You are old so you shouldn’t do that

You should only like knitting.

And cats.

It shouldn’t be you

With a brand-new tattoo

Making love on an old yoga mat

© jane jago 2017 *

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, siting 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

When considering physical pleasure
There are very few things you can measure
Neither length, sir, nor girth
Is the measure of worth
It’s the way that you use them, my treasure

© jane jago 2017

Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy!

Afterwards, Rod admitted to Jim that the journey from Glasgow to Castle Ellan seemed like the longest hour of his life. He sat staring into the middle distance, while Sam checked on the contents of the two back packs the man in the jumpsuit placed on the ground at his feet.

“Good enough,” he said. “Now. We need to set up a safe bed. He may still be sleepy. So what we need is somewhere he can be safe while being cuddled. That will be Rod’s job. I’ll need to be able to get to the other side of the kid to monitor him.”

Jumpsuit man looked at him soberly.

“You really are worried aren’t you.”

“I am. And I hope I’m over reacting. But if they’ve had the poor little sod drugged for a day and a half without proper care, he could be getting to the stage where he isn’t breathing easily. Or. Well never mind. Just take it from me that I’m worried.”

“Right. Now I’m worried too. If we pull up those three seats over there that’s where the casualty station is. We can put an inflatable mattress in their place, and anchor it down. We’ve got some big soft duvet sleeping bags. Will that do?”

“Yes. Good enough. I can get around it. Can you get an oxygen line there if necessary?”

“Can do. Is there anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Right. I’ll make it happen.”

Four big men came forwards removed the seats, then inflated and tied down a mattress, which they padded with three big soft, downy sleeping bags. Then they saluted Sam and went back to their own seats.

“Almost there,” the pilot’s voice came through Sam’s headphones. “ETA five minutes.”

Then the radio guy came through.

“The kid is moving a bit more now. Could be waking up.”

Sam prodded Rod’s arm.

“If your nephew is starting to wake up, you need to be with me. And we have to get to him fast, before they either frighten him or give him another shot of whatever they’ve drugged him with. I don’t want either thing to happen. So…”

Rod dragged himself back from wherever he had been. “Right. I’ve got the plans of the castle on this tablet, and Bill is just here. We reckon upstairs. We go in by this door, and God help anyone who gets in our way. Who is in our party?”

Six brawny men stood up.

“C’mere and fix the plan in your minds. No need to be polite on the way in.”

The men nodded soberly.

“Boomer boys, how long do you need to set your charges?”

“Fifteen minutes. Then we have twenty minutes to get the fuck out of there before she goes up.”

“Right. So. You wait here until we get Bill back to the chopper. Then you go in.”

“You’re on.”

At that moment, the helicopter touched down gently. The doors opened immediately and Sam found himself running alongside Rod and a group of brawny jumpsuit-clad men. They reached a side door, and Rod kicked it open just as a pair of men were trying to close and lock it.

“Upstairs. On the left.”

One of their men stopped to guard the door, while the rest of them pounded up the stairs. The voice in Sam’s ear told him they were nearing the locator. He found himself at the front of the crowd and booted open the door at the head of the stairs. A woman was bending over the figure of a child with  hypodermic syringe in her hand. Sam kicked her. Hard. He felt bones break. She fell down screaming and one of the men in Sam’s wake punched her scientifically on the corner of the jaw. Sam hit the ground at the side of the bed.

“Rod. Get here and talk to William please. I need you to try and wake him up.”

“Billy. Wake up little man. It’s uncle Rod.”

The small boy’s voice was a thread of sound.

“Uncle Rod. Where are you?”

Rod dropped to his knees beside Sam.

“I’m here. Me and my mates have got you safe now. This is doctor Sam. He wants to have a look at you. Is that OK?”

“Yes. Thirsty.”

Sam took a bottle of water from his pack and gently helped William to sit up.

“Drink,” he said as he held the bottle to the lad’s lips. “Gently, little man. There’s plenty. Can I listen to your chest now?”

William nodded.

“Hold him against you Rod.”

Sam put a stethoscope to William’s chest.

“Not bad,” he said. “I’ll just give him a whiff of oxygen. It’ll help. Bill, will you be scared if I put a mask on your face for a minute? It’ll help you breathe better.”

“I won’t be scared,” the child whispered, and Sam put the mask over his mouth and nose.

“Breathe deeply. It will make you feel better.”

“Okay. Let’s get him into the chopper. I’ll carry him. The rest of you will probably need to guard us.”

Rod clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Right. Run. We have your back.”

Sam scooped up child and oxygen cylinder.

“Okay Bill, we’re gonna run. Is that OK? I won’t drop you.”

William nodded, and Sam set off down the stairs as fast as he could safely go. Out of the door they went, and across the grass to the waiting helicopter. Sam ran as fast as he could, silently thanking God for all the hours he spent in the gym. As he reached the chopper, the door opened and he handed his burden into the arms of one of the waiting crewmen. He jumped into the machine, hearing gunfire behind him and felt something sting his shoulder.

“Bastards,” he said. “Anybody else hit?”

“Yeah. One.” Rod said.

“Bad?”

“No. Shoulder. Flesh wound.”

“Okay. I’ll have a look after we’ve settled Bill. You come sit with him and hold him so he’s sitting up. And chat to him. I don’t want him going back to sleep yet.”

“Right. I will. But what about you? Are you hit?”

“Sort of. Just a scrape across the biceps. I’ll spray it and shove a plaster on it.”

He suited action to words, before turning his gaze towards the boss of the jumpsuit men.

“Is there any problem with them shooting at the chopper?”

“Nah. It’s armoured. Even the glass. And they don’t seem to have any serious shooters. Mostly sawn offs, a couple of two-twos and a few handguns.”

“Good. I’ll look at your bloke’s shoulder as soon as. Can you get him out of his jumpsuit?”

“Will do.”

Sam turned his attention to the child in Rod’s lap. He grinned down at him and carefully removed the oxygen mask.

“How you doing Billy Boy?”

“I feel awfully sick.”

“I can give you an injection to stop that.”

He saw William’s involuntarily wince.

“What is it little man? Did they hurt you when they injected you with their drugs?”

“Yes. They hurt me a lot.”

Sam stroked his head.

“Well we won’t give you an injection then. I have some pills, though they won’t work quite as well.”

William studied his face for a moment.

“Will you hurt me if you give me an injection?”

“No. I promise I won’t.”

The little boy held his sleeve.

“Then you can give me a shot. I feel so very sick.”

“That’s a boy.”

Sam took a local anaesthetic spray from his bag and lifted the sleeve of William’s T-shirt. What he saw there made him tighten his mouth.

“That arm looks a bit sore. Is the other one the same?”

“Yes.”

Rod hugged the small figure very tightly and his face was stony. Sam managed a grin for William.

“Leg then?’

William nodded and Sam sprayed the small thigh liberally. Then he prepared the anti-nausea shot. Before William had a chance to flinch the injection was done.

The little boy was jubilant.

“I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Good. So will you trust me enough to let me give you a shot of antibiotics? You are very cold and you might have picked up a bug.”

“Yes. You won’t hurt me.”

Sam swallowed around a big lump in his throat then gave his small patient a shot of penicillin.

“Can somebody open my bag?” he said. “There’s a red jumper in the top, and I need it.”

A hand passed him the soft wool and he pulled it over William’s head.

“Arms through. It’s much too big but it will help to warm you. And now, stick your legs inside this sleeping bag. Better?”

William actually managed a little giggle before rubbing his face in the softness of the sweater.

“It smells like my Daddy and it’s as soft as clouds. Can I go sleep now?”

“You can. Cuddle into uncle Rod and keep nice and snuggly.”

William turned into his uncle’s huge chest and gave a small sigh before falling asleep.

“Sam,” Rod said “this jumper is cashmere.”

“And? That child is cold. No contest. Now I’m going to look this gunshot wound before the boomer boys get back.”

Jane Jago

It didn’t look like a troll at first. But since this is San Francisco, all sorts of varieties of the weird, the wild, the wonderful and the far-from-wonderful can be found here, and I can assure you that I’ve seen plenty of city folk who could pass for troll. Well, ok…troll-ish; sure, they didn’t have the tusks or the olive-green knobby skin, but they certainly had the personality, the facial hair and the size, and some of them were men. This one…troll, absolutely sure.

I had just left a bar I frequented, the Summersault, and was heading towards the corner where Polk intersects with Eddy, when this long arm reached out of an alley and dragged me into the shadows.

Trolls have two outstanding weaknesses—sunlight and magic. Unfortunately, I don’t usually carry a copy of the compendium de migkal with me into bars. As for sunlight, there is a reason why trolls love the city by the bay; a nice thick layer of high fog tends to cut sunlight down to a tolerable level, especially if you’re a troll.

With strength capable of ripping a solid-core door right off its hinges, the troll heaved me further into the alley.

I tried to roll as I hit, but it’s kind of hard to do that when you’re bouncing off an old rusty dumpster.

It’s funny how the mind works in times of stress. Mine decided to go for gallows humor, the phrase, that’s going to leave a mark, popped into my head as I slammed into the pavement.

Trolls, unlike vampires, are thankfully slow even if they are, excuse the pun, monstrously strong. Any human with even a bit of coordination can dodge a troll’s attack.

That is, if that human wasn’t covered in brand new bumps, bruises and contusions. I think I sensed, more than anything else, the descending foot and rolled out of the way just in time. The troll’s heel thudded into the blacktop and continued on for several inches. I got lucky and the foot got stuck.

Unlike concrete, blacktop is flexible and under pressure it can become gooey. The troll being trapped gave me the time I needed to collect my thoughts and scrabble out of range.

With a final grunting heave the troll pulled its foot free, along with a good-sized chunk of blacktop, but by that time I was at the alley mouth and accelerating. Sure, there was a danger of it chasing after me, but its best run was my jogging speed. And then there were the pedestrians. San Francisco’s sidewalks almost always have crowds during the day, and Trolls don’t do crowds. Lucky me.

My name is Tony Mandolin and up until last year I was an ordinary, run of the mill private investigator with a penchant for being able to find things for my clients. I have no super powers, extrasensory perception, magic or special fighting ability. What I do have is a very annoying stubborn streak and a tendency to cheat when backed into a corner. Nothing stops an aggressor faster than a quick knee to the tender moments. I don’t hit girls.

Some people would consider me tall, but on the not too odd occasion my 6’3″ has looked pretty puny in comparison to the other guy…like a certain troll for example. In my younger days I was tending toward blonde with a reddish beard, when I forgot to shave. Now the temples are turning gray, the beard is more white than red and the eyes have an ever growing set of carry-on’s. I do keep in shape, but it takes more these days to get the same result. The ladies don’t run screaming when they see me, but the current crop of Tom Sellecks are in no danger.

About a year ago I was thrust into a world I had no idea existed. According to a certain alcoholic pixie I know, my human eyes were opened when I decided to take on a case that eventually involved a vampire with ties to the police commissioner’s office. How my eyes were opened is still unclear, but now I can see the world of faerie. That’s right; the world of the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson and all the other writers of bedtime stories intended to give little boys and girls bad dreams.

Faeries aren’t nice. In fact, in most cases they aren’t even cordial. Most of them tend to think of humanity as an irritant at best and a food source at worst. Some, such as my booze-loving pixie, can be bargained with, as long as you understand that the penalties for violating the terms of a faerie contract are far more severe than those imposed by, say, the IRS. At least the government doesn’t turn you inside out to think about how badly you screwed up.

The other thing about faeries is that they can’t lie, but that just means they have had millennia to figure out ways of twisting the truth. They make used car salesmen, stock brokers and lawyers look like rank amateurs.  That makes bargaining with them about as safe as step dancing on quicksand.

The one good thing about the vampire case was it earned me enough green to buy myself a house. It was no mansion, but it was certainly better than a third floor walk-up overlooking an alley. Not to mention that, being paid off and all, the monthly breakdown of taxes made my house a lot cheaper than rent. I didn’t have a Pacific Heights address by any means, but my front porch did look out on a nice neighborhood park right across the street and it even came with a garage, a rarity in the city. Now all I needed was enough scratch to afford a car and some driving lessons.

I still kept my office. There was a nice comfortable feeling about having a spot in one of the seedier parts of the city with a glass door that had my name on it. It felt like tradition, and ever since last year, for me, tradition had become rather important.

I’d also picked up a partner, of sorts. One Franklin Amadeus Jackson, Frankie to everyone else except the police and a certain billionaire and crime lord we’d helped out.

Frankie, besides being a black man, was the size of one of your average draft horses, incredibly strong and a raging cross-dressing diva…when the mood took him. Imagine a Cher impersonator wearing size 16 pumps and you get the picture.

Ever since the vampire case, Frankie had taken to dressing more like Sam Spade rather than Samantha. I have to say, his Bogart was a better impersonation than his Shatner.

Even though I was able to see all the assorted dwellers in the world of faerie, that didn’t mean I had an automatic ticket to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It does exist, you know, but that gold belongs to the Leprechauns, and Leps tend to get rather possessive about their gilt. You know that series of horror movies about a certain Irish fae? They are closer to the truth than is comfortable.

The last big case I’d had brought in enough of a payday to buy the house, but it had also been the last big payday. It seems the police commissioner never forgave me for being partially responsible for the capture of her meal ticket, even if that meal ticket happened to be an electrolyte-sucking vampire responsible for the deaths of literally hundreds of innocent humans. Since then the lovely Ms. Commissioner had managed to scare off every whale in the ocean. Sure, I still got the occasional cheating husband/wife case, and finding lost poodles kept the utilities paid, but I was getting damned tired of subsisting on pot noodles and coffee.

Ex-police Lieutenant Rorche, a mustachioed, blonde, slightly overweight mass of corruption who had tried to kill me…twice… continued to cool his heels in an orange jumpsuit while reflecting on his various sins. I was almost becoming used to the idea of not having to look over my shoulder. But…Rorche wasn’t the reason for my problem with the commissioner. Neither were Randal Driver, the wealthiest man in the state, nor Antonio Luccesi, the top crime boss in the city, even though they were mostly responsible for forcing the commissioner to back off when she tried to put a wedge in the investigation I had involving her favorite vampire. Driver’s twin daughters were killed by the vampire and, through no little effort on the part of yours truly said vampire was delivered into Mr. Driver’s loving hands. However, the world of politics being what it is, my two favorite whales were occupied with protecting their own assets; pun intended.

So, Tony Mandolin, private eye with one foot into the world of faerie, is forced to pay his bills finding lost fidos and proving whether or not so and so is cheating on so and so.

Tony Mandolin is the creation of Robert Lee Beers and One Last Quiche is the second of his adventures, which begin with A Slight Case of Death.

My dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, author of the science fantasy classic (or SciFan as we cognoscenti prefer to say) ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mummy was the one who identified the genre for me when she had been sipping on her fourth pernod and organic Greek yoghurt smoothie. “Moons, if you think that anyone is ever going to call that poop science-fiction you are living in a frigging fantasy.” I recall she spat the stone of an olive she had fished out from the bottom of her glass with the final words, so they impacted me deeply.

Today mes estudas, after our brief plunge into the murky pond of reviews and reviewing, we will return to the primrose paths of prose preparation.  To those of you who have had the supercalfragilistic fortune to be winnowing worth from my words of wisdom I say welcome back, and to those who have only just discovered my delightful calligraphy I say sit quietly at the back of the class and be sure to revise later.

And thus, my happy followers, my RWW, I propose to you the finest flora and bejeweled gems of my inestimable intellect. Read carefully, learn assiduously, and ingest intestinally that you may benefit from the experience of one whose writing skills are superior and sans pareil.

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 6. The Write Character

When creating fantabulous fiction, one of the building blocks one should consider perspicaciously is the characteristics of one’s characters, the pontification of one’s protagonists, and the mentality of one’s mendicants.  May one humbly suggest the ritualistic dismemberment of the dichotomy of despair is the first essential in the realisation and roundaboutification of perfect protagonists.

As we are fast becoming closely intertwined, one feels comfortable in sharing some of one’s own little ritual-ettes for the construction of credible character traits. Place upon the table a virgin sheet of the most beautiful of papers and upon its sensitive surface inscribe certain informations about the person growing in one’s psyche. Once you have these facts inside your cranium attempt to dress your shrinking physique in the insubstantial anatomy of your putative creation. Once having assumed this physical envelope, model it as carefully as if you were a supermodel on the catwalk and allow it to permeate every pore of your being. Only then can you begin to set it down with its contemporaneous companions inside the delicate framework of your histoire. Tread gently and allow each one of your persons to speak in their own tones, to walk in their own shoes, to listen with their own ears, to feel with their own hearts, and to expostulate to you of their hopes, dreams, passions and personalities.

Never, mes enfants, permit yourself to press your own expectations upon the psyche of those who inhabit your writings. Rather let them fly on their own wings and listen with your inner ear as they speak to you of their lives and their loves.

Ah mes estudas, quel excitement, quel bonheur, as your little people walk the pages of your magnum opus and clamber around in the canyons of your consciousness. Let your creativity be as verdant as the grass, and allow your imagination to be impregnated by the words of those persons who have grown up to inhabit your worlds with the organic ossification of their beings.

And there we will leave the characterisation of Calliope and her sisters until next time when we shall consider the impact of those most precious people of our imaginations on the mundane and dour dross of everyday life.

Ecrit bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join my adoring fan club.

Rob Edwards is a British born writer and podcaster, currently living in Finland.

Q1: What is the best thing about having a story in Tales From The Underground?

Q2: What is the strangest thing about living in Finland?

Q1: What do Lingonberries really taste like?

Why did you want to see me?’
‘Ghosts.’
She reached over quite steadily and took her cup of tea from my outstretched hand, but her face lost quite a bit of its usual high colour.
‘Oh. That lot. What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘That could take a while…’
‘Précis then.’
She stared into her tea for a long minute then started to talk, I switched on the voice recorder on my phone, and sat back to listen.
‘My granny was born and raised in this pub, though it was called The Bell in them days. She always said there was a ghost. Sad but not dangerous. Was supposed to be a fine lady whose husband came back from the wars to find her pregnant. Legend has it that he kept the child but killed the woman after she had given birth. Her bones are supposed to be in the walls somewhere. Anyway. After great grandpa sold up the place ticked along quite normal. Until the middle of the nineteen sixties when there was a fire. Insurance job was what the local rumour mill said. Whatever. About half the pub was burned to the ground. They rebuilt, and when they was doing it they found a picture, in the roof someplace. The fair maid and falcon. Like the pub sign. The picture was sold to the New Forest Museum, but they had it copied for the pub sign and changed the name. The museum got some clever people in to look at the painting, and they reckoned the woman in the picture was somebody called Rosalind Acres, who is recorded as having died in childbirth, along with her child, in the nineteenth century. Her husband is supposed to have mourned her till the day he died, and buried her in the garden with her baby, because the church refused to allow an unbaptised child to be buried in consecrated ground. Whatever is the truth of it, after they rebuilt there was said to be a second, gentle ghost. Maybe the fair maid herself. And that’s all I really know…’
‘But’ I prompted gently.
‘But there seems to be at more than them. I think at least two more. One something followed Philip wherever he went, it was black and bad. There was an atmosphere of hatred. It frightened me. And when he killed himself I could feel its anger. Then there was a quieter something singing in my head when Philip died, it seemed to feel some sort of justice had been done. Then it all went quiet. But I don’t think anything has gone.’
‘Me neither.’ I said. ‘Me neither. But thank you for being frank with me. Did you ever hear a name for the first ghost?’
‘My granny said she was called Aline.’
‘Thanks. Now drink your tea and have a chocolate biscuit before Ben comes back and snaffles the lot.’
She relaxed in her chair and accepted a milk chocolate digestive. ‘I’m dying of curiosity’ she said.
‘Well. I’m sorry, but I can’t help now. Maybe later.’
She grinned.

After a few minutes’ chat, she got up and went back to her work. I decided to run some internet searches. Rosalind Acres was fairly well documented and I printed off some fifty sheets of information. Aline seemed to be a relatively common name in the Middle Ages, but inputting the rest of Mrs A’s story brought up two references in learned tomes. I printed both of them. It was a start, I thought.

I began reading the story of Rosalind Acres’ life. She was the beloved only child of a very rich American, who had married (for love the reports said) a thirty-year-old Englishman called Christopher Acres, when she was just seventeen. Her husband was a country gentleman and their home was Midwinter Manor, which seemed, by the old map I had printed out, to have been more or less precisely where the Fair Maid was now located. Her death, at the age of twenty-one, was well documented, and there was more than one mention of a rumour that the lady and her child had been interred in the gardens of the manor. So far, Mrs A’s story seemed to concur with the known facts. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or not.

Rosalind caught my imagination, but the pub sign purporting to be her was rather ineptly painted, and I found I wanted a look at the original from which it was copied, so I hit the museum’s web site. The picture was exquisite, and according to the museum catalogue, the portrait (found in the roof of a local pub during rebuilding), was the young Rosalind Acres nee Barclay, and it was attributed the pre-raphaelite John Everett Millais. Rosalind had, if the portrait didn’t lie, been as lovely as she was young. I printed out a colour copy to show Ben.

I shivered, then pulled myself together, and put ghostly business to one side in favour of pub business.

From: Who Put Her In?
myBook.to/WPHI

© jane jago

I am old, that’s no bone of contention
And I got here without intervention
So why would I think twice
On your so-called advice?
Hush your mouth, I’m not paying attention

© jane jago 2017