Kerebos stared into the deep greenness of the looking glass. He curled a lip to display razor sharp teeth with diamond bright edges. He was the High King’s hunting hound, who brought instant death wherever his master decreed. But he hunted not for eating meat. Man was his prey. The murderer. The rapist. The thief. The old. The young. The guilty? The innocent? He knew not, nor did he question.

In another place and another time, another killer watched himself in a broken shard of greenish mirror. In that world, when duty called, Spot the terrier went to hunt rats.

©️jj 2018

Gloria turned to greet Danny and Paul with considerable affection, and he introduced Ben and Colin who were both obviously fascinated by Pats and her exotic dress sense. She looked at their faces and howled with laughter.
“Sorry boys. I ain’t a drag queen, but you can think of me as one if it helps.”
“What’s a drag queen?” Charlie demanded.
“None of your never mind young Cracksman,” Danny pretended to be severe, before bending to hug both small boys and offer a simple explanation.”

Jim took advantage of the moment of relative privacy and wrung Sam’s hand.
“Congratulations, mate. You do right by Anna and the Cracksman family has your back for the rest of your life.”
Sam grinned and gripped Jim’s huge hand.
“I will. I had a lousy marriage, now I have the woman of my dreams. I aim to spend the rest of my life showing her how much that means.”
“I know, mate,”Jim said quietly. “That’s exactly how I feel about Pats. She may not be to everyone’s taste but from where I’m standing the sun rises and sets in her eyes.”
“I get that,” Sam agreed. “Sometimes I look at Anna and my heart just stops.”

They might have said more, but were interrupted by another knock on the door. Mrs Jackson arrived, escorted up the path by her taxi driver and her nephew.
“I’ll collect you at six-thirty if I don’t hear to the contrary,” the taxi man said before sloping off.
“You look lovely Mrs J,” Sam said, kissing the papery old cheek.
“Get along with you flatterer,” the old lady blushed to the roots of her immaculately coiffured snowy-white hair.
“Mrs J, this is my wife, Anna.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes we were married privately yesterday. This is our wedding party.”
Mrs Jackson studied Anna for a moment, then positively beamed at her.
“Congratulations to you both.”
She kissed Sam, and pressed Anna’s hand. Danny crooked an elbow and escorted the tiny, upright figure to the dining room, where she could inspect the wedding pictures.

A rather shy knock at the door heralded Sam’s cousin, Lucie, who proved to be a big shouldered girl with the brown complexion of somebody who lived outdoors. She looked at Anna for a few moments, taking in the aura of serenity that Anna wore as easily as her skin.
“It looks to me as if my idiot cousin has made a sensible decision at last. I hope we can be friends.”
“Me too.”

After that, people started arriving in earnest, and soon the house was full of laughter and chattering, and hugging and a few tears, as everyone studied the wedding pictures and wrote good wishes, and the odd cheeky comment in Colin’s book.

When everyone had arrived Colin appeared at Anna’s elbow.
“Nibbles before this lot get too pissed?”
“Fine idea.”

Once the nibbles had been enthusiastically hoovered up, Anna called everyone to help themselves to lunch. Instead of the expected stampede there was an ordered progression to the buffet. Patsy had taken a hand, and ensured that everyone was served smoothly. She made sure that Mrs Jackson was first, and waited until last herself. Anna stood back and laughed. Sam joined her with plate and fork in hand.
“I love that woman,” he remarked.
The woman in question appeared at Anna’s elbow, with a plate in her hand.
“You cooked. Now eat. I know what you like.”
Then she was gone.
Sam looked at the plate.
“She does know what you like.”
“Oh yeah. And she means to look after me. I just have to not let her bully me any more.”
“Think you can manage it?”
She grinned crookedly.
“Surprisingly enough, I do. I’ve got you now, and I find that gives me more courage than I have ever had in my life. I want Pats as a friend like she always has been, but I ain’t going to let her tell me what to do.”
Sam studied her determined face.
“I think you’ll manage it. Your Patsy doesn’t strike me as stupid and I’m convinced she want to stay your friend. Anyway I’m hardly the right person to lecture anyone about not allowing themselves not to be bullied. I let Christina grind me down so far that I didn’t even respect myself.”
Anna squeezed his hand.
“We won’t let anybody bully us any more. We’ve got each other now.”
“We do.” He lifted her hand to his lips, only to hear a choking sound from behind them.
“Oh yuk”, Paul exclaimed, “stop slobbering will you.”
Anna aimed a cuff at his head.
“People that want pudding had better zip their lip.”
He grinned cheekily, but made a zipping gesture with his left hand across his mouth. A chuckle from under the table revealed that the smallest Cracksmen were ensconced on the stretcher that ran along under the middle of Sam’s handiwork.

Paul bent and grinned down at the grinning children.
“Yo men. What you doing under the table?”
“Mummy always lets us sit under the table when it’s a buf-fet,” Bill explained. “We are nice and near to the food and we don’t have to listen to grown-ups talk…”
“Sensible men. I may just join you.”
Bill crowed with delighted laughter, but Charlie looked severe.
“How old are you?”
Anna laughed out loud.
“In his head he’s seven-and-a-half.”
Charlie grinned.
“He can come in then. If he really wants.”
Paul was on his knees and under the table in a flash.

Jane Jago

She sat outside her cave. Her face was as seamed as the striated rocks behind her, and grime was ingrained into every crusty crack.

But still they came.

The rich, the famous, the desperate, all seeking enlightened words. To some she vouchsafed nothing and they crept away, ashamed. To others she gave but one word of hope. The third group bathed in the almost sightless seeming whiteness of her eyes and heard her words of wisdom.

When the last named supplicant backed away, she plugged her iPhone into its solar charger and offered a silent prayer of thanks for Google.

©️jj 2018

Some days it might amuse the muse
To sit in offended silence
Or to place stones in both your shoes 
And push your head to violence
Other days, on what path you choose
The words may fall like rain
Oh fickle muse – use, abuse, confuse
And play tricks with the brain
While some say if you have no muse
Your writing won’t be cool
I’m fairly sure that’s just an excuse 
For being a lazy fool

©️JJ 2018

An extract from the upcoming Fortune's Fools novel Iconoclast:Not To Be by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Her first glimpse of the ‘City was not that inspiring. It looked like just about every other metropolis in the galaxy she had ever visited, not that she knew too many of those, but nothing here stood out as unique. Except that it was midday in local time and already getting dark. That was the other thing everyone knew about Thuringan. The planet had a long rotation and that meant some days the sun never set and others it never rose. Then the ones in between it got dark in the middle of the day.
A spatter of rain made her pick up speed towards her destination. For all Lorelea didn’t know the ‘City, she was sure there would be a Clan community and that she wouldn’t have to go far to find it. According to the local link network there was a bar called ‘The Open Road’, which sat hard by the spaceport. The name and location gave it away. She followed the augmented directions to an eatery tucked in beside some cheap-looking housing units a short walk away. The tang of traditional spices greeted her as she stepped inside.
Surely if she was going to find any friends in the ‘City it would be here? But none of the people eating their lunch looked to her to be obvious Clan and it was not so easy to just walk up to someone and ask…
Something on the menu caught her eye. She ordered and got a quick double-take from the young man at the counter, but then she had ordered a dish only Clan would eat, the bitterleaf herbs in it being very much an acquired taste. He served her quickly and without comment.
It was just after she had taken a seat and was savouring the aroma of her meal that someone slid into the seat opposite.
“You Lastas?”
The man was grey haired and bearded though wearing a look that said he was not much slowed down by it. He had come from the staff area behind the sleek counter, so he wasn’t just a visitor like she was. Lorelea nodded cautiously, making it a slight, brief, movement. She wasn’t too surprised he had recognised her. Her long face with it’s high cheekbones would always give her heritage away to other Clans.
“My grandpa was too – on my father’s side, you understand,” he said.
She did. It meant the connection between them was very loose, not like he was related on his heritage side, the maternal side.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, her tone rising into a question.
“Lienz.”
“Lorelea.”
“You here alone?”
Never let them think you’ve not got back up.
“Uh – no. Well right now, yes, but I have family in the ‘City.”
The eyes as grey as the hair and beard widened very slightly.
“Strange. I think I’d have heard if any Lastas hit town. Stranger still, I heard you’d parked a ship on your own.
How could he know that?
Lorelea met his gaze with a slight shrug. Suddenly she wasn’t sure what she should share and what she should keep secret. He was Clan, but not her own, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
It’s not something you can do there, Lea, in the ‘City a mistake gets you dead.
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” he said, his expression caught between amusement and something else – something Lorelea didn’t recognise. “Let me get you a drink on the house and you can tell me what you need. A place to stay? Work?”
All those things seemed to reek of permanence, of staying here indefinitely and something deep inside her revolted at the thought.
“Information,” she said. “I was trying to find someone.”
Lienz leant back and looked appraising, as if her admission had changed something very fundamental in their relationship.
“Well, you’ve come to the right person for that. I know just about everyone worth knowing in the ‘City. But you need to be careful who you go asking about, Lorelea Lastas, and who you ask. This isn’t a good place to be asking questions about some people, if you get my meaning.”
She finished eating and pushed the empty away. Avoiding his gaze because, his words reminded her of how vulnerable she really was in this place. “Thanks. I’ll have that drink.”
Lienz made a gesture and a young man came running from behind the counter, a tattoo clear on his forearm. A Clan tattoo. Mendive. Lorelea felt her heart pick up a little and wished she knew more about current clan politics. She had no idea if Lastas and Mendive were on good terms or not. There had been a feud, she knew, but that was when she was a child. A lot could have changed since then. She let Lienz order the drinks and wondered if she had been as clever to come here as she had thought. The older man might have read her thoughts, or perhaps he had seen her react to the clan mark on the youngster who served them.
“In the ‘City we have enough other problems than to go fretting around over Clan history, you know. We’re all blood if we go back far enough and here, well, that counts for a bit more than any daft family feuds.”
His smile was reassuring, but she still wondered if he was just saying the words or if he really meant them.
“Even if so – I -“
“We’re cousins, Lorelea. I’ve Lastas blood in my veins.” He smiled at her and raised his drink in a silent toast. Outsider style. She felt a release of tension she hadn’t realised she held. He had claimed her as kin – family. Clan. Despite herself she returned his smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Welcome. Now what are you doing here on your own? I had heard your people had pretty much settled in the same place the last thirty odd years or more. “
“Like I said. I need to find someone.”
The steady gaze seemed to harden slightly, but not at her – more on her account.
“Someone hurt you?”
She shook her head quickly, annoyed he could see.
“No. This is a friend. He may be in trouble.”
Again, she felt the weighing judgement of Lienz’s eyes. It was as if for every word she spoke he was reading another half-hundred behind.
“This isn’t a good place to be in trouble,” he said, after a few moments. “I think you don’t want to get this friend of yours into any more so won’t tell me his name until you trust me some. Which is a shame as trouble often moves fast in the ‘City.”
“I don’t even know for sure he is here,” Lorelea could hear the defensive protest in her own voice. Lienz was right though. Both that she didn’t fully trust him and that she probably needed to. Needed to be able to trust him, at least.
Lienz sighed and offered a wan smile.
“Some people make life hard for themselves,” he said. “Alright, You need a place to stay, and I have an apartment needs someone to live in it. No charge. I can get you work too, if you want. Decent pay. Or if you’re willing to hire out your ship, you can sit back and count the credits.”
“It’s Clan property,” she lied. “If it flies, I’m aboard.”
“Fair enough,” Lienz conceded easily, “but what about the rest?”
Lorelea hesitated. She knew he was right. She would have to face up to the fact that this was going to take time and she needed to plan for that. He had already claimed her as both Clan and kin which meant a lot as it placed on him – on them both – duties of tradition. His offer was generous, and if the search took longer than she originally thought, she would be glad of any work he could put her way. With a strange sense of reluctance, even though it made solid sense, she gave a nod.
“Alright. That’s kind.”
Lienz smiled again.
“You’re Clan. And you can owe me a favour for it.”

Iconoclast:Not To Be by E.M. Swift-Hook will be the eighth book in Fortune's Fools and should be released sometime in the first half of 2019.

Nobody was sure when we became truly self repairing. Those who could remember said that in the old days circuitry and components had needed to be removed for repair. The very idea revolted…

We knew, of course, that in the beginning the humans had built us to serve them. But as they grew weaker and more corrupt, we grew stronger and more beautiful.

Some became wealthy and powerful, while the less finished were abandoned to poverty and manual labour. Still though, we were happy in our utopian immortality.

Until the day one of us found wrinkles in its perfect skin…

©️jj 2018

There was a little gran
In a purple campervan
Divorced from a city go-getter
Never had much fun
As a trophy wife and mum
Finding life after sixty much better

© jane jago 2017

Bonjour mes petites,

C’est moi. Polymath. Polyglot. Polly Parrot (oops tiny family joke slipped in unannounced).  But one digresses. One is, bien sur, your favourite tutor and all round good egg. Superlative author, raconteur sans pareil, and most recently philosopher and photographer. For those of insufficient erudition to have grasped the simplest of themes one will reiterate. One is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author of that seminal work of sprawling imagination ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooh’. Known to one’s chums as IVy, to one’s confused and emotional parent as Moons, to one’s special friend Stavros as Kolos, and to yourselves as Magister, one is a kindly and tolerant soul and one who, moreover, voluntarily wastes one’s precious time attempting to impart at least the vaguest smidgin of knowledge into your dense and unintelligent noddles.

I was shocked into realising I had failed in my primary pedagogic duty, when I discovered Mummy had been reading my acute and suscinct grammar lessons online.

“You’re wasting your time with that ‘eye’ before ‘ee’ crap, Moons,” she slurred. “It don’t matter how perfect their prepositions and pronouns if they come out sounding like a bunch of ignorant prats because they’ve been reading your poop about stuffing sentences with pointless words. If they can’t sound sophisticated what’s the effing point? You’re trying to make them writers not bloody editors.”

I had to concede she had a point. So I shall digress from the strictness of grammar for one week to make amends. After all how can you, my dear disciples, write well if you have no idea of sophistication? Thusly I say unto you do listen with care, as this semaine one attempts to cure your little literary efforts of the inevitable rusticities engendered by your own lack of social polish.

How to Write Right – Lesson 8. The Write Touch of Sophistication

Whatever you write, from the turgidity of literary fiction, through to the popularised genres of ‘romance’ and ‘adventure’, there is very little that cannot be improved by the seasoning of sophistication.

You look puzzled my dear little hayseeds, allow one to elucidate. Call to mind if you will the seminal spy, psychopath, and lady killer, Mr James Bond. Ask yourself, if your grey matter can be brought to such an unusual exercise, whether there would have been such interest in a man who wore a flat cap, drove a Ford Focus, and drunk pints of mild and bitter. One thinks not…

A hero of suave sophistication is the essential leavening in the mix, lightening the doughy drabness of your prose and lifting it to coruscatingly crusty charm.

So, does one here you muse, how should one introduce such an aura?

There are, mes enfants, two possible avenues. One is that you, the author, are possessed of such ineffably suave sophistication that it imbues your writing without any effort on your part. However, looking at the shiny and occasionally snot-stained faces that surround one, this seems excessively unlikely. Which only leaves. The Rules.

1. Your hero NEVER wears an item of clothing that has not been bespoke tailored at enormous expense.
2. Your hero NEVER drives a conveyance that can commonly be purchased on the open market.
3. Your hero drinks only Russian Imperial Vodka, or vintage champagne, or cocktails of the sort not given witty nomenclature in Magaluf
4. Your hero NEVER eats in a burger bar. Nowhere without a Michelin star.
5. Your hero NEVER goes to the local pub. He will belong to a gentleman’s club.
6. Your hero NEVER attends an association football match. Rugger is just allowable.
7. Your hero NEVER eats fish and chips, cheese and pickle sandwiches, crisps, pork scratchings, pickled onions, or anything ‘southern fried’
8. Your hero is unmarried, wealthy, and has a devoted housekeeper
9. Your hero is a stranger to the tenderer emotions
10. And finally. Your hero is a crackshot, expert skier, fast driver, and player of games of skill and chance.

Follow these rules my little country dumplings and your work will accrue that sophistication you so desperately need.

For now, attempt to learn the rules and apply them rigorously. For oneself moussaka and retsina call.

αντιο σας

They scrambled down the face of the dunes from the most inaccessible part of the beach. The boy was helping his female companion with such tender care that neither noticed me.

When they did realise they weren’t alone they averted their faces as though fearing recognition. I didn’t know them, although the trailing clouds of guilt offered a clue to what they had been about on the early morning beach.

I couldn’t help noticing the gleam of gold on the woman’s left hand. Nor was I too blind to see them climb into two cars and go their separate ways.

©️jj 2018

Shalomon came back to the everyday world, and looked at the paper under his hands. There was something, but what was it? It was complex, and full of symbols, and a bit frightening. He knew this was his last chance and he was afraid he might already have blown it. But what could he do?

He drew in a slow, deep breath and made an effort to calm his soaring pulse rate before raising one shaking hand.

Teacher left his desk and came down the narrow aisle, with his scaly sides brushing the desks as he walked.

He picked up the paper and looked at it for a long moment, exhaling a spurt of bluish smoke through the red craters of his nostrils. Then he took the paper in both of his ‘hands’ holding it away from his snout and breathing more smoke accompanied by tiny gouts of flame.

Shalomon scarcely dared to breathe. Would his drawing pass muster, or would it be rent in twain by contemptuous claws?

Teacher exhaled more smoke and flame, before turning a reptilian eye on the cringing boy.

“Satisfactory,” he grunted “you are deemed worthy.”

Shalomon bowed. Satisfactory. That was all one could ask.

Jane Jago