harkeran Vavasor drew his sword and continued shouting.
“You can’t seduce another man’s wife and expect to get away with it.”
The Harkeran noble was sober enough, even if high in emotion, but Zarengor had been drinking steadily since they had arrived at the inn. Ralik straightened up slightly and unfolded his arms. He saw another Harkeran was moving forward, one hand reaching under the dark blue cloak he was wearing. Zarengor seemed not to have noticed and was frowning very slightly, as if confused by what was happening. He gestured with his empty hand towards the bench beside him.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but if you have a problem, why not sit down with me, have a drink and talk it over. We can get some more wine – ”
He was not able to finish before the Harkeran lunged at him and was instantly sent sprawling backwards as Zarengor exploded into motion almost faster than the eye could follow, tipping the heavy wooden table forward into his assailant and in the same fluid movement, turning as he rose, drawing his sword to bring the point to the throat of the second man before his own blade had even half-emerged from beneath the blue cloak.
The second Harkeran released his sword hilt and leaving both hands spread wide, stepped back carefully, reading certain death in the steady brown eyes. His companion groaned beneath the table and tried weakly to push it off. Zarengor seemed to have forgotten him completely, slamming his sword back into its scabbard and striding from the room. Ralik detached himself quietly from the wall and made a less noticeable exit by another door as people surged forward.
As he left, he noticed it took two men to lift the heavy table. The voices of the Harkerans followed him out, mutters of fear and admiration, of condemnation and simple envy. Ralik had a passing moment of gratitude that he was not of the kind to inspire such feelings in others.

Outside it was dark and the air was cold. Ralik took a moment to find his charge since Zarengor was braced against the wall, his lean body almost invisible against the rough stonework.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” The Black Vavasor’s voice sounded weary. “I am old enough to be out on my own, you know.”
Ralik said nothing. There was nothing to say. It was easy enough to understand the level of frustration that the other man had to contend with.
“Don’t you just love these Harkerans? They think themselves so civilised and superior – regard war as unreasonable, think a man who can write poetry or design a building is of more value than one who can use a sword, they regard their women as their equals in all things and even give legal rights to their slaves and their animals.” His voice was very slightly slurred betraying the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “But when it comes to good old-fashioned affairs of the heart, they are as quick as the next man to leap to the wrong conclusions and draw their blades.”
Ralik watched a group of young Harkeran noblemen leave the inn. They were obviously looking for something, or someone and two carried lights.
“It is getting late, Honoured One,” he said carefully. Zarengor, when drinking, could be persuaded but never pushed.
“Then you go home,” the other man suggested, his voice quite friendly, “I was thinking of finding another Harkeran matron of high standing to ravish, your Castellan’s wife perhaps.”
Ralik stiffened at the insult but said nothing, knowing it was deliberate, knowing Zarengor was goading him and knowing also it was the frustration and the drink that spoke through him. The Harkerans were getting closer and the mood Zarengor was in, it could easily end with blood on the street – their blood.
“Death of the gods, Ralik, what does someone have to do to get under your skin?” Zarengor sounded amused more than irritated.
The Harkerans had heard the voice if not the words and were moving now with intent. Ralik moved closer to his charge, who seemed to notice the threat for the first time and groaned aloud.
“Oh joy, children with swords and pistols. Just what I needed to make my day complete.”
The five young men, none of whom could have seen more than twenty summers, moved to confront them, throwing the burning torches to the ground and two of them had drawn swords, a third rested his hand on the butt of a finely crafted pistol. Zarengor still rested against the wall.
“Tell them I’m not hungry, Ralik, I have eaten enough babies today.”
“I’m more a man than you are, butcher,” the ring leader called out. Zarengor laughed briefly.
“Of course you are, that’s why you have your four friends with you. Brave child, go home to your mother and suckle some more then you might grow up big and strong one day.”
The Harkeran made a sound of incoherent fury and launched himself forward. Zarengor barely seemed to move away from the wall, his sword suddenly in his hand and cutting down through the youngster’s guard, drawing blood on his shoulder. The Harkeran stepped back, but found he could not escape the blade which seemed to be everywhere. Then as his sword went flying and he tried to jump aside, Ralik’s own blade came up and caught the death cut at the last moment and moved ready to parry again as the deadly blade disengaged.
“He is only a boy!” Ralik said the words urgently and ungently, part of his mind furious at Zarengor for allowing himself to drink to the point of such judgement loss and for the rest, afraid that he himself might now become a target for the feral sword. But the Vavasor seemed to come to himself, hesitating to attack through Ralik, and the youngsters took advantage of the moment to escape, disappearing into the darkness at speed.
For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, swords in their hands. Ralik waited with the point of his own blade towards the ground in a defensive gesture. He could not afford to surrender any advantage, Zarengor, drunk or not, was by far the superior swordsman. Then the Vavasor sighed and lowered his sword slowly.
“We should find the ponies,” he said heavily, sliding the blade back into its sheath. Ralik allowed himself to relax and stepped back carefully before putting his own sword away.

From Transgressor Trilogy: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook, a Fortune’s Fools book.

We walked. Along the road this morning
And all we heard was birds
No traffic roar no engine labour
And words became absurd
Under the dome of some god’s sky
The quiet bade us try it
We walked in beauty you and I
You can’t deny it, nor decry it
No people save the two of we
No noise, no growling toys
Nothing but the sound of peace
In silence today we found joy

©️jj 2020

This is primarily aimed at the distaff side of the population – although it wouldn’t hurt the male of the species to read it, or a similar essay, before charging off to Victoria’s Secrets with lust in their eyes and no idea of size.

But I digress. 

Underwear. 

What a daily conundrum it is. 

Let’s see if we can unwind it a bit.

The brassiere. Nature’s way of reminding us that being a woman sucks. If you are possessed of a small, pert bosom ignore the next couple of paragraphs they probably don’t apply. But for the rest of us there is always the brassiere dilemma. 

To wear. Or not.

Underwires. Or not.

Padding. Or not.

Front fastening. Rear fastening. Climb in.

There are too many choices and most are lousy.  So let’s dig down to the best advice there is – that of an old woman who has tried the effing lot.

If you can get away with it, don’t wear a bra – they are the inventions of Satan.

If you have to immolate yourself because you need to for comfort and to avoid having pendulums swinging over your stomach, get measured properly and buy the best you can afford. With a bit of luck you will avoid shoulder ruts and undertit pinches. Good luck.

Having disposed of the bustenhalter let us take a passing slap at leg coverings. 

*sighs and lights ciggy*

In an ideal world we would all wear trousers. All of the time. Long trousers in winter and maybe a little shorter in warm weather. But the world is not ideal, and women wear skirts. Why is beyond my comprehension. However, it is a fact and it needs to be dealt with. 

In the summer you may be tempted to go for the bare-legged look. This is fine and very comfortable. But. If your legs are neon white and look like some child has been drawing on them with a blue biro it may be kinder to the rest of the world to slap on a bit of fake tan before venturing out. Or not if you really don’t care.

For more formal occasions there are the horrors of delicate fine tights, or, even worse, stockings and suspenders. Don’t do either. The tights will either crawl up your bum crack or droop into concertina like folds. And it goes without saying that one leg will be twisted – giving your walk something of the air of Quasimodo on a night out. Does that leave us with the huge physical and mental discomfort of stockings and suspenders* as our only option, do I hear you cry?  No. If you really have to look like a member of the royal family on a walkabout get a pair of hold-ups with a decently wide elastic top and hope for the best.

*Hint. If you must wear these godawful things the suspenders straps go inside your knickers (not how it is depicted on the front of your/his favourite soft porno). Get this wrong and you will be unable to drop your pants to piss.

An aside here is those items of underwear that claim to slim you that’s anything from corsets to control knickers. They. Do. Not. Work. All they do is shift unwanted flesh from A to B or C. That roll around your waist will just be pushed up above your foundation garment in such a way as to make you appear to have grown an extra pair of breasts. If you care about being fat lose weight.

And finally. Knickers, or panties as our colonial cousins call them. You’re on your own here. I have only one piece of wisdom to impart. Thongs…

Just don’t. 

Life is tough enough without a piece of cheese wire between the cheeks of your ass.

The biggers were behaving very oddly. None of them were leaving the homestead, and only the house biggers came into the garden. Even the cement pond shining bluely in the sunshine wasn’t attracting its usual crowd of screaming divers.

The gnomes wouldn’t have bothered, had not the small biggers come out into the garden and put paper masks on all their faces.

The head bigger laughed. 

“Don’t want the little folks getting Covid 19.”

The next morning the biggers discovered the gnomes gathered together on the island in the middle of the duckpond.

Eric’s placard read.

“Social distancing. Keep away.”

©️jj 2020

“Man up,” I said briskly. “We need to know all you know about your little friend.” I threw him a wad of paper tissues and waited for him to get his stuff together.
“I met him about six months ago. At a wine tasting in the Napa Valley. He was the only other person there who didn’t talk like he had a stick up his ass. We had dinner.” Weaver’s voice was thready but he had himself in hand. “Wasn’t until we had met up a few times that I even found out he worked for Blue Ess. He’s only ever been here once other than today. That time we went to the guest house over by the western border of the property, so he has never been in the main house.”
“He ever ask you any stuff about the boss?”
“No. Never. We never talked about his work. Or mine.”
“Any other way he could’ve gotten info from you? Codes or the like?” Cyrus was less tactful than I maybe would have been but the question had to be asked.
Weaver shook his head. “No. I carry my codes in my head. And I don’t see how he could have got them from there.”
Cyrus grunted. “So why’d he pick you up then. Or was it just coincidence?”
Weaver looked truly miserable. “I don’t see how it can have been. I’m not a great believer in coincidence.”
I was thinking as hard as I had in a very long time.
“Lab,” I said curtly, “and we need to be quick.”
Cyrus fairly sprinted. Weaver was half a pace behind. And I kept pace as best as I could. Both men seemed to have caught my urgency as they had me in the computer lab with the doors locked behind us quicker than I would have thought possible. I went to a familiar tool chest and, swallowing a burst of nausea as I worried about the good, kind man in whose house I stood, I grabbed a handful of items.
“Weaver. Gimme your phone. Now.”
He was too surprised to do anything but accede, handing over a brand-new Galaxy. I opened the back and he paled.
“Don’t be a wuss Weaver,” Cyrus growled at him. “If she effs your phone up, I’ll buy you a new one.”
I showed them my teeth. “If I do break it, I’ll buy you a new one. Now shut up and let me work.”

An extract from ‘Vicious Reality’ a short story featuring Alysson Kowalski from Jane Jago’s novel Jackdaw Court. You can find it in Challenge Accepted an anthology of speculative fiction focusing on people with disabilities rising to the challenge. 

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

Excessive Gentility

Ladies of a certain age/type get right on my norks. You know the ones I mean, those whose sneezes sound like a tiny cricket chirping, and who would die of embarrassment if they farted alone in an empty room.

I know I scare the snot out of these mimsy little ladies and doing so is a source of constant delight.

If you don’t believe what fun it can be, sneak up behind a maiden lady in a queue and announce that your arse itches.

Cruel. But deserved for every uncharitable thought she will have hidden behind her lace hanky…

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

almunus (adjective) – deeply fond of charity shops and dime stores

amborsal (adverb) – of sleeping – making noises like a bathtub emptying

bearst (adjective) – of ursine appearance

chacater (noun) – small marsupial of the genus ventus conputrueruntus best known for the pungence of its farts

catcomba (noun) – feline trichologist 

dinga (noun) – one who hits first and asks questions after

ephelant (noun) – elderly woman with very wrinkled skin

fiender (noun) – particularly inept ghost hunter 

gnnat (adverb) – of speech – gruff and without charm

krean (adjective) – of women airheaded, entitled and unable to spell

lunimous (adjective) – pale, dull and vaguely unsatisfactory

mitger (noun) – very stingy person

psrson (noun) – priest with bad skin

ragrine (noun) – complex dance form practiced by thin men in leotards

revtim (noun) – me time for catholic priests

streuggle (noun) – apple cake with the addition of egg noodles (for no apparent reason)

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

Enticknapp was sitting among the cabbages considering his options. He knew he had been a bad puppy and he rather thought a spanking might be on the cards. 

Maybe he should just run away.

But if he ran away he would never see the small human again, and he loved her.

He cried a puppy tear and crept out of the cabbage patch to face his punishment.

Boss man spied him and bent to pick him up with gentle hands.

“Never mind, puppy,” he said. “It was my fault. I didn’t let you out when you woke up.”

Enticknapp smiled.

©️jj 2020

If ever he could afford to buy a proper house in Central, Grim reflected, this would be the kind of place he would most want to live. It was not one of the elite suburbs. Those incredible places where you had a neat patchwork of huge mansions set in massive gardens and anything that was not automated was dealt with by discreet servants all with the same universal smile and self-effacing manner. He had been in such places on occasion in the course of his investigations. They always made him feel like a mangy stray walking in on the life of pampered lapdogs. It was not the kind of lifestyle he could ever imagine himself having or even wanting to have.
But this was a bit more real.
More his scale of aspirational.
The houses were all large, but not so big you needed more than normal amounts of automation to live comfortably in them. The gates were low enough to see over and he liked that on the other side of the narrow roadway was what looked like a public park. The road was designed to be just wide enough for PTVs or delivery drones to land. These were more like real homes and less status-symbol fortresses.
Like everywhere else in Central, transport was discreet, automated and instantly available on request. But he landed the PTV at the end of the roadway so he could walk up. He wanted to do some thinking and get a feel for the locality.

Much as he admired it, this was a very different environment from any he had ever lived in. He could only wonder what it must be like to feel belonging in this sort of place. The sense of security and even entitlement that it must bestow. But maybe that was ungenerous. There were some people here who took a very active role in trying to right some of the wrongs in broader society. People like the mother of the person he was here to visit. But the majority, he suspected, took all this tranquillity, security and beauty for granted and never questioned it.
The metropolis was called Sungold and this suburb was Fairweather. It did indeed seem to have the advantage of a wonderful, sunny, climate. He suspected the weather was controlled, with the necessary rain only being permitted to fall in the sleeping hours so as not to disturb the perfect lives of the local inhabitants.
It was just a bit different from the place he called home. That was a two room, eightieth-floor apartment that he shared with Mabs, in one of the recently built sprawling townships on a ‘new’ Central world. New because it was not one of the first settled Central planets, but one close enough to be drawn in a few generations later and made to serve as a kind of holding bay and access gate for those unable to afford a more traditional Central lifestyle. The kind of traditional Central lifestyle these beautiful houses in Fairweather, Sungold typified.
Grim stopped by the house he had come to find. It looked little different to any of the others. Each might have its own unique addition and styling to distinguish it very slightly from the neighbours, but they were all enough of a type for their uniformity to be visible even through the remodelling and the repainting of the facades. Lovely as they were, they were all still mass produced by construction gantries, to the same key design from identical materials. It was just a few whistles and bells and a bit of cosmetic tinkering that made one any different from another.
This particular one was styled in simple, classic stone with rimmed pillars by the door and supporting the small porch. There was even a privately owned PTV parked up under the protection of a pillared canopy beside the house. A mark of wealth and status in a place where the norm was to link for an auto-ride.
He tried the gate and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. It was low enough that he could have vaulted over it easily, but that would have been a bit intrusive so, instead, he used the link-point on the gate post.
“Can I help you?” A polite, cultured, Central accent replied almost at once. Grim smiled to show he was pretty harmless. She could see him even if he could not see her.
“Sorry to disturb you, I was wanting to speak with Var Sweetling, if she is available.”

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook