It happened again.

It had happened once already. She was sure. Just as she took the key from her pocket, the door opened by itself. 

Or had that been in a dream?

An oddly familiar tension gripped her stomach as she hesitated on the threshold.

Burglars? Poltergeists? Had she forgotten to shut the door when going out?

It was like rethinking the thoughts, standing in a reflection of herself, watching an event that had already happened. 

“Is that you dear?” Her mother’s voice. The sudden familiarity banishing the demons of deja-vu. “I let myself in and put the kettle on.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook . Sometimes we walk the edges of realty…

Jessica turned the page and found herself looking at a picture of a massively vaulted chamber with carved ribs of bone-white stone and a floor of vertiginous black and white tiles. At the far end of the cavern there stood a massively carven black throne with a greenish stone plinth at its side. The pictures embodied an atmosphere of claustrophobic terror, and Jess couldn’t help a shiver. Annis put out a small hand and turned the page to where a closer study of the throne, the stone, and the peculiarly carven stone knife filled the next page. Jess felt her gorge rise and she shut the book.

“So now you know.”

“Now I know.”

“Will you do it?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Jessica shook her head and it seemed to Annis she was fighting something dark in her own soul.

 Yes, maybe. You see, maybe I’ll not have the courage when it comes to it. But  – I know I have to try.”

Annis nodded, noticing the stiffening of Jessica’s spine as she spoke, accepting the responsibility for what she must do.

“When can we go?”

“Soon. Must be before the fires start. Or we will wait – need wait – many days.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as we can be ready.”

“Very well. What must we do.”

Annis looked disapprovingly at Jessica’s simple jersey dress and high heeled boots.

“Clothes not good. I have others you must fit.”

She rummaged in one of the half a hundred drawers that lined her home and pulled out black jeans, a dark polo-necked jumper and a pair of desert boots. Jess knew they would fit her and without any false modesty she stripped to her underclothes and started dressing. Annis threw her a pair of thick socks and a leather belt with loops for tools. 

As Jessica dressed, Annis made her own preparations – taking a pair of ornately tooled revolvers from a leather lined box and carefully loading them with special bullets. She settled the shoulder holsters comfortably and slid the guns into place.

“Guns?”

“Silver bullets. I may have to deal with creatures wanting to interfere with you.”

“Silver?”

“The vampire, Jess.”

“Don’t you have to shove a stake through his heart?”

“Can. But a silver bullet in his brain will do just as well. And I don’t have to get close.”

“Oh.” 

Annis laughed kindly and passed Jess a number of things to put in the loops on her belt. There were: a sharpened wooden stake, a bottle of water, a neatly rolled field dressing, and a small mirror.

“The bottle is holy water. If you throw it in the face of any of the below dwellers they won’t be able to inconvenience you. The same with the mirror if you bounce the light from above the throne into an attacker’s eyes it will be struck blind. You know what the stake is for. And I hope you will need the dressing. Now. You ready?”

Jess swallowed and nodded.

“Come then.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Part 13 of Maybe will be here next week…

Little chapel by the water
Where the mirror shows the sky
And the willow dips her fingers 
As the foraging ducks swim by
Little chapel are you dreaming
Of the feet that trod your floors?
Of the voices raised in singing?
Of the souls that went before?
Little chapel by the water
Warmed by sunlight slumber deep
While the mortal creatures round you
Laugh and live, and die and weep

©️Jane Jago 2020

The watcher stood on the hilltop. He hadn’t moved for more than two hours. Then he grunted and jerked a grimy thumb to the east. Everyone scattered for the trees, dragging the goats and ponies in their wake. A beautiful woman, with a red cord bound about her hair, pulled the watcher aside.
‘Who?’
‘Can not say. Shiny. Armour maybe.’
‘Right. We hide. Pass the word.’

Deep beyond the tree line, the family hid. Waiting. It was more than two hours before the group of Imperial soldiers finished passing, dragging a cartload of prisoners in the middle of the column. The woman spat into the dirt; those in the cart were Blancos too. Not the concern of her people.

The watcher moved back to the hilltop: stealthily. This time, though, he didn’t stand up, slithering back into cover as swiftly as a snake.
‘Others come. Maybe of our people. But not family.’
‘We stay hidden.’
Again, the family waited in silence. This time those who passed were of much more danger to a group of women, children and old men. It was a raiding party from a family with whom their own men had blood feud. This group also had prisoners. Women, and young children, collared like dogs and forced to run alongside the sturdy short-legged ponies of their captors. The woman wondered how many would be alive at day’s end. ‘Wasteful’ she thought to herself.

As the last pony passed, she recognised the woman being dragged along almost faster than she could run. It was the sister of their own family chief, the family healer and midwife. And this posed a problem.

While she awaited the watcher’s report, the woman bit a thumb, lost in thought. The leathery old man reported nothing to be seen or heard. She sighed. It was beyond time for the men to return, but if they weren’t coming she had a dilemma. Was a rescue possible with the few fighters she had at her disposal? She gnawed her thumb some more before reaching a decision.

She called the family to her and told them who was being held captive.
‘Can we not wait and ransom her?’
‘Not at the rate they are running their prisoners. They must really be afraid of pursuit if they are so willing to kill slaves. No. We need to decide if a rescue is possible.’
The oldest woman looked at her in love and pity. ‘That depends on two things daughter. Are you willing to kill, and will you summon Eagle Eyes?’
‘Killing is easy. The other? Not so. But if it is necessary.’
‘If you would save the princess.’

Five hours later and the sun was just dropping behind the horizon. Temzacocl the Hunter called a halt for the night.
‘How many dead?’
‘Only four. These captives are fit.Though they will not stay so if we run them many more days.’
‘I know. But tomorrow we reach the river, then we will be safe enough to slow down.’
The raiding party made camp swiftly and set guards around its perimeter. There was the sound of a heavy slap and one of the female captives fell to the floor clutching her belly. Temzacocl stood up and his men made way for him.
‘What happens here?’
The young warrior spat on the writhing woman. ‘She thinks to refuse my seed.’
Temzacocl beat him to the ground with a judicious blow from his war club.
‘Did I not say to leave the women alone?’
The young hothead sprang to his feet and Temzacocl dropped him again.
‘Be still. Or shall I kill you?’
The young man bared his teeth and Temzacocl raised his war club before bringing it down on the miscreant’s skull. He died instantly.
‘See to the woman. It is enough that we are running them almost to death.’

The eyes in the tree watched emotionlessly. And carried on watching as the raiding party settled down for the night. As the last man rolled himself in his cloak, an owl hooted in the woods.

A woman in a clearing half a mile away threw off the feathered cloak she wore and her naked body gleamed in the moonlight. She took a small sharp knife and nicked herself inside the elbow. The blood that flowed looked as black as the night sky, and she drew a complex symbol on her breast with the dark fluid. As she threw back her head there came the sound of beating wings and a flaw in the light. A naked warrior with corded muscles and cold, cold eyes stood before the woman with a sardonic smile on his scared features.
‘Who calls Eagle Eyes?’
‘Amoxtli daughter of Chicahua.’
The warrior smiled, and laid a hand on her naked breast.
‘What boon do you seek daughter of Chicahua?’
‘A raiding party taking slaves has captured the sister of our chief. We would have them not take her.’
‘Why is one female so important?’
‘She is our medicine woman and midwife.’
The ghostly warrior laid his cold hands on her warm flesh once again, and she felt the sheer chill of him him burning her skin.
‘And what will you give me for my aid?’
‘The warmth of my body.’
‘Do you so swear?’
‘I do.’
‘Then it is done.’

Temzacocl and his warriors breathed their last breaths and Amoxtli’s family moved in to care for the abused slaves.

In the morning, the oldest of the women went to where Amoxtli had stood to summon Eagle Eyes. She collected a feather cloak and a silver knife, but she left the desiccated corpse with the red cord bound about its hair under the linden tree where Amoxtli had given the warmth of her body to save her husband’s sister…

Jane Jago

Once I stood upon the battlefield,
My sword held high
And in the righteous cause, my blade did wield
And I did die.

Once on horse so fine I rode to war
My king to serve
With pistol and carbine, I slew a score
And fell to earth.

Once in trenches deep I crawled all day
My land to save
With machine-gun fire I cleared the way
And found my grave.

Now I watch a screen and with my hand
It’s drones I fly
Their deadly strikes will kill at my command
But I won’t die.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Bonjour learners,

As part of one’s campaign to educate, inform, and elucidate, one tries to be both approachable and kindly. Which occasionally causes one to make silly decisions. In a foolish moment, one allowed oneself to be persuaded that answering questions from students would be a good idea. Which it probably isn’t. However, one’s word is one’s bond. So. Have at you…

Dear Teacher,
I am puzzled. Very puzzled.
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Regards,
Claire.

Oh Claire, Claire. Do not attempt to be clever at the expense of your teacher. One is not the Mad Hatter, and your name is Claire, not Alice. However, one will answer your question seriously.

It is a matter of symbols.
A raven? An ugly black bird?
A writing desk? Just a piece of furniture?

Err. No. In order to unriddle the unanswerable riddle, it is necessary for your masterful tutor to break down the barriers in your tiny mind and introduce you to the borderless and boundless world of possibilities that symbolic understanding can open to you.
A raven can be seen as the harbinger of evil, or as the bringer of knowledge and thought to the small minds of the little people who walk the earth beneath them.
A writing desk, of course, symbolises the earthbound woodenness of humanity and our struggle to rise above the limitations of our tiny lives.

Oho, Claire, one sees your puzzled little face. And hears your pathetic cry.
“How are such symbols helping? The raven and the writing desk are complete opposites.”

But they are not. They are opposite ends of the same spectrum of human endeavour. The raven is achievement and the writing desk is that place from which we seek to achieve.
Therefore a raven is like a writing desk because the one leads to the achievement symbolised by the other.

Without the writing desk the raven is pointless and without the raven, the writing desk cannot exist.

And now Claire, write one hundred times.
‘I must not attempt to be facetious, it is unbecoming in youth and unworthy in age.’

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a literary problem you may avail yourself of one’s wisdom by posting to my Facebook presence.

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

Susan had never really understood all this tech stuff – smart this and smart that. It was all too smart for her. So she was the only person in her town who didn’t have a fully connected house. She couldn’t even get emails except at the library.

But as time went on she began to wonder if she was indeed being old fashioned and even stubborn about it.

Until the day every smart meter and speaker, smart fridge and smartphone was taken over by the aliens.

As her neighbours were all forced to obey their new overlords, Susan felt smugly justified.

E.M. Swift-Hook

At that precise moment, Edward knocked softly on the door and entered. ‘One of Percival’s young men is here, with a delivery for the Wolflady.’
‘Bring him in then.’
A very young man came in carrying a battered cardboard box in both hands. He wore a grin of triumph on his homely features. He bowed. ‘We’ve been trying to make this for days now, and we just cracked it. Percival said to bring it
here as fast as possible if we could make it work.”What is it?’
He put the box down on the table and took out a seven-pointed diadem, made in some white metal. It was obviously smith’s work, being delicately fashioned, and having many white stones set in its soaring points. The boy touched a switch on the side of the crown and every white stone suddenly burned with a fierce blue light.
‘Well, I’m buggered’ said Ragnar. ‘The diadem of a thousand stars.’
‘Sheesh. That’s clever’ Tatiana crowed.
‘Bloody genius’ Edwiga agreed.
I had absolutely no idea what had them all so excited. Yes, it was a clever toy, but I couldn’t see its relevance.
The boy read the question in my eyes and switched off the blue lights then grinned again. ‘According to Percival’s reading of the legends surrounding the Winter Queen, she is supposed to wear the diadem of a thousand stars. A seven-pointed crown, in which live all the stars in the night sky. The stars are said to shine with their own brilliance and illuminate the Queen with their cold, blue light. And we made it! We only bloody made it! Percival found a case of these tiny, cold lights months ago and put it aside to look at later. He reckoned now would be a good time to see if we could make them work. It took a bit of fiddling, but we got there. Then the smiths did the metalwork, brilliantly – every stone unscrews. We unscrewed ’em all, soldered a tiny blue light behind each one, wired it up, fashioned a battery pack that fits in the crown itself, and screwed all the stones back in. There ain’t quite a thousand, but we think there are enough to look impressive. Batteries and lights have been tested at sub-zero temperatures and have a life of twelve hours minimum. Good enough?’
‘Oh yes’ Ragnar breathed. ‘Let your hair down and put it on Rosie.’
I did as he asked, finding it a comfortable fit, and not too heavy.
‘Now light her up.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Feel along the band just behind your right ear.’
I found the tiny switch and pressed it.
‘Oh my gods’ Tatiana breathed. ‘I can scarcely believe my eyes, and I know how it was done.’
I reached up and pressed the tiny switch again, then took off the diadem. I turned to the young techie.
‘Thank you, my friend.’
He blushed.
‘You are more than welcome my lady. May I say something?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t think this Winter Queen idea had any merit. Then you put that thing on and lit it up. It was all I could do not to get down on my knees and worship. Your crazy plan really just might work. Bless you.’
He bowed, blushed again and all but ran from the room.
‘Another one more than half in love with you’ Tatiana laughed. ‘To think that not so long ago I would have been jealous. Now? Now I know what a responsibility you are carrying and I’m selfishly glad it’s not me with the perfect face. Do you know the thing that really freaked me out? Any woman but you would have looked at herself in a mirror when she was wearing a crown of lights. I don’t suppose it even occurred to you. Did it?’
‘No’ I said with some asperity. ‘Is this a failing in me?’
She smiled a bit sadly.
‘No Rosamunde, it’s a strength. And one that makes me feel quite shallow.’

From The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I’m old and the winter is trying
Cold winds have me swearing and crying
So I’ve now come in here
With a bottle of beer
And my wrinkly old fingers are drying

© jane jago

Take a peek into The Lizard Lords of Jupiter by 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’))