An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Ginny decided she had come out much too early to see the bats, either that or she had mistimed exactly when ‘sunset’ really was. From her ‘bat hide’ behind some bushes, but with a clear view of both the church and the belfry – at least she assumed it was a belfry – she saw the vicar. He was making his way through the churchyard and looked rather odd wearing a long duster-style coat as if he had stepped out of a spaghetti western or a Fields of the Nephilim video. He had a tank of something on his back with a spray gun in a holster. He also carried what looked like some sort of a gun. 
Ginny was no expert but it looked like the kind of gun her cousin Bradley had posed around with shooting tin cans from the garden wall one summer holiday in her early teens. Bradley had used it to shoot at pigeons too. That had been the summer she’d become vegetarian. So she was pretty sure the gun was nothing very dangerous unless it caught you in the eye.
Or unless you were a bat. 
But, surely not? This was a vicar not some crazy teenage cousin like Bradley. And Bradly was a semi-retired investment banker now. But the tank of chemicals on the vicar’s back spoke otherwise. 
Frozen to the spot by indecision, Ginny realised that even if she called the police the vicar could kill all the bats before help arrived. 
She wasn’t even aware she was up and running until she heard some mad-woman shouting abuse and realised it was herself and that she was running into the church behind the bat-hating vicar.
By the time she was inside he was unlocking the door to the belfry and he spun round. The lighting in the church must have been a bit odd because he looked as if his front teeth were too big to fit in his mouth properly and the whole of his face seemed to project towards her and she could have sworn his nose was twitching in anger. Then he stepped towards her and the strange effect was gone. His long coast swung back as he moved and she saw a wicked-looking hunting knife in a sheath on his belt.
“Ah, Virginia, so sorry but it’s a bit of a bad time. If you would like to join the flower arranging rota you’ll need to speak to Dolores St.John. She’s always keen for new recruits.”
As he spoke Ginny realised the gun – whatever sort it was – was pointing towards her.
“Uh. No. I wasn’t planning on–”
The vicar smiled, but instead of his usual rugged good looks, his mouth seemed rather narrow and in the subdued light, Ginny got the strangest impression of – fur.
“If it’s about writing a piece for the parish magazine, that would be wonderful. Thank you.” He took a step towards her which felt decidedly menacing. “You really should go now, Virginia, I have something important I need to do.”
“You’re not going to kill the bats.” Ginny had intended it to come out as a firm denunciation, but instead, it emerged from her mouth as more of a strangled squeak.
The vicar giggled.
“You’re not going to kill the bats,” he echoed mockingly. “Well that’s where you’re wrong Virginia Creeper. That is exactly what I am going to do. I’m going to eradicate every last flying rat from this belfry and you should leave right now.”
“But they’re protected!”
The vicar looked around theatrically.
“Doesn’t look like it to me. Not at the moment anyway.”
Common sense was sternly lecturing Ginny that this man was clearly deranged and that her best course would be to run from the church and call for help. But she knew if she did that the bats would indeed be unprotected. Instead, she took out her phone and started filming.
“If you do anything to the bats, I’ll show the world what kind of monster you are.”
Which was perhaps the worst – as well as the last – mistake of her life.
“Why did you say that, you stupid woman?”
The vicar seemed to bound across the distance between them in a single jump, knocking the phone from her hand. His face, thrust right into hers, was no longer human, but covered in soft brown and black fur, with round doe-like eyes. What had been his hair was now long ears.
The vicar was a giant rabbit.
The impossibility of that stunned her as the force of his bound hit her in the chest and Ginny was thrown backwards. She just had time to see the long yellow front teeth and the barrel of his gun caught the last rays of the setting sun through the narthex window as she fell, then her head hit the stone flags stones of the church floor and there was nothing.

Part 14 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

The fat boy rode into town on a Fat Boy. After wrestling his pride and joy onto its stand, he ambled into the shade of the store. Two teenagers who leaned against the dirty wall of the boarded-up saloon grinned.

The smaller of the duo reached into one of his cracked boots and withdrew a screwdriver.

While his friend kept watch, he approached the machine.

The wail of an alarm split the air and the thief lay twitching in the dirt with a blackened tool in his hand.

The fat boy rode out of town on his Fat Boy.

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Fantastic

1. (noun – pronunciation note: Fanta stick) Wooden ‘handle’ used to eat iced lollies made from a particular brand of sweet lemonade. Example: The fantastic was now covered in melting iced lolly, which was happily running down little Jenny’s arm and making the sleeve of her cardigan a soggy mess.

2. (noun – pronunciation note: fanta’s tick) Insect vector of itchy scrotum disease found almost exclusively in the handlers of working elephants.  Example: The population of the outlying villages was being decimated by the preponderance of fantastic disease among the young men.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

Becca offered a silent prayer as the engine failed to catch then did. The car was too old but she couldn’t manage without it. Today, her day off, she had been temping as a receptionist. Tomorrow it was back to an early start as a home carer. But now she had to collect the kids from her mother’s. A neighbour’s daughter would babysit for her evening shift waitressing. 

On the radio, a slimy politician sucking on his silver spoon was saying that poor people should get a job.

She wondered how many jobs she needed not to be poor anymore.

E.M. Swift-Hook

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Conjunction 

1. (noun – pronunciation note: con junction ) A system of road signs set up to lure unwary drivers into the hands of thugs and thieves. Example: the conjunction set up on the back road into town netted the criminals two sports cars a lorry load of cigarettes and an elderly whore with bunions before it was found and closed down. 

2. (noun – pronunciation note: c on junction) Leaves, frost and wetness on railway tracks leading to late trains and commuter chaos. Example: there just had to be a conjunction on the day he was due to defend his PHD dissertation, fortunately the board went ahead without him.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

My basket here is safe and warm
I ride it, high above the storm
While mother thinks me fast asleep
I follow the dragon to the wizard’s keep
And all the clouds my sleep adorn
Til I arrive safe at the morn

©️Jane Jago

The reunion gathering in the The Red Dragon was subdued.
It didn’t help that a travelling bard was singing of the Nine who saved the Kingdom. The story in the song was a pretty enough confection, Hepsie thought, but most all lies. And it was a reminder that the last time they had set out as companionship of nine and returned as seven and now just four of them sat around the table.
Hepsie had a lot on her mind but she could see that even the usually irrepressible Stref took the news about Kaya like a blow to the gut. At least it stopped him from squabbling with Linis for once as they always used to. Or maybe it was deeper than the one event, maybe he had grown up some. Linis certainly had. The poise and calm were the same, but the sophistication, elegance and self-command spoke to something new. When the conversation turned to their next step and the long journey to the mountains she simply lifted a hand to silence everyone.
“I don’t see why we need to make this into a grand trek. There are other ways to get there.”
Poll looked thoughtful. “Aye. There is for sure. We could use the Guild of Fartravellers. But they would ask more than all I own for the price of the spell.”
Which was true. Fartravel was expensive and for a reason. Only the Guild knew the spell and word was that it took so much from the caster they would need days in bed after to recover.
“That might be so, but I have the price of it. How do you think I came to Durmouth so quickly when Kaya sent word to me?”
“We couldn’t ask…” Poll began to protest.
“No. This is the same as before. We all bring to this our strengths. That I have the gold is no more to the point than that I have my bow.”
“Before, we all had nothing except our skill, our muscles and our wits.”
“We were young then, Poll,” Linis said gently. “Now we have other resources. A lifetime of them. Just as we used the strengths of our youth before, now – if we are to succeed – we must use all the strengths of our age and experience.”
So it was settled and the next day they gathered in the Travel Court of the Guild. It looked like any other courtyard Hepsie had ever been in, cobbles, and stone walls. Except that there was only one wide gate and the high stone walls were featureless aside for plaques on which were carved sigils. She recognised one or two and wondered what they might have to do with travel at all. Or maybe they were just there to confuse people like her, with some small knowledge of magic, to ensure the real spell remained secret.
Hepsie and Poll were with their hill ponies, Stref with a broad-backed mule he had found somewhere and Linis with her chestnut mare. All the mounts had bedrolls and side packs of supplies. Hopefully, they hadn’t forgotten anything because there were no taverns or towns in the high mountains.
Hepsie found herself whispering a prayer to Shal and then wondered why she did so. It was unsettling as she was never the one to call on any god. But there was no time to give it any thought more because the Guild Spellcaster and her two apprentices, were beginning the spellcasting, sending them to the place Linis was holding in her thoughts. That was the big limit on Fartravel, as everyone knew, you had to have been there first.
The magic tingled on her skin and Hepsie resisted the urge to scratch at it. Hepsie’s barrel-shaped pony snorted and rolled its eyes as she tried to soothe it. Stref was having a fine time keeping his mule in place as it sidestepped and tried to pull away. Even the chestnut mare had her ears flattened. Any moment they would all try and bolt. This was going to be a disaster.
“Everyone alright?” Linis asked
Hepsie blinked. Then shivered. They were high in the mountains. Just like that. She hadn’t even felt a moment of transition, and if there had been anything to see she had missed it, focused as she was on keeping her pony calm. No wonder the Guild spellcasters could charge such high prices.

From a fantasy tale by E.M. Swift-Hook

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“We may have a problem or do have one?” Em asked, knowing Agnes was seldom that precise in her use of words.
“Okay. Do have. The vicar has a visitor.”
“Who?”
“A rat catcher. Didn’t stay long, but he took in a box of stuff and he came out without it.”
“Oh bother the man. I’d better keep an eye on the church hadn’t I? “Hadn’t we. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“I’d be glad of the company. I just wish we could watch both sides of the church. I can only see the back door from here.”
“Can’t you get that pesky bloody bat of yours to go and keep an eye from the lych gate?”
“Yes. Of course I can. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“It’s being close to the church does it. I find I’m thinking a lot clearer over this side of the village. But right now I’m on my way.”
Em felt comforted by the thought that Agnes would be with her, and she rather despised herself for those feelings. In an effort to reassert her normal control, she brushed herself down briskly and went to collect certain things from a large tin trunk in the attic. Once she had assembled what she thought she might need, she dressed in camouflage trousers and a neat khaki vest. Carrying her booty downstairs she loaded the pockets of the ancient poachers gilet that hung behind the back door before lacing her feet into the Doc Martens that Agnes had persuaded her into last winter. As by now the sun was turning the evening sky a lurid orange picked out with purplish storm clouds it was time to persuade Erasmus to cooperate. 
“Are you awake my friend?”
To her surprise he answered immediately. “I am. What do you require of me?”
“Agnes and I can watch the back of the church from here, but we can’t see the front.”
He was ahead of her. “I will hang in the lych gate. It’s high enough so I won’t be seen.”
Em felt him leave, just as Agnes slipped in via the back door. “I left the car in the pub car park.”
There not being too much else to say, they took themselves upstairs to where a window seat on the half-landing offered a perfect view of the back of the church. They sat down, comfortable in their silence, and Em looked at Agnes with an inward grin. She also wore camo, although hers was less tailored than Em’s and her pockets bulged with various things as Agnes was always one to be prepared for any eventuality. 
It occurred to Em that there was one vital piece of information she hadn’t passed on to her friend. “I just remembered what I haven’t told you. Erasmus says the vicar is a were.”
“Wolf?”
“No. And we don’t know what. Erasmus tells me the bats say he’s rodent.”
Agnes gave a humourless chuckle.
“A rodent? Then my money’s on him being a wererat. I can just see him fitting in well with those cunning, sneaky supes.”
“But a wererat becoming a vicar?”
Agnes shrugged. “They have their exiles, rogues and outcasts same as the rest of us, but the traits always run true.”
Em wasn’t convinced, there was something distinctly un-ratty about the man that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You got the silver bullets?”
“I have. If necessary.”
Agnes’ phone bleeped. She listened for a moment.
“Thanks. Can you follow him?”
She listened some more. “Right. See you.” Agnes put the phone carefully back in her pocket. “The vicar is on the move. Dressed like he thinks he’s Clint Eastwood I’m told. Arnold is following on his motorbike, but he has to keep well back. Oh, and Arnold has Petunia riding pillion.”
Em sighed. “But you never know, she might even be useful for the first time in her life.”
They resumed their study of the churchyard in the lurid light of a Disneyesque sunset. A movement at the edge of the little coppice that backed onto the churchyard caught Em’s eye. She stared and then as her eyes became accustomed to the half light under the trees she realised who it was.
“Agnes. Why do you suppose the Cropper woman is sitting in Dead Man’s Wood watching the church?”
“Azriel knows. But she is just about bound to get in the bloody way. I’ll go send her home.”
But before she had even got up from her seat, a strange looking figure slipped into the churchyard by the back gate. It was the vicar, loaded for bear and heading towards the church.
The two women ran down the stairs and down the garden path to where a low wall separated Em’s garden from the churchyard. Em was thinner and fitter than Agnes but even she wasn’t fast enough to stop Ms Cropper who ran into the church shouting incomprehensibly…

Part 13 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Revenge porn. Amal had heard the term, but it never had much relevance. Until…

Her sister was just of age when she went to a nightclub and met two guys who came close to  ruining her life, and gleefully posted a video of them doing it.

That wasn’t to be tolerated. Amal soon identified the ringleader’s habits. 

Then she dressed in her slinkiest and prowled the night. He beckoned her to his table. He didn’t see her slip the powder in his drink.  

However.

The pictures of him naked, bound and enjoying the attentions of two brawny stevedores went viral.

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Glittering

1. (noun – pronunciation note: glitter ring) Gimcrack jewellery of base metal and glass notable for its initial shininess. Example: The glittering with which they sealed their engagement wasn’t going to last any longer than the relationship. 

2. (verb in the infinitive case – pronunciation note: gilt terring) The application of gold paint in an effort to make cheap furniture look expensively tasteful. Example: Unfair though it seems, as their employer was never caught, the women in the glittering factory all got custodial sentences.