Min, Jenny and Linda had been walking their dogs through the woods every morning since summer began to bake the land. It was cool under the trees and the dark leaf-mould was soft underfoot, meaning the canines could run to their hearts’ content while the three women ambled through the green-scented shade, chatting as they went.
About halfway round, the path emerged from the woodland to the edge of a bright green meadow with a pebbly-bottomed stream – and peaty grass that was boggy underfoot for most of the year. The women would emerge blinking into the sunlight while the dogs charged into the sparkling water drinking noisily and wallowing like furry hippos.
It was a day so hot that even the woodland felt a bit airless, which meant that the canines had taken even longer than usual in the cool water. The women were just about to call them out when one of Min’s German Shepherds lifted his head and woofed gently. Before the ‘pack’ could be brought to heel there came a sound of crashing in the undergrowth and two teenage girls emerged from the woodland at a gallop. They ran up to Min.
“Aunt Min. Aunt Min.”
“Tiffany. Chardonnay. Whatever is the matter?”
The smaller of the two made a prim mouth. “There’s a man up by the stone gallows. And he’s got his thing out hasn’t he Tiff?”
“Was he having a piss?”
Tiff shook her head.“No. He was just stood there waving his todger at us.”
Min looked at the two faces and saw little sign of upset. No. If truth were to be told the girls looked more excited than worried.
“You two okay?”
“Yeah. We are. We were just surprised.”
“Do you want us to walk you home?”
“No. Thanks. We’re okay. We can cross the next field and get back onto the road. But what are you going to do?”
“We’ll take the dogs up StoneGallows Hill and have a word with whatever they find up there. You tell your dads I’m on it and I’ll pop by and see them later.”
“But will you be all right?” Tiff sounded genuinely concerned.
“Course we will, love. Three women and five dogs should be enough to scare even the most determined flasher.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. Now get along home.”
The teenagers hugged her briefly, before crossing the water meadow and climbing the gate to the next field.
Linda eyed Min narrowly. “We going up StoneGallows then?”
“I am. It’s up to you whether you come or not.”
Jenny elbowed Linda. “Of course we’re coming. I haven’t seen a willie in years.”
Linda snuffled out a laugh. “I still see one occasionally, though I wish I didn’t.”
“At least whatever he’s waving isn’t going to come as any surprise.”
With which comfortable thought they whistled up the dogs and plunged back into the semi-darkness of the wood. For a while they followed their accustomed path, but then they deviated over a granite stile – which involved lifting Linda’s bad-tempered spaniel, Susan – and out of the woods onto springy upland turf. It was a stiffish climb and even when they reached the top of the hill there was little breeze and the brazen sun seemed to be turning the whole sky yellow. The dogs flopped down on the grass and the women looked about them. The stone gallows themselves stood on a rough rocky mound which was currently starred with white fairy flax flowers.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody here now.”
Linda’s rather pointed nose was twitching as she peered shortsightedly about her, and, not for the first time, Min thought how much like a rat she looked.
“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t,” Jenny snapped her fingers and her two Doberman Pinschers came to heel. “Hans. Klaus. Seek.”
They began quartering the ground and Min’s sleek golden shepherds joined in the game. It was Apollo who found something first. He stood stock still pointing at a spot in the grass. His brother Phoenix joined him, as did Klaus and Hans. They stood like statues, and Susan heaved herself up off her fat backside to go and see what they had found. When the fifth member of the pack joined the circle Phoenix lifted his head and howled. The other four joined in, and for a moment the sultry air was filled with spine-tingling howls.
“Our flasher must smell deeply disturbing,” Linda marched over to where the dogs were surrounding a damp patch in the arid earth. “I sincerely hope that isn’t what I think it is.”
“Probably is.” Jenny came and looked down. “Very probably is. Euwww.”
Min snorted.“Whoever he is. He’s gone now. Let’s go home. I have brownies in the larder.”
The mention of food was enough to make Susan lose interest in the damp spot, and once she moved the other dogs abandoned their vigil.
It was a subdued crew that made its way back down into the valley and the cluster of grey stone houses they called home.
But strong tea and rather more brownies than were strictly necessary lifted the mood, with the group breaking up cheerfully enough and promising to meet as usual on the morrow. Min went to see the fathers of Tiffany and Chardonnay, with the upshot of that being Facebook and Twitter posts warning of a possible flasher in the area of the stone gallows.
It was quiet enough for a week or two, but then more people began seeing a black-dressed figure who emanated frustrated sexuality and waved his manhood at passing females. But whoever he was, he was quick on his feet, because two or three of the younger men went out a time or two, and they never caught even a whiff of anybody, which was odd.
Odder still, One-Eyed George, the one remaining career poacher in the vicinity, was actually heard to say that his dogs wouldn’t go up over StoneGallows Hill no matter how he shouted at them.
Min frowned and started to carry her phone with her at all times. She was fairly certain that three old women – with a pack of dogs – really weren’t going to attract the attentions of whoever was frightening young girls. But, as Linda said, fairly certain butters no parsnips.
There was an aura of mounting unease about the village, and the local law enforcement could be seen driving up and down the sunken road that meandered through the valley at random hours of the day and night. Although how they thought that was going to help anyone to apprehend a flasher in the woods…
Matters came to a head on the longest day, when the flasher waved his equipment at a young woman who was out photographing birds. As he leapt from the bushes she lifted her camera and kept a finger on the shutter. The figure hid his eyes from the powerful flash and shambled back into the trees. She lit out at a run. Arriving in the village puffed out but triumphant.
“I’ve got his picture,” she yelled. “Here.”
Walking into the shade of the pub porch she thumbed a control on her camera. The screen showed a burst of shots of the wood. But no flasher.
The birdwatcher stared at her camera.
“But he was there. Right in front of me. Waving his…”
“Willy?”
Min had arrived unobtrusively at the edge of the crowd. She listened with half an ear to the increasingly improbable ‘explanations’ that were being put forward for the flasher-less pictures, before turning round and going home deep in thought.
By lunchtime she had made her decision, and she phoned Linda and Jenny who both agreed to be at her house for a late solstice supper.
It was midnight and a fat moon hung in the sky like a childish drawing. The three women had finished their meal and they now sat around the table in a room lit only by that moon.
Jenny broke the silence. “Are you sure about this Min?”
“No. I’m not sure. But I don’t have any better ideas.”
Linda looked at her own hands where they lay on the table. “I thought we agreed never to do this again.”
Min grimaced. “We did. But I refer you to my previous answer.”
“Okay. I’m in.”
“Me too.”
Min reached behind her and picked up a bundle from the window seat. She unrolled it to disclose a deck of cards, and a silver bell. Jenny put the bell in the centre of the table and the three women laid their hands palm down on the polished wood. The hands made a circle and as the last little finger touched its neighbour the bell on the table rang. Linda closed her eyes.
“We ask that whatever is haunting StoneGallows Hill be returned to the light.”
“We ask in humble gratitude.”
“We ask in sisterhood.”
The air in the room thickened making it hard to breathe. While each of the women felt sweat stand on her forehead. And each felt a compulsion to move her hands. But they resisted and the bell rang again.
On StoneGallows Hill the moonlight fractured and there came the sound of a creaking rope. The body that hung from the gallows swung from side to side in a nonexistent wind, and the empty holes that were once his eyes shed tears of blood. On the arm of the gallows a raven sat preening its feathers.
“Caw,” it said harshly as the light stuttered again before the body and the big black bird disappeared.
In Min’s sitting room, Linda slumped onto the table.
“It’s done,” she whispered as the pack of cards cut itself and the hanged man lay face-up on the polished mahogany in the moonlight.
It’s a matter of record that the StoneGallows Hill flasher was never seen again.

© jane jago 2020

It is strange how at January’s end
We all stop trying to pretend
That we’ll be super fit
Or we’ll size-down our kit
And resolution‘s no longer a trend…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jacintha Farquhar here again. Slightly the worse for life but still able to muster a thought or two. 

Rather bewildered by two sad females thinking their readership might benefit from my rather robust advice – particularly considering the sad steaming ordure my only offspring thinks of as his magnum opus. (There are times when he is very like the sad excuse for a human being who fathered him on one distinctly unmemorable ouzo-fuelled night. Unfortunately.) But if people have faith in you, you are kind of obligated to do your best. 

Today’s lesson concerns the thing most badly written about of all. If you discount lerv (which one may dabble in at a later date).

Life Lessons for Writers – Five: Lovemaking

The awful remembrance of just how large was my hangover on the morning after Moons was conceived, and the equally awful recollection, after much rummaging about in the grey matter, of how small and uninteresting was his father’s penis dragged my consciousness round to the elephant that sits in the corner of most rooms. 

Sex.

Okay. 

Let’s deal with the givens first. A sexually mature couple – whatever their gender or orientation is liable to dabble. Accept it and decide how you are going to deal.

You have options.

1. The drawn curtain
2. A peep between the sheets
3. Erotica 
4. Porn

Before you decide which avenue to investigate there are a couple of ground rules you will ignore at your peril. 

First. Before you set finger to keyboard, have a proper think about the age and experience of your protagonists. A pair of virgins is unlikely to leap straight into wildly imaginative sexcapades. The likelihood is that you will, if you choose not to gloss over the whole thing, be describing awkward fumbling, embarrassment and a very short-lived experience. Conversely, a forty-year old libertine is unlikely to be unmanned by a pair of blue eyes.

Second. Do. Your. Research. If you have any specific practices in mind, read them up, and establish both the physical possibility and the likelihood of such an act occurring between your chosen couple. 

Third. Avoid bandwagons. However many shades of whatever colour has been done already. Leave it alone….

And finally – do at least try sex before you attempt to write about it. Ideally you should try what you intend to write about, but I’m guessing that is unlikely amongst the assorted virgins, snowflakes, and prudes who are likely to be reading this. Porn sites are your friend.

Returning to our quartet of options…

It is my contention that in most cases only A and B are practicable alternatives. Most of your readers will be perfectly well aware that Tab A fits into Slot B so description of the mechanics is at best superfluous, and at worst cringeworthy. Be warned.

Let’s look at some examples…

Example A wherein it is pretty obvious what is going to occur but we the bedroom door is closed before anything actually happens.

He laughed and scooped me into a very satisfactory embrace.

“Who’s a clever girl then?”

“Me. And would there be a reward in it?”

His grin turned naughty, and we forgot all about our hosts and their problems.

Example B which is a little more descriptive 

I dropped my bottom onto his lap and I knew what his problem was. He had a most impressive erection. I wriggled my backside, feeling the responsive jerk. He grabbed me by the shoulders.

“You better stop doing that unless you mean it.” he said very quietly. 

I smiled into his eyes and wriggled some more.

As to C and D. Well they are more chacun a son gout. And to be bleakly honest if you need my advice you have neither the experience nor the balls to write them.

Now push off and get some experience of something that isn’t missionary position with the lights off….

Buggy-Bot was a game, and a very popular one. You controlled a little buggy exploring the surface of an alien world and if the aliens came to close you would shoot them so the buggy could continue its journey of exploration.

Those consistent in reaching the highest scores for accuracy and control, might become one of the very few who got to play the secret levels. These looked a bit different and when the aliens died their bodies didn’t disappear, they stayed there, bleeding yellow blood. But the mission of the buggy was to explore this new world for science…

E.M. Swift-Hook

I came abruptly awake, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Sunlight? I thought. Just hold on one minute. It was November and I lived in London. Where the smegg was the sunlight in that equation? I sat up carefully and looked about me. Not London. Definitely not London. Instead I seemed to be in a sort of leafy bower in the crown of an oak tree. 
“Chloe,” I said to myself, “you definitely ain’t in Kansas.”
I was dressed in some teenage boy’s idea of heroine/princess-in-need-of-a-knight garb. It was skintight and sort of snakeskin-ish with a teeny weeny skirt and hopelessly impractical sandals. I also had rather a lot of blonde curls and a whole heap more chest than I had any use for. Whoever had given me this avatar wasn’t playing by the rules at all. I sighed and set about braiding the hair into something more sensible while I had a think.
Evidently someone was messing about with my head, and I could even hazard a guess who. But that was for later. For now there was stuff to be done and decisions to be made.
First job was to confirm my suspicions. I blinked slowly twice and, sure enough, a set of Virtual Goggles activated. 
“Status.”
The answering voice was scratchily unfriendly. Which was wrong on a lot of levels, not the least of which is that VG is designed to be absolutely neutral. I stopped trying to figure it out and listened carefully.
“Single female. Fighting skills: -2. Magic: -1.  Charisma: -10. Weaponry: one dagger one short sword.”
Which was mostly bullcrap. Even if this was a new Game my skill levels were far above those. But I chose not to react. Instead I determined to use any advantages I might have.
“Boots.” I said firmly.
Nothing happened so I spoke again. 
“I requested boots. I am entitled to one request. I want a pair of sensible leather boots.”
The boots appeared on my feet although I sensed a certain reluctance on the part of the hive mind. Somebody was certainly smegging about with this Game. But they were in for a nasty surprise. 
“Location.”
“Information classified above player level.”
I grinned. We’d see about that. Later. But for now.
“Locator devices.”
The quiet lasted about thirty seconds then the voice replied (sounding as reluctant as it’s possible for an algorithm to sound). “Beacons in. Left sleeve. Handle of dagger. Cloak. Backpack.”
I blinked slowly three times and closed the goggles. 
By the position of the sun it took me the best part of an hour to find all the beacons. I stuck them one by one into the bark of the tree before taking off my boots and climbing quietly down to the forest floor. I put the boots back on and looked for a suitable tree to hide in while I considered my options. The first two possibles were too possible – screaming trap with every wave of their leafy branches. The third candidate was a gnarled and elderly specimen of undefined species, but it looked climb-able and wasted no energy on allurement. I went up, climbing lightly and using my real world skills to move this stupidly pulchritudinous avatar in the most energy-efficient way.
“Rule infringement.” The voice in my ear was harsh and judgmental. I ignored it and kept on climbing.
Once seated in the crown of the tree I opened the VG. 
“You have infringed the rules. You will lose your…”
“No rule was infringed,” I snapped out. “It is permissible to endow your avatar with your real-world skills.”
“Climbing is not in your real world skill set.”
“Says?”
The silence went on rather a long time before the AI got back to me. And when it did, it sounded like the words were dust and ashes in its insubstantial throat.
“Apologies. Data was corrupted.”

From ‘Rules of Engagement’ by Jane Jago one of nineteen Game Lit stories by as many authors in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.  All profits from the Rise and Rescue anthologies go to support wildlife devastated by the Australian wildfires. 

A selection of rhymes by Jane Jago, made age appropriate for those for whom their second childhood is just around the corner…

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty, bald as a coot
Ran around Tesco in his birthday suit
All of the doctors, security too
Couldn’t catch Humpty who hid in the loo!

Dominant, Dominant

Dominant, dominant fly away home
Your house is on fire your subbies all gone
All except one and that’s little Mabel
The one you left tied to the dining room table…

You can find this, and other whimsical takes of life in On The Throne? a little book of contemplation from Jane Jago.

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

awaut (adverb) – of movement, halting and without direction

crique (noun) – garden game played with croquet mallets and hard boiled eggs

dandom (noun) – place ruled by King Dan

dew times (descriptive noun) – those times in one’s life when drunkenness encourages running barefoot through early morning grass:  cowpats and thistles notwithstanding

etringing – (adverb) of cheese, damp, soggy and about to walk out of the cupboard

hosemate (noun) – person inside the same pair of pantyhose as you

innincence (noun) – stuff they put in pub urinals to camouflage the niff

mamke (adjective) – possessed of a matronly deportment

maning (verb) – the stroking of their own hair by vain human beings

perhpas (noun) small birds characterised by self doubt and wrinkled toes

prerequiite (adjective) – of husbands the state of being teetering on the edge of drunkenness

procatinating (verb) – of elderly ladies the act of falling in love with a tabby of dubious parentage

reature (adjective) – of dogs, having the necessity to drag the bum along the carpet

soying (verb) – the adding of excessive amounts of salty sauce to your snacks

temptarure (noun) – sexually precocious young female with exceptionally long eyelashes

The tiny house Emma called home was full – her mother, gran and three brothers. So she knew it was impossible. But walking to school, she’d pretend a dog walked beside her or, curled up in bed, she would make believe he was too. She never said a word. The last thing she wanted was to put another shadow of regret in her mother’s eyes. 

On her birthday she woke to something small and warm curled on her bed. Sitting up she saw a purring kitten face with blue eyes. Which was when Emma knew she had always wanted a cat.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The hooves of his ponies clattered lightly past the plaza as they trotted up towards the Castle Hill. Alfor on the morning after the Fair, was like a party when all the guests had gone home. Durban found it slightly depressing and he was glad to be leaving himself.
A voice hailed him from the steps of the Temple of the Gods and he was not at all surprised. He stopped his pony and waited whilst a stooped figure came slowly down the steps and crossed towards him. It was an elderly woman, her face half hidden beneath the hood of her cowl, her body bent and shapeless in its robes. She laid one hand on his bridle and looked up at him with clear blue eyes that held no trace of the ravages of age. For once Durban felt no desire to smile. He sat quite still, whilst the pack ponies shifted restlessly behind him.
“I suppose you have come to tell me not to do it.” His voice sounded even to his own ears like that of a petulant child and the old woman smiled gently.
“Should I tell the wind not to blow, or the sun not to rise? Your nature is to act as you should do.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To offer you a gift.” Durban felt uncomfortable beneath the calm blue gaze, exposed and vulnerable as if his very thoughts were open to being read.
“I have all I need,” he said sulkily.
“I am sure you do. But a man who tries to yoke and drive wild stallions needs more than a good whip and a steady hand.”
She could read his thoughts, curse her. He shifted his gaze to stare deliberately at the slowly brightening skyline.
“You should be pleased,” he said, his voice stiff with resentment. “It’s what you want after all.”
He heard a strange sound and realised that she was laughing at him.
“My dear child, whatever gave you the idea you could act otherwise?”
“Just say your piece and let me go. I’m expected at the castle.”
“Very well, I do not seek to delay you. But my gift is of knowledge – so perhaps you would prefer to pay for it? Shall we settle on a favour in the future?”
His eyes were drawn back to hers by her tone and he read a far from gentle mockery in the vivid blue depth and felt a slight sick sense of claustrophobia.
“Please –” he began, but the words choked in his throat and he felt himself incapable of movement of any kind.
Be warned, the voice seemed to come from within him. You think your fiery steeds an even match, but one is stronger than you know – strong enough to break the traces and trample you beneath its cutting hooves and what then, my brave charioteer?
“What should I do?” he heard his own voice although he had not willed it, but could not tell if he had spoken the question in words or thoughts.
Use the reins lightly and spare the whip. If it is racing its team-mate, it will not notice the direction it runs, nor mark the distance covered. And when the race is done you will bring him to me.
The voice stopped and Durban became aware of the first sounds of the city stirring to meet the new day. He blinked and found himself frowning at the woman.
“Why do you do these things to me?” he asked, to his own ears sounding half plaintive child and half frightened man.
The old lady smiled with the serenity of youth.
“Because you are my gift to Temsevar and it never hurts you to remember now and again that whilst you make the puppets dance, your own strings are tied to my fingers.”

From The Fated Sky, part one of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A selection of rhymes by Jane Jago, made age appropriate for those for whom their second childhood is just around the corner…

I Had a Little Igloo

I had a little igloo
I built it in the snow,
It was warm and cozy
though the temperature was low,
The neighbours came to visit me
they brought their children too,
Who threw me out into the snow
and stole my small igloo.

You can find this, and other whimsical takes of life in On The Throne? a little book of contemplation from Jane Jago.