Give up the booze, they said
Look what it’s done to your life
Seventeen children, they said
And not even once a wife
Give up the fags, they said
And you shouldn’t be dressing like that
Give up the choccies and cheese
Or you will wind up friendless and fat
I have no regrets, she said
My children are straight and strong
I conceived them all sober, she said
And that’s where you’re getting it wrong
Life’s not the place, she said
For your poor-mouthed censorious ways
I’m living the way I think best
And I’ll dance to the end of my days

©️ jane jago 2017

.... or 'How To Speak Typo' by Jane Jago

anyib (noun) – the proper way to make stew, grasp handfuls of whatever you have lying about and bung in pot with wine

anythign (noun) – a large thighed man who has lost the ability to cross his legs

devous (adjective) – crablike and with unpleasant breath

ignose (adjective) – of social influencers having little or no education or empathy, consequently peddling click bait as if it was gospel

lical – (adjective) something small in the neighbourhood

lipump (noun) – the mouth of a woman who is addicted to plastic surgery

may flk (slang) – to slap an annoying teenager with a smoked haddock

pecenaket (noun) – peanut toffee sweetie that gums up your mouth

shalol (ejaculation) – laughing greeting

startistic (noun) – the number of stellar bodies in a constellation

tryign (verb) – testing the flavour of rocks

tyhan (group noun) – marks left on wrists by enthusiastic bondage session

yoi (noun) – contraction of oy you shouted by persons of little refinement when they espy acquaintances in the street

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

He expected to live his life a widower. But the elders thought differently, so he found himself a reluctant participant at the church door, with the innkeeper’s plain daughter at his side.

Once married, they walked towards his home in frigid silence. When they were almost at the door she put a timid hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at her obvious misery and felt ashamed.

“Not your fault.” He took her hands in his. “Shall we make what we can of this.”

She searched his face with her eyes. “Yes please.”

They found friendship and laughter together.

©️jj 2019

I walked my brother’s only daughter around the sights, snarling at street corner conmen and would-be pickpockets. The kid just drank everything in open-mouthed and adoring every moment. After four leg-weary hours even she was ready for a sit-down, and I guided her into Frankie’s Grill.

It’s not the most salubrious joint in town, but the food is good and they know me. I ordered burgers and fries and while we waited I just listened as she babbled. When she suddenly stopped speaking and swallowed as if her mouth had gone unaccountably dry I turned to follow the direction of her eyes.
“Shit,” I said with some feeling, “what’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know. But I wonder if he wants company.”
“Probably. But we ain’t it.”
She regarded me solemnly for a moment then nodded.
“If you say so. Though he sure is pretty.”
He was more than pretty, with the sort of hard-edged handsomeness that turns the knees to water. I laughed.
“Pretty dangerous, kid.”

Right on cue, the server came with our food.
The kid waited a beat. “He a John?”
“He is. Although not one of mine. Now eat your burger before it goes cold.”
The kid applied herself to her plate with a healthy appetite, even managing to finish my fries before she sat back replete.

The man now occupied a booth opposite us, from whence he stared at me with his mesmerisingly blue eyes.
“He looks at you,” the kid remarked, “as if he don’t know whether he wants to fuck you or strangle you.”
“Oh. He wants to do both. Simultaneously.”
The kid looked sick for a minute then firmed her chin.
“Nope. Not my bag,” she gave a nervous half giggle.
“Mine neither. If anybody is getting beaten up I reckon to be doing the beating.”

Then my stalker made a mistake. He turned his gaze from me to the kid, undressing her with his eyes and enjoying the blush that spread from her neck upwards.
“Can you make him stop that?”
“Sure. You just pop to the restroom. I’ll come get you when it’s sorted.”

It wasn’t more than thirty seconds before he came and slid onto the banquette next to me, sitting so close I could feel the heat of his lean thigh. He put his big hands on the white tablecloth and I looked at where the black hairs marched across their backs. He spoke first.
“What is it worth to leave the little one alone?”
I didn’t answer, merely turning my head to meet the icy heat of his eyes.
“I asked you a question.” His voice had quite nearly the cut of a whip.
“And I chose not to answer.” I kept my own tones cool and sweetly reasonable. Something I knew would both irritate and excite him in equal measure.
“I will have you,” he groaned. “I will have you bound and naked and at my mercy.”
“I think not.”
“Not even to save the child.”
“You are not interested in her.”
“Maybe not. But I will take her if nothing more challenging is offered.”
I half turned towards him, showing him the white column of my throat. He swallowed and slowly clenched and unclenched his hands.
“Do you want me to call you master?”
“I want more than that. How far are you prepared to go to save the child from the bite of the cat o nine tails?”
“About this far,” I licked my lips and slipped the knife between his third and fourth ribs.
“About this far..”

© jane jago 2017

The earthly representative of the god was a mountain of stinking flesh, ruled only by his own appetites. 

The little priestess was seven years old when they brought her to the temple. Her delicate beauty caught the priest’s jaundiced eye and he ordered himself carried over to where she tended the temple snakes.

“Come here,” he commanded.

She went obediently to his side and stood mute under his pinching fingers.

A single tear ran down the childish cheek and the salt taste awoke the snake that slumbered in her bodice.

The bitten man took quite a long time to die.

©️jj 2019

Ma and Pa left Effie at Grandpa’s house when they went to the city for a winter of work. She halfway heard them whispering to Gammer, but she was too busy keeping her chin from wobbling to pay too much notice. Ma kissed her and Pa ruffled her bright curls.
“You be a brave girl and grow big enough to come with us next winter.”
Effie clung to his leg for a moment before smiling her gap-toothed smile.
“You be brave too.”
Ma kissed her one more time and then they were gone, walking along the dusty track that would become a sea of mud in the winter rains.
Gammer gave the little girl a shrewd look and swung the kettle over the fire.
“Us’ll just have a nice cupper.”
Grandpa nodded his agreement and took Effie on his knee.
“You all right my chick?”
“I is. I knows Ma and Pa has to go work.”
“Good girl.”
No more was said, and the day passed in the work of the small farm, with Effie helping wherever such a little girl could.
When the sun went down, there was hot food to be had and after they had eaten they sat by the fire. Grandpa read to Gammer and Effie as Gammer sewed and Effie knitted. When the little girl’s head was nodding like a poppy on its stalk, Grandpa pulled a bunk bed down from the wall and Gammer helped her out of her dress and shoes. She scrambled into bed and Grandpa covered her with a feather quilt. The old people kissed her soft cheeks and watched as she fell asleep.
It was dark and the fire had died down to no more than a glimmer when Effie awoke and saw the red eyes glinting. She sat up clutching her quilt high up under her chin. 
“Go away,” she quavered.
But the eyes just came closer. Beside the banked fire, Bess, Gammer’s old collie dog sat up straight and growled a warning. The light-sapping bulk that was the owner of the red eyes hissed, but the dog was brave and set up a ferocious barking. The eyes turned away from Effie, but she was afraid the creature would hurt Bess so she shouted as loud as she could.
“Go away. Go away…” 
She couldn’t think what else to say, and was astonished to hear a voice behind her.
“Begone.” The thing grew larger, but the strong calm voice merely repeated itself. “Begone.”
With a howl of rage the creature turned its eyes back to Effie, but she grasped her courage in both chubby hands. 
“Begone,” she said firmly and watched as the blackness folded in on itself. 
“Well Done Effie,” it was Gammer who spoke. “Well done my brave girl.”
Effie turned to face her grandparents who stood in a square of yellow light cast by the open door. She noticed they were holding hands and wearing their nightshirts. Grandpa’s bare legs were very skinny and for some obscure reason that comforted Ellie more than anything else could have.
“Will un come back?” she asked, proud that her voice was steady and strong.
“No.” Gammer smiled. “Not now. We banished it and you did too. So the door is closed.”
Effie thought that one through carefully.
“How did un come here now then?”
“He come because your Ma and Pa had to leave you. In the mind of the faces that do make you fair game. But you ain’t. You has us. And your own bravery. And us’ve sent in home.”
Only it didn’t feel to Effie as if the thing was really gone. It seemed to her to be lurking. She thought some more then got out of bed. Walking over to the fireplace she stood looking up towards the chimney-breast. 
“I isn’t fair game for nobody. And if you comes for me again us’ll just send you home. Only us’ll be angry next time.”
For a moment she felt a strange sucking sensation then the flames in the fireplace leapt into life. A dark face with eyes like burning coals looked out of the heat at her. She placed her dimpled knuckles on her hips and stared right back at the creature in the fire.
Effie heard a laugh like crackling flames and smelled woodsmoke. 
“Very well little one. We can appreciate courage. We shall leave you in peace.”
This time when he left Effie couldn’t sense him any more. She turned her head to look at Gammer and Grandpa who seemed to be staring at her with round eyes.
Gammer found her voice first. “Well, I never did. A liddle scrap of a thing like you sending a face back to the gates of hell.”
Effie grinned. “Wasn’t nothing. I just knowed what to say.”
She climbed back into her bed and was almost instantly asleep.
The old couple watched her for long moments before seeking their own slumber…

© Jane Jago 2019

Never wanted nobody, and nobody but me never wanted to live here. It’s fryin’ hot in summer and bitter cold in winter, but it’s home. 

Then my wolves found him layin’ in the snow. They come to fetch me. He musta fell from a hoss. Broke his thighbone good, and he was pretty near frozen. Got him on a litter and doctored him best we could. 

“Who are you?” I asks later.

“Nobody.”

By spring he could hobble about on two sticks.

It was high summer when he come to my bed.

Twenty winters later he’s still here. 

My nobody…

©️jj 2019

She wasn’t supposed to know he was coming home today. His family bribed the prison guards so she got no letters. But she had to believe he loved her, else why live. 

Forcing hope down into a tiny corner of her mind, she and the kids trudged two dusty miles to the bus stop.

Of course his mama and his brothers were there already, so she kept back.

The bus drew in and for a moment nobody got out.

Then he was there, jumping down the steps and running past his mother’s theatrical embrace straight into her arms…

“Mi corazón.”

©️jj 2019

'Inescapable Fete' by Rob Edwards is one of the stories in Gods of Clay  a new anthology crafted by the knights of the Sci Fi Roundtable. It features twelve brilliant stories that answer the question what if it were the gods are just more advanced beings? Would they be as fallible as the rest of us?

Helen wasn’t sure why they needed a raffle and a tombola, but Tinsley seemed set on the idea, redundant though at least one of them was. It provided another excellent opportunity to tune the proceedings out. She let her pen roam across her notepad, as she studied the newcomer.
Paul was working his way around the table, taking a moment to talk in hushed tones with each member in turn. His expression was… intense and earnest, he spoke with his hands in motion. He was looking for something, some answer, but he wasn’t getting it. His shoulders drew in, his brow furrowed, and each conversation was shorter than the last.
“Find any seat Paul, please,” Tinsley said. “We need to focus on the task at hand, we can’t afford any slip-ups.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Paul and slid into the chair next to Helen.
“Quite all right, quite all right. In fact, perhaps you can offer some useful insights on the conundrum at hand? Should the raffle be before the tombola? Or, and I do not wish to prejudice your opinion, but I would rather broadly hint that the raffle should be after?”
“Er, after, sure.”
Helen’s pen tore through the top three pages in her notebook. She ripped them all out, crushing them into a ball and hurled them at the ground.
“Insightful, Paul, thank you. Show of hands? Thank you all, excellent, motion passed.
“Next, we should turn our attention to the question of which colour we should use for the raffle tickets…”
Paul leaned close in towards Helen and whispered, “I notice you don’t vote.”
Helen unclenched her jaw. “I try not to engage, unless I absolutely have to. They get on fine without me, and if all twelve of us vote, there’s a chance for a tie.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re different from the others.”
“Thanks for noticing. You seem an odd fit too. That’s a compliment.”
“Thank you. You’re Helen, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Helen May?”
“I don’t… yes, yes, that’s right. May.”
Paul squared his shoulders, leaned in very close and whispered “Lieutenant Helen May? Navigator First Class?”
Helen’s chair screeched across the floor as she pushed herself away.
Tinsley paused mid-exposition. “Problem, Ms May?”
“No, no. No problem.”
“Well and good then, commit thy works unto the topic at hand, perhaps?”
Helen nodded and shuffled her chair back in place.
“You remember,” Paul whispered. “You remember something.”
“Shut up Paul, I’m trying to concentrate.”
“But you’re not, are you?” He was practically bouncing. “In fact, that’s exactly what you’re trying not to do!”
Tinsley cleared his throat loudly. “Ah, Verger, excellent. Might you have a word with the kitchen, please? I would suggest a five-minute break for the necessities, the natives are getting a little restless. Ha ha.”

A Bite of... Rob Edwards

Q1: What time of day do you write best?

I am an excellent procrastinator, I usually write best in the twelve hours before a deadline. To be (marginally) less flip about the answer, I have two writing modes. When the inspiration is in, I can write anytime, anywhere: balancing a notebook on my knee as I commute to work, or long Sunday afternoons where the words just flow. But 98% of my writing is done in the other mode, where I bash my head against the desk at 1am, occasionally type the word “the” before deleting it and writing “a” instead.

Q2: Have you ever invented a language?

Veedlep’rit. (That means ‘no’. Or does it?). 

In my teenage writer years, I did create phrases in my own take on elvish, but not with any sense of coherent vocab or syntax, and lo, these many years later, I couldn’t tell you one word of it. These days I have enough problems with Finnish, the language that surrounds me, I don’t need to add to that linguistic bafflement, thank you. I suppose my own attempts at Finnish are so far removed from the actual language, it could almost count as inventing my own.

Fun fact, Tolkien based his elvish languages on Finnish. Se on totta, mutta auttaako se minua? Veedlep’rit. 

Q3: Are you ticklish? If so where?

I am extremely ticklish, but weirdly only in Geneva.

Q4: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

Not much directly, but I like to add a little flavour from my life. But no, I don’t generally include events or people from my life in my stories, though I might steal a name or turn of phrase from time to time. You could probably play hunt the Finland references in my more recent stories, and the unfinished novel in my drawer is basically a treatise on why commuting on the London underground was so miserable. My story in Gods of Clay is called Inescapable Fete and was inspired by sitting in one too many endless meetings.

Rob Edwards is a British-born writer and podcaster living in Finland. He moved to Finland because of elves, but his greatest geek pride is the entry about him on Wookieepedia. His podcast, StorycastRob, features readings of short stories, generally his own, but occasionally guest authors’ too. He works closely with Inklings Press and you can find many of his stories in their anthologies, as well as stories from his podcast in his own short collection StorycastRob: Mic Drop. You can follow him on Twitter.