From Times of Change the second book in Fortune’s Fools and volume two of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

He was waiting in the courtyard for his pony to be brought to him when an excited shriek of glee made him turn. A small human cannonball with vivid golden-red hair threw itself at him and wound thin arms around his neck.
“Tell me a story, tell me a story!” The Most Honoured Princess, the Lady Karlynne Roussal looked up into his face and repeated her demand more insistently. Durban was very aware of the nurse, Turla, looking disapproving a few paces away and in deference to her expression he disentangled himself gently and held the heiress of Harkera at arm’s length returning her smile.
“I will, with the greatest pleasure, Most Honoured Lady, but alas right now I am engaged on your Lady mother’s most urgent business.” Karlynne looked so crestfallen he had to soften the blow. “I will be back soon and then I will tell you a story – I promise.” The child brightened, her face like the sky when the clouds have passed.
“I want a story about a young princess who is rescued from an evil demon by a handsome Vavasor,” she told him firmly. Durban felt a strange sensation of fatality and it took more conscious effort than usual to maintain his warm smile as he looked down into the eager face.
“Ah – well in many stories it is an evil Vavasor who kidnaps the young princess, but the princess is so brave she wins free and lives happily ever after.”
Karlynne seemed to consider the idea seriously for a moment then shook her head vigorously.
“No. I want the Vavasor to be handsome and good and brave,” she insisted. “And he must really kiss the princess – really-truly, not just pretend.”
“You are too old to listen to such stories, Highness.” The old nurse had closed the distance between them and she sounded cross. She never approved of Durban’s effect on Karlynne, feeling it over-excited the child and he knew she had protested so to Jaelya. “And decent folk have more important things to do than storytelling anyways.” This last was accompanied by a strong glare at Durban, who merely shifted his smile to embrace Turla as well.
“No one is ever too old for stories,” he corrected gently. “Storytelling is one of the most revered and respected professions amongst the Northern peoples.”
“Filling a young girl’s head with daft tales?” Turla sounded contemptuous. “You just don’t know where that will lead.” It was as close to an accusation as Durban had ever heard.
“You’re not too busy are you?” Karlynne asked oblivious to the hostile adult undercurrents around her. There was a note of genuine appeal in her tone which tugged at his heart. For a moment he saw the world through her young eyes, where the adults she cared most about were always putting her off with the excuse of eternal important events that needed dealing with – things that were obviously so much more important than Karlynne in their lives.
“Of course I am not,” he told her warmly and saw the delight glow in her eyes. “If your Lady mother agrees, then I shall most certainly tell you a story when I have been to Cressida. But right now, I can see you are about to go riding with your friends.”
On the other side of the courtyard a group of ponies was being led out and three girls, all slightly older than Karlynne, were waiting with an escort. As Durban looked across he saw another figure join them from the palace, a young nobleman whom he recognised. The young man exchanged a familial hug and a few words with one of the girls, who pointed across to Karlynne. The new arrival followed her pointing finger and his expression changed instantly to one of rising anger.
“You do promise?” Karlynne tugged on Durban’s arm. He bathed her in his sunniest, most carefree smile and made a slicing action with one finger over his own throat in the childhood gesture and oath of unbreakable commitment.
“I will, I vow, or may I die,” he promised. This seemed to satisfy Karlynne who embraced him tightly, pressing her cheek against his chest before she allowed the glowering Turla to lead her away to join the group of girls on the far side of the courtyard.
Durban’s pony stood waiting and he took the reins from the groom with a brief word of thanks, flipping a coin to the lad, who caught it grinning. He mounted and was turning to leave the courtyard only to find his way barred by the young nobleman, who was now mounted on a superb pony. His face was dark with anger. Durban smiled at him winningly.
“Honoured One, how may I be of service to the Vavasor Ramyth?”
“Stay away from her, Chola,” the younger man snapped. “I don’t know what you are doing here, like some kind of vulture picking over the bones of Harkeran gossip to sell to the highest bidder, or are you spying for Vyazin perhaps?”
Durban took a moment to realise his rhetoric was not, in fact, rhetorical.
“I am here on business for the Regent,” he replied evenly, there was no point denying that. It would be the gossip of the servant quarters anyway by now.
“Spilling your poison in her ears,” Ramyth snarled, driving his mount closer in towards Durban’s making its ears pull back and its eyes narrow. Durban’s pony, placid and mature, ignored the hostility as did her rider.
“I am the Regent’s most loyal servant in all things, Honoured One,” Durban responded smoothly and with total honesty.
“Loyal servant?” Ramyth rasped, his boyish face now puce with emotion. He spat at Durban, the saliva hitting him full in the face. Durban did not flinch. “If the Princess commands your presence you will make your excuses, do you understand? If I find you have been near her, I will cut your vicious tongue from your mouth and have you flogged for the common rumourmonger you are.”
Durban heard him out without response. Ramyth was a Vavasor and himself a commoner – had he been acknowledged as a Harkeran citizen, that would have given him protection under the law. But the ruling Dewan had yet to be persuaded to extend full legal protection to those who were not Harkeran. So, in theory, the Vavasor could carry out his threat there and then in the courtyard of the palace and be fully within his rights to do so. In practice, Ramyth was probably too wise to take such action against one he knew was considered to be of value by the Regent, but his fury was still intense.
“Your will, Honoured One,” Durban said at last. “We are both the Regent’s to command.”
For a moment he thought he had pushed too far as the Vavasor’s hand went to his sword. But then the young nobleman seemed to come to himself and pulled his pony’s head round, too roughly for the highly bred beast, making it buck briefly and squeal in protest.
Durban remained unmoving until Ramyth had ridden out in the wake of the group of young girls and their escort, then he wiped his face. It seemed the Vavasor was making it a personal chore to ensure the Princess had no further unfortunate encounters whilst out riding.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Out today on Leap Year day In Verse – a collection of poems by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook with nearly one hundred poems about the vicissitudes of life, the wonders of nature, thoughts on philosophy and aspects of relationships. It has been four years in the collecting.

Here are a couple of poems from the collection for you to enjoy.

Dormitory

We’ve got a lovely bus shelter,
Though, sadly, there’s no bus
The service stopped in ninety-three
And no one made a fuss
We used to have a village pub
A warm, convivial place
They closed the doors one Saturday
And left without a trace
The post office and village shop
Could not be made to pay
So the man took all the stock
And bloody ran away
We have no doctors surgery
No dentist and no vet
We used to have a betting shop
But the middle class don’t bet
We do have Chelsea tractors
And Ocado bringing dairy
We used to be a village
Now we’re just a dormitory

jj

My Neighbour’s House

I don’t live in my neighbour’s house
We are a wall apart
But I know when she’s very cross
And when she breaks her heart.

And she must hear the many times 
I’ve watched my sports team win
My cheers and whoops and shouts of joy
Must make quite a din.

I knew the day her man took off
She threw things all around.
And the day her brother died
She didn’t make a sound.

Then things must have changed a lot 
I heard a baby cry
Now there’s nappies on the line
But I don’t want to pry.

We never talk or try to talk
And I don’t plan to start.
I don’t live in my neighbour’s house
We are a wall apart.

emsh

In Verse is available now in ebook or paperback.

This is more in the nature of an ill-tempered moan than an actual hint. What is the matter with the media – and seemingly anybody under the age of sixty?

Yes, there is one extra day in this year.

And also yes it is 2020, which is either the beginning of a new decade or the end of the old one – depending on how pernickety you are.

Either way. What the f*** is the big deal? Every four years we get a leap year, and every ten years we change decades. Get over it…

It doesn’t matter. 

You don’t get an extra day tacked on to your life in a leap year (and, if you are paid monthly, you don’t even get any extra pay). Also – and trust me on this one as I’ve lived through a few – you don’t suddenly become ten years older when a decade rolls over and dies. 

I am even seeing happy leap year cards advertised. Do. Not. Buy. Them. The only people who need a card are the ones born on February 29 – and they have no need if they have seen more than ten actual birthdays.

So. Today’s hint is absolutely simple. February 29 is just another day and 2020 is just another year. Anybody that tells you different is an asshole and probably wants your bank details so they can deposit the million pounds you won in the national lottery of some obscure banana republic. Take Granny’s word for it… it’s NBFD.

And finally, to every sad spinster out there who thinks it will be a good idea to propose to the asshole who has been conning bed and board out of her since just after the last leap year. For. The. Love. Of. Little. Fairies. Don’t. One: the bas***d will very probably run a mile. Two: Your proposal will be trending on social media within ten minutes. Three: Just don’t. If you are lonely buy a dog and have him neutered.

There it is my precious little snowflakes. Pull up your frilly panties and bloody well get on with it or Granny is going to fetch you such a clip across the lughole

Zraxy’ct had wanted to be an alien archaeologist from the time she had squaddled out of the brooding chamber. She had gained the right knowledge nodes to be accepted into the chosen clutch of those training for that elite career.

Now she was undertaking a course on one alien culture and its as yet untranslated languages. There was an odd broken circle symbol found everywhere thought to show generative power. It was clear to Zraxy’ct what the elements of it represented. The very obvious fact it showed a symbolic penetrative sex act was the basis of her acclaimed final thesis.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Paula came forward. ‘Okay. Listen up people. Danilo and Grandmother will lead, followed by the camera crew. The rest of you come along behind. And please keep quiet. Everybody got that? Let’s move out.’
Danilo and Grandmother moved off and the rest of us followed in relative quiet.
They led us to a point in one corner of the beer garden, where there were some tables standing on an area of flagstones. Danilo bent and touched the stones. He spoke in deeply formal tones, and with the cadences of his Rom heritage very evident under his slightly estuarine accent. ‘Beneath these stones is where Christopher Acres buried his beloved Rosalind. She calls for us to find her bones.’
One of the digging crews came forward and carefully moved aside the tables. Angela signalled to a tall young man with ginger hair, who peeled off the group and took a small video camera out of his pocket.
Danilo offered his grandmother his arm, and they turned away from the car park and headed towards the oldest buildings on the site, those to be found around the courtyard at the side of the pub. The oldest of them was empty, but it was obvious that someone had started, and then abandoned, a restoration project. Danilo walked inside and threaded his way through a forest of metal props and heaps of abandoned tools. He put his hand flat against one wall.
His voice rang out strong and sure. ‘Within this wall lie the bones of Aline Midwinter. A woman driven to suicide, who now begs to be found.’
The second digging crew came forward, and Angela left a thin, dark young man with another little camera.
‘And that’s the easy bit over’ Danilo said. ‘Now we head into the unknown.’ He bowed to his grandmother and she took his arm once more. This time, everyone who followed them was absolutely silent. The walk to the barn took a few minutes and the mood became more and more sombre as we progressed. As we got near, two of the crew ran forward and opened the gate. We filed into the field and Ben went to unlock the big double doors. He stepped back, and the same two crew members pulled back those doors and secured them open. We all stayed where we were, while Danilo and his grandmother walked slowly inside. For a moment, nothing happened, then the very air around us seemed to crackle. Beside me, Angela shivered.
‘I don’t like this.’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait.’
Then the singing started, softly and plaintively.
‘Ding dong bell.
Pussy’s in the well.
Who put her in?’

From Who Put Her In? by Jane Jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

Being old, I am bored with the news
So instead let us talk about shoes 
The wearing of crocs
Which all elegance mocks
Versus skyscraper heels. What to choose?

© jane jago

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

aminal (noun) – the knitted thing dragged around by a toddler which it can never be persuaded to part with for long enough to be washed

chocies (plural noun) – the best chocolates in the box

eithert (noun) – the face pulled by drunk people lighting the wrong end of a ciggy

hampet (noun) – a small furry rodent, genetically engineered to be uber cute

horriblt (noun) – foul mouthed hobbit

insprit (verb) – particularly of toddlers to insert any foreign object in the left nostril. Example: The inspriting of his sister’s craft beads caused Peterkin an uncomfortable interlude in A&E

jakstrap (noun) – piece of S&M equipment of whose uses I wot not

kow (noun) – ungulate animal with a pouch and an udder

mulchy (adjective) – of gardeners boots being rendered three sizes bigger by the addition of a mixture of thick clay and well-rotted manure

noludar (noun) – delivery driver whose satnav has picked up, often found crying in a lay-by on the B793 near Harrogate

relaly (adjective) – of getting pissed again on coffee after a heavy Pernod night

sandles (noun) – extra springy love handles

tatstes (noun) – slightly overripe gonads with an odd odour

upshit (verb) – in deference to those of gentle sensibilities I will merely explain that this refers to the bodily functions of those inebriated enough to be face down in a gutter

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

The gods had gone.

Imhotep bowed his head as they left in their boat of millions of years, which was the translation he gave his Pharaoh for the odd phrase the gods used – ‘time machine.’

They had taught him so much and around his neck he wore their final gift. A power button, they called it, engraved with the symbol of the power the gods wielded – a horizontal line with a circle above and a vertical line below.

He placed it in the hands of every god so one day they would see and know he had not forgotten them.

E.M. Swift-Hook

They were sitting in the park, a child had come running up chasing a creature no one else could see, playing a game in augmented vision. She swiped at something in the air between them.
“Got it!”
Yris watched her run off already obsessed by the next intangible she needed to track down.
“She knows,” Soraya said, as the child danced away over the sunlit grass. “She called me to account for my activities this last cycle.”
The pit of his stomach tightened and he looked at the woman sitting beside him, unsmiling. Her face was haunted by shadows of sadness and fear, beneath the sweep of blue-black hair. He reached out and gripped the two slender hands resting in her lap.
“Then we will have to go. I won’t lose you.”
“But -”
“But nothing. It is time to make a stand. My sister has dictated the course of my life long enough. I will not have her destroy the one thing that makes me truly happy.”
The shadows lifted from her face for a moment, and the smile was as sweet as life itself. “She will not let us go easily.”
“I know. I’ve known her a long time. A very long time, more than four times as long again as you have been alive. So you must trust me when I say I know how to deal with her.”
The blue-black hair swung as Soraya turned her face away, watching the child running after her private ghosts. For a moment, Yris envied that unknown child, her freedom and potential had yet to be curtailed by life.
“I don’t know,” Soraya’s voice came from behind the veil of her hair. “I’m not sure we get to live happily ever after.”
“No ‘ever after’ is happy forever.”

It got dark as he spoke. The air was no longer crisp and fresh, but brackish and still. Shadows flickered from the weak lights.
“But ‘tsa story, Gran’pa. It says so – so they did.”
The small dark eyes looked up at him from a face wearing a defiant expression. “Wha’s a tree?”
Yris shook his head. It would not help the child to know.
“Just something in the story,” he said. Then trying to distract the child: “You read it all yourself, that is very good.”
For a moment, the dark eyes seemed to study him as if doubting his words, then the small face smiled.
“You need to come for sleep time.” The child’s mother stood by the entrance. It was hard to know which of them she was addressing. The child of course, but Yris was tired. Recently, he found his sleep times more often matched the child’s than its parents.
He remained there, sitting with the story open, staring at its cheerful pictures of chubby clouds and a smiling sun painted across a pink-blue sky. Of course, he had many images and even VRruns of the real thing, but somehow these designs captured more of the essence of them. Someone had thought what the essential concept was for ‘cloud’, ‘sky’, ‘sun’, what symbolic place each held in the human psyche, and had created these images to project that sense of ‘sky-ness’ or ‘cloud-ness’.

From ‘Tongueless Caverns’ by E.M. Swift-Hook, one of the stories in the Inklings Press  anthology Tales From The Underground: Twelve tales of hidden legends

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks poetry – with free optional snark…

When I was young and in my prime
I had to get to work on time
Dress up smartly fix my face
Comport myself with style and grace
But now I’m old and very flighty
I go shopping in my nightie 

© jane jago