Sarah braided her long silver hair, not so easy with inflexible fingers. Taking the crusts, she walked to the park. It was a daily ritual since her little dog passed, giving her reason to leave the house where she’d lived alone for years.

Sitting on the bench, scattering crumbs, bundled in her warm coat, she smiled when David joined her as he always did. His bald head and bare hands pale with cold.

She pushed a small parcel at him.

The warm knitted hat and gloves fitted perfectly. 

“Best Valentine’s gift I ever had,” he told her with a kiss.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“Now what do we grown-ups do?” Rod asked.
“We can sit outside and chat if you want” offered Anna, “I’ve got chairs in the garage. And if we’re just outside the door the little man won’t wake up alone.”
“That’s a good idea. If Sam gets the chairs out. I’ll go and get some drinks from the bar. Brandy Sam? What for you Anna?”
“Brandy too. And a cappuccino.”
“What a good notion. Three brandies and three cappuccinos. I’m on it.”
He cantered off leaving a laughing Anna to hand Sam the garage keys. He got out three chairs and a smallish table, before quietly closing the door.
“I don’t think we’ll get Rod to bed as early as last night.”
“No. I’m sure we won’t. But I’m glad to see it. Last night he was wiped. And hurt. Today he’s more like himself.”
“He is that,” Sam concurred as he watched the huge figure striding back across the garden with a tray balanced professionally.

They sat down and Anna took a sip of her brandy.
“Tell me how you two met. The cage fighter and the orthopaedic surgeon seem like an odd couple to me.”
Rod grinned.
“The first time I saw Sam he was wearing a pair of not too clean drawstring trousers and some flip-flops. It was in Thailand. I’d been offered an obscene amount of money to fight two Cambodian brothers. So much that I couldn’t refuse. Win or lose it would set me up for life. I was just sitting waiting for my fight when an English voice spoke behind me. It warned me to watch the smaller of the two Cambodians around my nuts, if I didn’t want them bitten off. I nodded, and my informant moved off. That piece of information was the last bit of the jigsaw and enabled me to beat the crap out of the Cambodian boys. Carelessly, I managed to dislocate a knuckle, and I was wondering what to do about it when the English voice spoke again. I turned around and saw this scruffy looking bugger, with two Chinese girls on his arms, and a doctor’s bag in his hands. Cut a long story short he fixed it, and his companions came back to my hotel with me. The girls were nurses, who worked for Medecins sans Frontiers. They clued me to the fact that Sam was actually not a local, which I found funny. So I sent him a bottle of single malt to show my appreciation. He reciprocated with a can of Red Stripe. And that’s how we became friends.”
“I see. But why was Sam dressed so scruffily?”
“I was blending. I enjoyed the real Thailand. Though it can be fucking brutal. A big black guy dressed like a local could go anywhere in relative safety. A Caucasian doctor not so much. If it wasn’t whores and beggars, it would be con men and muggers. I was safer…”
“I bet.”
Then Anna grinned wryly.
“I’ve never seen Rod fight. I always wanted to, but never been brave enough to go.”
“I could watch him all the time. He’s incredible. It’s not just how big and strong he is, he’s graceful, and unbelievably fast. The Lin twins – the two nurses in the story – had a theory that he could pluck flies out of the air if he wanted. Mind you, they also said he was a prodigious lover and had the best tattoos they had ever seen.”
“Oh yeah. Except your dragon.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. Sam got up and pulled the t-shirt over his head to reveal a broad, hairless chest, decorated with a rampant dragon, which started on his chest ran around his rib age and finished just above his navel.
“That is an excellent dragon. But. On an orthopaedic surgeon?”
Sam grinned and put his shirt back on.
“That’s the whole point isn’t it? Everyone needs a small rebellion. Smaug here is mine. Wanna show me yours?”
She laughed.
“I don’t have one. And what’s Rod’s excuse? He’s got more ink on him than the Sunday Times…”
“I dunno. It has a bit to do with the cage fighting culture. But mostly I just like the way it looks.”
“On girls too?”
“Especially on girls.”
Anna winced.
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Sam grinned.
“Yes. It does. I nearly gave up at times, but once I started…”
Rod nodded.
“True. The worst bits are the sleeves, the underside of your arms is mightily sensitive.”
“If I live to be nine hundred I will never understand men.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

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

You are young, and distressingly prim
As you rush from your work to the gym
With your buttocks clenched tight
And your politics right
Can you not see your outlook is grim

© jane jago

Breakfast was a happy meal in the tiny apartment. Although the three of them could barely fit around the table they always managed to eat and laugh together.  First up from the wreckage was twelve-year-old Tanith, who stuck a pink tongue out at her father.
​“You are outnumbered Dad, so just give up.”
​Tom waved a lazy arm. “School, child. At least you are outnumbered there.”
​Tanith grabbed her school bag.
​“I need a coat, Mum?”
​“Not today. But tomorrow you will want your high boots…”
​The door banged behind their beloved child and both parents watched indulgently as her coltishly long-legged figure leapt gracefully onto the private walkway that would take her to school.
​“Do we do wrong not the have a sibling for her?” Anna wondered softly.
​Thomas smiled his kind and reassuring smile.
​“She is happy, well adjusted, and loved. So no.”
​Anna briefly touched his face then got up and stretched until her bones cracked. ​“It’s going to be a long day. Overtime. I’m called to the centre of the Dome to do a sunset. Spectacular of course. One of the wives is having a barbecue (whatever that might be) and a beautiful sunset is essential to the endeavour.”
​“You be careful then. I know what the rich are like..”
​“Oh. I’m not pretty enough or young enough. And they badly want this sunset.”
She picked up her work bag and sauntered off.
He watched her with a little worry at the back of his eyes before clearing up the slip of a kitchen and setting out to his own place of work.
Much later in the day, Anna’s identification was being carefully checked before she was permitted to leave the central walkway. She was escorted to the weather station by a couple of respectful security operatives who were darkly suited, but with suspiciously bulging armpits.
​“What is it precisely that you do madonna?” ​The question was phrased politely, but Anna was in no doubt that her reply was essential to her wellbeing.
​“I’m a sky painter sir. The astral plain above our heads is merely the underside of the Dome. We control the weather, and we control how the ‘sky’ looks. Normal skies are computer programs. And I write the algorithms. For special occasions I can create a skyscape live.”
They still looked a bit pensive.
​“Can you show us?”
​She nodded. “See that perfectly plain blue sky over the purple-leaf trees.”
Anna tuned her light brushes to the frequency for just that square of sky and began the exquisite dance that is sky painting. What she did not see was how her work lit her small, plain face and how the beauty of her movement was enough to steal the breath. By the time she had finished, the men were enchanted – both by the artist and by the tiny skyscape she had created just for them. The larger of them bowed his head.
​“I think I am your slave forever madonna.”
​Anna blushed. “I thank you sir. It is enough that my work is enjoyed.”

From ‘The Sky Painter’ one of the incredible short stories in pulling the rug iii by Jane Jago

The humans were happily drawing water that the myora kept fresh and sweet for them.

Rescued from a dying world, the oddly appealing humans couldn’t shape reality mentally, lacked telepathy, and had an irrational urge to over-procreate. Some myora even considered humans to be sapient. Those who watched now didn’t care. They were here for entertainment.

The signal came and the culling began, with the smallest humans screaming as they were caught.

This way of managing animals came from the humans’ own history. And since the population had to be kept in check, why not have fun doing so?

E.M. Swift-Hook

“I know we’re not on Temsevar anymore,” Durban said. “If I played the dance tune there it was only because I knew the place much better than you and sometimes it would’ve taken too long to convince you that I was right.”
Avilon inclined her head very slightly as if acknowledging at least part of his point.
“Although there is the minor issue that you weren’t always right. Either on Temsevar or since.”
“Maybe we have both learned a little humility in recent times,” Durban suggested, his tone pitched to be modestly rueful. “I’m a very different person than I was when we first met. You’ve said as much yourself, more than once. You aren’t the only one who has changed. Maybe you should allow me that.”
“Maybe,” Avilon conceded, “but, I’m still waiting on your answers to my questions: what are you really trying to achieve, and why did you go to such extremes to restore me to life?”
Durban summoned a smile.
“I don’t see why you should find it so hard to believe that my motive wasn’t simple human friendship. Especially as I felt very responsible for you being in that place.”
“Except you’re not simply human,” Avilon observed, her tone growing acidic. “And you seem to forget, I know you were willing to literally trade your life for mine. I saw the state you were in after, and I helped bring you out of it. I didn’t really think much about it at the time. I had too much else going on with this new body, and then I had two years with just one thought driving me— getting back to the Legacy. But, these last three cycles I’ve had a bit more leisure to think it through. And when I did, a lot of things I noticed just didn’t add up. I started wondering why you even went through what you did trying to get me restored. That wasn’t just paying a debt or some kind of guilt thing. It went way beyond any degree of friendship you and I ever had. You were literally throwing your life away.”
Avilon stopped talking and Durban let the breath he had drawn in escape in a sigh. It was a scene that had played out in his mind only in nightmares and for once, he had no idea what to say. For a frozen moment the sea-blue eyes held his gaze, acute with accusation. Durban gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment.
“I hear and understand,” he said, simply.
“But you’re not going to say anything to it?” Avilon made a contemptuous sound and shook her head. “Why am I not even slightly surprised? It’s always been the same with you, Durban, from the first day we met on Temsevar. A one way street on trust and information. Well, maybe I’ve got to the point of no longer caring enough to even force it out of you. You saved my life on Temsevar at great personal cost and I’ve saved yours on Skapandir at great personal cost. And now, again, on Dyfrax. I think that seems a very good place to call it quits and end our association.”

E.M Swift-Hook

You can snag your copy of  Iconoclast: Not To Be now!

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

I am old, and the young think me rude
For I laugh really loud and throw food
I am never PC
And I never drink tea
But I do like to swim in the nude

© jane jago

Tater Ham Chowder

You can use any kind of potatoes you like here. Another nice variation is to use sweet potatoes, or a combination of white and sweet. This is definitely a hobbity soup, so I used the Middle-earth word for potato (see Westron, or the Common Speech…).

1 tablespoon salted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 ounces cooked ham, diced
2 cups carrot, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 cups celery, coarsely chopped
2 cups red onion, coarsely chopped
1½ pounds potatoes, cut into ½ʺ cubes (peeled or not; it depends on the variety of potato you use)
3 cups cabbage, coarsely chopped
1 quart low-sodium chicken broth
1¼ teaspoons salt
1¼ teaspoons marjoram (2-3 tablespoons fresh, minced)
1 teaspoon black pepper

Optional Garnish:

Minced fresh chives
Cooked and crumbled bacon
Sour cream or crème fraîche

Coat a 4-quart saucepan with cooking spray. Melt the butter and olive oil over rather high heat. Add the ham, carrot, celery, and onion and sauté 10 minutes, stirring often. Add the remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Cook on low heat 20-25 minutes, covered, until vegetables are tender. Stir a couple times. Puree 3 cups of the soup, then add it back to the pot. Season, if desired. Garnish, as desired. Cover and chill leftovers; don’t freeze. Serves 4-6.

Vegetarian Options—Change the broth to vegetable and substitute about a quarter-pound of diced turnip, rutabaga, or parsnip (all should be peeled) for the ham. Or you could simply increase each of the already-required vegetables.

Spicy Options—Green Chile? Of course (I live in New Mexico!). I’d recommend about 4 ounces. Your favorite variety of salsa would also be delicious.

A Bite of… Astrid Tuttle Winegar

1. What gave you the original idea for a book of recipes based on a fantasy world?

My first cookbook, Cooking for Halflings & Monsters: 111 Comfy, Cozy recipes for Fantasy-Loving Souls, grew out of an undergraduate course on Tolkien. I’ve always been cooking and baking, so using Middle-earth as an inspiration was a no-brainer. But other worlds, such as Narnia, Westeros, and the Final Frontier often inspire me as well.

2. What were the hardest bit and the best bit of collecting this second volume of recipes?

The hardest bit of recipe development happens when I get an idea to pursue that doesn’t pan out. Sometimes it’s hard to abandon something that should have worked. But once abandoned, I resign myself to the loss and move on. The best bit? We eat LOTS of delicious food around my house!

3. If you could host a dinner party with any three people, real or fictional, who would you invite, which of the recipes in this book would you serve them and why those ones?

Well, if I hosted a dinner party with real/fictional people, I would invite J. R. R. Tolkien for learned conversation and anecdotes. I would also invite Brian May, the guitarist from Queen, because I’ve had a crush on him since my teenage years. Since he is Dr. May now, he and J. R. R. would get along well, though Tolkien’s astronomical references might need some tweaking. Finally, I would invite Lisbeth Salander, the heroine of the Millennium series, to make everyone just a bit uncomfortable.

From my latest cookbook, A Year of Comfy, Cozy Soups, Stews, and Chilis: Cooking for Halflings & Monsters, Volume 2, I would cook up this comforting hobbity soup recipe,  bake a gorgeous loaf of bread from the aforementioned cookbook, and have some beer, whisky, and water available. Everyone would get along great and my husband would go to bed early. All good!

Astrid Tuttle Winegar is the author of Cooking for Halflings & Monsters: 111 Comfy, Cozy Recipes for Fantasy-Loving Souls, which was a finalist in the 2018 New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards. Astrid has been cooking, baking, and reading fantasy (and plenty of other literature!) for over 40 years. She has a bachelor’s degree in English and Latin and a master’s degree in Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies from the University of New Mexico. She has loved C. S. Lewis since childhood and J. R. R. Tolkien since middle and high school. She also loves all Star things, both Trek and Wars, all things Whedon, and many other things besides… She lives in the enchanted city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, with her husband; she is also a mother and a grandmother. For more information, go to astridwinegar.com. You can follow her on, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Aunt Artemisia had long been the repository for family secrets. Telling her something, was as safe as talking in your own head. A visit to her house. A nice cup of tea. Sharing the burden.

It even continued when she moved into residential care. Until one day, while sharing marital issues, Jack got a shock.

“Yes dear. Marianne hates you shouting at the telly.”

Secrets were no longer sacrosanct it seemed.

This changed the family, who started talking to each other.

“Such a shame. Her mind’s gone,” they said.

Artemisia smiled inwardly. She had wanted to do this for years.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook . Sometimes we walk the edges of realty…

She sensed this was indeed a ritual, though not one of any religious kind. Things were passing hand to hand, bottles of water and white cider. It was a scene she had witnessed a few too many times in her career. In her previous career, she mentally corrected and felt the small inner lurch of loss that always left in its wake.
Then someone moved right behind her and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders.
“Hey bros, look what I just found.”
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. 
No. It doesn’t. 
It really doesn’t.
Not when it breaks you inside.
That was all Jess could think, standing, paralised by her past. There was not even a conscious sense of fear, though she could feel her heart rate slam up and the floor drop away. It was as if her conscious mind had shot out of her body and hung suspended, mid-air, above it. There was nothing she could do. It was going to happen again.
The yelp seemed to come from a great distance away not from right behind, but the moment the grip was gone from her shoulders, it was as if she were restored. Restored to a body in panic. She would have run blindly, but there was a gentle touch on her arm and a girl’s face, looking at her. They ran together.
Jess had no idea where they were going, past half demolished buildings, and broken metal structures that reared like scaffold dinosaurs, against the moon-lit sky. The ‘bros’ were either more worried about what had happened to their companion or already too out of it to be able to give chase, because after a few shouts and some sounds of running feet, the night closed behind the two of them into quiet.
They went past the barrier with an old height restriction sign on it and cartoon-like pictures of stick men standing up in cars on a roller coaster, or leaning out, circled in red with a bar through the image.Then they were clambering over a heap of twisted metal beyond. It was not a hard scramble the way her guide was going, or a long one, which was as well because the shooting pains had started up in her legs as they reached what looked a bit like a metal box, buried in the middle of the debris. 
The girl touched her hand again, then opened the door making some kind of sounds, as if reassuring an animal. Then a small glow of light came from inside and Jess went in. 
She was not really sure what she had expected. But not this. It was almost obsessively neat and very clean. For a moment, Jess was thinking of paisley furniture and over-polished wooden floors, then chastised herself for assuming that the homeless could not also be house proud. For that was clearly what this was, a homeless person’s private shelter. There was a counter top along two sides and a closed fire on the third wall opposite a comfortable bed. It was more of a sleeping platform really, covered in an odd variety of multicoloured fleece picnic blankets. Two very large cats were curled in the middle and watched her with wary feline eyes.
Jess took it in then looked at her rescuer. The girl looked to be in her mid-teens, a runaway maybe. That realisation pushed Jess out of her bubble of self-concern and she mustered a smile.
“Thank you, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there,” she said. The girl said nothing, just glancing briefly to the cats and then back to Jess. So she tried again:
“My name is Jessica Monday, what’s yours?”
The girl kept looking at her, but the silence went on.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Part 5 of Maybe will be here next week…