The opening of Who Pulled Her Out? the new book from Jane Jago which is now available for pre-order.

It was a beautiful May morning, but my life was currently being rendered hideous by my five-year-old twins throwing simultaneous epic tantrums. I wasn’t even sure what the screaming was about. I had been feeding the dogs when Ali started to whine, and I turned around just in time to see Roz slap her sister quite hard. Then they both began to scream. The dogs looked at me with deeply reproachful eyes, so I put their food out on the back patio. They went in evident relief, which only left me with two red-faced and hysterical children to deal with. I looked at them for a moment then came to a decision.
I filled a large jug with icy cold water. I was just lifting it out of the sink, when a masculine hand came over my shoulder.
“Allow me.”
My beloved, and normally wholly even-tempered, husband walked quietly over to where two of the loves of his life were screaming like demented banshees. He poured the water over their blonde heads. Miraculously the screaming stopped. Ben waited a beat then spoke very quietly.
“People who behave as badly as that the moment their Daddy’s back is turned should be very grateful he isn’t a spanking sort of a man.”
Then he turned on his heel and left.
The twins sat as if turned to stone and I let the enormity of what had just happened sink in.
It was Ali who found her voice first.
“Is Daddy very cross?” she breathed.
“Sounds like it to me,” I said briskly. “Now is somebody going to tell me what all that was about?”
But of course they couldn’t. It had come over them and they could no more explain than they could fly. They just shook their heads and looked at me with round eyes. Roz even went so far as to stick her thumb in her mouth, even thought she hadn’t sucked it for months. I tried to keep my own expression sober as I looked at their woebegone faces, but I wasn’t proof against the pleading in those big eyes. I held out my arms and scooped the two wet little girls into a hug.
“We’re sorry Mummy.”
“Never mind sweethearts. Let’s get you dry and calm.”
Half an hour later, we were at the breakfast table and the twins were eating porridge. The dogs were in their baskets and peace and quiet reigned. Ben walked back into the room on soft feet and two spoons stopped moving in two bowls. He crouched down between them.
“You two all better now?”
They nodded and he put an arm around each.
“You still cross, Daddy?” Roz quavered.
Ben smiled and kissed each rosy cheek.
“No I’m not cross. Don’t worry my loves. I know you didn’t mean to be naughty.”
Ali clutched his tee shirt in one small hand.
“We didn’t. We wasn’t meaning to be bad, but once we started we couldn’t stop.”
“I don’t expect you could. But there’s a lesson for you both. Don’t be silly. Because it is very hard to stop once you start.”
The twins studied his face carefully and he winked at them. They hurled themselves on his chest and he stood up with one little girl on each arm.
“Have you said sorry to Mummy.”
“We have.”
“Then let’s forget all about it. You two finish your breakfasts.”
He put them back in their chairs and they picked up their spoons. At a quirk of his eyebrows I got up and walked into his embrace. As I leaned in he bent and whispered in my ear.
“Fancy a day off? We can keep the brats out of school and take them for a good walk in the forest.”
“Yeah. I was going to suggest keeping them home anyway. There’s something not right about them. Even before the screaming fit I was concerned. They are unusually clingy, and when I went to wake them this morning Roz was in Ali’s bed.”
“I thought it was just me being fussy Daddy.” He watched the two blonde heads with a worried frown.
I looked out of the open door and across the garden to the flat that was occupied by our chef and good friend, Neil, his wife Stella and their two daughters Ellen and Sian. If I ever needed Stella’s input on parenting it was now.  As I opened my mouth to say who knew what my phone demanded my attention by screaming ‘bugger me boy’ in the voice of a parrot. The twins cracked up, covering their laughing mouths with their hands. I could feel the tension oozing out of them so I forbore to comment on my latest ring tone, merely picking up the call. It was Stella.
“Joss,” she said without preamble, “there’s something going on at school you need to deal with. Sian has been obviously worried, if tight-lipped, for a few days. I thought she had been naughty at school but it ain’t the case. I just wormed the problem out of her. You know that your girls have a new teacher, but what I’m sure you don’t know is that she has taken them in dislike. Sian says she punishes them all the time. Now, it seems, they aren’t even allowed to sit together in the dining room. Sian says it’s a crock of shit, and I reckon she is right enough so that I haven’t even said anything about her language.”
“Thanks Star. Tell Sian not to worry. Me and Benny are on the case. The twins can have a few days off while we get it sorted.”
“Good thinking. I’m keeping Sian home today, too, she’s right out of sorts.”
She ended the call and I looked at the phone with some dislike.
“Girls, can you eat your breakfasts quietly while I have a little chat with Daddy?”
“We’ve finished our porridge, Mummy, and isn’t it time for the school bus?”
I found myself floundering, but Ben rescued me smoothly. “You could go on the bus, or you could have a sneaky day off with Mummy and me.”
The twins beamed at him. “Shall we go and take our uniforms off while Mummy talks to you?”
“You do that. Jeans and sweatshirts for a walk in the forest.”
They shot off and Ben looked at me sombrely.
“What is the big worry? You are as pale as a ghost.”
I told him, and then watched as he found and dealt with the white hot rage he felt at the thought his daughters were being victimised.
“What do we do, Joss? What the hell do we do?”
“First we need to find out more about what has been going on. Then we take steps. If it means home schooling Roz and Ali for a year then that’s what we’ll do. First job, though, is a chat with Sian. Can you manage that without letting her see the berserker flare?”
“Have to don’t I?”
“It would be best if you could, because you are much closer to her than am I.”
“Okay. But walk first. Let’s let everyone settle. Meaning me primarily.”

Who Pulled Her Out?  by Jane Jago is released on Monday 29 October!

Ellath. Conceived on a tombstone in a frenzy of drunken lust. Nobody’s child, who grew daily in beauty. Men watched her through the corners of their eyes, while women hated her. 

Until the crops failed.

Ellath lay bound to the altar, with her mouth tied, watching the fat priest’s fingers fumble about her.  The doors of the Sanctuary opened with a great crash, and that which stood there breathed the cold of winter. The villagers cowered in deathly fear.

When they dared look, Ellath and the old god were gone.

They swear she laughs at them from the north wind.

©️jj 2018

Why is that table square? he said
I saw it round inside my head
Desired no corners nor no edges
No dusty angles, awkward ledges

I wanted clean and modern lines
Not something square from olden times
I ordered glass and shiny legs
This travesty the question begs

Did anybody take the time
To read at all my bright design?
Why is the bloody table square?
It should be round, and over there…

©️jane jago

Namaste, my disciples.

It seems that there are still some people out there who appreciate the value of good, old-fashioned, solid advice. I recently heard from Stephen who had just been appraised of my overly generous offer to provide helpful solutions to less worldly-wise and experienced authors, struggling with the minutiae of the literary life.

It’s hard to believe that authors weren’t queuing around the corner for this kind of positive reinforcement. You just can’t please some people. If I may lay a humble question at the feet of the omnipotent IVy:

What should an up and thrusting new author do when they become tired of being ignored by their publisher; when even the hammer blow of e-rhetoric fails to smash its way into their ivory tower? Should they:

1. a) continue with fortitude
2. b) continue with attitude
3. c) find another publisher
4. d) bomb their building?

I brace myself for the wisdom in true author style (with fingers rammed firmly in ears and accompanying la la las), just in case said wisdom is in danger of hitting the mark.

This is a question many of us face in the early days of our authorial journey. Myself, I foresaw the possibility in advance and took careful steps to circumnavigate the entire issue by simply not having a publisher.

Admittedly, I considered the idea. But the incredible lack of appreciation those who I did approach showed for my – now universally acclaimed – literary masterpiece, rapidly convinced me that they were not worthy of receiving a slice of the riches it would be earning. I shook their dust from my feet and took the high road into the perilous mountains of self-publication.

Perilous but liberating.

The freedom to say what I wish to say in the way I wish to say it. To share of my artistic genius in the most intimate of relationships with my readership, not filtered or separated by layers of PR. Heart to heart. Mano a mano. That is the only way to be.

For me.

But it is not a way for the weak or the ignorant.

So, for you, dear Stephen, I offer you solution (e). E for the essential epitome which proves the perennial panacea for your problem. Nix that publisher and instead of touting your books desperately for approval to another, find one you can pay handsomely to provide the service you require. Then, as their customer, you will be king and they will be bound to answer your emails, phone calls, texts and all other communications. But be aware this extra level of service may also carry an extra charge…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem to me through my Facebook presence.

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

The corset made her waist so tiny it could be spanned by a man’s hands. 

The Photographer saw her across a crowded comicon – and ended up following her all through the day snapping picture after picture of her hourglass silhouette and the ridiculous top hat she wore with such panache.

It was past time to breathe, she thought, as she leaned against a convenient wall waiting for the lift to where her car waited. He waited too and they stepped into the lift together.

When the lift doors next opened there was nobody inside – only blood and a discarded corset.

©️jj 2018

from Who Pulled Her Out?  by Jane Jago which is available for pre-order.

As if on cue, the Staffies awoke from their nap and decided to indulge in a noisy debate about the ownership of a very battered clown toy. Stan and Ollie watched them in some hauteur for a few moments before taking a hand. Stan bullied Bud to one side of the kitchen while Ollie removed the disputed and disreputable clown from Lew’s grip and brought it over to me. He laid it at my feet, as much as to say ‘your turn’. I picked it up gingerly and put it on the kitchen table,
“Right. Okay. Nobody has the bloody thing.”
Stan and Ollie regarded me solemnly for a moment before ambling off into the garden, where there was a nice patch of shade and some cool grass. The Staffies sensing there was no more fun to be had followed them at a respectful distance. Morgan regarded me with dancing eyes.
“Are they always like that?”
“Mercifully not. I think Bud and Lew are missing the twins. Nobody to play with. So they are a bit bored.”
Ben smiled. “Stan and Ollie can usually be relied on to put a stop when they think the Staffies are out of order. It’s just the reproachful look they give Joss when they have had to intervene.” Then he started to laugh, and we all joined in. Stan put his elegant head in through the door as if to see what all the noise was about. I could have sworn he sighed before going back into the relative quiet of the garden.

Who Pulled Her Out?  by Jane Jago is released on Monday 29 October!

Bail set. Two million pounds. He thought he was done for. But his wife asked to see him…

A policeman brought her to an anonymous room, where he sat manacled to a chair. 

“They say you stole from me.”

He smiled boyishly. “Never.”

Her soft eyes searched his face. “And now they tell me that bail is two million pounds. That’s a lot of money…”

He played his trump card. “If you really loved me.”

One single tear ran down her cheek. “Perhaps I love you as much as you love me.”

And she walked away without ever looking back…

©️jj 2018

Who Pulled Her Out? The long anticipated sequel to Who Put Her in? Is finally with us. Yet another gorgeous cover from the hands of that true Renaissance Man Ian Bristow prompted a few more searching questions.

Q1. Are there specific challenges attached to producing the cover for a sequel?  

Absolutely there are. In the case of this series, I have had to think of how Joss (the MC on the cover) would look from more than one angle with more than one expression. That’s the difference between truly developing a knowledge of the character and their features and just painting something once and however it came out, it came out. Think of drawing even a basic face in profile, now I want you to draw the same face looking straight on. Have a go. It’s hard. All that said, there are elements that feel really good in creating a sequel cover, like already knowing the font and placements and working with ideas that fit those things on purpose. It’s a different sort of approach and I quite enjoy that aspect of it. 

Q2. You were asked for menacing figures in the background, which you have produced admirably. How did you make them look so dangerous?  

This is a great question. Posture, vagueness, masks—those three are the main focuses. You see a bit of intent in their posture, as if they mean to move toward you. You also see the vague hint of some kind of weapon in the hand of the man on the right, and that tells your brain they all have weapons. Then the masks top it off. We all associate armed, masked people with threat.  At the end of the day, artists take what they know about the physical world, cultural norms and the human condition and exploit them as best they can to ‘sell’ an image to the viewer. The better those elements are exploited, the better sold the image.

Q3. Our heroine has her back to a strong source of light. This could have rendered her no more than a silhouette. The subtle lighting of the face is brilliant. How did you manage to achieve such an effect?  

The first step was admitting that it was okay to add a non-visible light source to the image for the sole purpose of making sure the viewer could see Joss’ face. Once I accepted that it was needed, it was just a matter of choosing warm light to play off the cool blue in the background and painting it in with enough subtlety to keep from distracting from the overall effect of her being back lit. Mind, getting that subtlety was not an easy task, with the face so dark, even middle tones of colour felt BOLD! It took some time to make sure it was pushed back but still doing its job. 

If you would like to find out more about Ian Bristow's cover designing services, go to Bristow Design or look for Ian on his Website, check out his awesome timelapse art videos with his own original music on YouTube or follow him on Twitter.

She had too many lucky escapes. 

First a barrel of beer rolled off the brewers’ cart missing her by inches, followed by grease on the kitchen floor that had her sliding with a saucepan in her hand, while a broken step on the cellar stairs saw her all but fall through.

The he brought home a basket of mushrooms for her favourite omelette.

But she was out of eggs so she made soup instead.

Soup he ate greedily.

She didn’t see him die. He did that in the bed of his fat slatternly mistress. 

But she could imagine his pain…

©️jj 2018

From Haruspex I:Trust A Few a Fortune's Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The man who entered would have stood out even in a crowd. Here in the Hope, where the main colour was drab and the mood most often dour to sullen, he did not so much attract attention as cause it. One thing Jaz had learned in his time under the domes on Hell’s Breath, was how to judge people by their dress and manner. He could spot at a glance now, the kind of tourist who you could double charge on the viewing run and the kind you would refuse to allow a tab in the bar.

Jaz’s first thought was this must be one of the weirder ones. One of those who came here and talked about the mystical power of the flares or liked to make artworks in the micro-g viewing pod on Vel’s cousin’s ship. Too much money to spend, looking for something different, some new experience, to spend it on. But even as his thoughts were going over what he needed to say to Vel’s cousin over dinner – what he wanted to say to her – something kept him watching and not dismissing the new arrival as he would under normal circumstances.

There was nothing too outlandish about this man’s style of dress, although it hinted at the kind of wealth level you didn’t often see around Hell’s Breath. The fabric and cut looked sophisticated and expensive and the visible jewellery suggested he was trying for taste rather than bling. But if elegance was the effect he wanted to achieve, he failed. His hair – an untidy tangle of tawny-gold curls – ruined it, that and the addition of a very cheap looking opaque remote-link visor over his eyes.

“Ma says that funny man just came in on the hopper that took the oldies out.” Vel’s cousin’s daughter wriggled into the seat beside Jaz and started helping herself to the fruit on his plate without asking. “She said Auntie Vel said to tell you to check his luggage. She thinks he’s carrying something. Uncle Dom said the sensors were going ‘whip-woah’ when he went through them.” She licked her fingers and reached back to the plate. He gently grabbed the small hand before it could remove the last slice of fruit and then pushed the child firmly away.

“Tell your ma thanks – and stay out of here the pair of you.” The little girl treated him to one of her more scary pulled faces, then slipped out the back of the bar and through the door Jaz knew led passed the kitchens and out to the tiny demountable cabin beyond that she, her mother and Jaz called home. He watched her go in his peripheral vision, feeling a marked relief when the door slid closed behind her. But his focus remained fixed on the new arrival as it had throughout as he finished the last piece of fruit.

The newcomer seemed polite enough and Vel’s nephew’s boyfriend managed to check him in to one of the two remaining suites which were still habitable. The blond man made as if to move away from the counter to go to his suite. But then he turned back, his movement sudden, as if just remembering something.

“Oh yes, whilst I think of it, you don’t happen to know if there is a man by the name of Jazatar Baldrik staying here?”

Jaz felt a cold stillness within and flexed the muscles of one arm to feel the reassuring presence of an energy snub, linked thanks to his time in the Specials, on his inner arm. He pushed back from the table and stood up, the movement drew the attention of the new arrival who turned to look, eyes invisible beneath the visor but a wide smile now growing below it. Jaz did not watch the distracting smile, he watched the hands and the stance, but they were relaxed, nothing signalled intent to attack.

Jaz crossed the room towards the blond man, closing down the distance between them in a few quick steps, to get to hand-to-hand range, so he could be surer of control and, if needed, a kill. The blond man let him do it, still smiling and relaxed. “Jazatar Baldrik I assume?” The voice was light and sounded much too happy.

“Who  are you and what do you want?” To his own ears, Jaz’s question sounded more like a snarl. The smile beneath the visor grew even wider and the blond man reached up to remove the obscuring remote-link, revealing a pair of disturbing, intent, orange eyes.

“My name is Durban Chola and I need you to help me save the soul of Avilon Revid.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Artwork from a portrait of Durban Chola, by Bristow Designs