The face smiled, belying the words it spoke.

“We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath.

“Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.”

A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it.

“You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

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…

Procrastination 

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crass donation) Giving to charity with a very poor grace. Example: It is noticeable that the charitable donations of billionaires are always marked by loud procrastination 

2. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crusty nation) Members of right-wing political groups who cite patriotism as a blanket excuse for all their excesses. Example: on being challenged about the name-calling and booing which characterised his rare appearances in the House of Commons, the member for North Twitchingham snorted and blamed his procrastination on extreme love of this green and pleasant land.

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.

How is the sky
So wide and fair?
And do the stars
Feel pain or care?
And do the colours
Of the night
If we aren’t seeing
Shine so bright?
And what should one
Frail human do?
Just drop the angst
And feel the view

jane jago 2023

At the City of a Thousand Stories the Pilgrim Route leaves the Imperial Highway and enters more uncertain territory. Prudent souls rest a while whilst those in charge of their safety engage such protection as they can afford.
The best assurance of security lies in the cadres of pensioned-off Imperial soldiery, although they cannot be hired cheaply.
One such group of battle-hardened veterans was under the leadership of Caleb Cross, a thickset plain-faced ex-sergeant of some forty summers. He was a man characterised by few illusions, alongside proven courage and integrity. He and his men had enjoyed a brief furlough in the fleshpots of the city and they were now ready for the road. They sat at their ease at one of the pavement cafes that border the slave market and awaited whatever clients the City Watch might send their way.
It was something of a surprise to see one of the Captains of the Watch escorting a tall cadaverously thin character in a snowy white pilgrim robe towards them. Caleb’s second whistled.
“Some money must have changed hands there,” he said quietly before spitting a gobbet of something truly vile into an adjacent humidor.
“Indeed my friend.”
Caleb stood up and watched the two men who approached him through narrowed eyes.
The Watch Captain looked as if he wasn’t much enjoying the company in which he found himself, while the pilgrim had wealth, privilege, and entitlement ingrained in every lineament of his almost skeletal frame. He stared at the group of soldiers in their stained leather breastplates and his mouth formed a sneer.
“Is this the best your city can do?”
The Watch Captain sneered right back. “That depends what you want. If you want spit and polish obviously not. But if you want to get to the Dragon Temple safely then, yes, they are the very best.”
The pilgrim must have been less of a fool than he appeared, because he dropped his superior act and looked carefully at the score of men who lounged at their ease under his scrutiny.
“How much?” he asked brusquely.
Caleb answered with a sneer of his own. “It doesn’t work like that. There are a few things we have to get clear first.”
The pilgrim looked down his high bridged nose. “What is there to get clear? I pay. You do as you are told.”
Caleb sat down.
“Come back when you are ready to listen.”
He turned his back. Nothing happened for some appreciable time and in the end he turned back to where the rigid pilgrim stood in silence but with his jaw out thrust.
“I’m listening,” the man grated.
“First thing. Everybody walks.”
“But we have just bought sturdy mules.”
“I don’t care. Where you want to go people walk.”
The pilgrim’s eyes glittered angrily, but then he drew himself in. “If I am buying your expertise I suppose I have to listen.”
“You do. And no women.”
“But…”
“Not negotiable.”
They eyed each other for a long cool moment before the pilgrim gave a thin smile.
“Very well. No women.”
“Finally. I’m in charge. I won’t make an issue of it, but if I take your money I’ve put my reputation on the line.”
The pilgrim actually seemed amused. “You are welcome to a task that I have found akin to herding cats. Now. For the second time. How much?”
“How many pilgrims?” Caleb was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
The pilgrim drew his dignity about him once more. “We are one and twenty, as the Holy Book sets out.”
“Thought you might be. The price is one hundred gold ducats.”
“Excessive.”
Caleb just looked at him.
The pilgrim turned his cold gaze on the Watchman who leaned against a stone pillar grinning.
“You man. Would you pay this rabble a hundred gold ducats?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I wanted to get to the temple and back with my skin in one piece or not.”
“Very well. You are hired.”
Some worm of unease was scratching at the base of Caleb’s brain and he was tempted to refuse the contract and wait for the next caravan. But a hundred ducats would see them all through winter in comfort so he nodded.

Jane Jago

To hear the rest of the story tune in to TallTaleTV

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Em was out of sorts in her skin and she couldn’t seem to settle to anything, there was, she was sure, something she was missing. And she had the feeling it was going to be a costly oversight.
Erasmus landed on her shoulder.
“A pint of blood for them.” The voice in her head was mildly amused.
“I’m missing something, boyo. But I don’t know what it is.”
“If you knew what it was you wouldn’t be missing it.” The cold logicality of his small, bat brain was somehow comforting. “Let’s break it down.”
“Okay. Theoretically the bats are now safe from the machinations of the reverend. But I don’t feel as if they are. And then there’s the man himself. Or rather not-man. He’s an unregistered supernatural being. But I don’t know what.”
“He’s a were Emmeline. You only had to ask.”
Em felt as if martial music was being played in her head. “A werewolf on my patch. I don’t think so.”
“Em. He’s not a wolf. Nor a dog. Nor a cat. Nor anything that flies. I said he was a were. I didn’t say what sort of a were.”
“Well. Spit it out. What in the name of Azriel and all his dark angels is he?”
“I don’t know. Seems like nobody knows. The bell tower bats say he’s a rodent of some sort. But even that doesn’t feel right to me.”
“So. Doug Turner is a were. But we don’t know of what sort.”
“That’s about the size of it. Added to which I think he will make another move against the bat colony soon.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. He’s obsessed.”
Em frowned, but couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. 
“It’s a good job he’s being watched then. But. Do I tell the bishop or hang on until we know more?”
Erasmus dug his claws into her skin. “Tell him. Stop being pigheaded.” 
Once Em nodded her assent, Erasmus dropped from her shoulder and with two strong beats of his wings he was back hanging from his beam.
“Get on with it, woman,” he said irritably before composing himself to wait.
Em sighed, but had to admit he was right. As usual. She stomped over to the phone with a heavy feeling in her stomach. She pretended to look for the number in the pink leather book Agnes had presented her with one Christmas, but in the end Erasmus’ eyes boring into her back galvanised her into action.
“Okay. Okay. I’m doing it. Right now.”
She dialled the digits she knew perfectly well – rather hoping nobody would answer. But the receiver was picked up on the second ring. Immediately Em knew it was the bishop himself and cursed inwardly.
“Emmeline.” His voice was as mellifluous as ever, but Em detected a thread of strain under the bonhomie. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I do. Though you are probably not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Doug Turner is a were.”
“Are you sure?”
“Erasmus is. But before you ask we don’t know what his animal is.”
“So you could have an unregistered werewolf in your village.”
“Seemingly not. I’m told he isn’t a wolf, a dog, a cat, nor anything that flies. Otherwise? Your guess is as good as mine.”
The bishop actually groaned. “I had a bad reaction to that young man when he was brought to my notice. But I put it down to not liking smooth operators. Now I am told that my instinct was right and I should not have ignored it. How irritating…” He went quiet for a moment, and Em could all but hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “We can do nothing today. But I will book a call with the archbishop for as early as possible in the morning. And when I have spoken to him I will come along and deal with your vicar personally. In the meantime, please keep away from him.” 
“I’m having him watched, as you know. From a discreet distance. But we could have an immediate problem. I can’t guarantee we’ll keep away if he goes after the bats.”
“Surely he can’t be that monumentally stupid.”
“Erasmus thinks he can.”
“In that case deal as you see fit. You will have the backing of the diocese.”
He ended the call and Em sat down hard on the nearest chair. 
“The bishop will be here tomorrow. Which should be a relief. Except…”
Erasmus regarded her through one beady eye. “Except that we both know something is going to happen tonight.” 
“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
He didn’t bother to answer her.
While she was wondering what to do, the phone rang. It was Agnes. 
“We may have a problem here.”

Part 12 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Her dinner companion was both genial and dryly amusing, but unlike so many of her ‘set’ his comments were never barbed or cruel. She sat back and enjoyed good food and undemanding company without so much as thinking about what she was doing there.

It wasn’t until they reached the coffee and liqueur stage that she was jerked back to reality.

He reached into his pocket and took out a small, red box. She sighed inwardly. He smiled his understanding.

“I know. I’m not asking you to pretend to love me…”

They celebrated their golden wedding in the same restaurant…

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…

Encore

1. (noun – pronunciation note: in core) Dwelling of any one of various apple-eating insect larvae. Example: When she cut open the rosy red apple the encore was positively writhing with virulent green caterpillars. 

2. (noun – pronunciation note: E N C ore) The raw material from which certain electronic components are constructed.  Example: The price of digital transponders skyrocketed when civil war interrupted the arrival of the encore.

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.

Nobody was jealous of Morag.

She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t young and she had a hard life travelling around, doing back breaking work on the land. She had no money for holidays or new clothes, no smartphone or smart TV, her tiny caravan was too hot in summer and too cold in winter. She had no human companionship, and spent her days working, knitting or walking with her dog.

Morag knew well no one envied her. But she was fine with that. All that mattered to Morag was there was nobody in the world she was jealous of at all.

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…

Misappropriate 

1. (proper noun – pronunciation note: Miss Appropriate) Rap name of shoplifter and popular singer born Mavis Appleyard. Example: Misappropriate stalked the red carpet dressed from head to toe in pink leather.

2. (verb – pronunciation note: ms appropriate) The act of turning a ladette into a lady. Example: the honourable Pauline’s marriage prospects have been much improved by a crash misappropriation and the removal of a multiplicity of facial piercings.

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.

August for the children is a small eternity
The time when school goes out to play
And weeks so seem to stretch away
And endless dreaming fills each day
And summer’s path’s a golden way.

August for the farmer is the time to gather in
To combine harvest wheat and rye
To cut them down and pile them high
To stack the bales and let them dry
Until the the last has been set by.

August for the worker is the time to holiday
To pack the bags and pack the car
To make a journey near or far
To see new sights, drink in new bars
And kiss beneath the twinkling stars.

August is the season that closes summer’s book
It takes the flowers and doth them press
Between the pages, to impress
The memories of summer’s dress
As autumn’s change her hands caress.

E.M. Swift-Hook