If rough and tough rhyme with blind man’s buff
How come that bough rhymes with now?
And if you amble through the morning dew
Why is it more thorough to stride across the borough?
If you cough at a toff it will put him right off
And it’s nice to be slow when kneading dough
This is stupid stuff and I have had enough 
English can rhyme on its own bloody time…

©️jj 2019

The opening of Gribble’s Geek, the new fantasy from Jane Jago   

The door of the staff dining room banged open and the handsome figure of Launcelot Gribble stood in the doorway with his romantically tousled head held high.
    “I think I’ve just broken my geek,” he announced.
    The Bursar sighed and looked up from the column of figures she was conning. “Again? And what makes you think this one is broken?”
    “He’s just sitting staring into the middle distance and making strange sheep-like noises.”
    Matron gave the dramatic figure in the doorway a look of deep dislike before grinding out her evil-smelling cheroot and heaving herself to her feet. She headed for the door, and as she passed Gribble she smacked him solidly across the back of the head with one large red hand.
    “Ouch. That hurt.”
    She didn’t even bother to answer him, just stalked along the dusty corridor like a vengeful leviathan.
    Gribble dropped his pose of romantic ennui and ruefully rubbed his head.
    “Why’d old iron tits decide to smack me around the head?”
    Democratic Runes looked up from the volume of arcane verse he was studying and regarded his colleague in disbelief.
    “Why wouldn’t she? You break geeks and she gets to fix them. How many is it this year?”
    Gribble studied his feet and muttered something unintelligible.
    “Come again?”
    “This one is number thirteen.”
    “Who else is egotistical enough to break geeks at that rate. Thirteen down and it’s only the ninth moon. You are a fucking liability, my friend.”
    Gribble hunched a shoulder and turned his startlingly green gaze on the sturdy figure of the Bursar.
    “I’ll just go choose another geek then, shall I?”
    “No. Indeed you will not. There have been complaints. The University has generated a memo. Allow me to read it to you. ‘It has come to our attention that the Chair of Ancient Scrolls is somewhat careless of the technicians who assist him in his work. This is unsatisfactory. Should any more instances occur, the choice of assistant is to be removed from his remit’.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that you don’t get to choose. You will be assigned a geek. And proper contracts will be signed.”
    Gribble bridled. “I don’t sign contracts. It’s an honour to be chosen to help me.”
    “As of now you do sign contracts. Because if you don’t, you don’t get a geek. And shut your mouth – you look stupid with it half open.” The Bursar got up and jerked a thumb at the gaping professor. “My office. Now.”
    In the skinny, cluttered office, Gribble looked around for a seat. He found no surface that wasn’t covered with paper.
    “Why do you have so much paperwork? Surely most of your accounts and stuff could be done on the computer.”
    “It could, if the University was not averse to The Motherboard knowing all our business. But we aren’t here to discuss my conditions of employment, it’s the conditions under which you employ your geeks that are in dispute.”
    “Dispute?” Gribble pushed out his lip in a show of boyish petulance, before he remembered that the Bursar was not of an ilk to be cajoled or seduced by the likes of him. Instead he hunched a shoulder. “Where do I sign?”
    “I thought you might see sense,” her smile was just on the acceptable side of smug. But only just.
    Scrabbling about in the teetering pile of paper on the windowsill, she dragged out a sizeable parchment and unfolded it.
    “You sign here, here, here and here.”
    Gribble pulled a pen out of his pocket and signed as indicated. The Bursar inserted the signed document in a slot in the wall and after a few seconds a disembodied voice filled the air.
    “Contract duly witnessed.”
    The unwieldy parchment slowly reversed out of the slot to fall unnoticed to the floor.
    Gribble eyed the Bursar.
    “Right. When do I get my geek?”
    “Tomorrow morning.”
    He opened his mouth to argue, then his face caught up with his brain and he snapped his teeth together.
    “Good thinking. Now cut along. I’ve got work to do.” The Bursar waved a wrinkled hand in dismissal.
    Even an ego as colossal as Gribble’s recognised the pointlessness of arguing with a tetchy female colleague who was not only senior to him in the University hierarchy, but who also disliked him quite a lot. He left the dusty confines of the office, shutting the door behind him with exaggerated care before stomping along the disorienting curve of the corridor cursing and kicking random pieces of furniture.
    Behind him, the Bursar listened to muffled swearing and assorted crashes. The smile that spread across her face made her look like a crocodile that smells fresh meat.
    “You, my temperamental young colleague, ain’t seen nothing yet.”
    She returned to her figures, obscurely comforted by the hard lesson Gribble was about to be taught.

Click here to keep reading this unusual fantasy story from Jane Jago

She’d take it back if she could
The words were out
Then she saw his face.
The cut so deep that blood shed.
But it was done.
Spoken.
Said.

Nothing could be changed
The words were out
Their wounding complete.
No tears can wash out that pain
The hurt ricochets
Inflicting
Silence.

The one most on her side
Then words come out
Tearing them apart
The one she trusts, knows her best
Knows just where to strike
To hurt.
Snarls.

Now, as intimate strangers
The words come out
Weaponised by choice
Lovers become enemies
Each no longer hears
Pain filled
Cries.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes! Today’s victim is singer Selena Morisot, also known as Selena M. Heroine of Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard and the upcoming My Spaceship Calls Out to Me, and Space Girl Yearning by Mike Van Horn.

Why did you become a singer? Were you following your passion?

Hah! I wish. When I was in college, my big brother got drafted into major league
baseball. He taunted me, “See, guys can leave school and make big money like this, but girls can’t.” I took that as a dare. I recorded this song we’d played around with, “Cotton Candy Lovin’,” and it became a hit. That launched my singing career. It’s still my most requested song, even though I’m sick of it.
My brother never did make it in the big show, but I’ve made enough money to buy my dream house up along the coast. So no, I didn’t go into singing as a passion.
But things changed. This funny looking alien crashed on my hillside, and we learned to communicate by singing. I called her Breadbox. She left her home world because she was not allowed to sing the songs most meaningful to her. She kept urging me to do the same—to sing from my heart. It took me a long time to get this. One night I dreamed of my namesake, the painter Berthe Morisot, and she said she only paints from her heart, all else is empty. This had a big impact on me. So, singing is my passion now—I always sing my heart song. And I miss Breadbox more than I can say.

You’re surrounded by men, yet you seem to have no romance in your life. What
gives?

Hey, I just got a proposal for marriage! *giggle* Don’t know if I’ll say yes; that must unfold in another story. Seriously, my singing career with all the touring got in the way of romance—at least with a man. Ever since Doug, my one true love, got tired of waiting for me and married somebody else. I don’t even remember her name. And zipping around other worlds in a spaceship also makes it tough for romance.
My life is full of romance—the romance of adventure. I know, it’s not the same.
On the other hand, I have great men in my life—men who aren’t looking at me for
romance. We’re just friends and collaborators, and they’re always there for me.

Did you ever feel squeamish being so close to all those strange-looking aliens?

Do you mean the time I got drunk and fell into the swamp where all the Fofonoloy were swimming, and in their rush to get away from me they brushed past me like a bunch of miniature hippos?
Or the night when I was awakened by what looked like a giant spider the size of an orangutan, and I screamed? Then I found out it had been sent to clean my room and do my laundry.
I still laugh about these, but I was terrified at the time. Squeamish and screamish. No, most of the time I was very comfortable around them, even when touching or embracing them. After all, they were busy saving my life. They are now some of my best friends. I’m hoping the people of Earth can accept them as I have.

If you had your life over and were forced to choose between space travel and
music – one without the other – which would it be?

Ah, this is so hard for me to answer. I don’t think I can choose. Look, I chose more than once to follow my passion for singing on Earth, but every time I got pulled into some other adventure in outer space. But when I was invited to come to Everbright and do a concert, I thought, wow, I can do both!
When I returned from my last adventure I had a quiet realization: I have been touched by the Infinite. I can never be happy staying put. And I can never give up my singing.

What is the one principle you would die for if you had to?

I never saw myself as one who would die for a principle. But when my best buddy Clay had terminal cancer while I was orbiting the Moon, I risked my life to pick him up from Earth because only the instruments on my spaceship Star Choice had a chance to eliminate his cancer. With Star Choice, I made a perilous dash down to Earth where I knew the Air Force was gunning for me. I got him and the cancer doc from the Stanford Med Center before zipping back into orbit. We saved his life!
So I guess you’d say I’d risk my life for my friends. That may not count as an abstract principle, but it’s a real life principle. I also did this for my alien friends. When I was on Sfofong, their world, I argued their case before their Elders who had threatened to kill me. They tried but I eluded them.

His angelic glory lit the small room as he spoke.

“Be not afraid. You have been chosen to bear a divine child,” Gabriel hoped he didn’t sound too weary. 

“Afraid? You’re kidding, right?” She stood arms akimbo by the laundry bucket. “No. I’m not having anyone’s baby. Go away!”

Gabriel left. Her words, “Creepy weirdo!” following him out. The fourth sulky teen he’d asked and so far no joy. Literally.

“Be not afraid, Hannah…”

“Go away!”

“Be not afraid, Rachael…”

“Stuff off!”

Gabriel checked the list. The next one was engaged already. This was so not going to go well…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Leo made another coffee and put it on the table. It wasn’t too many minutes before Frank appeared with two boxes of groceries looking like child’s toys in his huge hands. He put them down on the worktop and turned in time to receive an enormous cat in his arms.
‘Hello you soppy old bastard’ he said conversationally before giving the cat a perfunctory stroke and dropping it onto a cushion on the floor. ‘Sorry about him. But nobody wanted.’
‘That’s all right’ Leo laughed. ‘It’s a him is it?’
‘Neutered but still most definitely a him.’
Leo looked at what appeared to be a sack of fur and fat. ‘Maybe just as well he can’t procreate, although I do have a certain amount of fellow feeling.’
Mike grinned, Ro studied her shoes, and Frank looked just plain puzzled. Leo took pity on him.
‘Ten years ago I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. They caught it in time, but I lost one of the boys. It took some getting my head around, but it’s OK now. And I find I can even talk about it.’
Frank looked shrewdly at him for a long moment.
‘How much did it cost you to say that?’
‘Not a lot. But it’s taken a lot of time and patience on other people’s part to get me to that point.’
‘Mostly Mike’ Ro said quietly. ‘And I never thought I’d see this day.’
Leo smiled at her. ‘Not mostly Mike. All Mike. Without her I don’t know if I’d have ever.’
Mike shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘OK. Enough now. I don’t think I can do emotional about this. I’m still getting my own head around the new improved Leo.’
‘Fair enough’ Frank was his usual calm self which helped.
They drunk their coffee quietly and nobody could really think what to say next. They were saved by a creeping cat, who appeared halfway up the leg of the table. Mike pointed a finger.
‘What did I say about no animals at the table.’
The fat feline slid to the floor and began ostentatiously washing himself.
‘I think he’s going to take some house-training. How much has he stolen so far?’
Ro grinned. ‘Not much. But you do got to watch him. He’s as untrustworthy as Bogg and Scrat, but a good deal more agile.’
Mike laughed until until she could scarcely breathe. ‘It’s good to be home.’

From Shall we gather at the river? by Jane Jago

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

I am old, and persistent abuse
Has rendered my skin somewhat loose
So it shouldn’t be news
That it’s made my tattoos
Grow misshapen and blurred and abstruse

© jane jago

I never knew you. Not really.
You haunted my dreams and my daydreams, filling the well of my soul. I even felt you watching over me that day, I still could not really believe you had gone. No word. From my bed, from my life. Five years and then – nothing.
I walked up the path and the sky darkened. When the rain came, it was as if your tears splashed on my face.
The river ran deep and silent here, between the high walls built to contain it’s might as it ran through the city. I thought I saw your face, from the corner of my eye. It was reflected in the dark water, like the ghost of a memory.
Something made me turn and scour the path, not thinking to see you, not thinking at all.
An old lady was there, carrying her world in a huge carrier bag and dressed in too many clothes.
“You alright, pet?” The concern in her eyes brought a hot stinging to my own. I looked away and back at the alluring promise of oblivion in the water running silent below. “You look like you could do with a nice cuppa. There’s a caff just round the way.”Her hand touched my arm, tentative and tender. A fellow human being lost in the abyss of life.
The first step back was the hardest and, as if she knew, she gripped my hand, briefly. Steadying me. Then the next came more easily and by the third, I could release her hand and meet her compassionate gaze.
“I might have enough for two teas,” I told her.
“You’re alright, pet. Come on, let’s have a chat. They do free bourbon biscuits too.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

“It must be a terrible place to live,” Oliver observed as the documentary went on, “I mean, having a social score based on who you’re friends with and what you buy, determining whether you can get a train ticket.”

Krista nodded agreement and finished leaving a bad rating for the delivery driver. He’d been five minutes late. Some pathetic excuse about traffic. “Just glad we live in the free West.” Her fit-watch vibrated and she sighed. “I’ll have to leave you to it. If I don’t get enough steps done today they’ll cancel my health insurance – or quadruple the price.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

As far as discreet went, Bene Placito served that up in buckets. The place was in one wing of a small villa, presumably also the home of the chef who owned it, that nestled in the hills behind Viriconium. The villa had a long private driveway which wound past fields of vegetables and livestock, showing off the produce that they would soon be eating.
Dai and Bryn were greeted at the door by a simply dressed waitress who asked their names and explained that each party or individual was given their own secluded dining room.
“Domina Cynddylan is in the Rose Room. If you will come with me…”
Bene Placito was a small slice of Roman elegance and opulence thrust into the British countryside. The decor and furnishings were all items that might grace the pages of patrician’s lifestyle magazines and set in amongst the modern, sophisticated, decor were exquisite examples of ancient Roman statuary and other artefacts.
The Rose Room turned out to be well named. It had a window onto a small walled rose garden, though at this time of year the bushes were little more than pruned back twigs, and there were several pots of indoor miniature roses sitting on small pedestals. Dai’s heart sank as they were shown in. he should have expected it, but somehow he had not. It was a triclinium. The three couches had been set to overlap, in three sides of a square with the table in the middle.
Justina Cynddylan was already ensconced on the central couch, helping herself to some olives from a bowl on the table. She smiled as the two men were shown in and made a sweeping gesture to the empty couches on either side of her.
“Thank you for joining me, please make yourselves comfortable and we will see what the chef is providing today.” Dai eased himself on to a couch, feeling awkward, but noticed with surprise that Bryn seemed completely unperturbed and slid onto his couch as if patrician born.
“You will have to excuse me from getting right down to business, but we can’t be assured of complete privacy until the meal has been served. The timing of that is always a little uncertain as Chef can be very temperamental.”
“I understand,” Dai said, though he was not sure he really did. But he sought an alternative topic of conversation. “There are a few antiquities here I see.”
“Oh yes. I have sold several genuine ancient pieces to Chef. He is a bit of a connoisseur of Etruscan art and it has been my pleasure to help locate and arrange the purchase of one or two for him.” She lowered her voice “To be honest he is a little obsessed, he is convinced he is descended from Etruscan ancestors, but when one is such a great artist as he is, one can be forgiven such foibles.”
The door opened as she was speaking and the waiting staff piled the table with heated stands and small covered pots, as well as plates with a few multi-coloured leaves strewn over them. A bottle of good wine and glasses completed the spread, then the staff withdrew.
Justina lifted a few lids and helped herself to some of the contents, and made the same imperious sweeping gesture with which she had greeted them. “Eat up. We can talk and eat.”
Dai eyed the items on her plate with some suspicion. He went for a plentiful portion of the grains and vegetables and only a couple of the more innocent looking meat slices, spooning garum over the whole lot to disguise any odd flavours. Bryn, meanwhile, was cheerfully piling his plate with samples from all that was on offer.
“The flamingo is excellent, don’t you think?” Justina nodded towards the meat Dai had chosen. He had some in his mouth at the time and chewed and made himself swallow before managing a nod. Why did the Romans insist on eating such things?

From Dying for a Vacation a Dai and Julia Mystery by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago