Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider rewards…

***** ***** *****

They said the lion would lay with me
But they never said where or when
Said someday we’d all be free
But they’re gathering slaves again
Hope is wonderful to achieve
It will glow in the dark of your head
It’s sad that the stuff we want to believe
Only happens to us when we’re dead

©️jj 2024

Sometimes we walk the edges of reality…

This time the door opened onto an almost vertical staircase. Two of the cats led the way, with Annis next, then Jess, then the rest of the cats. There was no need for Annis to signal for quiet. The need for stealth seemed to have burned itself into Jessica’s brain and she wasn’t sure she was even able to speak. 
The staircase seemed to go on for a very long time and Jess was glad of Annis in front of her setting a slow and careful pace, as otherwise she didn’t think she would have been able to make the harsh descent. Eventually they came out onto some sort of a balcony overlooking the huge vaulted chamber she knew from Annis’ drawing. 
Annis made a low sound of disgust in the back of her throat as she looked down on a scene of terrifying bloodlust. The vampire was there, naked now, and looking plump and young again, and as white as the carved pillars. He was spreadeagled and tied to a table in the exact centre of the chamber, surrounded by blank-faced women who were taking it in turns to bite him. As each one sank her teeth in his flesh he screamed, and with each scream the females crowded a little closer. Annis felt sick and turned a worried face to Jess. She was surprised to see her friend regarding the scene serenely.
“What are they doing?”
“Blood rite. I think. Women are Blood Eaters and Fear Eaters. Beware, as they can change to their other forms in the blink of an eye.”
“Can he really not escape?”
“Now not. But should they lose interest in him, perhaps. What they do can not destroy him, just torture.”
Annis hissed to the cats who froze, then indicated for Jess to follow her. It was a low-roofed passage necessitating a crawl in hands and knees, and she sincerely hoped Jessica wasn’t claustrophobic. It seemed not, as she could hear steady, even breathing in her wake. Carefully counting openings, Annis took the thirteenth branch of the tunnel, which dropped swiftly to the ground behind the basalt throne. Jessica stood up and patted her on the shoulder. 
“You go back to the cats. I will count to one hundred before climbing onto the throne. Give me a kiss for luck.”
Annis pressed her lips to Jessica’s cheek then turned and scrambled back up the tunnel like a little mongoose. She reached her cats before anything happened and they all stood watching the throne, waiting for Jessica to move. It seemed to take so long that Annis was beginning to think Jess’ courage had deserted her. But it hadn’t. There came a sound like a cracked bell being tolled and a dark-clad figure took its place on the basalt throne. Annis stared, thinking she would not have recognised Jess had she not known who was occupying the huge black seat. The dark queen sat seemingly at her ease, with her golden hair spreading around her like a veil, and a hand on each of the serpent heads that formed the arms of the throne. Her face was as still and smooth as a statue, and her remote beauty seemed to be demanding both respect and fear. 
The vampire screamed his terror and frustration.
“Nooo. She is mine…”
His torment sounded greater at the thought he might lose his prey than that he might be left suffering for eternity beneath the power of the abyssmal beings who had captured him.
The cold, queenly creature on the throne didn’t even flinch.

Part 14 of Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook will be here next week…

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

Yesterday I got invited on a ‘ghost walk’ around town. For a moment I was gobsmacked sufficiently to be unable to refuse, but I recovered quickly enough so that when the heavily moustached female licked her biro and brightly enquired how many tickets she should put me down for I replied ‘none’ and closed the front door. But not before Gyp piddled on her Ugg boots.
Back in the sanctuary of our own fireside, I turned to Gyp and sighed.
“What in the name of freaking nonsense was all that about?”
He raised a ginger eyebrow but forbore comment – which is unsurprising as he is a dog, albeit one of dubious parentage – and returned his attention to an itchy spot to the left of his scrotum.
I found myself, not for the first time, questioning the grip on reality of many of my fellow humans.
The merry sound of ‘Born to Be Wild’ played off key broke into my reverie and I picked up the phone. Having ascertained it was my chum from the dart’s team, Beryl, I answered the bloody thing.
“Have you,” she asked without the usual preamble of greeting, “yet been visited by a moustache wearing very ugly boots? I thought you might have because the left boot looked as if a dog had pissed on it.”
“I have,” I said guardedly. “The boot decoration may even have been Gyp’s contribution to the conversation.”
I spoke with more care than usual, as Beryl has been known to dabble in the murky waters of weej and amateur witchery – but I need not have worried.
“Ghost walk,” she snorted. “Tomorrow night. When the weatherman promises gales, heavy rain and a maximum temperature of seven degrees. In what alternative universe is that happening?”
“Not mine. Or yours by the sound of you. Even with the lure of the supernatural.”
She snorted out a laugh. “I would think the supernatural might have sense enough to stay indoors on a filthy night like it promises to be. And anyway I’m off the spiritual stuff. It’s becoming a bore. I’m thinking of going down the folk club. Why don’t we…”
The words ‘folk club’ and ‘we’ in the same sentence were enough to have me put an abrupt end to the phone call.
Me and Gyp turned off the bloody phone and went to the chip shop for supper.

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

Idria, the Dragon Slayer was sitting in a comfortable tavern with her booted feet on the bench opposite, enjoying the most excellent malted ale which the landlord assured her was his own brew.

The sun was shining and through the window, she could see a family of ducks trailing over the millpond.

Life was good and she had not been summoned to slay a dragon for almost a decade now. Which was just as well as she was not sure she could fit in that armour anymore.

It was a hard decision to make. Idria frowned in concentration.

Did she had another ale or maybe ask for another portion of the landlord’s excellent apple pie? The landlord waited, a little impatiently, for her reply. It would be on the house, of course, after all she was The Dragon Slayer.

“Ah tefts! Why not both?”

Decision made Idria relaxed back in her chair and looked out at the peaceful scene beyond the window. Such a perfect day, nothing could spoil it.

Nothing except that small black dot in the sky which she could see getting closer and closer.

Tefts no! Surely not? Not today when she had just ordered –

The magical sound filled her head even before the bird was in clear sight. Around her, the chimes rang out, akin to that of someone dropping a series of metal plates of different sizes onto a bell. A moment later the chiming stopped and Idria was clad in her Dragon Slayer armour.

The good news was that the magic armour fitted. The bad news was – it fitted.

“Tefts! Does my bum look big in this?”

The landlord had just returned with her ale and nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Um – no,” he said colouring. He was not to know the armour gave her the ability to hear his thoughts: No bigger than the rest of you anyway.

E. M. Swift-Hook

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The photo sat in it’s silver-gilt frame, buried deep in the drawer for years before Sam unearthed it and, realising her own guilt had silvered with the passage of time, wiped the surface of the glass with nostalgic affection.
She’d never know why she’d left him. Day of their wedding. Instead of going to church, she’d gone to the airport. She’d been too young? Fear of commitment? Bad on-the-day nerves?
Behind the photo was the unopened final letter he’d sent. She read it now.
It’s ok, Sam. I know you. By the time you read this I’ll have forgiven you…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the importance of schooling…

***** ***** *****

We ran today through budding flowers
The Mad March Hare and I
O’er meadows green, through wooded bowers
We danced beneath the springtime showers
And counted not the passing hours
The Mad March Hare and I

We strode the primrose path together
The Mad March Hare and I
And didn’t mind the changing weather
We just ran on hell for leather
Through rain and wind and both together
The Mad March Hare and I

We picked the daffodillies lightly
The Mad March Hare and I
And when the spring sun shone down brightly
We bounded on our way so sprightly
And didn’t mind it even slightly
The Mad March Hare and I

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Sometimes we walk the edges of reality…

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.”

Part 13 of Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook will be here next week…