“Am I dead?”

“Definition of dead,” the winged entity muttered.

“Is there more than one?”

He unbent a little.

“The last body you inhabited is perhaps ‘dead’. You are in the place of choice.”

“Choice?”

He indicated three staircases.

“Heaven, Hell, rebirth.”

“Heaven? 

“Paradise, angels.”

“Hell?”

“Eternal Ibiza, cocktails, noise, sex.”

“And there’s a reason why that’s hell?”

“Eternal…”

Then I noticed his body was hiding a small door.

I wanted that door, so I pushed past him and squeezed through the aperture.

To find myself laying on hard cold ground, with my husband holding my hand.

“Don’t leave me…”

©️jj 2018

“The spell is ripe,” the shackled woman whispered.

Alisan and Armant regarded her with bright, vicious eyes, as the fetish stood up.

“Madam. What is your desire?”

It was Alisan who spoke. “We want Mother’s head.”

The creature disappeared with a bang and a whiff of decay. Moments later it returned, dragging something by a rope of pale hair. Alisan slit the old witch’s throat with his saw-edged knife as his brother snatched at the hair.

Horsehair. Attached loosely to the head of a hungry demon. It gnawed their living bones.

The spirit of the witch they tortured laughed. 

©️jj 2018

Why do you send your babies out
Crying trick or treat?
Do you truly think it safe
For children on the street?
When all around the air is full
Of things not kind or sweet
As from the earth the dead things rise
A gibbous moon to greet
Things that touch their chubby hands
And trip their little feet
Things that want to suck their souls
And eat their brains like meat
This is the night of the living dead
Who only wish to cheat
And steal away the children
Left to wander in the street

©️jj 2018

The Hysteria Was Real is a short story by LN Denison we reproduce it today to commemorate the 80th anniversary of a very famous radio broadcast...

30 October, 1938: the day of the CBS radio broadcast of ‘War of the Worlds’

It’d just turned 10:00pm, eastern time. The streets of Grover’s Mill were filled with people panicking about a series of news bulletins that’d been broadcasted between the times of 8 and 9pm, warning of alien attacks all over the world. I took no stock in the ramblings of mad men. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been warned, that what they’d been listening to was a work of fiction, nothing else. They’d been told countless times during the broadcast that it wasn’t real, but still they chose to create mass hysteria as they ran through the streets, waving their arms frantically in the air.

I found the whole scene highly amusing and tried to stifle a laugh as I walked by. I mean, how gullible can some people be to believe in symbiont creatures from Mars, coming to our little planet and trying to occupy us. It was a ridiculous notion: one I took great pleasure in dismissing straight away. It didn’t matter how many times I heard it, I still didn’t believe that there was life on Mars. With that thought in mind, I carried on with my nightly constitutional, removing my head from the game for a few moments. I took in the same surroundings, as I did every night.  Maybe, in hindsight, it wasn’t such a good idea going through the cemetery that night, not with so many crazies’ out and about. The moon cast eerie shadows over the gravestones, which gave me goose bumps, and forced me to hurry along, as the bitter night chill snapped at my face.

I climbed through the hole in the wall the other side of the cemetery, and headed in the direction of home, almost going full circle. The sky was clear, to the point of seeing every constellation in all their glory, shining down on me as I stared up at Ursa Major. My concentration was suddenly broken, as I spied a shooting star in the corner of my eye. I hadn’t seen one in a while, and this one was a doozy; larger than life and full-on. I watched, and waited for it to disintegrate into the atmosphere, but for some strange reason, it carried on burning, hurtling towards the Earth’s surface. That’s no shooting star. I needed to follow it. Could it be that I was wrong all along, and there was life beyond planet Earth? I let my curiosity lead the way as I followed the descending streak.

My heart began to race, as I kept an eye on what appeared to be a fiery, egg-shaped vessel heading towards Grover’s Mill. With wide-eyed terror, I realised that the object was heading straight for my home, no one else’s, just mine. I ran as fast as I could, keeping my eyes locked on the trajectory of the ball of fire. I suddenly realised that all the kooks and crazies, weren’t so kooky and crazy as I first thought. And what was supposed to have been a radio play, read by a twenty-one-year-old actor by the name of Orson Welles, was actually a reality. Orson Welles was not a name that I was familiar with, but he had managed to convince the majority of Grover’s Mill, that the threat was real, and now, I too was beginning to believe that Alien lifeforms existed.

I rounded the corner, and watched as the ball of flame made its final, speedy descent, which was then followed by a crashing, shattering sound; then a billow of smoke. I knew that whatever it’d hit was now a pile of rubble, how could it not be otherwise? I turned into my street, only to have my worst fears realised. I placed my hand over my mouth in horror as I looked upon the object, and the pile of rubble where my home once stood.

A few minutes passed, more people had gathered around the object, which on looking at it, was a diameter of around 100 square feet. Then suddenly, the top of the vast object began to unscrew; groaning and scraping as it slowly twisted open. With a clang, the top fell to the ground, followed by a plume of steam. The silence from the crowd was deafening. We all waited for something else to happen, and then it did. What looked like a periscope, slowly ascended from the steam, swivelling its head this way and that. It appeared to be scoping its surroundings, scoping us. A strange glow started to manifest as the machine rose higher, vacating its holding cell, letting out a piercing, deafening screech, which began to cause me a great deal of discomfort, perforating my ear drums, and everyone else’s around me. Was this to be our end? I was beginning to think so.

The Alien machine had completely detached from the belly of the beast, and began to buzz into action. Laser beams shooting in all directions, vaporising anybody that stood in its way, indiscriminately, mercilessly. Was I next? I was going to make sure that I wasn’t. I started to run back towards the cemetery, but it would seem that I wasn’t fast enough, as I felt the Alien being’s ray start eating into my skin, disintegrating my flesh and bones. Suddenly, I felt nothing, the burning had stopped, for some reason I’d been spared from the ray’s penetrating beam, but I didn’t know why. I truly thought I was a goner, and then I woke up, startled by the sound of Orson Welles voice. The broadcast of the War of the Worlds had only just begun.

LN Denison is a writer of near-future dystopian sci-fi. You can catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.

“Remind me what we’re doing here.” Tina rubbed the spot at the top of her thigh where the little fat man had pinched as she pinned on his poppy.

“We lost a bet. But we get to knock off at six. In ten minutes.”

The clock was striking as Tina pinned the last blood-red reminder onto the lapel of yet another leering ‘suit’.

She felt a hand at her thigh and turned to see fatso was back. 

The last sonorous ‘bong’ signalled freedom. 

Just in time for her to kick the little man. Hard.

“Off duty now,” she grinned.

©️jj 2018

Today we have an interview with Jane Jago who is bringing out her latest book Who Pulled Her Out? Aside from being my co-conspirator in the creation of The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Jane is also an incredibly talented and prolific multi-genre author, writing everything from epic length novels to poetry, (including hilariously dirty limericks) and daily drabbles.

1. After a career that was more to do with catering and camper vans, What prompted you to get into this whole writing thing in the first place?

I have been writing poetry and fiction since I was old enough to hold a pen. Never stopped, although earning a living rather got in the way. Kept writing throughout. An example being a pantomime for the staff to perform when I was a school cook.

2. Why did you choose to self-publish rather than try the traditional route?

Because I could, and because it gives me ultimate control.

3. Thinking of Who Pulled Her Out? and it’s forerunner, how much of you do you feel there is in Joss?

Oh heck. I don’t know. You’d have to ask somebody who knows us both. But there are some things – like we both know how to cook, both love our husbands completely, and both have big dogs…

4. The way you write some of the interactions between Joss and her family and friends in both Who Put Her In? and Who Pulled Her Out? makes a reader feel as if they are right there with them, sitting around the table. How were you able to accomplish such immersive writing?

It’s a case of putting yourself in your protagonist’s head. Once you do that you can write from the heart of the character. Immersion follows naturally. It helps if you think you’d like to have a beer with your hero or heroine….

5. You write across genres, but if you had to pick which is your favourite genre to write in and why?

Probably verse. Poetry in all its forms satisfies me immensely – from serious verse to naughty limericks it’s all a particular delight.

6. Is there ever anything you hope readers will gain from your books, other than pure entertainment and does that play into the choices you make for plot and character behavior?

I’d like to think that my books reflect a sense of justice, and I guess that must play in the choice of plot and the way my characters react.

7. Have you ever consciously written other people you know into your stories, friends, family or enemies and where do you get your characters from if not?

No. I don’t think it would work for me at all to write ‘real’ people. I’m not even tempted by the idea of killing off those who irritate. However, I’m very sure that there are bits and pieces of those I love in many of my characters. And where do they come from? Honestly I know not. I must have a fertile imagination.

8. Several of your books include very characterful dogs. How much of their characters are based on your own special Dog or on other dogs you know?

Oh well. Dogs. In general I prefer them to humans. And Stan and Ollie are modelled loosely on a pair of German Shepherds who owned us some years ago. But Stan and Ollie might be a bit better behaved.

9. What advice would you offer to anyone starting out on the journey of being a writer?

Just write it. Write what you want to read. Write it as well as you possibly can. Listen to criticism and advice, but in the end it’s vital to be true to yourself. And if you have the opportunity, get yourself a Scooby Gang. Mine is the best in the world. I’m raising a metaphorical glass to Ian Bristow, L.N. Denison and E.M. Swift-Hook – Scooby Dooby Doo!

Since Who Pulled Her Out? is out today could you share with us an extract of one of your favourite scenes?

We were interrupted by the sound of bare feet slapping on floorboards and the twins erupted into the room.
“Uncle Mark. Uncle Mark.”
He dropped to his knees and opened his arms receiving two small wriggling figures against his chest. The girls kissed him and wound their  arms around his head and neck.
“What you doing here? Mummy never said you were coming!”
They turned identical versions of the stink eye on me and I couldn’t help grinning. Mark laughed out loud.
“Mummy didn’t know I was coming. It’s a surprise visit. So stop giving her evil looks.” He must have tickled their ribs as they collapsed in a giggling heap. After a few moments making a great fuss of one of their favourite adults, Roz looked at me.
“Mummy,” she said firmly, “it’s not nice sleeping in your clothes, you wake up feeling all sticky and fowsty”.
“You do,” Ali concurred, “and we wonder how Stan and Ollie manage in all that fur”.
“Easily. They are dogs and dogs don’t sweat. But you two could go and have a soak in my bath if you would like. I’ll even authorise bubbles.”
“That would be nice, but it takes ages. Will Uncle Mark still be here when we finish?” Roz eyed me sternly.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
Roz rotated her head in a way that made her look a bit like an owl. She scowled at Mark before taking his face between her pink palms.
“If me and Ali go and get clean will you still be here when we come back?”
“That depends on Mummy. If she promises to feed me later I could stick around.”
Both heads swivelled and the twins fixed me with a glare. I found myself laughing at their expressions of wanton menace.
“Yes. Yes. I’ll feed the big lump.”
The girls were instantly all smiles and Mark stood up with them in his arms.
“Oof,” he grunted, “you two are getting to be a proper pair of fatties.”
While my daughters were wreaking their revenge, Stan and Ollie came out of the bedroom and walked to the front door where they stood shoulder to shoulder swishing their tails. Sure enough, a green Discovery slipped into view with Benny at the wheel. The twins wriggled and Mark set them on their feet.
“Daddy, Daddy,” they ran pell-mell for the door, but were blocked by a pincers movement from the German Shepherds. Ollie growled softly and the girls stood still.
“You two big bullies could let us out,” Ali grumbled, “we won’t get runned over”.
The dogs, however, remained immobile until Ben parked the Disco and slid out of the driving seat. Once his feet were on the gravel they let the girls go, standing and watching as they careered over to their father. He bent and scooped them into his arms.
“Daddy, Daddy. Do you know what Uncle Mark called us?”
“No. What did he call you?”
The girls turned faces of round-eyed disbelief towards Ben.
“He said we was fatties…”
Even from where I was standing I could see the crows feet at the corners of Ben’s eyes deepening as he fought the urge to laugh. But he manfully beat it down and was able to respond with proper indignation.
“Did he indeed. I shall beat him with a stick and order him never to darken our door again.”
The twins crowed with delight and Ben strode inside with a chattering twin on each arm.

Who Pulled Her Out? is out today in paperback and ebook.

Jane Jago lives in the beautiful Westcountry with her large dog and her favourite husband (yes, he’s large too). She spent half her working life cooking, and the other half editing other people’s manuscripts. Both these occupations seemed to take up a large proportion of her waking moments, leaving little or no time for the stories that filled her imagination.

But time moves on and it became possible to squeeze out the odd hour here and there to get some words onto ‘paper’. Her first book The Long Game took nearly two years to write, principally because the characters kept doing unexpected things requiring rewrite after rewrite.

Since then, Jane has learned that the story as it begins in her head is unlikely to bear very much resemblance to the finished book. Equally, she has learned to enjoy the journey, as her characters take her to places she never knew existed while they play out their lives on the page in front of her.

She had a long-legged, sensuous walk and the hair that swung to the middle of her back was the colour of ripe apricots. His fangs itched. 

But he hid his lust, merely engineering a meeting at the bar, and engaging her in casual conversation.

When the lights finally dimmed, he took her hand and offered a lift home. Beauty nodded gravely. 

In the back of his limousine he leaned towards the pulse in her long, white throat.

A scream of mortal agony brought people running from every direction, but they were too late. The stake had entered his heart…

©️jj 2018

The next morning at breakfast, Anna was a bit shy, until Ted looked at her rosy cheeks and took pity on her.
“Your house” he grinned “and anyway you weren’t that noisy. I was right next door and all I heard were a few giggles. This is an old house with thick walls. Just don’t try it in a Travel Lodge.”
Even Anna joined in the laughter and was able to hand out pieces of wedding cake and kisses with her usual equanimity as most of their friends piled in to an assortment of vehicles and headed home. The Cracksman clan, having enthusiastically accepted an invitation to lunch, had temporarily retired to the annexe to give Anna and Sam a few moments’ privacy.

Sam looked contrite.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you love.”
“You didn’t. I did it all by myself. Anyway Ted set me straight.”
“He’s one of the good guys isn’t he? When you think about Justine, it’s a miracle he is so sane.”
“Yeah. I’ve often thought that. He says it could be the defining feature of his life, but he decided not to let it. He can’t ever forget that she’s his wife, but equally he won’t let her condition stop him living.”
“Brave man. If it’s not too nosy how did Justine get like she is? Is it some form of dementia?”
“No. Brain injury. Justine always boasted she could ride any horse that God put legs on. She insisted on getting on a half-broken bronc in Arizona and it got spooked. Threw her. Head first. Her head hit a rock. At first they thought she’d die. But she didn’t. She has been in her twilight world for the better part of two decades. And she could easily live another thirty or forty years. It’s beyond sad…”
“It is. Though I did notice Ted whispering sweet nothings in Carrie’s ear last night.”
“Me too. But you don’t need to worry. He’ll have been straight with her.”
“I figured that one out for myself. And she’s an adult. And he’s a lot nicer than the assholes she usually takes up with. The last one broke her arm before throwing her out of her own house into the street. Luckily, Geordie was visiting Mrs J. He found Carrie in the gutter. Went and had a few words with lover boy. Who left the district with his tail between his legs and a few bumps and bruises of his own.”
“Geordie probably had fun.”
“Oh. He did. And. Did you notice how he looked at Patsy? If Jim wasn’t so bloody big I reckon he’d have made a play for her.”
“She’d rip his head off and shove it up his bum.”
“That I’d like to see. Now. Shall I help you to clear up?”
“No. I’ve got that. But you could scoop up Danny and Paul and take Bon Bon for a hike.”
“I could indeed. But it seems a bit unfair. Whyn’t you take Bonnie and I’ll clear up?’
“Oh. You are a nice man. But no. I need to prepare lunch. And I like doing that, so it is a fair division of labour.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”

By the time Sam, Bonnie and the boys got back from their walk, Patsy was sitting at the kitchen table chatting to Anna, and the Cracksman males were engaged in a game of Australian Rules football.
“Sam,” Patsy she said a bit diffidently. “I hope you don’t mind us here today.”
“No” he grinned engagingly. “My idea. I’d like us to be friends. Just as long as you remember Anna is all grown up now. But I think you noticed that already.”
“I did. It’s a good thing. It’s just that…”
“Just that she had it hard, that her own mother nearly killed her, that she’s a very wealthy woman and you’d hate it if some chancer was after her money. And so forth.”
Patsy looked at him with dawning respect.
“Yeah. All them things. Plus, I really, really do like her a lot. Enough to piss off if my being around will stuff up her new life.”
“And why would that be?”
“Well I ain’t exactly classy.”
“I dunno. I reckon you are exactly what you are and I can respect that.”
“You might. But what about other people?”
“Stuff them. I learned to ignore people’s opinions from a very early age. My grandfather was Jamaican, and Granny was Chinese so I had plenty of shite thrown at me. I decided pretty early on that the only sensible response is ‘fuck you, then’. I choose my friends where I find them. Maybe you and Jim will want to befriend me. I certainly hope so.”
“Mixed race, eh! Explains why you are such a handsome devil,” Patsy grinned.
Jim had wandered in from the garden and piped up.
“Well, we’ve all had stuff flung in our faces then. Pats got council estate and a sister who has a whole quiver-full of kids by various men. Anna got council estate and mad mother. I got gyppo and pikey. And you got the race stuff. I reckon we ought to stick together. Here’s my hand on it.”
Sam’s hand was lost in Jim’s huge one as they shook hands, and Anna smiled at them.
“You lot finished bonding?”
Patsy smiled happily.
“Yeah. I reckon we have. Your man actually gets it doesn’t he?”
“He does.”

Danny went to the garden door.
“Get on you lot,” he commanded, “I, for one, am starving and the smells in here are enough to drive me mad.”
Paul laughed behind him.
“Shut up fatty.'”
Anna howled with laughter.
“That’s you told bro. Just come and have a drink for a minute. I’ve  opened a bottle of champagne.”
“Champagne, eh? What’s the occasion?” Sam asked genially.
“I dunno,” she shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I just got in the mood for champagne.’
“Good enough for me. Is it the pink stuff?”
“No. That’s not proper champagne. And it’s as cheap as chips.”
“Is it? I like it better than any other champagne I’ve ever had.”
“Well. I’ll open a bottle of that if you like it better.”
“I can open it myself. You don’t have to wait on me. I’ll get spoilt.”
Anna rubbed her face in his broad chest.
“You can’t spoil perfection,” she said as Paul made retching noises.
“No champagne for rude little boys,” Sam said with a grin.

Jane Jago

She was tired of doing her best. She’d raised her husband’s children, run his farm, and tended his broken body after they brought him home on a hurdle. But he had died last winter.

So here she was. Forty. Unwanted.

Her husband’s son had made it clear there was one offer, and she was expected to accept it.

A shadow crossed her vision and she looked up at the portly, and unromantic, figure of the village baker.

He held out his hand almost shyly and she took it. Rising to her feet she stood shoulder to shoulder with her future.

©️jj 2018

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!
Tormented, scraped and cut,
Your entrails ripped out from within,
To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!
Thy glorious grinning face,
Carved from the orange of your skull,
Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!
Upon the doorstep set
Your eldritch light and feral look
Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!
When brightly lit your grin
Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts
And keep us safe within.

E.M. Swift-Hook.