A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

afert (noun) – Egyptian goddess of typos

anywya (noun) – a strangely compelling haircut that looks like a haystack. Other haircuts are available to politicians but this one seems to work best

beign (adjective) – of underwear that peculiarly greyish beige that comes from many washes with the black sock that always sneaks into the machine

efort (noun) – safe storage for your computer

ehr (interjection) – the noise made by certain politicians when they can’t answer a simple question

exewrcise (group noun) – a bitchfest of yummy mummies with iPhones strapped to their skinny arms competing fiercely for who has the cutest running shorts

itisi (adverb) – of walking giving the appearance of having the cheeks of one’s bum tied together

londong (noun) estuarine penis

peopel (group noun) – a crowd of middle-aged women busily being outraged by modern life

slive (noun) – the piece left at the end of the cake from which the dog has licked the icing

stange (noun) – the smell of hair singeing

umbiquitous (adjective) – unsure whether or not one is omnipresent

viloence (noun) – the sound made by a female cat when she is looking for a mate

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

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

The secret of life they do say
Is always find time to make hay
If there’s work to be done
Finish that and have fun
Make the most out of every day

E.M. Swift-Hook

Take a peek into The Lizard Lords of Jupiter the latest masterpiece from the pen of the self-proclaimed queen of exotic sci-fi, Venus N. Uranus.

It seemed that they were only just in time as the doors opened fully. The round-faced woman entered and bowed all but double.
“The Mushir Szzrt.”
Cyrus bowed and Clea curtseyed.
Kerenza kept her eyes on the floor.
“Look at me,” the voice was oddly sibilant, but commanding.
She lifted her eyes and had her first sight of a lizard soldier. Her mouth went dry with fear. He was about seven feet tall with blue scaly skin and a thick muscular neck supporting a narrow reptilian head. He was dressed from neck to ankles in black silk bound with gold, and twin sword hilts were visible over the massive width of his shoulders. The eyes that regarded her with cold antipathy were so light as to be almost white, with vertical pupils and nictating membranes that constantly moved across their surface. He stared at her in silence and she felt a blush rise from her neck to her forehead. After what seemed a very long time the mushir turned his attention to Cyrus.
“Have the high lord’s instructions been obeyed?”
“To the letter, Mushir.”
“And what are your observations, flesh trader?”
“She is a ripe little thing. It would be an honour and a pleasure to break that one to harness.”
“Ssskrrt,” the lizard made a strange noise in his throat. “Indeed.” The sibilant voice was dry. “Is it intact?”
“Yes lord.”
“Display it. I am ordered to ascertain its condition.”
Cyrus snapped his fingers…

A Bite Of… Venus N. Uranus 

We had three questions only to learn a little more of this enigmatic lady.

Question one: How much of yourself is in the heroines of your so-loved books?

Very little. But had you asked how much of my villains lives in my own breast the answer might have been more illuminating.

Question two: What is your favourite indulgence?

Ah. Champagne, I guess. Or possibly silken underwear.

Question three: Chips or doughnuts?

Neither child. One has an aversion to calorific snacks. The figure is above all importances.

At which point we had to retreat to the door as she began throwing shoes at us – shoes with sharpened six-inch stiletto heels…

Other works by Venus:

Animal Passions on the Ark
As the Ark flees a dying earth Captain Twerk and his crew are sucked into a dark sensual vortex from which only the prayers of a thousand virgins can rescue them. As far as we know they are still there… 

Boinking for Freedom
Captain Tumescent Schlong and his Martian sidekick Wan Ka Dribblefloop save the universe with nothing more than KY Jelly and a swivelling hip action

Candles for Callisto 
Two nuns and a redundant space cowboy carry the Candles of Callisto from their hiding place on earth to the Venusian temple where their ignition begins a multiverse-wide orgy that lasts a thousand years

Dominant Destroyer 
Captain Selfie the Daandehoopian Dom and his faithful retainer Whippin’ Winnie beat the universe into submission with the aid of a bullwhip and a large silicone appliance

Katie the Qlingon Kleptomaniac 
Aboard the prison cruiser Thrust, the only way Katie can avoid the attentions of Big Brenda and her blue banana is if she can become the prey of Captain Rutt Bigthong and his dog Sniffa

Marianna and the Testicles of Mars
How a silicone-enhanced glamour model saved the known universe using only the power of her ‘mind’ and a secondhand toothbrush

Neptune’s Nymphos
When the good ship Sphincta lands on Neptune, the male crew members quickly find themselves sold as sex slaves. Heaven? Or Hell? You decide…

Pulling Poseidon 
The starship Donkey Parts is pulled into the orbit of a dark planet. Only the pulchritudinous Petunia Petals and her Venusian nose flute can save the day

Saturnalia on Saturn
Space explorer Thea Throbscuttle may have bitten off more than she can chew when she crash lands her flitter in the middle of a very rowdy midsummer party. Only the satyr Longtongue can save her, but what can she offer him to secure his aid?

The Virgins of Venus
Deep underground in the Caverns of Hi’Men live a thousand young women who have never seen a male in their lives. When the tunnelling machine breaks through the wall of their prison even the prodigious Throb Loverage is forced to flee for his life

Venus is a retired pole dancer and rectal explorer who now earns a living by writing, and knitting decorative merkins for ladies who are bored of their Brazilian. You won’t find her on social media because she is too busy penning her next exotic sci-fi bestseller or participating in the SETI program…

((WTB Ed. Note – We think the underling who put this piece together might have made a repeated typo in their use of  ‘exotic’))

So my rosebuds have been gathered
And my harvest taken in
As my life draws into winter
Though the season it is spring
And the days are getting longer
Though they always seem too short
Now the sun is shining brighter
Than I had sometimes thought
Yet still the world seems darker
Than twas in my days of youth
The ever-growing shadows
The cold and bitter truth
But there are still always pastimes
And often good company
With bonhomie and laughter
And honey still for tea…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends. Life seems to be going well when…

Two days later, just on opening time, I was in the office inputting V.A.T. details when Ed poked his head around the door.
“Gent out here requesting a moment of your time.”
“Do we know him?”
“We do not.”
“Then I’ll come and speak to him in the bar. And can you have someone find Ben?”
“He’s waiting for you out there.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
It being early, the bar was sparsely populated. A couple of tables of old-timers playing cribbage before they ordered their dinners, and a small group of hefty farmers playing hooky comprised our clientele until the lunchtime crowd started arriving.
The gentleman wanting a word stood out like a sore thumb among them, even though he was entirely unremarkable in appearance. He was narrowly rodentine of feature, pink-skinned, conservatively-dressed and fussy in demeanour, making me think of a rural studies teacher on a rare day off. However, I have learned not to be taken in by appearances and I kept my guard firmly in place.
“Mrs Beckett?”
I nodded, indicating a window table, and he preceded me without comment. Our longest-serving waitress, Crystal, came towards us with her hands full of reserved signs.
“Is this one taken?”
She consulted her tablet.
“Not until one o’clock.”
I held out my hand for the sign. “We won’t be long I’m sure and I’ll bus the table and put this on it when we’re done.”
She moved away and We sat down. Ben sloped over to join us and my new acquaintance looked a little alarmed. I smiled.
“This is my husband. And you are?”
“My name is Smith. John Smith.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up into my hairline and he laughed self consciously.
“Improbable but true. My father has a peculiar sense of humour.”
I let that pass and waited in silence for his next move. Ben opened his mouth to say something but I put a hand on his thigh and he subsided. I watched Mr Smith steadily, and he coloured to the tips of his ears.
“This is a little difficult.”
“Spit it out, man.” Ben made no effort to hide his irritation.
“What I have to say pertains to a certain young lady whose behaviour in your establishment has caused her family some embarrassment. However, her grandfather is the kind who believes in family first, and he is seriously concerned by a popular video showing his grandchild in a very poor light.”
I tapped Ben’s thigh to let him know I had this.
“And this concerns me because?”
He sighed. “It concerns you because he has been looking for some additional muscle to add to those with whom she normally associates.”
“To come and teach us a lesson?”
He sighed. “Sadly. However it has come to his notice that you are in some way connected to a family by the name of Lovell so he’s backing off.”
“Doesn’t want to get in the wrong side of Big Cliff?” Ben was sardonic.
“No. Apparently he did so once and the bloody nose he incurred has persuaded him to change tack.”
“And who is on his list for chastisement now?” Ben’s voice had quite the martial tone of a hunting horn.
Mr Smith looked truly uncomfortable. “Mr Proudly is offering a considerable sum of money to have the young lady his granddaughter slapped, physically assaulted. My father refused the contract, but there are many far less scrupulous concerns out there. Which is why I am sitting here squirming.”
“Amos Proudly?” I asked.
“That is his name. Do you know of him?”
Ben looked puzzled.
“Remember the crowd that tried to disrupt Danilo and Bethan’s wedding?”
He showed his teeth. “Oh yes. Now I remember the family.”
I rubbed my hand against his denim-clad thigh. “You want to have a word with Danilo?” I said.
“I do.”
“You do that, and also warn Morgan’s dad, while I explain to Mr Smith here what a bad idea it would be to go after her.”
Ben went and I looked at Mr Smith, assessing how best to phrase the warning I was going to give him. In the end I went for straight from the shoulder.
“Are you aware of Brown Brothers Security?”
He blinked. “I am. Why?”
“The girl Amos Proudly is trying to arrange a beating for is Mark Brown’s daughter.”
I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr Smith’s complexion turn from country solicitor ruddy to the colour of cold porridge.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but before he had himself together, the bar door opened so fast that it banged back against the wall with a fearsome crash. The three young men who stood framed by centuries old oak obviously thought themselves hard. And frightening. All carried pickaxe handles and the biggest and proddiest slapped the heavy wood against the palm of his hand.
“Anybody not wanting to take a hiding has two minutes to exit via the back door,” he snarled.
Nobody moved, which seemed to unnerve the young spokesthug, whose voice rose by a couple of octaves.
“Ain’t you lot listening? We’re about to smash this place to smithereens and that includes anyone what’s still here when we get started.”
A large and phlegmatic local looked up from his pint. “Piss off.”
Thug one leapt forward, only to measure his length on the flagstone floor. The foot he tripped over belonged to another of our most regular customers, a sprightly eighty-year-old with no time for what he saw as the softness of modern young men.
“In my day,” he cackled, “us took our beefs outside and settled ‘em with our fists.”
Thug one made to roll over, but found himself eye to eye with an irritated German Shepherd. He took a firm grasp of his pick handle but an even more irritated Ben arrived, and kicked him precisely in the elbow. He dropped his weapon. It is entirely probable that his two chums would have rushed to his aid, but they had their own troubles in the shape of Jed from the market garden and his dog, Clancy. Jed had one would-be hard boy by the back of his hoodie and was holding him so his toes barely touched ground, while Clancy had his jaws around the arm of the third guy and was rumbling deep in the barrel of his chest.
“Finoula did smell danger. She do want a word with these here if someone can go and make sure she gets here safe.”
Crystal set out at a gallop.
“Shall we move this to the office?” I was proud of the calmness of my voice.
Jed chuckled. “Outside’d be better.”
He turned around carrying his prisoner as easily as if he was no more than a child.
“Clancy fetch,” he said and his huge lurcher dragged a whimpering youngster along with them.
Ben didn’t wait to be told to fetch, hauling his victim onto his feet and herding him out of the door. As they passed me I heard Ben speaking in a softly implacable voice.
“Please give me a reason to beat the crap out of you sonny. I’m in such a bad mood right now and I don’t want to take it home to the missis.”
The sound of a would-be hard boy swallowing was louder than Ben’s voice.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Ruffkin got up and started barking. Milla groaned. Another Visitor.
“Go away,” she called “The quest is off until tomorrow it’s…” She tried to remember the word the Visitors used. “It’s gritched.”
“Milla?”
Her heart skipped a beat and she was at the door in a moment opening it. Pew stood there dressed in his shimmering red Firecaster robes, ineffable runes swirling around him, looking as if he was being chased by a pack of enraged landsharks. He staggered into the room, ignored the welcoming bound from Ruffkin and dropped into the chair she had just vacated, cupping his hands around her mug of fruit tea, his crest flattened against his head and the colour washed out from his scales. Ruffkin retreated to his bed and looked at them both mournfully.
Milla found another mug and poured herself some more fruit tea, then searched around in her pantry for the emergency supply of flyberry cookies. She scooped a few onto a wooden plate and put them on the table beside the desolate Pew before taking the other chair herself.
That was when she knew whatever it was, it must be really bad. He didn’t even pick up a cookie. His favourites. He just put his mug down, pushed the plate a bit away and stared at the cookies miserably.
“It’s string.”
Milla blinked.
“No. Flyberry. I bought them from One Eye. He’d not put odd things like that in his cookies.”
Pew gave her a very odd look.
“Not string. String. You must remember him?”
Milla did. But sometimes she wished she didn’t. He’d been with herself and Pew on her one and only venture and he’d not been the nicest Visitor she’d ever met. Too much like that elf.
“I thought you said he’d rage quit, whatever that means, and gone away for good?”
“Not for good. Not String. He’s a gamer like me. He’ll always come back.”
Milla reached out a hand and put it over one of his.
“I’m glad you always come back. But String… I thought you weren’t really friends?”
Pew gripped her hand.
“I’ll always come back because you’re here. And no… Maybe not friends. But he and I…well… we played through this game from launch together. We’ve been guildies most of the time and I guess that means something.”
Milla didn’t pretend to understand. This was a Visitor thing, clearly. But she could see Pew needed her, that was very obvious.
“Tell me what’s happened?” she prompted.
“First I knew he was back in the game was when I got a private whisper from his roomie today. Said he’s in some kind of coma or trance. He was in his room playing the game and they were chatting on the ‘chord – then it went quiet.”
“So String has gone missing?”
Pew ate a second cookie before replying. “Yes. But I think it’s worse than that.”
“Worse than going missing?”
Milla wondered if he meant String had vanished in the same way people sometimes vanished after an Expansion. Sometimes they simply weren’t there any more. She shivered at the thought. She hadn’t really liked String much but she wouldn’t wish that on him.
“Yes. Worse. When the roomie checked String was sitting in his chair with a smile on his face but unaware and unresponsive. His machine was still on, game still running. That happened yesterday and he’s been the same way ever since.” Pew picked up one of the cookies and ate it.
Milla filtered out the meaningless words as she always had to when talking with Pew and focused on the key point.
“So he is sick? Don’t you have healers in… wherever he is?”
“We do. But I don’t think they’ll be any help. The thing is String was soloing around Lustrous Lake, trying to build faction with the Lamia so he could get that cool looking water-dragon mount. And String always had a thing about the Lamia, their uber-long blue and green hair, their huge aquamarine eyes, their water breathing ability…”
“Their lack of virtually any clothing?”
Pew’s crest flushed.
“The point is he always said if he had to live anywhere in game it’d be in the Lamia village.”

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 14th Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Primrose was feeling sad. Her paint was faded and her garland of flowers looked like pallid overcooked Brussels sprouts. It seemed as if nobody could help her. Not even the garden fairy, and all her nome friends feared she was going into a decline. 

At midnight, under a fat, full moon, Brenda dragged Primrose into the centre of a ring of tiny mushrooms.

“What’s supposed to happen now?”

“I don’t know. Just you set still and wait.”

In the morning, Primrose looked just the same. But her smile was back.

“That’s moon magic. You never knows what it might do.”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

bibed (noun) – shared sleeping space often mildly smelly

chike (noun) – small bird with a piercing cry and a yellow beak – that leaves behind it the unmistakable odour of burned custard

cycnical (adverb) – of doing chores, to do two minutes hoovering followed by twenty minutes on Twitter

earleir (adverb) – of the insertion of earrings: missing the hole

graet (verb) – to remove hard skin from the toes with abrasive paper

hopig (noun) – sexually indiscriminate sow

midwintert (adjective) – of weather, being cold and with the sort of fog you can chew

miselry (verb) – pertaining to singing the poking of one finger in the ear whilst harmonising

oment (noun) – phenomenon similar to a crop circle, occurring in baked beans and portending ill luck  for short red-haired women

reain (verb) – of colonials rediscovering their Caledonian roots

relif (noun) – raised pattern on ankles caused by too-tight socks

sensibel (adjective) – of shoes both practical and pretty

supermatket (noun) – very absorbent doormat available in kit form from a very famous retailer of kits

unfortuante (noun) – maiden aunt with a very good moustache and halitosis

welld (verb) – to repair stuff with a hot glue gun (badly)

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

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Growing older means now you can smile
When you think how it was for a while
In your youthful years
When all of your fears
Were about if you had the right style

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, here to induct you into the greater mysteries of the literary art. I am, of course, already well known to you as the much-feted author of  “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, which one kind reviewer once described as ‘unique’ and ‘unforgettable’ although much of the rest of the review is unrepeatable in polite company.

Mumsie made an interesting point over breakfast the other day. She had just put two more tablespoons of sugar over her frosted-flakes and added a generous dose of Tia Maria to her morning cup of coffee. I had been reading the paper and tutting over all those dreadful unwashing poor people who keep complaining about how unfair things are, when she said: “Don’t you think it’s really odd, Moons, that men get called heroes?”

Being polite I shook the paper vigorously to indicate I was reading, but Mummy was not to be dissuaded: “It’s odd cos Hero was a woman, right? In the myth – she was the heroic one who tried to save that Leander. So why are men called ‘heroes’?”

Knowing I would not be left in peace until I had proffered a contribution, I sighed and reluctantly peered at her over the table. “So why?” I asked.

“No idea. It’s just fucking odd. Maybe it’s a possessive ‘s’ in Hero’s?”

Needless to say, I made good my escape back to my writing cubby in the refurbished coal cellar just as soon as I had crunched my last mouthful of toast and marmalade.

I have to admit to not being so well acquainted with the female of the species. My education took place in the monastic gender-solitude of a school which snapped at the heels of Eton, Westminster and Rugby – and we usually had our faces trodden on by their students on the rare occasions our teams met on sports-fields too. So my main window into the wonderful world of womanhood has always been my beloved Mumsie and the women in books, TV shows, films – and some special magazines and websites which I study purely for research purposes.

Which is why today’s lesson for you my devoted disciples of the pen, is intended for those who, like me, are biologically unable to understand the mysterious feminine. It will give you much-needed guidance on how to write these other gendered humans as realistically as you write your men.

Strong Female Characters

The first thing to remember, dear Male Reader Who Writes (MRWW), is that women are not the same as men in any but the most basic respects. Yes, like us they will acknowledge the lower levels of Maslow’s Triangle, but once away from the necessities of existence such as food and shelter, the feminine operates upon an entirely alternative agenda to the masculine.

To be brief and blunt – you will never understand women, they are a psychologically alien species. So don’t even try. Make your heroines the epitome of your self-conceived notions of femininity and you will not go too far wrong.

The recent trend to have a ‘strong, female, protagonist’ does, however, need to be addressed. This is very simple to achieve.

Rule One: She must be devastatingly beautiful.

Rule Two: She must be able to physically beat up men.

Rule Three: She must be rude to everyone – but especially to men.

Rule Four: She must be selfish and ambitious and not care who she hurts to get her way.

Rule Five: She must do a job that is male-dominated and do it well.

Rule Six: She must have no feminine attributes except large breasts and high-heels.

Rule Seven: She is probably a Lesbian.

And with that, amigos, I bid you adieu.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.