Very little the biggers got up to passed without notice. The gnomes knew what the alpha male did to the female that used the writing machine, and what games Mother played in the dark shed.

They saw it as their place to say nothing. 

But.

When the fat bigger with the hairy chest cornered a frightened young female, their neutrality deserted them. 

They erupted from every bush and tree, biting and scratching and emitting eerie eldritch sounds. The fat bigger ran away as fast as he could with his garment around his knees.

The female kissed Big Eric, who blushed….

©jj 2019

We have twenty-three minutes to live
The inexorable numbers tick past
We have given the most we can give
And the seconds are running down fast
We have no contact with home
There is no way we can say goodbye
In the end we will each die alone
Wink out in the blink of an eye
We have twenty-two minutes to live
Each breath is becoming a task
Like sands through an eternal sieve
Our lives are away dropping fast
The clock is irrelevant now
As each chest heaves and ratchets in pain
Oh Lords let us end it all now
Whilst we still have the function of brain
We have twenty-one moments to live
But the numbers are clearly a lie
I whisper, my darling forgive
As I cut both my wrists and I die

© jane jago 2017

The unborn exist in the place between reality and dreams. They wink into being at their appointed time and dance excitedly around the firmament awaiting their chance at life. Each shines like a small star as it anticipates that moment when a fertile womb opens to receive the gift of being. 

In the beginning, The Creator set Their thumbprint on a ball of mud before breathing fire into a cloud of gases to warm Their newest toy.  As life took its tentative first steps, the unborn came swarming from the place beyond – avid to share the youngness of this place – and the creatures that walked on the ball of mud loved them. There was competition for each birth, and the unborn blazed with life and vitality as the excitement of the future animated their flight. As century rolled into century there always seemed to be a mother awaiting the blessing of a child, and each spark of newness found a place in which to grow.

Satisfied that all was good The Creator turned Their eyes away from this thing They had made and sought Their entertainment elsewhere. 

For many times many turns of the wheel the creatures on the ball of mud lives simple blameless lives, looking only to have enough to eat and occasionally bash their enemies on the head with wooden clubs. They were uninteresting, and The Creator’s influence bypassed that little corner of infinity, eventually waning to such an extent that The Opposite was able to stand on His own scaly feet on that insignificant ball of mud spreading knowledge and malice, and laughing as the creatures around Him lost their innocence.

Even then, The Creator were so wrapped up in more interesting species that They failed to notice how the creatures that walked on the ball of mud turned their eyes away from the skies. 

Instead, they scuttled around in the dirt, digging and scrabbling and fighting among themselves. They forgot their covenant with The Creator. They forgot their responsibilities towards the planet on which they walked. And they even forgot the need to continue their own species in the selfish drive to grasp as much as possible and hold it.  

For the first time since the Creator set this being into motion the unborn were unwanted. They grew pale and sickly, and in the end they began to will themselves out of existence, going from glorious and golden, to green and feeble, and eventually ceasing to be.

Called away from greater pleasures by the gnawing pain of the unborn, The Creator turned Their eyes on that which They had made and found it no longer good. They wrung Their hands in agonised indecision torn between what was right and Their avowed intent never to interfere with a created species. 

In the end, the pain of the unborn persuaded The Creator that steps must be taken and they sent their own unborn as Mashiach. He put his white feet on the spinning rock and spoke of love and salvation, but the creatures listened not. He stood on the mountain they called Zahyeet and spoke of the joy of family and the care of children. But the creatures turned their faces from him, indeed some among their number threw stones at him and called him ignorant, immigrant, impious. Then they turned their backs on his fair visage and went on with their games and power plays. They stopped their ears with the wax of money and power. And they lost even further the memory of what they were intended to be. Mashiach felt such sorrow that he took himself into the desert – and where his tears fell there bloomed an oasis of such beauty that the creatures made war on each other for the ownership of that tiny strip of green. And if, somehow in their vicious struggles, the pale Mashiach died, who was to care. 

The Creator watched. Their horror and revulsion was such that Their cries could be heard as thunder all about Their creation, and the one great tear that ran down Their face created a tsunami on the spinning rock that drowned countries and cities with indiscriminate malice. But even events of such magnitude could not call the creatures away from the abyss of self-seeking and loveless interaction. 

The unborn wailed in their despair and, even as another group winked out of being, The Creator lifted Their head. 

It came to Them, on a wave of sorrowful realisation, that this creation was beyond Their help and they turned Their face from it knowing in Their heart what They must do.

The last of the unborn willed themselves out of existence as The Creator reached one hand across the firmament and plucked the ball of burning gas from the sky. They crushed it in Their hand and the ball of mud went dark..

©️ Jane Jago 2018

There were butterflies in the garden, and the air was filled with the drone of bees and the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle. Annis sat back on her heels and sighed. Five years ago today the last man had come back to the farm.

All home safe. Except her Tom.

As she thought of his name, a shadow fell across her and she looked up into remembered pale blue eyes.

“Tom. My lover. But ain’t you dead?”

“I am. And if you comes with me you will be too.”

She put her hand in his and stepped out of her body.

©️jj 2019

Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.

So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.

But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?

As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create…

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica...

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid tan the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return...

In all his days Kgabu had never seen water coming from the sky. At first he was afraid and hid beneath Unina, but he slowly grew bolder running among the drops and rolling in the wet grasses. It felt good and he dashed about until his paws were thick with sticky brown stuff. 

It was annoying, so he sat down and carefully cleaned the mess from each of his feet, even the tricky bits between the claws. 

While he worked, the water stopped and ilanga filled the sky with his golden radiance.

Unina smiled, “your face is dirty my son….”

©jj 2019

The Master Stonemason was in his eightieth summer and he was all but blind, still his hands knew their work and each chisel stroke was as clean and precise as it had been in his youth. Once he had cut and carved he began the laborious task of polishing, trusting nothing to the hands of his sons, or his grandsons, or the apprentices who watched in something like awe. When one of his sons would have intervened to help the old man, his only surviving daughter stepped in front of her brother.
“Leave him. Let him make his last work as glorious as his first.”
When the last letter was incised and the last square inch of the finest Carrera marble was polished to a soft pure shine, the old man lifted his eyes to the sky and rested at last.
One by one, each man in the yard stepped up and laid a gentle hand on this thing of beauty the old man had crafted.
Last forward was the Master’s daughter. Her homely features were shaped into the tenderest of smiles and she laid her cheek against the cool marble.
“It is perfect,” she said softly, “now come home to your dinner”.
The old man took her proffered hand and they walked away together – leaving the young men to carry the headstone the Master had created to its place on the grave of his beloved wife.

©️jane jago 2018

Prison was a room high in a tower, with wide windows and balconies. Every day she awoke to sunshine and to the awareness that someone watched her as she slept. But who? And why?

As sunlit day followed sunlit day she was no nearer to understanding. And then….

It was afternoon and bees were droning in the roses that scrambled around her balcony when a blue butterfly alighted on her hand. It lazily moved its wings. 

She remembered.

They took her wings the day they brought her here, and the crystal brightness of remembered agony stole her breath. 

She jumped… 

©jj 2019

The ‘pulling the rug’ trilogy by Jane Jago is a set of responses to the banana skins and unexpected bonuses we all find in our everyday lives. The three books have just gained cool new covers to celebrate the re-release of number three....

From ‘The Lassitude of Lilacs’ – a modern fable in pulling the rug iii about the futility of war and the redemptive quality of love…

They were playing croquet. Again. Fortunately for a small store of patience worn thin by pregnancy and the inane laughter of the ‘in crowd’, the weight of the heir on her much abused inner organs excused non-participation. Instead, she reclined in the cushioned comfort of an old steamer chair and allowed her mind to wander.

She closed her eyes, and it was as though she was transported back to another summer, in another garden, but with the same background laughter and the same heavy scent of lilac blossoms. There had, she remembered with diamond bright clarity, been tennis – and she and her father had beaten all opponents with a mixture of athleticism and barefaced cheating. Just as they had all thrown themselves into a variety of garden chairs, all bewailing the wartime shortage of gin, the gate had clicked and Bunty had  hurried into the garden.

The scene played out on her closed eyelids as his tall, athletic figure strode across the grass and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a broken voice.

And at that second she knew.

She remembered putting her fingers across his mouth as if to stop the words, thinking in some foolish corner of her mind that if he didn’t say it it might not be so. But he took her hands in his and he did say it. 

“It’s Archie, old thing. Shot down over Cologne. Went down in a fireball. Didn’t stand a chance.”

For a moment, the pain was as fierce as it had been on that day, and her hands moved to the tumulus of her pregnant belly drawing comfort from the life she carried….

You can find out how the story unfolds in pulling the rug iii and pick up more quirky takes on life in pulling the rug and pulling the rug ii