Crossing had never been more than a one-horse town, but when the railway shut down and the boys got drafted into the army it stopped even being that. 
We women done our best, but with kids to raise and mouths to feed the soil become more important than the saloon bar, and the horse pretty well took over from the truck. Them few of us brave enough to drive a car pretty soon found that there warn’t any fuel to be had anyway. It was all going to the war effort – whatever in tarnation that meant.
And that’s pretty much how it looked right up until the boys come home, one dirt street with rusty trucks leaning drunkenly on their useless tyres and hosses picketed under the shade trees outside the deserted saloon. 

The winter of forty-five was hard and the men what drifted home warn’t nothin’ like the boys that went off to fight the old men’s war. They come home thinner, and harder, and somehow soured by what they seen and done. And that ain’t counting the ones that never come home.
I wasn’t expecting nobody to come home for me and mine. My durn fool of a husband got hisself killed bein’ a hero in some battle a whole ocean away. I think I musta shed a tear when they sent me a wire sayin’ he was gone, and I kinda had to look properly sad when a big fat man in a general’s uniform brung along his medals and pinned them on nine-year-old Jethro Junior’s chest. But, jest between you and me, all I was really thinkin’ was what a pigheaded eejit I had married. Jest couldn’t keep his head down and his nose clean and come home to me and the little ‘uns.

During the spring and summer of forty-six I looked about me and seen what war had done to our menfolks. I was almost glad that my Jethro never come home – him having been a hard sort of a customer even before the scars of war. Seemed to me that what the war broke there wasn’t no amount of lovin’ nor understandin’ gonna be able to put back together. Seein’ as how I was a nurse and worked in the hospital in Big Town (until Pa decided I had to come home and marry Jethro) I seen with my own eyes what the men hereabouts come home capable of. I tended broken bones, bruises in every colour you can imagine, and the ragged cuts caused by bullwhips bein’ wielded in drunken hands. All in all I reckoned I was better of alone.

The winter of forty-seven seen Pa called to his maker, but before the influenza took him he signed a lawyer’s paper leaving’ the property to me. That surprised me some, him settin’ so much store by the male line, but he smiles at me and says I’m more of a son than any man could ever be. Brung a lump to my throat that did, and as I nursed him through the cruel cold I kep’ myself warm with the knowin’ that me and the kids was safe.

Summer rolled around and I was milkin’ the most awkward of our three cows when I heard a engine. Something was toilin’ up the dirt track to the farmhouse. Now we never knew nobody with no truck, so I let the cow go and sneaked around back to where I could pick up Pa’s Colt and make sure she was loaded fer bear.

By the time a rusty rattler of a Holden scraped to a stop I was settin’ on the stoop watchin’ the yard from under the brim of my greasy old Stetson. The man what stepped out might a bin Jethro’s twin. Same handsome face. Same swagger. Same hard, cold little eyes. I pushed back my hat with two fingers.

“Howdy,” I said. “Help ya?” 
“I sincerely hope so. I’m looking for Dorothy, widow to my Cousin Jethro Tomkins.” He smiled at me, but his smile never reached his eyes. “Might that be you.”
“Might be.” I offered him a grin. “Set a spell and tell me what brings you to these hyar parts.”
“I come to look over my property.”
“Your property?”
“Yes. Mine. Cousin Jethro done left it to me in his will.” 
“That’d be a trick, seeing as how he never owned it in the first place.”
I settled my hat back down over my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
He was just stupid enough not to go for his gun. Instead he made a grab for me.
“Smart-mouth woman needs slapping down hard.”
He fisted his hand in the front of my shirt and I shot his fool head off.
Me and the kids buried him back aways in the scrubland before the mesquite starts.
We keeps chickens in the Holden in his memory…

©️Jane Jago 2020

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

I am old and my love is old too
But his eyes are still shining and blue
Though the hair from his head
Warms his nose now instead
And he might have a wrinkle or two

© jane jago

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

bibed (noun) – shared sleeping space often mildly smelly

chike (noun) – small bird with a piercing cry and a yellow beak – that leaves behind it the unmistakable odour of burned custard

cycnical (adverb) – of doing chores, to do two minutes hoovering followed by twenty minutes on Twitter

earleir (adverb) – of the insertion of earrings: missing the hole

graet (verb) – to remove hard skin from the toes with abrasive paper

hopig (noun) – sexually indiscriminate sow

midwintert (adjective) – of weather, being cold and with the sort of fog you can chew

miselry (verb) – pertaining to singing the poking of one finger in the ear whilst harmonising

oment (noun) – phenomenon similar to a crop circle, occurring in baked beans and portending ill luck  for short red-haired women

reain (verb) – of colonials rediscovering their Caledonian roots

relif (noun) – raised pattern on ankles caused by too-tight socks

sensibel (adjective) – of shoes both practical and pretty

supermatket (noun) – very absorbent doormat available in kit form from a very famous retailer of kits

unfortuante (noun) – maiden aunt with a very good moustache and halitosis

welld (verb) – to repair stuff with a hot glue gun (badly)

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

She wasn’t the sort of woman who got bought flowers, so the hand tied bunch of red roses cane as rather a surprise. At first she thought the florist had made a mistake, but no. The card was addressed to her. She waited until she was alone before opening it. 

‘Happy Wednesday.’ It said with a row of kisses.

Which was odd because it was Tuesday, but she put the flowers in water anyway.

Wednesday morning came, and with it the postman brought her a letter. From a man she hoped was rotting in prison.

He had found her again…

©️jj 2020

In the scented air of the pavilion Alexa settled back on her couch, closed her eyes and let her body relax, whilst her mind wandered. The two girls tended her, one combing through the glistening dark red waves of her hair and the other painting her finger and toenails with vermilion. She wanted to look her best this evening.
She could never allow herself to forget that for a woman to be a caravansi was rare – so rare Alexa had never heard of another. It was the only way of life she had ever known and one that she loved passionately. Much too passionately to give up for settled life or for any man. But whilst she recognised it was strange to others, to her it was the most natural of things. She had inherited the caravan, its animals, slaves, wagons and pavilion from her father as his only child and his apprentice.
When she thought of her father, she would always see him as he had been before he fell ill: tall and proud, his face animated as he told her stories of the past; or still and focused as he poured over ledgers, eyes skimming each page as he calculated the amounts faster than most could even count the numbers. His death had been the most painful event of her life – but the caravan gave her comfort. In the dust of travel, the shouts of the Zoukai and the rumble of wagons, she could sometimes imagine he was still there with her and nothing had changed.
But everything had changed after his death at the end of last summer. The merchants, including those who knew her personally and had been clients of long standing with her father, were very uneasy with the idea of entrusting their precious trade goods to one they saw as an untried woman. Merchants, it seemed, were superstitious when it came to such things. It had been a bitter blow to Alexa since she knew she was a tough, good and honest caravansi – and she knew that they knew it too. Undeterred she had spent everything she had on trade goods she could carry and sell for herself. It was not much but would be just enough to pay her way and make a small profit – if she could sell in Alfor.
Then her father’s Captain of Zoukai, had left the caravan.He had been old by Zoukai standards, past his fortieth season, and he had said he wanted to settle down and raise a family before it was too late. That had been just the beginning. All except a handful of the very oldest Zoukai, those who would have been hard pressed to be taken on elsewhere, took it as an excuse to leave too. Like the merchants, the Zoukai had a superstitious distrust of a caravansi who was a woman.
Alexa had spent most of the long winter scouring the city of Ratzal and sending messages to other nearby cities, seeking a Zoukai captain who would ride with her caravan. But as the first signs of thaw began and the bigger caravans took to the roads across Temsevar, she had faced the bleak prospect of being unable to go with them. If she did not make the Alfor Fair, her trade goods would be worth, at best, half their purchase value and she would have no choice but to sell up everything. That dread had sat colder in her heart than the bitterest winter blizzard.
With just two days left before the departure deadline – the latest they could leave Ratzal and still hope to arrive in time for the Alfor Fair – Caer had presented himself at her pavilion and promised her forty men if she would hire him as her Captain. If Alexa had not been so desperate she would have never given him serious consideration. Caer was not just too young, he was much too young. A good Zoukai captain, it was said, should have seen twenty seasons with the caravans under another’s leadership and Caer had clearly seen no more than half that. Besides, he offered her only forty men when she needed nearer twice that number to be truly secure.
But she had been desperate and Caer, young as he was, was the only chance she had of getting the caravan on the road in time to make the Alfor Fair. Even knowing that, when she had seen the Zoukai he brought with him, her heart had sunk. Almost half were so old that it was obviously going to be their final year riding with the brotherhood and most of the rest were very young – scarcely men at all – their heads newly shaven: boys who had never ridden with a caravan before. Less than a handful were experienced Zoukai of full fighting fitness. It was hardly surprising, though, Caer was no more any good Zoukai’s choice of captain than she was any good captain’s choice of caravansi.
So they had set out for Alfor many days later than the last of the other caravans that had wintered in the city, guarded by a scant force of children and old men, with a woman caravansi and no trade goods aside from the caravan’s own. It was not surprising that the good citizens of Ratzal were laughing behind their shutters as the caravan passed by on its way through the gates.

From The Fated Sky part oneof Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Being old, I can say without rancour
That someone has pulled a quick flanker
It’s incredibly strange
How my homeland has changed
To a country that’s led by a wanker

© jane jago

Bertie and Bessie sat on their accustomed seat and studied the two Biggers who cavorted in the dubious concealment of the summerhouse. There was rather a lot of kissing and giggling at first, but then the behaviour became downright puzzling. The man had his hands inside the girl’s chemise and some other parts of his anatomy right up under her flimsy excuse for a skirt.

“What they doing Bert?”

“I think that’s how they make new Biggers.”

“Well don’t you be thinking about no such nonsense.”

He looked at her impervious concrete bosom and shook his head firmly.

“No ma’am…”

©️jj 2020

Wings of Earth is a hard sci-fi space opera, by Eric Michael Craig. This is an extract from Wings of Earth: 4 – Beyond the Edge

Walton Terry sat staring at the small button in his hand. The light hadn’t come on yet, but inevitably it would, and when it did, he would push it. He tried not to think about what it meant and what might come from it. He was doing a job and there was nothing more to it than that.
Somewhere several kilometers across the dome, three of his people were hooking up wireless connections and hiding micro-charges in the superstructure of one of the oldest buildings on Mars. Once they had finished and circuits were live, the light would turn green and it would be time. His orders had changed in the last few minutes, and now instead of waiting to give his people a chance to escape, his orders were to push the button immediately.
It was essential that no one would survive to tell what happened.
Walton was smart enough to know that included him. Somewhere, hidden where he could not see, he knew there would be a sniper waiting and watching over him. Once he’d done the deed, they would erase him along with those who served with him. It was the price of dedication to a cause greater than the value of a life.
Or even four.
Walton leaned back on the bench, trying not to look nervous. In fact, he was trying not to think about anything except the button. In reality, it didn’t matter what the target was, he was simply to do the job and trust that those who had sent him on this mission understood why it was so important.
Across the concourse, a small park filled in one of the cracks between buildings of the immense dome of the Robinson Colony. It had been the third dome built on Mars after humanity had begun to escape the collapsing biosphere of Earth. Over 200 years old, it was the sanctuary that kept humanity alive on Mars during the Burroughs Outbreak of the early days.
Now filled to capacity, the dome was home to over twenty million people. Walton watched a family playing in the small open space. A mother supervising her three children as they threw a flying disc back and forth. It was a normal life, of a normal family, on a normal day, that was about to be shattered.
The actuator in his hand vibrated as the first of his people logged that they had completed their task. He glanced around drinking in what he knew would be the last moments of normalcy. Another few moments and the reality of life in Robinson would forever change.
A second hum, followed by the third, and the time had finally come. He hesitated, looking around and scanning the tops of the nearby buildings for some sign of the one that would take him down. Seeing no one didn’t surprise him, but it did leave him wondering whether he would be lucky and walk away.
Taking a deep breath, he slid his thumb forward over the button and clenched his hand closed.
Distant thunder rolled through the dome, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Growing up on Earth he knew what thunder was, but the Martians living in this dome had never heard it. The children stopped playing, looking around in fear. The mother bounced up and stared at the artificial sky above. Somewhere in the distance someone screamed.
Walton stood up, turning once more and watching for any sign of the coming bullet.
He didn’t have long to contemplate his fate. A stabbing pain tore through his chest and he dropped to his knees, releasing the button from his hand. Watching it tumble to the ground as he collapsed into darkness, he fell as surely as the hospital building and the abominations incubating inside.

Wings of Earth:Season One is now available on preorder as a box set.

A Bite of… Eric Michael Craig

How much of you is in your hero/villain?

The problem with this question is that I have MANY heroes in each book. Who is the hero in Stormhaven Rising? I think it’s Sylvia Hutton or Dave Randall, or even Mica, but most people think it’s Colton Taylor. While a lot of me shows up in the personality and background of Colton, he is in my thinking a tool of the story and not the hero. He is more a part of the setting embodied, and not really a hero in any sense of the word.
Who was the hero in STL? Again, to me there were several. Even those who were at odds with my main characters were heroic. So, I have to say that one also is hard to nail down.
Although my Wings of Earth stories are focused more around the character of Ethan Walker, I generally write ensemble cast stories, more than I write heroic arc tales. 
This really tends to make the hero in my books part of a team.
When the whole team is the hero, then the answer has to be that ALL of me is in there. 
But I’m hiding in several bodies.

Why do you write? Money is an acceptable answer.

Okay. I write for MONEY. Actually, I enjoy writing, although I discipline myself to do it not recreationally or as a hobby, but with the goal of becoming stinking rich. I say this not because I am particularly avaricious by nature. In fact I have a reason to want a solid bankroll and anyone who knows what Stormhaven embodies and where my personal backstory parallels Colton Taylor’s will understand what that is.
I’ve got a long way to go yet, but eventually I plan to make it most of the way there. Hopefully I will get far enough.

Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?

Yes, but no. Honestly, I will admit that there is a person that I have written into my books to make them suffer, but to me even as I wrote it, that felt kind of petty. I don’t want to describe the character or how I made them suffer because they would probably recognize themselves, and they might actually read my books. Admitting that was my intent, might give them legs to make things difficult for me, and that just isn’t something I want to deal with.
In truth, I have put aspects of this person into several characters, but I chose not to make them suffer too badly. It’s a foolishly stupid therapy technique, and forgiveness is far more effective at a personal level, than vicarious vengeance anyway. 
I have seen this done far too often in other people’s work, and to me it ruins the story telling. Maybe I’m an optimist, but even a character who is despicable is worthy of redemption. Figuring out how to understand what it is that made them the way they are is a far more interesting use of people I don’t like (And a lot more therapeutic too).

Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Coffee cake, because… coffee. Duh!

Eric Michael Craig is a “harder-edged” Science Fiction writer living in the Manzano Mountains of New Mexico. He is the former Director of Research for a private consulting laboratory in Phoenix, where he experimented with inertial propulsion and power generation technologies.
Eric is a founding member of the SciFi Roundtable. The SFRT is an active online group dedicated to supporting indie and traditional authors by networking them with other writers and professional resources.
When not writing, Eric is active in Intentional Community Design, plays guitar and bass, occasionally dabbles in art of various forms. He also owns way too many dogs. You can keep up with him on his own website, sign up for his newsletter or follow him on Facebook and Twitter.

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

CHAPTER FOUR: ANNIS

Inwardly cursing the arrogance and stupidity of the vampire, Annis grabbed Jessica by the wrist as the ground opened up under the human woman’s feet. Fortunately the cats caught her urgency and grabbed pieces of clothing in their teeth. Between them they managed to drag Jess away from the chasm just as it started belching fire. 
Annis turned a snarling face to where the vampire had been standing, only to find he had run away as fast as his legs would carry him. She pulled on Jessica’s wrist.
“Get up. Must run.”
They ran under the rollercoaster to the bottom of a red-painted ladder.
“Up.”
“I can’t.”
“Can. Will. Before Old One comes.”
A day ago, she might have argued, but now the stench of decaying flesh acted as a goad to Jessica who began climbing with more speed than care. As she followed the labouring woman, Annis was glad it was only a short climb up a caged ladder. At the top of the ladder she ushered Jess through the door into the relative sanity of home.
“How? I mean why? This isn’t where it was before? And where did the fire come from?”
She was clearly right on the edge of panic and Annis gently compelled her to sit.
“I tell. You listen. Have not word. Is long before I talk human. Wait…”
She collected her thoughts.
“Home is always same place. Fairground moves. Other things I show.”
Annis groped in her mind to find words to explain what was going on, but it was so difficult to find the human sounds to explain the difficult concepts she needed to get across to Jessica. One of the Panthers came over and placed his forehead against her, reminding her how she had learned to speak cat. She smiled and purred at him.
“Jessica trust Annis?”
Jess nodded and Annis put her forehead against the older woman’s silently absorbing language. Jessica grinned and giggled.
“Tickles don’t it?” Annis grinned back. “Now I can better,” she grimaced apologetically “have words but not…” 
She suddenly grinned in triumph. “Grammar!”
Jess punched the air in a gesture of solidarity. 
Annis continued. “I tell you story then show some things. In 1974 rollercoaster is closed for paint. Painters use blowtorches to take off old paint. Is believed that torch lights gas from landfill site under fairground. Whole fairground goes on fire. One hundred people die. Many more injured or maimed. But fire also wake the Old Ones, who enjoy fire and fear and pain. So they make it happen time and time again. Every time, I watch, and I suffer the screams of the dying. Is bad.”
She stopped speaking and swallowed a huge lump in her throat. Jessica held out a hand and she grasped it hard. 
“Then vampire brings you here. And now I have hope.”
“Why?”
“Because you are old soul. Vampire recognises and wants.”
“Why does he want me?”
“In his mind he knew you long time and he sees you with wind in hair, and bare here,” she touched her own small chest.
“Oh. My dream. I see. But how do I give you hope?” 
“Is difficult. May sound as if I make use of you.”
“But you don’t. Do you?”
“No I would not.”
“Besides which,” Jessica said wryly “I don’t think it would be possible for me to just walk away.”
“Think not. But we can try if you would like.”
“No. I know in my bones that I can’t. Tell me what I have to do.”
“Can’t. Not yet. Must show you things first.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Part 11 of Maybe will be here next week…

I’m saving for my retirement, he said
As he polished his broken-down shoes
He worked like slave til his chilblains bled
And he never bought anything new
He ate only foods of the cheapest variety
And practised the virtues of frugal sobriety
His home was sparse and squeaking clean
Without internet, phone, or TV
If asked he’d say I am not mean
I’m saving my money for me
I’m saving for my retirement, he said
He was just fifty-three when he died in his bed

©jj 2020