The sirens split the air, as the lights rent the sky asunder. People ran and dodged. Women screamed and children cried. One man stood watching the unforgiving bombs fall and the tears ran down his soot-streaked cheeks. His home was one of the blackened skeletons and his wife and his children were among the thousands who died in the fires that crisped the city.

He raised his hands and did the one thing he had sworn never to do in this life. He spoke a single word of power and the earth shook beneath his feet, before a chasm opened in the river and the waters boiled around it. A flaming hand was raised into the murky sky and it grasped the flying bombers one by one, dashing them to the ground to where they lay as charred and broken as the city they were menacing.

When the last bomber was dispatched to hellgates the chasm closed. But not before the head and shoulders of the river master reared up and the creature stared at the wizard with cold antipathy.

“There is,” it grated, “a price to be paid”.

The wizard nodded his head, just once.

“Paid willingly,” he whispered, before clutching his throat and dropping to the ground as dead as his wife and children.

©️ jane jago

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

Decison (noun) the tenth son

Eggieoie (noun) a person from Cornwall

Eso (noun) a pungent herb of the family pusillanimous that tastes and smells like very old mothballs

Flaiail (verb) to simultaneously pick one’s nose and play the mandolin 

Mustal (adjective) of alpacas and llamas – those few hours before a female comes into season when all the males trail round behind her dribbling

Ploker (noun) one who constantly grasps his genitalia whilst in conversation with the opposite sex

Puch (verb) ride a very old moped slowly and with a wobbly trajectory

Soudned (adverb) of sleeping. Being so fast asleep that one can only be awoken with the aid of the Dagenham Girl Pipers

Thethe (noun) small purple-furred marsupial that subsists entirely on cups of tea and ginger biscuits

Udnerstade (verb) to sit under a lactating cow with one’s mouth open

Vumbole (noun) the sticky mess left after hawking up a swallowed fly

Weord (noun) of novelists seeking a synonym that doesn’t exist

Wirry (verb) to chew on something with one’s back teeth in the manner of a masticating sheep

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

She let the slave girl brush out her hair so it lay like a shimmering black veil down her back and blinked as the over-strong perfumed oils caught in her nostrils. The king was ageing and his sense of smell fading. Alas, little else of his senses did so.

She took the walk from her cloistered seraglio to his bedchamber with the same heavy sense of foreboding that she carried with her every night. She did not need the sly, pitying looks from the other women – each waiting her turn for the same honour. But as long as she still lived, they were safe.

She reached the doors of the bedchamber and the two armoured men who guarded them stepped aside and pushed them open so she could go in – alone. The sound of the huge doors as they closed behind her was soft compared to the thumping of her heart. She must please her lord and master.

As always she began with a dance. Her accompaniment, the tiny finger cymbals she wore. She moved her body in the swaying motions of the dance and wove her way to finish standing beside the canopied bed, it’s cloth of gold coverlet cast casually aside.

By day the king at least looked regal, clad in fine robes and with a jewelled crown lightly set on his greying hair. But naked he looked simply ugly and she shuddered at the thought of his hands touching her. He hated women as much as he desired them.

Now he looked at her with hungry, expectant eyes and she made herself climb onto the bed to lie beside him, fighting the revulsion and fear, forcing a smile on to her face. Tonight would be worse than usual because she had not managed to prepare herself fully.

“Where did we get to?” he asked, his voice low with anticipation.

She drew a quick breath.

“My Lord I – ”

“No excuses – you know what I want.” This time there was a bite of anger and the dark brooding look the courtiers knew so well to fear.

She swallowed and made herself begin.

“Well, the djinn was about to kill the fisherman when…”

With half her mind she told the tale, the other half rapidly inventing another for when this one was finished, her life depending on it. But how long she could keep inventing these cliffhanger stories to please a madman, Scheherazade did not know.

E.M. Swift-Hook

From The Midsummer Wife by Jacqueline Church Simonds

“It never occurred to me until this moment that there were any other families…Cousin,” he said with his lips curled up at the corners.

Ava laughed. No one told me he has a sense of humor! Maybe this will turn out all right, after all. “We’re related so far back, you probably have more genetic history in common with your chef than me.”

“May I ask the sire your branch comes from?”

“Not the sire,” she said. “I’m descended from Anya’s daughter, Arianrhod.”

He looked somewhat nonplused. “And the House of Arianrhod is commanded to do…what?”

“Fulfill Mother Anya’s vision for her line―to see the descendant of King Arthur return, served by the descendant of Merlin’s wisdom.”

He swallowed hard.

Ava had read that outside of the Sacred Grotto, no one in the families was permitted to speak those words aloud. “Almost fifteen hundred years ago, Anya, a priestess and healer of the Rus, fell in love with both Merlin and King Arthur, and eventually had sons by both. You, Duke Drunemeton, are the descendant of Merlin. The Earl of Steadbye, whom I hope to meet soon, is the descendant of King Arthur.”

He gasped. “How do you—?”

Ava rushed on, “Duke Drunemeton, these are The Days Foretold. As was written in the books you guard, this in the hour ‘when the King and Merlin shall come again and, with the Oathstone, heal the Land and its People.’ And as you are well aware, the ‘Once and Future King,’ as the author T. H. White called him, is in waiting nearby. All we need do now is locate the Oathstone. Then we can help Britain heal and regain its place in the world.”

The duke stood up slowly and walked like a mechanical toy around the desk. He stood over her, radiating both fear and outrage. “How? You can’t possibly…” He was struggling to steady himself.

Have I gone too far, too fast?

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Ava Cerdwen—Arianrhod’s heir.”

Ava decided a strategic retreat was in order. She stood up and drew her purse strap over her shoulder—the universal gesture that the interview was over. “I can see you need time to consider what I’ve said. My driver will stop back here tonight in case you want to reach me. I won’t be far. We’ll speak again when you’ve had time to let this sink in. I know it’s a shock, keeping a secret for so very, very long, then discovering others know, too.”

She rested her fingers gently on his arm, which was swathed in an expensive camel hair jacket. There was a momentary spark, as if she had just run across the thick Aubusson carpet in slippers before she put her hand there. It was unexpected, but also another hopeful sign.

He paled, and she could feel him tremble.

“Don’t let fear overwhelm you. We must act as we’ve been trained to do since birth—and soon.” She turned and walked out of the office.

Ava could feel his raw emotions behind her. He was paralyzed with fear and confusion.

Not good.

Not good at all.

She went out of the house, emotions zinging between terror and…well, not triumph. But ever so slightly hopeful she had succeeded in starting the critical dialogue.

She was amused all over again at the car her “chauffeur” chose―a black 1930s Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. Who rides around in such a thing?

Well, me, I guess.

The duke appeared in the rainy forecourt. His eyes were a bit wild. “Ava!” he shouted. The duke seemed to realize he was attracting attention from the pair of sodden gardeners nearby. Stepping closer to the Rolls, he whispered, “How do I know I can trust you?”

Smiling confidently at him, she slid into the car. It started up immediately. She said to his mind:

Because we are family.

A bite of... Jacqueline Church Simonds 

Q1: Which book inspired you to begin writing?

The book that inspired me to read, write, and generally think books are awesomesausage was The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. It was the first book that made me cry and realize that other people were suffering the same sorts of emotions I was.
The 3 sci-fi books that influenced me: The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury (my first sci-fi), Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein, and Dune by Frank Herbert.
The books that most influenced the series I’m writing—Heirs to Camelot: The Once and Future King by T.H. White, The Merlin Trilogy by Mary Stewart, and Mists of Avalon by Marion Bradley Zimmer.

Question 2: What do you like most about your own books?

That they are based on Arthurian legend, but head off in a different direction.
The Midsummer Wife (released on Midsummer Day 2018) is the set of conclusions set forth by the lover of King Arthur and Merlin 1460 years before (The Healer of Camelot—the prequel to the series—is due out in August). There are things that interest me like: what do you owe to the relationships you had in a previous life, how do you cope with deep anxiety issues, and does evil always win?
The Solstice Bride (Book 2, which should be out in 2019) deals with overcoming evil, selfishness over self-motivation, and learning to trust yourself*.
Mistress of the Rose Moon (Book 3, which should be out Midsummer Day 2019) deals with the repercussions of reincarnation, evil, duty, the Buddhist idea of Right Action, a quest for the Holy Grail*, and a multiverse war.
*I really need to shout-out to the Sci-Fi Roundtable folks who helped me with issues that confronted me as both Book 2 & 3 tried to thwart me. That collegial group of writers pitched in with thoughts and considered points of view that really got me over the hump!

Question 3: Although all books say that all the characters in the book aren’t real or related, but are they really all fictional and made up?

One part of The Midsummer Wife came sort of true-ish in an unexpected way. I wrote the heir/reincarnated soul of King Arthur as biracial (British-Zimbabwean) about 3 years ago. My early readers said things like, “Well, THAT’S never going to happen. And then, shazam, Meghan Markle marries Prince Harry, so now it all looks quite plausible.
Ava Cerdwen, the MC, has major anxiety-disorder problems. I have had panic attacks since I was maybe 5 or 6. My niece has them so badly she could not finish school. Ava’s meltdown mid-book is way beyond anything I’ve ever had… and set me off with near panic-attacks for weeks after I wrote it.

Jacqueline Church Simonds is an author and publishing consultant. Her first published book was Captain Mary, Buccaneer, a historical adventure novel loosely based on the real pirate women Ann Bonney and Mary Reade. 
Simonds has done the usual authorly wanderings in life: she was a lady’s companion, a sound and lights roadie for a small Southern rock band, and managed an antiques shop. She’s sold everything from computers to 1950s pulp magazines to towels and baby clothes. The one constant in her life is a love of words, books and writing. She sold some short stories and poetry early, but didn’t pursue it until later in life.
She has had a life-long love of King Arthur and was always drawn to novels about that great hero. Finally, she sat down and wrote stories from her own point of view.
She lives in Reno, Nevada with her husband and beagle.

THE MIDSUMMER WIFE is available exclusively on Amazon as a Kindle or paperback. and you can follow Jacquelin on her blog, Facebook or Twitter.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, Anna and Sam visited the register office, filled in the necessary forms, and confirmed their wedding date. Sam headed to work and Anna and Bonnie did some shopping, then went home. It was just about lunchtime when Anna’s phone rang. It was Sam.
“Hello love. What gives?”
“I had a very short list today, so I was going to be home nice and early. However. The bloody car has died on me. The garage will come and tow it in, but I’m stuck. You wouldn’t be an angel and come fetch me would you?”
“Yes, of course I will. Be about half an hour.”
“Thanks love. I’ll be by the main entrance.”
“See you then.”

Anna loaded Bonnie into the car and they set out for Cheltenham. They drew into the hospital car park and joined a line of slow-moving traffic heading for the drop-off and pick -up point beside the main entrance. Bonnie was the first to spot Sam, she woofed gently and pointed with her nose, to where Sam was in conversation with a very thin woman in a sharply tailored suit. He spotted them, raised a hand, made his farewells quickly, and sprinted over to the car. He threw his bag in the boot then jumped into the passenger seat.
“That woman gives me the creeps,” he said.
“Who is she?”
“She represents a consortium which uses the private wing of the hospital. She’s always after me to do work for them. Maybe I’m not rude enough when I refuse. Anyway the latest thing is a weight loss clinic. And I don’t do bariatric surgery, so at least today was just social.”
Just at that point they drew level with the women who coyly flapped a hand at the vehicle.
“Well fuck me” Anna said. “What’s she up to?”
“I just told you.”
“Maybe. But she’s what Jim would call a face, so it’s unlikely to be so simple.”
“What? You’re not making any sense…”
“No. Probably not. I’ll explain better when we get home.”
“Okeydoke.”

They drove home in silence, and it seemed to Sam that Anna was troubled. Once they were indoors, he put his arms around her.
“What, love?”
“Oh Sam. It’s that woman. She’s trouble.”
“Let’s have a glass of wine and you can tell me all about it.”
“That would be good, but I think I have to phone Jim first.”
“You do what you think is right. I’ll go change my clothes, then open a bottle.”

Anna pulled out her phone and looked at it for a long moment before making her call. Jim answered almost at once.
“What’s up toots?”
“I just saw an old friend.”
“Who?”
“Sid the Snake’s lovely wife.”
“Where?”
“Cheltenham hospital. Sam says she represents the consortium that uses the private wing.”
“Oh. Right. I’ll look into it. Keep your man on tap in case I need somebody to translate doctor.”

Anna ended the call and sat at the table looking at her own hands with a somewhat bitter twist to her mouth. Sam came into the room with a glass in either hand. He gave her one and she took a sip.
“That’s delicious, but it’s not the wine I expected.”
“True. But you looked to me like you needed a restorative. In my experience there’s very little as restorative as a whisky mac.”
“What’s in it?”
“Laphroag and Crabbies ginger wine. And some folks would call it a waste of single malt. But…”
“But indeed. It is exceedingly restorative. And you are right, l did need restoring. That woman who gives you the creeps is a very bad lot. She is married to a hacker known as Sid the Snake and is normally to be found right at the leading edge of whatever he is perpetrating. She’s vicious, unprincipled, and just basically a wrong ‘un. I found myself not liking her talking to you. I’m not a jealous person, so it wasn’t that. No. It’s simple. She’s bad and I don’t want bad near you.”
“Oh Anna. You are soft on me aren’t you?”
“Am.”
“Never mind. I’m soft on you too,” he smiled and leaned in for a kiss. “So. What happens now?”
“With reference to what?”
“You know perfectly well what.’
“Well. Jim is looking into it. Illegally no doubt, but he’s almost as talented a hacker as me so nobody will see him ferreting around. If he finds anything we’ll hear, especially as he doesn’t speak doctor.”
“It’s just as well I speak it fluently then.”
Anna laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. On so many levels.”
As Sam opened his mouth to riposte, her phone rang. She put it on speaker, but motioned Sam to keep silent.
“What gives Jim?”
“Buggered if I know. But whatever it is they have gone to some considerable trouble to hide it. We need your man. I’ll send stuff to your laptop now. Can you call me if he manages to make any sense of any of it?”
“Can do.”
Jim rung off, and Anna finished her drink before looking at Sam.
“You game?”
“Yes. Of course. By my reckoning I have to be, as whatever it is is likely to be to the detriment of sick people. I didn’t become a doctor in order to turn my back on that sort of stuff. So let’s look at whatever Jim has unearthed together.”
“If you are sure. I’ll bring my laptop out here shall I?”
“Yes. I’ll get us some coffee.”

Jane Jago

Can you smell the rain?
Lifting the dust from the street
Damping the parched pavements
And bouncing over your feet
Can you hear the rain?
Dancing a tango on the roof
Drops so fat they bounce and split
Tapping like tap-dancing hoofs
Can you feel the rain?
Blessing the thirsty earth
Flowers lift their wan little faces
Drinking their own rebirth
Can you smell the rain?
Thick and soft and sweet
The autumn rain that washed the land
And polished the shining streets

© jane jago 2017

From Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook

Jazatar Baldrik sat at a table beside the cairn of stones in the Last Hope, his back against the solid rock wall, a plate of cut fruit on the table in front of him, watching the doorway and thinking about trust.
Hell’s Breath had been named by some unknown explorer, who Jaz thought must have been a real joker. Perhaps wanting to prove they somehow survived the freezing surface conditions and the spectacular plumes of burning gases released as the rock decayed, that first visitor left his or her anonymous mark in the form of a small cairn of stones. It got kept, like some historical monument, behind protective screening in the bar of The Last Hope.
The Hope happened to be the best hotel on Hell’s Breath, which didn’t mean so much anymore as it also happened to be the one hotel still left open on Hell’s Breath. Built, like much of the settlement, with most all of its rooms in and under the rock.
It was hard to believe today, but beneath the small complex of geodesic domes which trapped the thin atmosphere and allowed it to be conditioned, enriched and made breathable, there had once been a wealthy and thriving community.
Jaz read a brief history on the public link saying how Hell’s Breath made its name as a stop-over on the first long-haul treks from Central to the Middle Worlds, way back in the days when that still took years. It had, according to the same source, been in its time, a naval base, a luxury resort and a ‘bohemian escape for the literati’, whatever that meant. But history long since passed it by and FTL changed it from prime location to pointless backwater.
Nowadays it survived as a tourist destination and the final resort for those like Jaz himself, who wanted to go somewhere other than where they came from and weren’t too bothered where that might be. Little more than a lump of rock, twirling through space, with a civilian port facility used by the most shady and least wealthy of the freetraders who needed a no-questions-asked fix or conversion done. As a place to hide it suited Jaz: close enough to civilisation to allow him to keep tabs on events and far enough out of the minds of civilised people to let him keep a low profile.
He had known Vel at the Hope since his earliest mercenary days and she hadn’t even blinked when he showed up, penniless and exhausted, fifteen years – more – after he last walked out of her bar. A clean up, sleep and meal later, though it had been different.
“Word has it you settled down in the ‘City years back. I’d not expected to see you around here again.”
Jaz, still nursing a pounding headache he gained from travelling the previous few days in the poorly pressurised cargo store of a ship with no proper passenger accommodation, didn’t reply. But, as he suspected that silence wouldn’t be a problem for Vel.
“So what happened, presh? She throw you out on your useless, no-good backside? Wake up to the fact she could do a whole lot better for herself? Or are you just running from a little ‘misunderstanding’ with the authorities?”
“All the above,” Jaz admitted, his voice glum and Vel’s face softened as he knew it would.
“I don’t do charity here, Jaz.”
“I know. I’ll get work. Trust me”
She gave him a thin smile, marred by the scar pulling down though her left cheek and eating into the corner of her mouth. Her hand came out in a brief gesture and touched his, as it curled around his drink.
“I know you will, presh.”
The promise meant taking whatever he got offered and Jaz found himself running crates with a small time smuggling outfit. So small-time, the ship, the best part of which belonged to Vel’s cousin, did smuggling on a very part-time basis, when it wasn’t being hired out to the occasional tourist who came to Hell’s Breath on a Pioneer Trail Adventure. They all wanted to gawp at the famous flares, which were best viewed from low orbit.
The smuggling runs were not frequent and always without incident. Jaz sometimes wondered why Vel’s cousin even bothered to hire him as muscle. The nearest he came to needing to use violence happened one time when a small group of wiped out tourists stumbled into the dock just as the two of them were unloading a cargo, demanding a sight-seeing trip out and refusing to leave until Jaz persuaded them to come back the next day.
In between runs, he lent a hand with the maintenance of the aging ship, took tourists out to see the flares, helped out in the Hope, battled with the accounts and taught Vel’s cousin’s little girl how to pull scary faces.
In his free time he worked out or sat at a table in the bar of the Last Hope, accessing the news or entertainment channels through Vel’s remote link and wondering if it would ever be safe for him to return to the ‘City. He often thought about sending a secure message to Shame Cullen to see if there was any word on how the land lay, But that would have meant betraying his location and he knew from experience no matter how secure a secure link was supposed to be, someone could always unsecure it. And right now, he liked no one knew where he had gone. It made him safe from the CSF and whoever else in the ‘City might have felt the galaxy would be a better place without him being a part of it.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Best sung loudly to the tune of 'Clementine'

There’s a w****r, in a tanker
See him driving like a prat
Through the village, like a pillock
And he wears a silly hat

If I catch him, I will smack him
For he scratched my bloody car
I will shout him, and I’ll clout him
Send him crying to his ma.

Mister w****r, take your tanker
Never come this way again
Or we’ll grab you, make you blab you
Great big hairy stupid pain

©️jj 2018

Good morrow my little scholars.

It is your beloved pedagogue.  Yes, one is here, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, creator of that seminal work of epic science fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and all-round genius. One lifts one’s head from contemplation of the sheer beauty that is one’s own sun-bronzed torso merely in order to assist one’s spiritual children in their search for narratorial clarity and shine. Lazing as one does today with one’s head in the shade and one’s body soaking up Helios’ health-giving rays always makes one consider the immutable rules of grammar. And with a muted ‘pfft’ of disgust one seeks to debunk one such piece of iconic mythology…

But why then, one hears a voice from the back of the class speak up, are you troubling to teach us about these grammar rules at all? Detention on the naughty step for backchat. If one is to write with the flow and perfection of the greats, one needs to know the expected rules – and learn which one must observe and which may be discarded at will, oh foolish neophyte!

Now, read and learn.

How to Write Right – Lesson 4. The Write Infinite Splits

Grammar has about as many rules as there are stars in the gleaming firmament. And most of those rules were put there by grumpy old men in long dresses with unkempt beards. Men whose sole function was, it often appears, the rendering of language impenetrable and the making of writing the blandest and least appetising porridge imaginable.

Let us consider an example. The split infinitive.
You don’t know what an infinitive is?
Very well.
 Permits oneself a small sigh of utter weariness.
Those who are unaware of what constitutes an infinitive can just remove themselves to the naughty step immediately, taking with them their copy of ‘Practical English Usage’ and studying same until they can at least reliably identify the parts of speech.
The rest of you can jolly well stop flicking ink pellets at Metheringham Minor and pay attention or one will be amongst you armed with malacca. Better…

Hands up those of you who are ‘Trekites’, as we cognoscenti in the science-fiction world call fans of ‘Star Trek’. No. Do not disagree with your master, as his patience for such things is thin. However, you are all of you familiar with an iconic infinitive split: ‘to boldly go’
Wonders idly if there is such a thing as a grammarian Trekkian or if that might be a truly alien race.
Turns attention back to bewildered class.
The infinitive of the verb is – to go. The word boldly inserted between to and go splits the infinitive.
Not allowed.
In order to achieve strict grammatical correctitude, Captain Kirk and his chums should have been adjured to go boldly, which, in one’s exquisitely tasteful estimation has not nearly the same impact. And perhaps even feels as if the meaning is not quite the same.

Consider the following
To walk quietly
To quietly walk

In theory, these mean the same. But do they conjure in the inner theatre of your mind’s eye the same result? Most certainly not! Knowing the mode in which the action is taken helps prepare the mind to add that action upon the screen of that inner theatre more perfectly than if the action is known before how it is being performed. Simple.

Think on this as you write: ‘To split, or not to split. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged grammar Stasi…’

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to cleverly write, to eagerly learn, and to humbly accept.

Nanu-Nanu.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans Facebook Group

London, 2020, an August night so hot the roads are soft underfoot and even the feral dogs are staying at home. The decoy stalks the meanest streets, wearing thigh-high needle-heeled boots and a whitish trenchcoat. The puddles underfoot are dirty and scummed with fuel oil, as she steps in them her feet fracture the rainbow reflections into millions of shards of light.

Above her, Jack looks down and his mouth spreads into a rictus grin.
“Such a naughty girl,” he mouths as his hand fidgets with the ten-inch blade he is holding. “Just a little closer. Please.”

The woman keeps on coming and the coat swings open exposing her bare flesh to his heated gaze. For a moment he wonders that she cannot feel his glance, but soon loses interest in that thought as the prostitute, for that is what she must be, steps into the pool of sulphurous light under his streetlamp.

He jumps, meaning to land on her back and bear her to the ground, but he misjudges his leap and lands beside her. She turns and he aims a slash at her unprotected throat. Only she isn’t there. She’s behind him.
“You are under arrest on suspicion…”
Before she can get out another word he leaps screaming wordlessly.

A straight-arm jab to the larynx kills him instantly.

The golem removes its mask and wig and its red eyes glow briefly before it reports.
“Suspect apprehended. Unfortunately he didn’t come quietly.”

© jane jago 2017