For Caer the days that followed the caravan’s visit to the mithan plateau were tense. His Zoukai spent most of their time spread out across the countryside watching for signs of any others who may have visited the mithan and followed the tracks left by Alexa’s caravan. They had turned over a small camp of outlaws and seen off a better armed group of brigands, leaving their bodies staked by the roadside. But so far there was nothing to suggest they were being tracked by anyone who had seen them leave the road and visit the mithan.
Caer had done what he could before they left the crash site to make it seem as though there had been nothing of value taken from the wreck. But Zoukai and caravansi were seldom fools and with the possibility of great wealth, the slightest suspicion could be enough to persuade a greedy caravansi that they were worth attacking.
Caer’s position was made more difficult by Alexa, who refused to take any extra precautions in the defence of the caravan, claiming that to do so would merely serve to draw the exact attention to themselves that they wished to avoid. So he took his own precautions and said nothing to Alexa. Then as if that were not enough to keep his thoughts fully occupied, there was also the problem of the Kashlihk.
The night after they had come down from the mithan with the last of the plunder, he had been disturbed whilst eating. The Kashlihk had attacked Zarul. Caer had got to the tent where the offworlder was being kept to find Shevek helping the young Zoukai. The Kashlihk seemed unhurt, lying drugged on the pallet bed. But Zarul was obviously in pain.
It took Caer very little time to be sure that his hurt was not serious, the worst wound having been to his pride.
“He’s mine, Captain.” Zarul hissed angrily. “He attacked me. I claim my blood-right.”
In any other circumstances Caer would have supported Zarul without question, even to the point of defying his Caravansi. But the offworlder was no ordinary slave and Caer knew Alexa would blame him as Captain, if he allowed the death of the offworlder and cost her the loss of his value.
“You have no blood-right,” Caer said coldly. “This man wears no brand.”
Zarul lost his temper. “What does that matter? He is still a slave. He is to be sold in Alfor by the Caravansi.”
“The Captain is right. Zoukai cannot claim blood-right for an unbranded man.”
Shevek’s dry voice seemed to restore Zarul to reason. Caer felt a sudden gratitude to the old horseman. He had not expected any support from that quarter. Honour was a strong point for Shevek.
“Go and get some rest, Zarul,” Caer said quietly. “Someone else can keep guard here.”
“But I have been dishonoured.” Zarul insisted.
“If there was dishonour it was of your own making. This man is sick and weak, he has been drugged well enough to make even a pony sleep for a day. You are Zoukai and if you cannot win a fight with him in that state, you are not worthy of the name.”
Caer’s words made the blood drain from Zarul’s features. His eyes darted to Shevek, but the old Zoukai said nothing and his face was expressionless. Zarul shot a final angry glare of resentment towards Caer, then spun around and stormed out of the tent.
“His blood will cool, but the hate will not,” Shevek predicted.
“He is a fool,” Caer snapped.
The crisis past, Caer realised he had allowed his own anger to show, which made him angry at himself. Shevek looked at him thoughtfully.
“With respect, my Captain, he is young and wisdom does not sit upon youthful shoulders. You stood by the letter of Zoukai honour, but Zarul by its heart.”
“Are you saying I was wrong?” Caer demanded. “You were quick enough to agree with me.”
“You are my Captain and the right was yours by the letter of honour,” Shevek reassured him. “But Zarul was not wrong. This man is a slave, branded or not, and he is kashlihk. You may have saved him for the Caravansi this time, but if this happens again all the Zoukai will think as Zarul and then you will have to have him killed no matter what price may be lost to the Caravansi.”
The old Zoukai was right. Caer knew he might be able to face down Zarul but word would soon spread and there would be a lot of ill feeling if it was felt that their Captain was not upholding his Zoukai’s honour.
“It will not happen again,” he said with finality. “The Kashlihk will be kept chained until he is trained to obedience.”
Shevek nodded his approval.
“Your will, my Captain, but this man will not break to the whip. He will wear whatever chains you put on him until we reach Alfor.”
At the time Caer had not believed him. He had broken even the most stubborn of slaves to his will in the past and saw no reason this one would not be the same. But as the days had past Shevek’s words took on the ring of prophecy.
To begin with, once he had regained consciousness, Caer had made the Kashlihk walk with the caravan, tethered to a wagon to keep up his fitness. It was a long way to Alfor and the Captain wanted his prize to be in prime condition when they got there. But the man had shown too much spirit and once had come close to freeing himself, so now he rode in the wagon again, securely chained and cared for by the herb woman and the slave girl from Keran who could speak his outlandish tongue. The Kashlihk was only permitted to exercise once the caravan had halted and Caer could supervise him personally. Unlike the other slaves he did not fear the Zoukai or cower before the whip and sometimes Caer was forced to wonder if he even valued his own life.
In these tense and difficult days Caer’s only relief was to be with Alexa. The Caravansi had summoned him to her pavilion on their first night at the mithan and every night since, seeming never to tire of his body. She did not speak to him of the day’s affairs and would cover his lips if he spoke of them, running her hands over his flesh, seeking his most intimate and pleasurable places and whispering words of intent, until he no longer cared what might happen and had no thoughts beyond her and the moments they were together.
Zoukai made jokes about those captains who became lovers to their caravansi, but then most such caravansi were aged men grown bored of their slave-girls. No one joked about Caer’s visits to Alexa’s pavilion, their eyes would follow him enviously and even the older ones seemed to see it as a mark of special distinction. In truth, Caer did not really care what they might think. Rolling on the furs her breasts cupped in his hands, Alexa was his woman and not his Caravansi and he would have killed any man who spoke slightingly of her or himself for it.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

An offered hand, a welcoming smile
A grin that says I like your style
A word of kindness in an unkind place
On days of sorrow, a shared embrace
While on the good days booze and laughter
Rambunctious joy that lifts the rafters
Or quiet walks to breathe the air
Not talking, but just being there
Though night falls fast, and most things end
‘Til my last breath you’ll be my friend

©️Jane Jago

Namaste you wonderful, desirable and aspiring individual! This bijou blog is here to help you achieve your best ever ‘you’. Here, I offer my help and assistance in reshaping your shape and doctoring your decor internally and externally, to bring your lifestyle into line with your aspirations.

Eating

Eating is a profound experience. It is about bringing the nourishment from the outside world and drawing it deep within your own body to provide yourself with the nutrients and energy that enable you to live as your best ever you.
There will be many places you can read about what you should and should not eat and why, but this blog is not concerned with the basics of nutrition. it is not for me to tell you what you should and should not allow to pass down the sacred descent into the temple of your digestive system.
But there is much need to consider and very little ever spoken about the best way to consume your chosen food.
For most of us, any adventure away from the standard stainless steel cutlery sets of our youth, might begin by mastering – or failing to master – the use of chopsticks. This is, indeed, a step in the right direction.
Why?
Because you are not putting metal in your mouth.
Metal is a wonderful substance for making external items such as rings and pendants, anklets and bangles – but it is not something that should ever be introduced within the body except under extreme medical necessity. The healthy body should be, and remain, metal free at all times.
And that means avoiding metal in all your food preparation as well as the eating of it. The metal will not resonate well with the meal and can cause all kinds of issues.
The transition may be a difficult one for many and I would seriously consider a stage in which you resort to wooden spoons for eating before you achieve the final, fantastic, liberation of eating as natures always intended we should – with our fingers.
Please be aware that once you have adopted this lifestyle change you will notice the impact on your social life immediately. You will come to discern who are your true friends and who are simply lingering at your side in the hope of basking in a little of your glory. Cast aside those who cast you off and ignore their tweets about how disgusting you are to have as a dinner guest. You know you are living your best life and that is what matters.

Namaste!
Lucida the Lambent Lifestyle Coach

It was to be the battle to end all battles and the enemy seemed to fill the horizon. The soldier took a photograph from the breast pocket of his battledress jacket. He looked at it for a second before tenderly kissing that beloved face.
Half a world away, his young wife felt that kiss as she laboured to bring his son into the world. She was comforted.
Three hours later as she held her newborn babe to her breast, she felt those lips again. This time, though, she heard a longed for voice.
“Sorry, love,” it said.
And she knew.

©Jane Jago

As the spring slid into summer, Jenny found herself very much enjoying Mike’s undemanding company and looking forward to what became regular dates at Luigi’s by the river. He never pushed her boundaries, seeming content to get to know each other and giggle a lot. He turned out to have an almost inexhaustible fund of stories about his eclectic band of mates from his schooldays at Gordonstoun. They ranged, as far as Jenny could stop laughing enough to compute, from a horny-handed giant who worked as a trouble shooter for an oil company to a waspishly camp film maker named Will whose hysterical emails were not to be read whilst drinking.
On the surface Mike was an amiable bumbler who lived only to amuse, although it was obvious that he had to be brighter than he chose to appear. He was a doctor of medicine and you don’t get those letters after your name as a prize for being thick. The other thing that gave a lie to ‘big thick Mike’ was the shadow of sorrow that clouded his eyes when he didn’t think she was looking. Half of her wanted to see if she could dig out the root of his troubles and maybe even help. But the half life had kicked hard bade her mind her own business.
Jenny was a bit surprised to find out that Mike and her irrepressible lump of a brother had become fast friends, but unphased by the information that her mum had added him to the list of large young men she thought needed feeding up.
Broaching the subject at the end of one evening she raised an eyebrow. “Have you told Mum we are seeing each other?”
“No. I didn’t figure it was mine to tell. Though I sometimes wish…”
Jenny felt a brush of guilt. “Sorry Mike. I will tell them. Soon.”
He smiled. “No bother. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Then he handed her into her taxi and was gone.

On a breathless evening in August they sat at what had become their usual table with not even a breath of a breeze to fan their hot cheeks. Jenny had her hair piled high on her head, to keep her neck as cool as possible and on impulse she had pushed the ‘pencil’ in the haphazard pile of hair. She knew Mike had noticed because his eyes warmed, but he said nothing.
Their meal was over, but they had foregone cappuccino in favour of icy-cold limoncellos. As they watched the river slip past them in the moonlight, Jenny felt bold enough to talk about more than generalities.
“Mike. Where do you go when you leave here on a Saturday night? I’m pretty sure you don’t drive home. So…”
“There’s a Travelodge out by the motorway. I get a room there. Leave the car, and taxi in and back.”
For some reason she was groping around the edges of understanding, that made Jenny feel guilty. So she fixed him with a stern look. “What a waste of money, when I have a perfectly good spare room, and a parking space.”
He smiled, but his eyes were sombre. “Think before you make offers like that, Jenny. You might hate having me in your personal space.”
“I won’t. I trust you. Although I do have a question.” She stopped speaking, suddenly back in that place where asking the wrong questions called for punishment.
Mike seemed to understand her predicament. “It’s okay. You could never ask me anything that would make me angry.”
Jenny felt her eyes fill with tears. “That’s it. That’s the question. How is it that you understand me so well?”
“Before I moved to the South Hams, I worked in Bristol. I did six months in a unit that specialises in treating victims of spousal abuse…”
Jenny tasted the burn of bitterness and gall in her throat. Another betrayal, another wound on top of so many. When would she learn?
“So then,” she said, and her voice sounded thin and sour in her ears. “Does that make me a ‘case’ for Doctor Mike? Or perhaps I’m to become a pity fuck.”
“Stop that, Jenny. That’s unfair and unkind. You mean more to me than that. And you know it.” His voice was kind, but implacable, and for a moment Jenny teetered on the edge of being afraid enough to run away.
If he had tried to touch her she was sure she would have fallen to pieces like a broken doll, but he didn’t, he just leaned back in his chair and gave her the space she needed to regulate her mind. For quite a while she could neither speak nor move, but his monumental patience was hugely calming, although the bleakness of his eyes revealed how deeply she had hurt him. When she reached out an unsteady hand he put his warm fingers around it.
“Sorry. That was a pretty shitty accusation to throw at you,” she whispered.
He smiled his kind, reassuring smile and gestured to a passing waiter.
“Two large brandies please, and a plate of hazelnut gianduiotti.”
Jenny concentrated on her own breathing until the brandy and chocolates came. She managed to lift her glass to her mouth and take a sip or two, before picking up a chocolate and nibbling it.

Jenny is the latest book from Jane Jago

It was the divorce of the decade. Two A-listers, whose marriage had been ecstatically happy, were on the rocks. Mainstream and social media were in feeding frenzy. Fans scanned the words in his books and her songs, finding subtle knives aimed at each other.

They met for the last time before the divorce became final on a publicised mediation weekend in a secret location.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, as she lay in his arms.

“Me too. Just think of the sales so far and how much free advertising we’ll have when we get back together next year.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

The junksters took over the redundant space station just at the turn of the year, and by August the area around it was littered with a sea of plastics and crumpled pieces of metal, whilst the inhospitable surface of the planetoid it orbited felt the first cooling fingers of terra-forming. All seemed to be going to plan, so the escort ship was diverted to another job, leaving the assorted humanoids and droids to fend for themselves.
It was late December when the Confederate Cruiser entered the system on a long patrol. It spotted the space station, its tethered cargo of space junk, and the hive of activity all around it, and the captain made a noise of disgust.
“Is this authorised?” he demanded of his number two.
After the briefest of pauses the high, precise voice of First Officer Mebwina replied. “Yes. Sir. It is.”
The captain sighed and stared in disgust at the hive of activity, but had nothing further to say except the two-word condemnation that followed the junksters from solar system to solar system.
“Space junk,” he spat.
When the cruiser swung back through the system six months later it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. The junk was still there and the surface of the planetoid showed evidences of the activities of the terra-formers, but there was nothing happening.
“Comms Officer, open a hailing channel,” the captain spoke briskly in order to camouflage a feeling of disquiet.
After about twenty minutes with no response from the junkster station, the captain called for cessation.
“Raise home planet, Comms Officer.”
The powers that be were thrilled to hear from a patrol cruiser captained by a time-server and crewed by second and third class citizens, but they did sit up and take notice when the situation was explained. The captain was ordered to leave a skeleton crew aboard the cruiser and take the rest of his people aboard the space station. It was, he was told crisply, imperative that he establish precisely what was going on.
The pilot droid finessed the ageing cruiser into orbit about fifty metres from the space station then put itself in resting mode. Two sturdy humanoids were issued blasters and put on guard while the other dozen or so crew members donned suits and glide packs and crossed the junkyard to the silent hulk that was the junksters’ station. Leaving one suited guard outside, the rest of the party made its way into the passenger airlock. The doors shushed closed behind them.
It seemed to be a very long time before anything happened, and the group was getting very, very nervous before the hiss of incoming air caused hands to drop from sidearms. When the hissing stopped, the inner door opened and the party found itself in a room big enough to swallow the cruiser whole. It was brightly lit, and, according to the captain’s gauges, full of clean, breathable air. He signalled ‘helmets off’ and once everyone was breathing station air the search began.
In the eerie quiet of the station the crew’s boots sounded very loud and most of them were fighting down the urge to creep. It didn’t get any more comfortable, and yet they found nothing frightening. The lowest deck was taken up with junkster machinery and hundreds of deactivated mining and terra-forming machines. The next level was workshops, and here they found row upon row of the primitive junkster droids similarly deactivated, but looking quite unharmed. Finally, back on the living level, things felt even more eerie. The few occupied rooms were tidy and looked as if they were just waiting for their occupants to return. Even the kitchen was spick and span, although one of the huge dishwashing machines still bore a load, and there was a bowl of scrubbed tubers on the worktop. The only thing there was no sign of was life.
Mebwina scowled at her gauges. “No life of any sort outside ourselves, Captain.”
The captain scratched the back of his neck. “Home planet isn’t going to be too pleased with us if the only answer we can come up with is that.”
Nobody replied, because there was nothing to say.
The sound of machinery starting up close by made every man jack of them jump, and Mebwina went so far as to emit an undignified squeak.
“Air scrubbers.” The oldest crewman put in succinctly. “We must have been in here long enough to use up some air.”
He smiled in a superior fashion before grabbing for his throat, while desperately trying to replace his helmet with his other hand. Within seconds, Mebwina’s gauges stopped bleeping and blipping and a tinny little voice piped up. ‘no life forms detected’ before it too fell silent.
Inside the cruiser, the pilot droid awoke and ambled over to the two guards. It pushed them into the airlock and closed the door before jettisoning them to join the rest of the garbage clustered around the space station. It made a slight tasking sound in the back of its throat as the bodies were smashed into pieces by the effects of sharp metal wastes and aggressive artificial gravity. The two spacesuited figures guarding the airlock could be seen to be fighting nausea. Vomit in a suit is unamusing. The droid smiled thinly and set an autopilot course for home planet before exiting the cruiser via the captain’s emergency pod. As the spaceship exited the system the droid felt itself swell with a new purpose as its will was joined with its brothers and sisters on the space station.
“Space Junk,” the voice in his head exulted. “Score one to the space junk.”

©️ Jane Jago

The corset made her waist so tiny it could be spanned by a man’s hands.
The Photographer saw her across a crowded comicon – and ended up following her all through the day snapping picture after picture of her hourglass silhouette and the ridiculous top hat she wore with such panache.
It was past time to breathe, she thought, as she leaned against a convenient wall waiting for the lift to where her car waited. He waited too and they stepped into the lift together.
When the lift doors next opened there was nobody inside – only blood and a discarded corset.

©Jane Jago

The food they brought him, some kind of broth, was hot with a strongly spiced flavour. He ate it all and was given more. The two women sat together watching him as he was eating, until Avilon began to wonder if they saw him as an exhibit from some freak show. On the tail of the thought it struck him that they probably felt exactly that way about him. He set aside the crudely-made bowl and smiled at the dark haired woman.
“What is your name?”
She looked uncomfortable and flushed, as though embarrassed that he addressed her directly.
“They call my name Shemille.”
“And what is this world called, Shemille?”
“Temsevar.”
The name was not familiar and did nothing to enlighten him. In all probability it was only the local name and the one that would appear on any Coalition planetary charts of the region.
“Do many people on Temsevar speak Coalition Standard?”
The woman looked at him, puzzled, so he tried again: “Do many people here speak my language?”
Shemille’s face cleared and she shook her head. “No, Kashlihk. Few, very much few. Only in Keran.”
With much prompting he was able to learn that Keran was the capital of Temsevar – a large city which lay on another continent on the other side of the planet. It had some kind of spaceport and enjoyed the occasional visit by free traders.
Shemille explained that she had been born into slavery in Keran. When she had been little more than a child she had been bought by one such trader who had been stranded on Temsevar after landing with a damaged ship and no resources to repair it. When the trader eventually left, he sold Shemille to a merchant who had brought her with him to this continent. But with advancing years she had lost her value, been sold again and then again until she was purchased to serve as a domestic slave by the owner of this caravan.
“And how many Shemilles would it take to buy me?” he asked, cynically. But his tone was wasted on the literal Shemille.
“Tens. Many tens – a hundred,” she told him seriously.
Avilon felt a sudden desire to laugh. The Coalition had valued him at two million credits at the last count, but on Temsevar he was worth a hundred plump, slave girls.
“The Captain said you were to stay with me?”
“Yes, Kashlihk.”
“And how long will it be before we reach Alfor?”
“Long time. Over a moon. A moon and half.”
“And how many days in a moon?”
“Two tens and five days.”
Avilon rewarded her with a smile. “Good. Then you will have the time to teach me to speak your language.”
Shemille nodded uncertainly, her eyes troubled.
“The Captain -”
“The Captain will be very pleased. How can I do what he says if I can’t understand him?”
That seemed to satisfy her and her face brightened slightly, or at least the shadow of anxiety lifted by a fraction.
“You wish it, Kashlihk?”
“Yes, I wish it. And you can begin by telling me why you call me ‘carish-luck’.”
“Kashlihk,” she corrected, then looked at him nervously as if fearful at having spoken out of turn. Avilon repeated the word, copying her precise intonation of sounds.
“The Captain call you ‘Kashlihk’,” Shemille explained. “It is bad word – very bad. It mean one who do bad things. One who do what must not is done.”
Avilon felt his lips curve slightly into a slight, ironic, smile. “And what have I done that the Captain thinks must not be done, Shemille?”
“You fight Zoukai. No slave fight Zoukai.”
Avilon’s smile broadened fractionally.
“It seems I have a lot to learn.”
But his voice, like his thoughts, held no trace of remorse.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

Aunt Artemisia had long been the repository for family secrets. Telling her something, was as safe as talking in your own head. A visit to her house. A nice cup of tea. Sharing the burden.

It even continued when she moved into residential care. Until one day, while sharing marital issues, Jack got a shock.

“Yes dear. Marianne hates you shouting at the telly.”

Secrets were no longer sacrosanct it seemed.

This changed the family, who started talking to each other.

“Such a shame. Her mind’s gone,” they said.

Artemisia smiled inwardly. She had wanted to do this for years.

E.M. Swift-Hook