Sometimes we walk the edges of reality…

His skin looked grey in the stroboscopic brilliance and his eyes were sunk deep into his skull, mere points of reflected light, flickering like a candle just before it might gutter and blow out. And his skull itself seemed to be barely covered by flesh at all. The soft parts of the face, like the cheeks which connected the jaw to the rest of the skull, were fallen in. The outline of his teeth could be seen. His lips had blackened and looked withered, his nose sharp and beak-like. Only his hair seemed to retain its magnificence, long and lustrous.
Jessica felt her mouth open into a silent O. The same sense of paralysis that had gripped her when she encountered the youths by their fire, now seemed to seize her again. As if knowing she would not move, Annis let go of her hand and stepped in front of her. For a moment she thought Roald was actually recoiling from the child. Then he seemed to gather himself and stood his ground.
“There is a human woman here, she is mine. Have you seen her?”
Annis shook her head.
“Not yours.
“Well, she’s not much use to you, is she?” Roald sounded almost contemptuous. “This place is very clever, I’ll give you that.But -”
“You go. Old One smell you. Blood Eater comes.”
Roald looked sharply to one side as if he had heard a specific sound over the noise of the fairground rides. Then he laughed, only it sounded more like the grating of sandpaper than his usual rich baritone laugh.
“You are lying. That thing is just a myth to scare the neonates. The Old Ones are long gone, or hiding deep in the earth. And you have seen the woman I can smell her on you. She is not what she seems – don’t be fooled by her looks, she has an ancient power rooted in her soul, enough to flambe you and your unfunny friends here.”
It was obvious, then, to Jess that in this dream, she was invisible to Roald. It made no sense, but then what dreamlogic ever did?
“Then why you want?” Annis was asking.
The creature called Roald smiled and a row of shark-sharp fangs could be seen as the withered. Black lips pulled back.
“I have an old debt to repay,” he said, the breath condensing from his mouth as if it was clouding into freezing air. One bony hand reached out and grabbed at Annis.“Now, tell me where – “
The cats had not been there and then they were, ears flattened, low growls and calls. Roald stepped back quickly.
“I don’t need your help anyway. She’s only human, she can’t hide in a place like this for long.”
“You go,” Annis said again, almost sounding urgent, as if she truly feared for him. “Old One find you. Blood Eater comes.”
“There is no -”
Somewhere below the earth something moved. Jessica could feel it through her feet, like a shock wave passing up through her body.
“No!” Roald said again, only this time in a very different tone, like a man waking from nightmare to find he’d dreamed true.
Then the world erupted around her and Jessica found herself falling.

Part 10 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.

Q is for Quirky Cutlery and now it’s time to fess up!

Open your cutlery drawer and stare inside. Is there any weird stuff? Obviously, I’m not interested in why you keep your vibrator in there.

No, what I’m on about is ‘specialised’ cutlery. 

Do you have? 

Soup spoons and bouillon spoons

Tiny weeny mustard spoons

Steak knives and forks

Fish knives and forks

Pastry forks

Desert knives

Chopsticks

Coffee spoons and tea spoons

Soda spoons

Grapefruit spoons

Fruit knives

If you can answer yes to any of the above I have one more question: Why?

I have managed to eat food for the better part of ninety years without resorting to such quirky weirdness. Why the Dog and Trumpet can’t you?

All you need is a knife, fork, and spoon.

And don’t get me started on sporks! 

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

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

Jane Jago

Down to earth advice straight from the mouth of the mystic’s moggy!

Ah the felicitous joy of being the feline companion to a self-professed woman of wisdom. I get to sleep on a velvet cushion as she parades her predictive prognostications. Well, I say sleep, you can be sure my ears are still perked to hear what torrid tangle her current client is seeking advice on.
Today we had a love-lorn civil servant, the owner of a very small machine tools company about to go bust and my favourite, if only because of the delicious aroma he brought with him, a chef who specialised in sea-food.
However, the beneficiary of my forward-thinking feline advice was to the company owner who seemed to think that Madame Pendulica (did I mention her real name is Doris Brown?) was going to somehow provide him with the information he needed to save his precious company – and to listen to the man his marriage and maybe even his life as well!
Well, seriously, is it surprising that his business has wound up in the litter tray if his idea of hiring a consultant is going to an astrologer to have his own and his company’s horoscopes cast? Yes, I do not jest, this apparently quite rational human being (although I do have to say that is something more often an illusion than a fact) thought a batty woman who believes huge dangly earrings add to her gravitas, with her faith in the stars and her patchouli and sandalwood incense sticks was going to give him better advice than anyone else on how to turn his financial fortunes around.
Can you believe it?
I couldn’t and I promptly sat up and told him so.
“Oh don’t mind Ailuros, she’s having a mystical revelation,” she says in that horrible husky fake generic Eastern European accent she puts on with the clients.
Mystical revelation? My furry butt!
I was telling the deluded dwerp that what he should be doing is going to see a financial advisor at his bank and using whatever money he might still have to hire a business consultant who actually knows something about the possibilities of diversification in an economically challenging time. I suggested he investigate 3D printing and considered taking some of the design aspects of his offerings in house so he could hire out that as a service too.
“There, sweet Ailuros says you need to cleanse your unit on the industrial estate with Clary Sage smudge sticks and put Amber and Amethyst crystals under every window to attract good fortune.”
Sweet Ailuros had enough at that point and abandoning the foolish plonker to the grasping claws of her mistress (which although fake are an impressive two inches long) she sashayed elegantly from the room. I mean there is only so much crap a cat can take without needing to make a fresh deposit in the litter tray herself!

Ailuros the Mystic’s Mog predicts she will be offering more advice sometime in the future!

The Soldier’s Stand , the second book in the Lord’s Learning series by Eleanor Swift-Hook, is out today!
In 1626 Europe is ablaze as the supporters of the exiled Elector Palatine, who was also briefly King of Bohemia, challenge Emperor Ferdinand. The emperor’s new general, Wallenstein, has achieved a crushing victory over the feared mercenary commander Mansfeld at Dessau, but Danish King Christian IV is on the march in Lower Saxony.
Amid this turmoil, Captain Matthew Rider must somehow manage both his part of Wallenstein’s war effort and his troublesome young lieutenant, Filippo Schiavono. Schiavono’s knack for finding trouble deepens when one of his three close companions is murdered. Jorrit Musykens, Schiavono’s loyal servant, comes close to being accused, but evidence points to another of the friends, who confirms his guilt by fleeing.
Mark Turnbull, author of ‘Charles I’s Private Life’ says of it: ‘A masterpiece of 17th-century historical fiction – immerses the imagination in murder and mystery, against the brutal backdrop of war.’

The Elbe, near Rosslau April 1626
Battles could be dangerous things, he knew that, but they were also great opportunities. No better chance to make sure someone you found inconvenient could conveniently perish in the chaos. Who was to say what really happened to them or which sword it was that cut them down?
He tried three times.
The first two failed because just as he got close, he needed to give his attention to the enemy in full, and the man he wanted dead was needful to his own survival—another sword arm lifted to defend his life and, grudgingly, he had to admit it was a strong one.
But then that was not what this was about.
Being strong, capable and worthy was not the point. If it came to it all four of them were those things. He would not waste his time and effort securing the friendship of those who were not. That way he kept them close at hand, their strength and skill at his disposal—and he could be sure where to find them if they became inconvenient.
No. This was about making sure of advancement, because advancement brought with it glory, title, land, wealth, status, a fine marriage—all the things he knew he deserved and had long been denied.
When it came to advancement only one of the other three really stood in his way. Only one held the patronage as well as the ability. Patronage that spoke with a louder voice than merit.
The third time he nearly succeeded.
It was a crazy plan they were following, but then Schiavono’s plans were always crazy. Someone must have dropped him on his head as a baby.
Blowing up the powder wagons.
The risk was insane.
And the opportunity was too good to pass up. All he needed to do was make sure that they exploded before everyone could get clear and once the fuse was running nothing could stop it.
His hand lifted to deliver a blow that would leave nothing to chance, but then he was there. Schiavono. Calling on them to go and insisting on finishing the work himself.
So the chance was lost.
Never mind.
He still had time and there would be other opportunities.
He would just have to be patient…

You can now keep reading The Soldier’s Stand which is out today!

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.

Will you follow me? He whispers
And his eyes are liquid love
His noble head is crowned with flowers
Pale the moon that floats above
Am I so brave that I can follow
In the footsteps of his breath
Can I dare to bet tomorrow
Be his child from now to death

©️jj 2024

Sometimes we walk the edges of reality…

The scene looked more solid now, as if it had come into focus, there was a stall selling candyfloss just opposite and two children with balloons bobbing on strings ran past, groups of teens and families. There was something strange about them, most of the young men had longer hair, the girls wore a lot of ethnic look clothing and they all seemed to favour jeans with flared boot-cut legs. 
“Come.”
Jess glanced at Annis who was reinforcing her request by taking hold of Jessica’s hand and pulling on it.
“I’m not sure it’s a good – “
“Come!” Annis was frowning now. “Show you.”
Reluctant to leave the relative sense of security this enclosed place gave her, Jess found herself gripping the hand of the child quite tightly. She was not able to avoid a gasp as the huge felines slid out of the door ahead of them. Annis paused in the doorway and looked back.
“You not talk, the Old One hears you. Not hear me.”
“What is this Old One?”
Jessica recalled the cold feeling she had felt before when Annis had made her hide with the cats. Even their warmth had not stopped her shivering. 
“Old One is ancient – is Blood Eater. Come.”
Jess still resisted the tugging hand.
“Blood eater? You mean blood drinker? Like a vampire?’
And that was what Annis had called Roald. For some reason the idea fitted with him well.
“No,” Annis said, almost crossly, she was getting impatient as if driven by some urgency. “Blood Eater. It eats you.” Either the girl had no real idea of what she was saying or she lacked the vocabulary to say what she wanted, because she pulled again at Jessica’s hand. “Now come, not talk.”
Jessica gave in and followed the girl, her mind full of Bram Stoker and HP Lovecraft. It was not a very comforting state of mind to be in as they left the sanctuary of the small cabin Annis had made her home. 
This time there was no twisted tangle to clamber over, this time there was a ladder and the space above their heads was filled with looping rails, not lit up like the rest of the rides and booths around them. Annis led the way to a gated barrier and produced a key from somewhere to open it so they could get through. There was a sign on the outside of the gate which declared the roller-coaster closed for… Jessica would have read more about it, but Annis was pulling her hand again, finger to lips to remind her not to talk.
It was a dream, of course. She had fallen asleep in the car, in the carpark and was dreaming all this. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. It just felt real. But then Jess had lucid dreams sometimes, like the one where she was naked on the clifftop and –
“Jessica! Jess!”
Roald. She could not see him but his voice was close by. It did not sound like an: ‘I’ve just spotted you’ attention grabbing shout, more of a call in the hope that she might hear and answer. 
“Jessica! I know you are going to be frightened, but it’s alright. I can protect you. Come to me, my princess, I’ll keep you safe.”
It was strange though, that his voice carried over the noise of the fairground music, the sirens that wailed about the start and end of the rides, the thunder of the machinery itself and the cheerful shrieks of the crowd. But despite the noise, his voice sounded clear to her. Almost as if she was wearing an earpiece. Then he was there. Right in front of her and she froze.

Part 9 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.

P is for Posh Words, or what Desperate Danielle of the darts team defines as ‘La-di-da diction’.

We all know people who use posh words for everyday things.

You know who I mean, the kind of person who invites their pals over for drinks of an evening and calls it a ‘soirée’ or for a coffee in the morning and offer you a ‘latte’. They don’t have a bedroom like the rest of us mortals they have a ‘boudoir’ and they don’t eat chips, it’s ‘pommes frites’.

They have everything ‘au gratin’ when they usually just mean it’s got cheese on it and then eat it ‘al fresco’ rather than outside.

Seeing a pattern here? I am.

Call it something in French or Italian and you posh it up beautifully.

So if you’ll excuse me I’m talking my chien to il parco for a pisciare and a merde!

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

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

Jane Jago