We rocked up at the Fair Maid and Falcon at about four in the afternoon of a filthy early October day. Two humans and two dogs, in a big American motorhome, come to run the business while the owners went on holiday. The rain was streaming, it was blowing a gale, and the pub certainly wasn’t appearing to its best advantage.
‘You and the dogs stop in the dry’ Ben said. ‘I’ll go find out where they want us to park.’
I did as he suggested, and he came back about fifteen minutes later looking cross.
‘What?’
‘Oh, the stupid buggers want us to park on the other side of the road in a very muddy field with no water and no lekky hook-up. They don’t want their customers to see the Winnie. He says they have a select clientele who might think the New Age Travellers had moved in.’
‘And what did you say to him, love of my life?’
He grinned. ‘The second word was ‘off’. I’ve left them having a bit of a think.’
I looked at the long, low, flint-walled building squatting moodily at the edge of its sodden beer garden and found myself shivering. ‘I don’t much care for this place’ I said slowly ‘so if the incumbents aren’t prepared to be reasonable I vote for giving them back their deposit and going home. Let them find somebody else to run their fucking gastro pub while they piss off the the Caribbean.’
Ben laughed. ‘Do you think there is anybody else?’
I laughed ruefully. ‘No. I guess not. And I find I don’t much care.’
He patted me companionably ‘Got the willies have you?’
‘Yup. And that’s normally your job…’
‘Yeah. It is. I’ve actually got a few myself. The atmosphere has changed greatly since I came here in June.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t put my finger on precisely what it is, but they seem to be losing it. He’s chain-smoking and his skin is hanging on him. And her? She looks like something the cat brought in and didn’t want. They are also extremely edgy. When I was inside, a door banged somewhere and she jumped about ten feet in the air.’
‘Odd. Marital problems do you think?’
His forehead creased as he considered that idea. ‘No. Doesn’t feel like that. I mean they aren’t exactly playing happy families, but they weren’t in June. This feels new… and nasty.’
Our conversation was interrupted by a timid knock on the door of the camper. Stan and Ollie growled softly and Ben got up to open the door. A skinny young girl in a waitress uniform stood out in the rain.
‘Come in.’
She did as she was told and stood dripping on the floor. ‘They want you to go back in’ she almost whispered. ‘He’s in a terrible temper and threatening all sorts if you don’t. She’s crying. Again.’
Ben looked at the girl from under his blonde eyebrows. ‘Would you go back in there if you were me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s them two. They’ve gone mad. They used to be OK to work for. Hard. But fair. But now they are both completely nuts. He shouts all the time and drinks, and she drinks and cries. This is my last shift. Got a job in Lymington. It’s a drop in pay. But. Told myself it was because its nearer to home. It isn’t though. It’s this place. It has started to give me the serious creeps.’
‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll now go see the charm twins.’
He got up and pulled on his parka. I watched them splashing their way across the car park, with Ben holding our huge red umbrella over the shivering girl, then sat on the rug with the dogs. ‘Well’ I said. ‘What do you two reckon? Stay? Or go?’
They looked solemn, then lay one either side of me and promptly fell asleep.
Ben was gone ages, and I was almost asleep myself when he returned. He looked a bit grim.
‘Problem, love?’
‘I dunno. When I went back inside all was sweetness and light. But I have the willies now. The volte face was too complete. We get to park wherever suits us. Would we like a meal with them in the restaurant tonight? The dogs can use the private garden. There was even the offer of more money.’
‘Shit Ben. They must be desperate. We’re overcharging them now, because you didn’t really want to take the job.’
‘True. But that was different. I just thought he was an asshole. Now he’s a worried asshole.’
‘So? What do we do? We probably have to stay, don’t we?’
‘Yup. Or have the asshole mouthing off all over Facebook and Twitter if we don’t.’
‘Okay then. We do it. But I want it on record that I have the willies.’

You can keep reading by picking up Who Put Her In? by Jane Jago for free this Thanksgiving and until 28 November and continue Joss and Ben’s adventures in Who Pulled her Out? for 0.99.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Thanksgiving 

I don’t feel myself qualified to comment on Thanksgiving. It’s a noble sentiment – eat until you almost explode to give thanks for staying alive for another year – and one I applaud.

Is it like British Bank Holidays? Slightly outmoded by the number of days people get off work now? Or does it retain real meaning?

I don’t pretend to know. And neither can I pretend to like pumpkin pie.

In the spirit of friendship I’ll see your Thanksgiving and  raise you British Boxing Day, wherein one lays about groaning and recovering from the Xmas excess.

Happy Thanksgiving and may your turkey be succulent….

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

apprecaite (verb) – to cover oneself in apricot jam and offer specialised sexual services

coruse (adjective) – having the colour and texture of rusty wire wool

misisng – (adjective) with no idea what the fuck is going on

missign (verb) – to employ the wrong rude gesture in the heat of an argument

paberbok (noun) – antipodean antelope which subsides on used pornography

rund (verb past – participle) – having no room left on one’s hard drive and thus being reduced to wax crayon on the bedroom window

snawer (noun) – one who can swear in more than one language

steampink (noun) – steampunk writings with erotic overtones 

sufficnet (noun) – fishing net big enough for a day’s catch

tefforthan (noun –  proper) – famous welsh tenor with tattoos and a big ‘personality’

ypou (noun) – virulent yellow stuff found in nappies

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

The last day of the world was scheduled for the following Tuesday.

After a lot of heated discussion as to what should be the exact date, a compromise was reached between the scientists, the religious communities and the politicians. Next Tuesday it was.

Despite some panic,Tuesday came and went. People carried on working, playing, learning, loving – living.There was outrage, of course. The scientists said it had been a political decision, the religious leaders praised their gods for saving us all. The politicians were heard to observe, acidly, that they had not specified which ‘next’ Tuesday they had meant.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Caer sat on his pony looking at the dead body on the ground and wondering if he should send more scouts back towards the road, almost a day’s trek behind the caravan. This man had been alone, half-mad and no threat to the caravan, but others might even now be following the same path that they had taken from the road and for the same reason they had taken it: others who were scouts for brigands, bandits or bigger caravans than his own.
He spat in the dirt and narrowed his eyes as he looked past the file of wagons, ponies and people. It was late afternoon and his breath misted slightly in the air. The long cold winter was over, but in the barren Wastelands, spring was always slow to come. The air still carried a biting chill, even in the heat of the day and the distant peaks kept their mantle of snow and ice, tinged with crimson by the light of the huge red sun. Spring was having to claw its way free of winter’s greedy clutches so that Temsevar could bask in an all too brief season of warmth and growth.
The Wastelands were vast and magnificent. Here and there, standing proud and alone in the plain, like the lost sentinels of a forgotten age, were towering flat-topped mountains of rock, some so massive they were too big to cross in a day on foot. It was as though at some point in the distant past the ground had simply dropped away, leaving the high plateaux stranded above, like giant stepping stones, creating a two-tier terrain. If in the winter, these high grounds were the coldest and most exposed, in the spring they seemed always flushed with new vegetation before any managed to creep out of the more parched stones below.
Caer made his decision. With the work to be done, the four men he already had out scouting their back trail were all he could spare for the moment. He called to one of the mounted men who was riding with the caravan.
“Shevek, we are camping here.”
The man he spoke to wheeled his pony away and rode at a brisk pace towards the front of the train of wagons and animals, issuing sharp orders to make the night’s camp around the rocky debris beneath the steep cliff face of one of the high monoliths. Caer felt a familiar sense of satisfaction as those orders turned the straggling ranks of moving people, ponies and wagons into a brief flurry of chaos, before brightly coloured awnings, tents and pavilions sprung up from the chaos, like strange blossoms. Caer and his men rode through the quickly forming encampment, shouting instructions, solving problems, helping secure ropes and encouraging any who were slow to respond with the whips they carried curled in their belts.
In a remarkably short time, the caravan resembled a miniature town with streets and open spaces, stables, and pens. Fires were being kindled, children tending the animals as women kneaded dough and cut the vegetables for the evening meal. Toddlers screamed and got underfoot or rolled like puppies amongst the big, sharp-toothed dogs, which ignored them and begged for scraps with soulful eyes and then turned on each other snapping and snarling when an unsavoury morsel was cast their way.
Once the familiar routine was well established, Caer’s men guided their mounts towards the middle of the camp. The ponies’ short stubby ears, thick coats, wall-eyed glares and powerful necks, made them far from beautiful to look upon, but their split hooves could splay to grip surefooted even on snow and ice or could run fast on firmer ground. It was their broad backs which carried the burden of human traffic in both trade and war with a sturdy strength and agility which, for Caer, had a beauty all of its own.
The men who rode were as tough as their ponies. The older ones amongst them wore their hair long, stained red and tied back into a heavy braid, the greater length of the braid telling of ever greater age and experience. The youngest men had their hair shaved so close to the scalp as to seem bald. They were not even allowed to begin to grow a braid until they had served a year of apprenticeship with the caravans. All the men wore coats made from a brightly coloured heavy-felt cloth, over shirts with billowing sleeves, patterned skirted jerkins made from fleeced hides and plain felt britches which gathered loosely into calf-high boots. All were armed: every man wore a bandolier of wooden cartridge boxes over one shoulder and carried a crude pistol; one or two had a long-barrelled musket or rifled carbine, on their backs and each wore a long-bladed knife with an ornately carved hilt and whips hung looped at their belts.
These men were of the Zoukai, a brotherhood of warrior guardians, hiring themselves to protect the caravans which carried the trade of Temsevar. Named after the swift and ruthless, red-plumed predatory birds which hunted from the skies in these very wastes, they were bound by a strict code of honour which placed loyalty to their captain and their caravan above all else.

You can keep reading The Fated Sky which is free to download 24-28 November and is the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Ruralness

Right let’s get this one buried shall we? The twee images posted on whichever antisocial media you frequent are not real.

Yes, you can pick blackberries and make jelly – not jam for feck’s sake the seeds will germinate in your rectum. Yes, you can pick sloes and construct sloe gin.

But. Neither of these activities is accomplished wearing a floaty frock and ballet flats. You need wellies and a stout stick to hook the required and beat back the stinging nettles.

And, running barefoot through the fields? 

Good luck with that. If the thistles don’t get you the cowshit will…

The Penny White Series comes to a dramatic close with The Humility of Humans by Chrys Cymri.

Gentle waves chimed across the golden sands, touching my bare feet with warm water. The blue skies, the green hills, and the birds which wandered the shoreline all added to the beauty of the place. But my eyes were drawn to a far more glorious sight. I never tired of watching my husband flying towards me, his hide shimmering between black and green in the bright sunlight. On his left foreleg glittered a gold bracelet, twin to the one on my left wrist.
The dragon tipped his right wing and began to spiral down to the beach. I placed a hand on my hat, holding it firmly as Raven landed twenty feet away. A blast of air from his wings blew across my chest, and then fine sand stung my sunburnt legs.
Raven walked towards me, grumbling under his breath as his weight made his feet sink deep into the soft sand at every step. There were disadvantages to being nearly twice the height of a horse. When he reached my side, I lifted a hand to touch the warm skin near his red-rimmed nostrils.
After a moment, he said, ‘No air thin places over this island, either.’
‘Land crossings?’
‘Several,’ he acknowledged. ‘But those would only lead through to the Earth equivalent.’
‘Not much of a help,’ I agreed. ‘Especially as I don’t have my passport with me. Or any way of explaining how I’ve ended up in–remind me what Caribbean island we’re on now?’
‘According to Cornelius, the inhabitants call this island “Taino”,’ Raven said. ‘I have no idea what that is on your world.’
‘I don’t either.’ I sighed. ‘There are times when I really miss Google.’

You can keep reading The Humility of Humans by Chrys Cymri as it is available now.

A Bite of… Chrys Cymri

(1) What have you found the best and worst aspects of writing the Penny White series?

This was the first time I’d embarked on what, I quite early on, realised would be a nine book series. The worst bit was trying to make sure I kept straight descriptions of the characters, so I didn’t change their eye or hair colours! I also wanted a character arc for all of the main characters, and that was challenging.
The best part was spending so much time with characters which I enjoyed. Once I found each one’s ‘voice’, dialogue flew from my keyboard. Sometimes one of them would surprise me by going in a new direction which, upon reflection, made sense.

(2) If you were going to do a spin-off series, which other character would you most want to write more about and why?

Clyde would have to be the main character. For some reason, this hymn-singing carnivorous snail is the favourite character of many a reader. Although the Church, in the books thus far, is grudgingly allowing him to train to be a priest, there’s a lot more of his story which I could tell.
I have written several short stories (available free in digital format) about some of the characters in the series. If I were to write another, I think it would be about Bastien, the flying messenger rat who goes up against his rat king because of his love for a small gryphon.

(3) What other projects do you have in mind now the series is finished?

Before Penny took over my life, I was working on a five book space opera. I’d actually finished what I thought were the first and second books, before realising that I needed to go back in time and start with another part as the first book. It’s slow going at the moment, as all of the world building needs to be thought through.

Chrys Cymri is a priest by day, writer at odd times of the day and night and lives with a small green parrot called Tilly because the upkeep for a dragon is beyond her current budget. Plus she’s responsible for making good any flame damage to church property. She loves ‘Doctor Who’, landscape photography, single malt whisky, and my job, in no particular order. When she’s not looking after a small parish church in the Midlands (England) she likes to go on far flung adventures to places like Peru, New Zealand, and North Korea.
You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, YouTube and her own website.

Axan threw back his wolfskin cloak, whirled his sword above his head and leapt from the farship, roaring a battle cry.

Wheat before the scythe, they fell, contemptible peasants, as defenseless as the crops they grew. After, Axan joined the others making revel in the village with the women of the men they had slain and ample supplies of ale.

He fell asleep thinking life was good.

The sun rose but he did not stir. Throat cut in his drunken sleep, like the rest. The women washed the blood from their hands before going to bury their own beloved dead.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Of course Em wasn’t the only person to note the approach of the heavies. One of the majorettes whistled and a group of baton twirlers moved forwards, to be joined by what looked very much like the same group of Saturday night fighters as had words with the pipe band.
The group of security guards abated its pace somewhat in the face of a wall of fists and twirling wood. Another figure emerged from the mob. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he wasn’t a local, but he was as broad as an oak tree and he carried a chainsaw in one knotted fist, swinging it as easily as if it was a child’s toy. He gave a brief nod to Ginny as if thanking her for the opportunity.
“See them lot there,” he said, “they burned the house I grew up in because my father wouldn’t sell it to their rotten little boss. Dad died a month later from the burns he sustained. And them bastards got away with it.”
The biggest of the majorettes swung her nunchucks meaningfully. “Then they are due for a few bumps if they try anything, ain’t they.”
About half the majorettes and a half a dozen hefty young men stepped forward from the roadblock in the direction of DumpCorp Security. Who eyed the size and determination of the opposition, then shook their heads and retreated. The defection of his heavies seemed to be the straw that broke the dam of Dump’s insecure grip on reality.
“Get me my guns,” he screamed. “Gonna shoot my way through these rednecks and wasters. They are going to learn who is boss round here.”
Schilling laid a hand on his forearm. “This is England, Ron, you can’t have guns here.”
Dump actually stamped his feet. “I can have whatever I like wherever I like. I’m Ronald Dump, the most successful businessman in the world.”
That was about enough for the crowd and ‘the most successful businessman in the world’ was nearly buried in flour bombs.
The sound Ronald Dump made as the flour hit him was high and inhuman. As he keened his rage to the sky, Schilling grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him.
“Stop it Ron, control yourself. We can’t afford for you to lose your shit now.”
But Dump was too far gone in rage to listen to anybody. He slapped Schilling across his cheek before turning a feral grimace on the now quiet crowd. He bent his corpulent frame – in a manner that made Em think he might burst like an overstuffed sausage – and scrabbled about under his trouser leg. When he somehow levered himself to the vertical once more, he held a small, but serviceable, pistol in his fist. He waved it in the direction of the wall of people who blocked his route to where he wanted to be.
“Now let’s see who’s brave if it might hurt.”
Nobody reacted.
Dump’s hands shook and the hectic colour of rage ran up his fleshy luck to the top of his head.
“Move. Or I’ll shoot somebody.”
Schilling grabbed his wrist. “Stop it Ron. Get your head together and stop it.”
“Get my head together? You get your head together! I pay you to sort things out and you let this crap happen.”
Suddenly the gun was pointing at Schilling’s face. He must have been a good deal braver than he looked because he faced his employer without flinching.
“Stop it Ron. You are beginning to look like a loser.”
This wasn’t at all how Em had envisaged the scene playing out. To be honest, she was beginning to wonder if it could all be solved without bloodshed. The tableau was broken as Ginny walked over to stand at Dump’s other side. She said something to him in an undertone and he stiffened.
“What the hell is she doing?” Ishmael hissed. “Doesn’t she realise that she’s just engaged with a certifiable manic. With a gun.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Em felt slightly sick.
A hand came round in front of her and waved a familiar hip flask. “I’ve called the police. A picture of that wombat waving a gun seems to have galvanised them into action,” Agnes remarked. “I just hope they get here before he shoots somebody.”
“Me too. Particularly as somebody could easily be our newest sister.”
Ishmael grabbed Em’s arm. “She isn’t stupid enough to think she could survive being shot at point blank range?”
Em took a good belt of Agnes’ best cherry brandy. “I don’t think so.”
Whatever Ginny had said to Dump didn’t seem to be pouring any oil on troubled water, rather the reverse in fact, as the temperamental billionaire was waving his arms around and screaming unintelligible insults. He appeared to have forgotten his gun for the moment, but Em didn’t have a lot of hope of that remaining the case.
Schilling made a remark that brought flags of colour to Ginny’s cheeks. But she wasn’t to be deterred and her response came back whip quick.
Whatever she said must have struck a nerve, because Em thought Schilling would physically attack her, but he drew back and spat full in her face instead.
“Ever the gentleman, Mister Schilling,” this time Ginny spoke loud enough for the assembled company to hear. “I’m sure your lady mother, wherever she may be, is truly proud of you.”
He snarled but didn’t make any rejoinder.
Dump looked from one to the other and the muzzle of his pistol followed his little pink-rimmed eyes.
“I shall have to shoot both of you,” he announced. “We can’t have loose talk like that ruining my reputation.
Ginny put her hand up to the very ugly hat she was wearing and turned to smile at him. He must have seen something in her eyes because he took a step backwards. She followed him and struck his gun hand with whatever she had taken from her hat. He screamed as if his throat was being cut and the distraction was sufficient to allow a couple of the majorettes to pile in. One pushed Dump to the ground and sat on him, while the other kneed Schilling neatly in the gonads. He dropped to the ground retching and she stood over him nonchalantly waving a baton that Em was pretty sure had weighted ends.
Ginny bent down by Dump and removed something from his hand.
“Loser,” she said just loud enough for Em and Ishmael to catch it.
The sound of sirens came as a welcome distraction and Em tapped Ishmael on the arm.
“Shall we fade back into the crowd a bit?”

Part 30 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

We’ve a baby
Ben the hoos
Chubby as
A harvest mouse
Tiny creature
Full of noise
Brings his sorrows
And his joys
We’ve a baby
See him plain
The hoos
Won’t be the same again

©️jj 2020