If you are looking for a good spooky read with short stories and poems to get you in the Haloween mood today you should pick up the Sparkly Badgers Spooky anthology which is free to download. 

Address to a Pumpkin

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!
Tormented, scraped and cut,
Your entrails ripped out from within,
To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!
Thy glorious grinning face,
Carved from the orange of your skull,
Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!
Upon the doorstep set
Your eldritch light and feral look
Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!
When brightly lit your grin
Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts
And keep us safe within.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

The picture is ‘The Willow Man’ by Jane Jago and if you want to see the really creepy cover he inspired and read the poem about him, snag your free copy of the Spooky anthology right away!

A twist in the tail Halloween story from Jane Jago.

As a (more or less) retired whore with an address book full of the names (carefully coded) and preferences of powerful men from all across the globe, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was offered money – a truly obscene amount of money – to write my memoirs.
Being a sensible sort, with her declining years to provide, for I accepted the advance and started writing. But, you know what, I may be an exceptional shag, but as a writer I suck.
*giggles rudely*
No matter how hard I tried, my sordidly erotic life just sounded like a fucking shopping list. I offered the men in suits their money back. But they refused.
“That’s okay,” they said, “we’ll get you a ghost writer”.
And that was another joke. The first one they sent me looked about eighteen and wore a fluffy angora jumper. Having established that she had never even heard of most of the things I did on a regular basis, I sent her away with a few quid for her trouble. The second try was even worse, some sleazy slag who writes porno for a living and who was getting her rocks off just looking at me. I didn’t even let that one in the door.
There was silence for a couple weeks, then I was asked if I minded working with a guy. Which made me laugh. For a moment the suit making the proposition looked at me like I was stupid or something. Then he got the joke. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to do himself a mischief. When he had calmed down he kissed my hand and left, promising to send ‘George’ the very next morning.

Promptly at eight-thirty, before I had even had coffee, the door buzzed. A tall, dark guy with a briefcase and horn-rimmed spectacles stood on the step.
“George?” I hazarded a guess.
He nodded and I buzzed him in.
“Breakfast?” I offered waving a hand at the bacon and things.
“No thanks.” His voice was deep and melodious.
He sat at the table and watched my culinary muddle for about three minutes before removing the frying pan from my grasp and motioning me to be seated. He put a mug of perfectly made coffee in front of me, followed in short order by a full English breakfast.
“You,” he said, “need a housekeeper.”
“If I ever get this effing book finished, I might even be able to afford one.”
He showed me a lot of very white, very even teeth.
“You American?” I asked.
“I am, but how did you know? I don’t think I have an accent.”
“You don’t, it’s the dentistry. In my business you tend to look at teeth carefully.”
It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, but when they did I was rewarded with his pleasingly masculine laughter. “And that”, he remarked with a broad grin, “is the first line of your book…”
We soon settled into a rhythm. George arrived promptly at eight-thirty every morning. He cooked my breakfast and we worked until three when he bowed his head, clicked his heels and left.
Inside a month, we had volume one of my memoirs nailed. It was racy, funny, human, and silly, and not a bit how anybody envisaged a whore’s memoirs. It was also an instant bestseller.
I tried to thank George, but he waved away my words.
“Just doing my job.”
We got stuck into volume two.

By the time we were halfway through writing volume three, I was twenty years old in my memoirs, and forty-seven and wealthy in real life.
Somehow, I never got around to employing a housekeeper, and George still cooked my breakfast and tidied the kitchen before we started work.
I did, however, have a cleaner and it became apparent that I also needed a secretary. My publisher found me Miss Jackson, who was newly retired, and bored and willing to work three afternoons a week. She looked like the worst sort of dried-up spinster, and I was perfectly prepared to hate her. Only appearances can be deceptive. She had about the filthiest sense of humour I have ever encountered and we got along fine.
She and George, on the other hand, eyed each other like tomcats on the back fence. I said little to either, merely determining to keep them apart. As Miss Jackson started her day as George finished his, they really only met on the doorstep. Even so, they managed to build up a head of real dislike, although neither ever said a word to me. I broached the subject with a George once, but he snapped his teeth together hard and I desisted.
I think the situation may have gone on indefinitely had I not discovered the date of Miss Jackson’s birthday and decided to take the old girl out for a treat. When we finished our work that evening I presented her with a birthday card, and a Waterstones voucher, and I suggested pie and mash at my local. We had a blast, and she obviously drunk a deal more than she was used to. As I poured her into a taxi she put a hand on my arm.
“That George,” she said more than a little indistinctly. “You need to find out just what he is. If he’s human I will…” Then she shut her mouth firmly.
I paid the cabby and walked home. Deep in thought.
I was just at the door when I felt cool breath on my neck. I turned, but there was nobody to be seen. I guess I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, even before I caught the faintest whiff of mouthwash and aftershave.
“George. Stop pissing about.”
Then he was in front of me. Looking sheepish.
“You had better come in.”
He followed me in silence, and I was of no mind to say anything quite yet.
Inside the apartment I was in no mood to let him off the hook so I pointed to a chair.
“Sit.”
He was the picture of misery as he folded his long frame into an upright chair.
“Okay buster,” I said severely, “you don’t eat, you don’t drink, you never have a day off sick, and you frighten Miss J shitless. Just what are you?”
He stared at me. “If you noticed all of that why have you never said anything before?”
I crossed my arms in front of my impressive breasts.
“I asked first.”
He looked into my eyes for a moment then squared his shoulders.
“I’m a ghost…” his voice was barely more than a whisper.
That was too much for me and I felt the giggles starting deep in my belly.
Only I could have wound up with a ghost writer who really was a fucking ghost.
When I got myself together, George was looking at me as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
“I take it that means you are not about to run screaming from the room.”
“It does, mate. I’m only worried that you will disappear now I know.”
He thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “I don’t have to, not if you still want me. I could even move in…”
“Okay. But no sneaking up on Miss J. I don’t want the poor old biddy having a conniption fit in my gaff.”
He grinned, a bit nastily, but hastened to give me his promise.
That being a Friday. I didn’t see hide nor hair of my secretary until Monday. She crept in looking more than a bit sheepish and I couldn’t help laughing at the mortified expression on her face.
“Sit down you silly old bat,” I said affectionately. “Sit down and tell me why you don’t trust George.”
She sat, picking at the sleeve of her muddy brown cardigan with nervous fingers. I watched her for a moment then felt so sorry for her manifest discomfort that I caved in.
“Okay. Never mind. Let’s just get to work. I don’t need to know.”
Her eyes raised to meet mine and she actually chuckled.
“You are right, you don’t need to know. But as you have shown me all the kindness I have ever known in nearly seventy human years I do need to tell you. I knew it wasn’t a human man in the same way it should have known I’m not a human woman, but it was too busy watching you to pay any heed to me.”
She sat back in her chair, obviously awaiting some sort of reaction. I wasn’t about to give anybody that much satisfaction, so I kept my voice level and cool.
“Does being whatever you are preclude you functioning as my secretary?”
She shook her head, with its neat grey bun.
“And are you any danger to me?”
“Oh no. I might have been, once, but you befriended me.”
“Shall we get on with our work then?”
Her smile was broad and admiring, and I caught sight of the gnarled old tree spirit that inhabited her wrinkled skin before she whipped out her laptop and began summarising the weekend’s emails.
I curled my feet up under me on the settee and allowed myself an inward smirk. Just as long as George and Mrs Jackson were occupied staring each other out neither one of them was going to spend any time wondering about me. I let my fangs drop for a moment and caressed their razor sharp edges with my tongue, before recalling myself to a sense of duty and listening to the outpourings of human love and lust that my secretary was recounting in a drily amused voice.

© jane jago 2017

The music, provided by a string quartet, quivered on the air as much an accompaniment to the meal as the fine red wine. Standing at the door as if surveying a conquered city, the last diner arriving embarrassingly late, his hawk-like expression seemingly oblivious to it.

Between the tables, like supply ships visiting islands, waiters moved silently over the plush depths of the carpet. One detached himself from the flotilla to speak to the dark-haired gentleman , with an almost obsequious haste. Lydia decided this must be the mysterious Colonel Jermaine about whom everyone seemed to have so much to say, but apparently only behind their hands not to his face. She watched, curiously as the waiter led him across the dining room, then lost sight of them both as the table next to her was served.

Each table, discreetly placed to appear neither isolated nor too close to its neighbour, glinted and sparkled as the light of the crystal candelabra reflected on the silver service, the exquisite glassware and the plentiful and prominent jewellery worn by the ladies. From her lonely seat in the corner, Lydia noticed the conversation seemed to be sparkling too, causing short barks of manly laughter and softer feminine mirth.

“I see this seat is not taken.” The tone was matter-of-fact and definitely not a question.

Lydia looked up into the tiercel eyes of the dark-haired man and suddenly wished with fervour that she had accepted the offer of the Forsythes’ to attend another of their dreadful dinner parties that evening.

E.M. Swift-Hook

So we got this kitten, see. Got it for my kid sister’s birthday. Dad bought it off a bloke in a pub. She loves it. Calls it Princess. Turns out it’s a boy kitten, but Mum takes it to the vet and gets it fixed. Cassie still calls it Princess. It grows. A lot. And it’s evil tempered, and nobody but Mum and Cassie can touch it. And it protects the women. Dad doesn’t take his belt to Mum on Saturday nights no more, because Princess doesn’t like it. I don’t come home drunk, neither. Today Princess ate our dealer…

©jane jago

From Haruspex:A Walking Shadow a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Pan’s domain was always a mix of the domestic and the workaday. She scooped a mug of tea for each of them from the pot and then stirred the embers of the fire to life and put a small log on to burn, before joining him and allowing a space for Ritter on the small rug before the hearth.
“A fine brew this, Pan,” Archanbor told her.”You know if you had not up and bloody married I’d be making you a proposal myself.”
“You’d be in the queue then Drum,” she said, her tone good natured. “But you know, you could always settle down here – find someone nice who’s local. You know you have a lot of friends here, people who’d be glad to see you stay. And Gernie would appreciate the help you could give – he could probably even get you on the official payroll. It would be steady for you – and Ritter, of course.”
She meant well. She always did. Heart of gold – like Gernie. He shook his head.
“Bit late for that now.”
Pan shot him a strange look, like he’d said something rude.
“It’s never too late, Drum. You just stop running, sit down, put your feet up and root in. It’s what I did. And how many other places have you got good friends? People who will look out for you?”
“I have Ritter,” Archanbor told her, smiling slightly at the little dog.
“Of course you do – and you’ll always have him. But maybe he’d like it if you settled down? No more running all over the galaxy.”
Archanbor thought about it and looked enquiringly at the little dog. Honestly, sometimes it was as if Ritter could read his thoughts.
“What you think Ritts? Should we take Auntie Pan’s advice? She’s bloody right you know.”
The small dog yawned and stretched then stood up and put his head on one side.
“What does Ritter think then?” Pan was asking, looking towards the fire.
“I’d say that looks more like he thinks we ought to be getting going,” Archanbor said, feeling just a touch regretful. It would be good to be able to sit here, drink the tea and then maybe spend the day working on mending or building something. He’d enjoyed that in the past. “Maybe when we get back. Maybe then. What you think to that Ritts?”
The wagging tail said it all.
“It might be a bit late then,” Pan said quietly. Archanbor laughed.
“Make your bloody mind up, lass. First, you’re telling me it’s never too late and then you’re saying it will be.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

You are old, quite a lot needs a shave
Or a wax if you’re terribly brave
While you’re at it don’t skip
The despised upper lip
You look like a moustachioed knave

© jane jago

The Rabid Readers Review Massachusetts by Warren Dean.

What happened to Massachusetts was a crying shame.

This is the first sentence of what seems, at the beginning, to be a folksy tale about a plucky little racehorse. We come to know and love Massachusetts – or Chusey as the narrator fondly calls him – but all the time in the back of our minds we are wondering when we are going to encounter the ‘crying shame’.

When we do it’s more than somewhat surprising. Without giving too much away, the story moves from Kentucky to… somewhere else. And what started out as a simple story about horse racing becomes something completely different.

We move into what can be seen as science fiction or fable, and very well done it is too. When we do find out what happened to Massachusetts it’s a very long way from anything we might have suspected – and the journey is a pretty enjoyable one.

Highly recommended. Not least of all for an equine hero with a big heart.

Jane Jago.

A Fantastic YA Adventure!

Massachusettes is a racehorse who has a great future ahead of him until something happens that changes him forever. Instead of racing on a regular track against other horses, he has to race against monstrosities and aliens through a course where the land itself is hostile and dangerous and his fellow ‘speeders’ and their riders won’t stoop to murder if that means they will win.

What I enjoyed:
The journey of the story. This is pretty much an all-action romp from start to finish with nail-biting tension as Chouk-Tzie and Orin charge through an alien world.
The setting. The world where the Katerwaul Klash takes place and the strange Augurmasters who control it, is beautifully described. The atmosphere it conjures made me think of the pod race on Tatooine as featured in The Phantom Menace.
The writing style. Fluent and flawless, beautiful word choices, excellent description and direct and engaging dialogue. The author makes words dance across the page, swirling the reader along effortlessly.

What I struggled with:
The morality. A huge tension point in the book is that Orin voluntarily takes on a horrific wager to do something that, in my opinion, no decent individual would ever agree to. That made it very hard for me to see him as sympathetic.
The end. The resolution of the last climax felt unnecessarily contrived to me, which was a bit disappointing after the taut writing and superb storytelling of the rest of the book. But, that said, the way it was done kind of worked in a book aimed at children or young teens. The message it gave of parental oversight maybe helps take the enormity out of how things transpired for a younger reader and would provide a sense of security.

Overall thoughts:
This is a great book for a younger reader and is beautifully written. Highly recommended.

E.M. Swift-Hook

We was hunting food when there come this bang and such a stench of sulphur that it near to blowed off our heads. Elmer he falls to the ground a-cryin’and a-prayin’, but the rest of us ain’t much into church so we primes our guns and waits.

Next thing we hears is a sound like something is tearin’ up the sky with big hungry claws. Elmer he faints.

Then the ripping sound comes closer and there’s such a tear as you would never believe, right through the space/time continuum.

Dobie shot this critter as it come through

©jane jago

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

A tall praetorian came into the room and stood kicking his feet like a schoolboy. Decimus sat abruptly upright.
“All right man, what don’t you want to say?”
The hard-bitten guard looked into his commander’s eyes.
“We obtained entry to the Rufus apartment and there we discovered two females. Identified as Lydia Augusta Severius and Octavia Tullia Scaevia. Both females were deceased. Preliminary examination suggests poison. I’m sorry sir.”
Decimus stood up and clapped the man on his hard, muscular shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said simply and the soldier left, walking quietly.
“Oh. My dear friend,” Julia felt incapable and suddenly very small and useless.
Fortunately Boudicca was well able for the situation. She went and put her plump, motherly arms around Decimus and he laid his head on her shoulder. Julia walked over to them and patted them both.
“We’ll just leave you then…”
“No lass,” Decimus’ voice was thick with tears, but he spoke with authority. “You two should at least hang about until we find out if my lads caught up with Marcella. Though I doubt it.”
“I do too,” Julia said moodily. “I think the futatrix will be long gone.”
Dai looked on, and his face clearly expressed complete puzzlement.
“Tell him, lass. I can’t speak about it right now and he needs to know.”
“When Decimus was offered the job as Tribune in charge of the Praetorian Cohort of Britannia, which was a huge promotion, there were strings. Or rather there was one string. The Praetor had a problem daughter who he wanted married and off his hands. Decimus was single, and with the reputation of being a tough man to cross. The Praetor thought him the perfect man to take his daughter off his hands. Decimus wasn’t given the option of refusal. He married the girl. And she never forgave him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yes, but…,” Dai was groping for words.
“But why am I shedding tears for her?” Decimus provided, stepping away from Boudicca and gently gripping her arm in gratitude.
“Sorry, dominus. But yes…”
Because the poor silly futatrix got as little out of the marriage as me. Maybe even less. She wanted some little wastrel, who was the only son of a senator. But his father didn’t agree. Even when it was proved the girl was spoilt goods. Spoilt by his spoilt son. And that’s why I was weeping. I was weeping at the waste of it all – and because no one should die unmourned. Even simple piety demands tears be shed for her.”
“Oh. I see…”
Julia gave him a little punch on the biceps.
“You probably don’t, and neither do I. But that’s the way they do it in the first families. Lydia was supposed to be grateful to Decimus for marrying her and he was supposed to be grateful for a patrician bride. Sadly, neither felt gratitude. He felt pity. She felt loathing.”
She watched Dai’s face carefully as she spoke, willing him to at least try and understand. Try to see that Romans could be as trapped in their lives as he was in his. When she wound down, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze as if to reassure her, before speaking directly to Decimus.
“I’m sorry dominus. Sorry for what you are going through and sorry for my own crassness. I think I just always assumed that being a Roman Citizen meant you had at least half of the world at your feet. I never thought that might carry its own set of problems.”
Decimus looked at the tall Celt and dredged up a wry grin.
“Just keep it in mind when you are dealing with Julia will you? She’s had it a lot harder than me.”
“Shut up, Decimus,” Julia said, feeling the heat in her face.
“Why should I? Am I not speaking truth?”
“You are. But…” her voice was tense, willing him to leave it alone. This was not the time.
Boudicca gave Decimus a little shake.  “Not yours to tell.”
He subsided, still grumbling under his breath, while Julia tried to deal with the twin demons of memory and loneliness.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

She’ll grow out of that, they said
When she understands
Her little friend is in her head
They never will touch hands
When she goes to school and finds
Little friends for real
She will see the unreal kind
Cannot think or feel
And so I left my friend, pretend
And turned my face away
The special friendship had to end
With others I must play
But now the years have floated by
And I am old and scary
We are fast friends my friend and I
Though she’s ‘imaginary’

©jj 2019