If ever a woman was between two unwanted destinies…

I was sitting astride one of the sturdy roof supports of the smithy with my back against the warm stone of the forge chimney, listening to two men discussing my future.

One was William Smith, a brawny giant of a man who was making nails as he spoke. The other was the Puritan gentleman who now owned my family home.
“Nobody,” the dark-clad man was saying, “is able, or willing, to tell me where I might find the daughter of the house.”
“I shouldn’t think they know,” William’s bass rumble held a thread of amusement.
“And you, master Smith, would you tell me if you knew?”
“That would depend.”
The man rounded on him angrily. “I could turn you out in the streets and have you whipped from the village for your insolence.”
“You could try, but I own this smithy free and clear, and I’m not a man easy to intimidate.”
They stared each other in the eyes for a long moment, and it was the Parliamentarian who looked away first.
“No harm will come to the girl of my doing. I would marry the chit, or, if she will not, her father is alive in the Low Countries with others of his party.”
William made a deep humming noise. “So, the girl must either marry a man she has never set eyes on before, or she must leave her home to follow a father who is as like as not to lose her in a game of cards. Not a lot of choice.”
The dark gent ground his teeth. “Do I not know that? But it is the best I can offer.”
There was a long moment of silence broken only by the musical ring of hammer on anvil as William beat iron into nails.
“And what if there was another way?”
“I am listening.”
“The girl is as wild as one of her father’s hawks. She is not one to be tamed by any man. Marry her against her will and you would spend your life looking behind you. Let her be. It may be that you could come to know her that way and in time.”
“She doesn’t have time. The family of her father’s second wife has designs on her person.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason her father wants her. Money.”
“Money?”
“Aye. The girl is wealthy in her own right and there are many who would use that wealth.”
“Including yourself,” William’s voice was full of contempt.
“Yes. But at least I would use it to address the neglect of her home and it’s acreage. And I would be kind.”
William studied him then shrugged his massive shoulders. He threw the last nail into the bucket and shifted his head to look up to my perch.
“What do you think, Miss Henrietta? Will you marry? Or will you go to your father? Or…”
He held up his arms and I jumped into them before turning to look into the narrow, dark face of the man I was to spend the next fifty years married to.

© jane jago

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.

The first day of April, that day of all days when making bloody silly jokes is all right.
Only it isn’t. It isn’t funny to send your sister a photoshopped image of her boyfriend in bed with a blonde. It isn’t funny to put an announcement of your mother’s death in the local paper. It isn’t funny to befriend somebody online only to make them the but of your annual ‘humour’ fest.
Just stop it.
It’s not funny. You’re not funny. Leave humour to those who don’t equate being funny with making people cry. Stop being an asshat for ten minutes and consider how you would enjoy being the but of one of your own ‘jokes’.
For those of you who find themselves on the receiving end of one of these gems of sparkling ‘wit’ I have the following advice.
If the perpetrator is an online acquaintance, by all means retweet or reblog the offensive item adding one or more of the following hashtags:

#sentbytheguywiththegherkindick
#sentbyadiscardedlover
#sentbythebitchwhohasnofriends
#thanksasshole

I think you get the idea.
However, should the ‘joker’ be known to you outside cyberspace, vengeance is perfectly acceptable. Consider one of the following:

Itching powder in the underwear.
Chilli in the wine
Pepper in the chocolates
And the classic – A kipper wired to the exhaust pipe of their car

Soooooo. To recap. Don’t do personal April Fools jokes. They are seldom kindly and never funny. 
But.
If you do. Expect vengeance…

Have fun until the next thing pisses me off.

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…

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