We never had a inquest in town before, but Ole Man Roper died in ‘suspicious circumstances’ so it had to be done. 

Once the jury was swore in, the coroner hustled proceedings along.

Doc Baker and one of the redneck deputies give evidence. Then the sober-faced jurymen showed hands and the coroner give the verdict.

Me and Pa and Theo went home to Ma.

“That ole man musta had powerful long arms.” Pa chuckled as he sat down to Ma’s chicken dumplings, “Seems like he suicided his own self through the back of the head with a ten gauge.”

©️jj 2018

A frog he would a’wooing go
Armed with his dating app
But so far all he has to show
Is two black eyes and a slap
Yet nothing daunted froggy pays
To join another site
He’s sure he’ll find a girl some day
Or maybe on some night
The frog he made a dinner date
With loving on his mind 
Sadly his new carnivorous mate
On cuisses de grenouilles dined

©️jj 2018

Tales From The Underground is available free 26-30 September. 'Tongueless Caverns' is a Fortune's Fools short story by E.M. Swift-Hook, one of the stories in this Inklings Press anthology.

At last.
It had been longer than he ever believed he could endure. Soraya had not endured it. She brought him food, that last day and sat watching him eat, the child asleep in the crib, sucking her thumb.
“She’ll need a bigger bed soon,” he said, knowing from her eyes that was not going to work. Normally, anything he said about the child would turn her mind from other things. But not this time. So he tried again. “And the new child will need that crib.”
“I don’t want to have another child,” she said, her face set into determination. “The result will be the same, we both know that and I don’t want to condemn another life to… to this.” She moved her hand to indicate the cavern.
“I am working on that,” he told her, knowing he probably sounded sharp, as sharp as his sister. “Without the kind of state-of-the-art tools we had in the lab, we can’t grow what we need, we will have to use live samples. And from the results of those tests, it can’t be done from our own offspring. Only a new mix, a new generation. Another child would give more chance of that.”
He could never forget the expression on her face in that moment. As if something grotesque and hideous had reared out of the ground and slid into his clothing.
“Live samples?” The horror and disgust she put into the two words made Yris afraid. “Our children are not live samples. What kind of monster are you?”
He struggled to understand her anger and shook his head wanting to clear it.
“You don’t understand. Without it, we are trapped here. All of us. Unless we can change the coding in my genes, wherever I go she will hunt me down and take me back and she will destroy you. Our grandchildren – maybe our great-grandchildren – can save us from that.”
“And how would it affect them to save us?” she demanded, her whole body trembling. In the crib, the child had woken, disturbed by its mother’s raised voice and sat up, clutching the side with pudgy fingers.
“I don’t know. That depends on how much I can harvest–”
“You would kill your own children to keep yourself alive?” The child started crying then, great gulping sobs, face made ugly by the process. It was pulling itself up on the side of the crib and wailing.
“Of course. I am the only one who can do this. I am needed so much more than they are. My knowledge, my experience, my–”

The child gave a loud cry, cutting across time.
“You ‘urt me, Gran’pa.” The dark eyes and black hair framed the soft-featured characterless face, which was set into a frown.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I did. But that is all for now. You can read your story.”
The test was quick to run and as he checked the results, matching mark for mark against his own DNA he felt as if the sun was rising within him. No, it was not perfect, but it was adequate. More than adequate. It was the key to unlocking his captivity. If he could harvest enough from the small source available.
With trembling hands, he unlocked the storage box which held the final dose of his life. He had been putting off taking it for the last decade, knowing it would serve no purpose until he had both the tools he needed to defeat his sister and the means to escape her long enough to make use of those tools. He took the final vial from its cradle, each precious drop refined from the stem cells of the embryo Soraya carried under her heart. He had lifted it from her as her heart was still beating, before he stilled that from its useless task and let his sanity roll deep into the wells that sank below the habitable levels of the caverns. He remembered the words she left on the small tablet gripped in her hand: I am sorry, but I can’t live like this any longer.
He used the intravenous clip and felt the life of his unborn infant flow into his blood.

E.M. Swift-Hook

To read the rest of this story and some more awesome cthonic tales by brilliant authors pick up your e-copy of Tales From The Underground today for free!

West wind was in a dangerous mood. 

Elkhorn and her dog crouched in a cave in the lee of a big hill, when the cries of a creature in peril called them forth. Without Cerberus’ nose they would have failed, but he scented the feral cat and her young in time for them to be carried to safety.

The storm screamed his frustration to the raggedy sky. 

Then passed.

Leaving silence in his wake.

The cat family walked away, pausing only for mother to swipe a sharp claw across Cerberus’ face. 

His resigned sigh echoed Elkhorn’s bewilderment at such gratitude.

©️ jj 2018

Father brought Alib to the Temple, where the boy sat cross-legged on the floor and watched a procession of sweet-faced young nuns making their obeisance to the Idol. As each passed she dropped something into a huge glass jar.

Alib felt the torment of the girls as they dropped their offerings into the shining vessel. Each gift made a high, sweet note as it passed the neck of the glass.

He touched Father’s sleeve.
“What do they offer?”
“Time, my son, each offers a moment of her life.”
“And why do they look so sad?”
“The pain of rending a moment from yourself.”
Alib nodded.
“May anyone make such an offering?”
“They may.”
“Then may I?”
“If you will. I cannot say no.”
Alib made his obeisance to his father and joined the line of worshippers.

He looked very small, but his back was straight, and his eyes were clear, and the priests let him pass. As he approached the bottle of time his lips could be seen to be moving as if in prayer.

Instead of dropping something into the bottle, Alib threw himself through the wide neck of the glass. For a nanosecond nothing happened, and then the vessel burst, filling The Temple with shards of glass and high keening music.

A voice from the very earth lamented. And then there was silence. Alib walked back to his father, with glass sparkling in his hair and the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes filling his eyes.

Jane Jago

End time came. Mother’s skies grew dark as the giver of life-giving light and warmth turned away. 

The creators of north, south, east and west saw that their child was dying and clasped their hands in sorrow. Each entity shed a single tear – and from that tear was born a pale rider to oversee the destruction of that which had been the fairest child of them all.

The riders breathed fire and toxic fumes, while their wild steeds were crafted of smoke and mirrors and wasted plastics.  

And the names of the riders were Lechery, Gluttony, Politics and Algorithm…

©️jane jago 2018

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

actuslly – (adverb) oozing artificial affection after the manner of actors and other artistic types

anaywa (noun) the indigenous people of the hooflungdung islands whose national sport is easily guessed

andenoid (noun) – a gland in the hypothalamus excreting the chatter hormone: over action of this gland is the direct cause of verbal diarrhoea

buhher (noun) – a person with an unhealthy interest in poo 

hig (noun) – small mammal of the genus typographicus which subsists entirely on eggcorns

installmetn (noun) – the nasal parts of an anteater

learb (verb) – to batter the ignorant into submission with the sheer weight of one’s intellect

madochism (somewhere between a noun and a verb) – pertaining to the action of persistently hitting one’s thumb with a hammer to distract oneself from a blinding headache

marjeting (noun) – decorative wall embellishments created when children throw their breakfast at the cat

mis recall (noun) – one of the lesser known pipes on the Great Organ of our Lady in the Cathedral of the Tiny Redeemer

repvious (adjective) – having scaly skin and an aversion to cold

stopopid (adjective) – having very hairy feet

suppoding (adjective) – of wounds excreting green slime smelling faintly of ouzo

tnaks (noun) – small, hard balls of mucus found in elderly handkerchiefs

toe nagging (verb) – when one treads hard on a partner’s toe at a social event to remind them not to mention something

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

Blenkinsop Blenkinsop was a draffkul, a winged lizard, although unlike more common dragonfolk his weapon was poison, not fire. He was also lonely. He considered his options. Should he insist on purity of lineage and leave this place? Or take up the comfort offered by a very pretty female dragon who lived in his valley? Their offspring would not be pure draffkul or pure dragon, but…

He stretched to his full height exposing his vulnerable white belly to the evening sun.

He never saw the arrow that took his life. And he never knew that his species died with him.

©️jj 2018

Twenty years ago, Colm Brady broke her heart. Tonight she expected to see his handsome face again.

The reunion was crowded, but he materialised at her side.

“It’s been too long, Finnoula.”

She gave him her serene smile.

His black eyes took in the maiden name on her tag, and the narrow platinum band on her finger.

He looked puzzled.

“Are you single then, or what?”

“Or what.”

He snorted. “What sort of a husband allows his wife to keep her maiden name and come to a shindig like this unaccompanied?”

“I don’t have a husband. I have a wife.”

©️jj 2018

Jane Jago’s strange story of a supernatural library is being presented by Tall Tale TV

It was very quiet in this area of the stacks, so quiet that if you listened carefully enough you could hear the books breathing. This portentous silence was broken by a rhythmic squeak as a trolley loaded with grimoires and  magical texts was pushed firmly towards the dark corner wherein such resided.

“It’s no good you being like that,” a determined voice said. “It doesn’t hurt being shelved. It’s not as if any of you are chained. Although if some of you keep misbehaving…” 

The rhythmic squeal stopped and the trolley rounded a corner, being pushed by a dumpy girl with a determined looking chin. As it neared the  shelves where arcane and magical volumes were shelved the squeal started up again. 

“Does somebody want to be shelved on 99b?”

Silence.

The dumpy girl began shelving volumes with practiced efficiency. She handled the books with care and respect, but would brook no resistance nor any other tricks. One of the grimoires snapped its covers at her and she slapped it firmly.

“Start that with me and I’ll chain you.”

If it was possible for a book to look abashed it did so, coming quietly to hand to be slipped into its accustomed place.

Find out what happens next at www.talltaletv.com