Because life happens…

The secret of life they do say
Is always find time to make hay
If there’s work to be done
Finish that and have fun
Make the most out of every day

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Villa Papaverus was a typical provincial dwelling for those Citizens of rank and status serving far from Rome and wanting to keep their civilized comforts. A large U-shaped building on two floors, set in the midst of its own estate, with a walled garden to the rear and outbuildings dotted around. It had become home to Dai Llewellyn and his new bride when he took on the role of Submagistratus in Demetae and Cornovii little less than a month previously. The villa went with the job as its official residence.
When the two men rolled up there in the late afternoon, Dai’s diminutive Roman wife, Julia, who had a shrewd handle on her husband and his friend, was waiting with a spicy dish of mutton and beans. She had asked their cook to heat and serve it when her husband told her he and Bryn were coming, and kept it hot over a spirit lamp.
“That smells a bit exotic,” Bryn was cautious, though clearly tempted.
“Worried me at first,” Dai admitted, “but my lady wife persuaded me and it goes down very well.”
hile they ate, Julia sat quietly, assessing the mood as one of generalised frustration. When Bryn finally put his spoon down and barely suppressed a satisfied belch she eyed the pair with some asperity.
“You may as well tell me, you know. I will find out anyway.”
Prior to her marriage, Julia had been an Inquisitor in the Vigiles herself, reporting directly to the Praetor in Rome, so this was no idle boast. Bryn grinned appreciatively, as Dai launched into an explanation of their morning. By the end, Julia was feeling truly grim, and it must have shown in her face as Dai was frowning with concern.
“What is it love?”
“You aren’t going to like this, but … ”
“What am I not going to like now?” He sounded weary, but also wary and angry.
Bryn put a hand on his forearm. “Remember, Bard. Didn’t we agree that whatever we have to deal with, it being Roman doesn’t make it Domina Julia’s fault?”
For a long moment nobody spoke, then Dai shook his head.
“We did. Sorry. I was just about to get bang out of line. Again.”
Julia, being too used to the pain of Dai’s anti-Roman outbursts, was surprised to find how much Bryn’s championship affected her. She smiled at him and stiffened her spine.
“You still might … We are going to have to tread very softly indeed. This is a temple sacred to the cult of the Divine Diocletian. That is one of the key foundations of the current Emperor’s right to rule. It has real power. And if we are not careful we could wind up getting told to turn a blind eye. It’s happened before.”
The men looked at her in glum silence. It was Bryn who found his voice first.
“What would happen,” he asked, “if we were ordered to keep our noses out?”
Julia favoured him with a sudden street urchin grin. “We’d have to investigate quietly.”
Dai just looked at her for a moment before leaning over the table to kiss her on both cheeks.
“Then maybe we shouldn’t be investigating too noisily now.”
“Stealth might be better. We need to hack into the computers at that temple. And we need to do so pretty bloody quickly.”
“That sounds like something you could do.”
“Probably. Very probably. Unless, of course, some irrumator has already erased the relevant files.”
Bryn wrinkled his brow. “I didn’t think you could ever really erase stuff from computers.”
“You can’t. Not if an investigator is in the same room with the computer. But you can certainly bury it deep enough to stop it being found remotely.” Julia sighed. “All of which means I should get right on it. You two go and look into some sheep stealing or something and keep out of my hair.”

From Dying to be Cured a Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook one of the stories in the SciFi Roundtable’s anthology Gods of Clay .

Glossary
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
Demetae and Cornovii – Wales and several English Midland counties including Shropshire.
Domin-a/us – Ma’am/Sir. Used to superiors both in rank and social status.
Diocletian – the reforming emperor who established the foundations of a new Roman Empire and the point at which this history divided from our own.
Irrumator – cock sucker.
Praetor – an extremely high-ranking official
Submagistratus – a more junior official with legal jurisdiction over an area, under the authority of a Magistratus.
Vigiles – Police. In Dai and Julia’s world the police are a sub-branch of the military.
Villa Papaverus – Poppy House. Dai and Julia’s ‘goes with the job’ residence.

The first indication that something was amiss in nomeland was the smell. It was emanating from somewhere in the vicinity of the compost heaps and, at first, the nomes put it down to the normal stupidity of the biggers. Time passed and the stench got worse, but even then nobody would have done any more than move upwind of it if Cheezer, Chiggees and Oisin hadn’t moved their winter tent to completely block the way behind heap one.
“I reckon they’m trying to make booze, and failing,” Granny opined.
“Is it supposed to smell like that?”
“Nope. That’s the fail.”

©jj 2022

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…

Jecks pulled at his neckline as if it were too close about his throat.
“It’s not what you…”
“Oh, but I rather think it is.” The first taste of victory after such a bitter defeat and three years of exile was so sweet. She leaned forward, unable to suppress her delight and not caring that it showed. “I rather think you need me again.”
Jecks physically recoiled from her.
“Kahina, I — “
“Var Sarava,” she corrected him. He looked as though she had slapped him hard across the face and Kahina smiled. “You are of course quite right. I knew already. Or should I be more accurate and say that Future Data informed me of there being a high probability that those two would resurface in this timeframe.”
“Then you know why I came.” Jecks sounded defeated now, resigned to some inevitable and inescapable fate. Which, Kahina supposed, was not too far from the truth of things.
“Of course I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m not a mind reader. Future Data may inform me what is likely to occur, but it’s not yet capable of attributing motive to the behaviours it predicts. Why did you come?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, but Ilke Dray suggested…” Jecks stopped himself and took a breath instead. Wise man. Kahina could feel the pressure of her fingers closing into tight claws.
“How is dear Ilke these days?” Then she lifted a forbidding hand, forcing the fingers to uncurl, as Jecks opened his mouth to tell her. “No. I really don’t want to know. I’m sure she will be going about her busy little life in her busy little way. And of course you don’t need to tell me why you are here, that much is obvious. What I want to know is what do you have to offer me in exchange for my assistance at this time?”
Jecks wore the look of a man being asked to sell his mother.
“Var Sarava, you can’t seriously intend to turn the security of the Coalition into an auction?”
“Why not? I have what you need, and you can procure it nowhere else. That would seem to me the basis of a price negotiation. I am sure you have authorisation to offer me something or you wouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t reverse the decision of the courts. I can’t turn back the clock and restore your good name. I can’t undo what has happened.” He sounded quite upset about it too.
Kahina got to her feet as gracefully as her age allowed and crossed the room to the antique desk. She loved the smooth feel of the polished wood as she slid her hand beneath it to release a secret catch. It was a wonderfully archaic hiding place. She slipped the data stick into her hand and turned back to Jecks, holding it up for him to see.
“This is everything you need to know to deal with them — if you are willing to pay the price I ask.”
“I’m not authorised to offer you anything.” He sounded in pain.
“Then it’s good that I’m not asking you for any ‘thing’. I have only one demand to make.”
“The head of Ilke Dray?” Jecks suggested, his voice slightly strangled. And, for a moment, Kahina had to wonder if he was being serious. Perhaps he was.
“I have no idea what I might do with such a completely vacuous item,” she told him. “No. I couldn’t care less about Ilke. And the price I’m going to ask isn’t unduly expensive. I merely need to know you will pay it when the time comes.”
“What is it?”
“I want Durban Chola.”
She wasn’t sure if it was relief or appalled amusement that motivated his response. “Chola? What the…? I mean, why?”
“I really rather think that’s my business, don’t you?”
Jecks looked as though he was being forced to swallow a large, irregularly shaped solid object.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I think we can do that.”
It was that easy.
Crossing back to the chairs, she settled herself comfortably again before holding out the data stick to Jecks. He took it as if it were a sacred relic, then busied himself with his links for a few moments as he prepared it to read. She could tell when he had done so. His expression shifted. Hardened.
“This contains nothing. Just two names.”
“That is more than enough for now, I assure you. If you were intelligent enough it would be all you needed, but I am quite aware you will be returning to ask me for further guidance.” It was why she felt so confident that he would pay her price in the end.
Jecks was frowning as if trying to read some deeper meaning into what he had been given.
“One is someone I know quite well and I can see the sense in it, they’ve worked on this before — but who in the name of all sanity is Halkom Dugsdall?”
Kahina, her objective achieved, sat back serenely and smiled.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

Because life happens…

Growing older does not have to weigh
If you throw out your scales one fine day
Tell yourself you don’t mind
A spreading behind
And you’re going to be happy that way

E.M. Swift-Hook

Passing Bell is the second story (all new characters) in Leighton Dean’s weird west universe.
Dark and powerful magic summons the bounty hunter, Varuna, to the town of Oradour. There, he must face his mysterious past, along with his unfortunate captive who he drags with him.
Trigger Warnings: Nudity. Verbal and physical abuse. Bloody Violence. Human Sacrifice. Witless prose and humour guaranteed not to make you laugh.

Varuna crouched, pressing a knee down into the sticky mud. Cupping his calloused palms, he plunged them into the frigid stream. Crystal water splashed up at his face and he shook out the droplets from his week-old beard. A delicate mist clung to the ground, and only a few flowers were still blossoming, straining to catch the final rays of the setting sun.
Soon, they too would have closed up their sweet petals, preparing to rest for the night.
Varuna shut his eyes and smiled.
The glade lay quiet behind him, its leaves dancing and kissing high above and amongst the surrounding forest.
And at the threshold of his hearing, music and cheerful hollers from some distant party carried over to him on the wind. He reached down to his side, reclaimed his wide-brimmed hat, and settled it atop his head. He stood and turned toward the music and the flickering lanterns, far from Kimlin woods and all the way to the Redensk mountains’ foot.
The end of the summer was drawing close, as were the final harvest celebrations.
He’d made good time. Harlach was now just a two-day ride south, and if he left early enough, he could be at the Rass staging post by tomorrow afternoon. A warm bed called out to him, along with plentiful hot food and draft ale, and his bounty, tucked in a cell for the night.
A snap of a branch, accompanied by a snort, swiftly turned Varuna’s head.
His stomach growled as if angry at him not feeding it.
He slid a hand down to his boot, pulling a leaf-green dagger from its sheath. Stepping across the stream, Varuna followed the rustling bushes until he spotted it—a peccary, a tiny grey pig with bristly hair, looking nonchalant as it chewed on its supper.
Under the shadow of a large oak, the little pig gorged itself on a clump of truffles.
Varuna knelt, opening his consciousness to the world.
The trees sang in harmony, their limbs reaching to their neighbours, and birds withdrew to their nests. The little pig raised its head, long lips slapping as it chewed on a fresh mouthful.
Its nose twitched at the air, and it arched its head until its bulbous black eyes met Varuna’s.
The peccary blinked.
A front trotter lifted. The pig’s shoulders pitched toward an exit, but Varuna held its gaze with his own and eventually, the hog lowered its leg, placated. With a resigned snort, it left the remaining truffles, scuttling forward through ferns and moss, stopping by Varuna’s feet.
Varuna stroked the peccary’s snout with his hand as if it were a pet.
He extended a warm smile, soothing its concern, and said, ‘Thank you.’
Quick as a flash, making sure the action would be pain free for both himself and the pig, he plunged the knife in behind its ear, piercing the peccary’s brain. It bucked and shivered momentarily—just reflexes. It had felt nothing. Of that, he was sure, and Varuna gently laid the peccary to the ground as though putting a child to sleep in a warm bed.
He removed the blade, bringing back an empty hand to stroke the swine’s neck.
He spoke in a dead language, and while the words were as potent as any other, Elvish was unmatched in its musical prose. They’d been arrogant, yes. But they had not deserved the hatred and violence that ultimately destroyed them. Everything east of the Redensk had belonged to them, and now it belonged to humanity.
As did everything else in their brave new world. It was an unfair and heinous theft.
Again in a reflex action, the pig kicked its hind legs one last time as Varuna removed the blade from its flesh. Its chest stilled. Varuna closed the hog’s eyes with care and respect, listening as the finches began mourning the death in song. He wiped the blood from his blade in the long-wet grass and sheathed it, then dusted mud from his knees and carried the peccary back to camp. Yes, he thought. In less than three days, when he’d received payment for his bounty, he intended to head south to Persussas. The fighting here in the north had worsened markedly, and Uefel had turned into a dangerous place for lone travellers. Even those such as him.

A Bite of… Leighton Dean

Where is your jumping off point when writing?

Yellow writing pad. Pencil. A choice of Zimmer, McCreary or Djawadi. Two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half full of cocaine… dammit, thought I was at my NA meeting.  I always start with something visual. It may not make it into the final edit, but I find a physical object helps ground me (and the reader) in the scene. 

Do you know the story as a whole? Or do you just have a beginning or a character?

I am a plotter. However, I have discovered that there’s little point in plotting detail once I’ve done the first 25%. Characters will be characters and no matter how excessive the creation process, they don’t flesh out until they interact with other characters.  Once I’ve written 25% I will, of cours,  correct the remaining story and detail the next quarter. I am more successful in finishing a project if I know the end scene, but I do not need to know how it ends. For example, I know John Doe will lead Mills and Summerset to the middle of nowhere for the final showdown, but I won’t decide what’s in the box until one of them opens it. 

If you could host a literary lunch, who would your three guests be?

J. Michael Straczynski. Julian May. Philip K. Dick. 

Do you have a guilty pleasure? 

Conspiracy Theories. I tell myself they’re great story potential, but I love getting lost down a good YouTube rabbit hole at three in the morning. 

Leighton Dean is an author of genre fiction—sometimes with a touch a horror. He lives with his wife in South Wales, UK.
Raised by a 24-inch coloured television, Leighton was a true child of the 80s. To this day, terrible dialogue and innuendos are the foundation of his conversational skills. If he speaks at all.
He now lives in his hobbit hole with his very own hobbit princess and rambunctious golden retriever, which he rides to his day job on. When not banging his head against his keyboard and swearing at a blank screen, he pretends to be a samurai and waltzes about his garden, whistling Bonnie Tyler songs. He also spends an inordinate amount of time curled up in a corner berating himself for admitting such nonsensical schlock.
You can find him on Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads and his own website.

When almost everyone had partway recovered from the effects of Big Bigger’s booze Brenda called a meeting.
“Right you lot. I’ve only got one thing to say. Nobody brews no po-cheen.”
She ignored the mumbling and grumbling and went for a quiet rest in the herbaceous border.
She awoke to find Granny snoring beside her.
“What you doing here, old nome?”
Granny awoke with a start, and by the time they had found the teeth that exploded from her mouth it was dinner time and the question was forgotten.
Cheezer, Oisin, and Chiggers were conspicuously absent.
Big Brenda sighed.

©jj 2022

Roguing Thieves is a previously unpublished Fortune’s Fools story by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Trailing in the wake of the two men, Pan found herself in a spacious underground docking bay. There were five docks in this underground hanger. Three were occupied, one by their own ship. It had a rotating floor which was moving slowly to bring another vessel in line with the launch doors overhead. A glance was enough to tell Pan that it wasn’t the ship she was here to fix. This one was an ex-military conversion. A systems interceptor. Small, limited cargo capacity, built for speed and maneuverability in normal space. The kind of thing a wealthy dilettante might pick up as a fun toy.
If this belonged to Dekker and his friends, she didn’t see that they could have too many money worries, but perhaps it was just visiting like herself and Tolin.
Tols.
She had never heard him called that before. He’d always been quietly insistent on people using his full name. ‘Tols’ and Dek were just vanishing through a door that she assumed led into the rest of the settlement. Deliberately holstering her anger at being pretty much ignored, she headed over to the third ship in the dock. She could agree with Dekker on one point at least, the sooner she got started the better. Then she could get the job done and they could go. Maybe as soon as Tolin got back from his male-bonding session.
Of course it wasn’t that simple.

By the time Tolin reappeared she was starting to get genuinely frightened. He came into the cargo hold of the damaged ship, where she was still running diagnostics through the direct-access engineering port. He was clutching a meal-synth carton for her and looking strangely diminished, as if all his self-confidence had been leeched away.
“I come bearing food,” he said, holding out the carton almost as if he was making an offering to some ancient wrathful goddess, which right at that moment felt pretty appropriate to Pan.
She didn’t take the carton, instead she pointed at a pile of crates stacked up in the corner of the hold.
“Have you seen those? Crates of restricted tech with shipment tags three cycles out of date.”
Tolin didn’t even look and there was no surprise on his face, just a sick expression. He put the carton of food on the open service panel, as if it was a flip down table and avoided her eyes.
“You knew?” Pan found herself struggling for words. “If we get caught having anything to do with stolen restricted tech…” She couldn’t even bring herself to finish the sentence “Your friends seem to be smuggling this stuff.”
“It’s not like that,” Tolin protested, but his voice lacked conviction.. “I mean, Dekker and his friends are not like that. They’re not angels and they are sort of roguish, yes, but then so are most freetraders. And they’re not smuggling those crates. They have buyers.”
“If they have to deliver it to those buyers they will be smuggling. You can’t land that stuff anywhere legally,” Pan said hotly. Another thought occurred on the tail of that. “Did they steal it too? Are they just smugglers or smuggling thieves? Or maybe you’d call it ‘roguing’? Roguing thieves? You prefer that?” Pan tried hard to keep the contempt from her tone, but knew she was failing. “And have you seen the hull of this ship? From what I’m seeing here, the reason the engines are out is because it took a burn from the outside. Do you know what that means?”
Tolin said nothing and was studying the exposed engineering port with an intensity it didn’t merit.
“You knew all this sort of thing about Dekker before we came here, didn’t you?” Pan shook her head. Anger morphing into fear and back again, like waves pounding a beach. It felt like a betrayal.
“No one will know we fixed the ship,” Tolin said, still avoiding her eyes. “No one will know we’ve even been here. You just have to fix the ship and we can go.” He made it sound so easy and reasonable.
“Did you see that system intercept conversion out there? I had a look at it just now. The weapons systems have been reinstalled.” She paused to try and swallow down the enormity of what she needed to say. To turn the unspeakable into spoken words. Tolin continued to stare at the engineering port as if it was a puzzle he needed to solve. The silence between them stretched out painfully. “Your friend Dek isn’t a rogue, or a thief, or even a smuggler is he? He’s a pirate.”
“And a very successful one too,” Dekker’s voice came from behind her and Pan spun around.

There will be more Roguing Thieves next Sunday…

We’ve done it together, including the fights
When both of us know that we are in the right
The slinging of insults, we each do our half
Til we roll on the floor trying hard not to laugh
It’s the laughter that heals us as much as the rest
As knowing we’ve something that’s stood all the tests
We’ve cried, hand in hand at the side of a grave
And the faith in your eyes is the reason I’m brave
You’ve always been there, understanding too much
But I’d wither away were it not for your touch
So what if the wrinkles have come to your skin
It’s not on the outside, the trick is what’s in
So what if my ass is so wobbly and wide
That you call it the moon, say it changes the tides
So what if the romance went off long ago
We have something better, a truth we both know
We’ve done it together, we’re useless apart
You’re the half of my soul and the whole of my heart

©️jj 2022

It was midnight in the stacks, and the air was filled with tiny rhythmic noises of a sort that the fanciful might have thought of as books snoring. The young woman busily shelving books was obviously not fanciful though, as she worked efficiently, serene and undisturbed by the night and its secrets.
She positioned each volume carefully – tutting occasionally as she unbent dogeared corners and removed unsuitable objects being used as ‘bookmarks’.
It was right at the end of her task when she was briskly dealing with the ugly temperament of a couple of grimoires that something outside the usual caught her attention. Being of a methodical turn of mind she completed her task before investigating the source of an undefinable disquiet.
It felt as if the source of the problem, whatever it might be, was the children’s literature section, so once she had replaced her trolley in the storeroom she walked that way on quiet feet. The closer she came to the area dedicated to myth and legend for young readers the more she understood there was definitely something needing her attention.
As yet she had no notion what was afoot, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to disturb the serenity of the sleeping books, to the extent that they were huddling together in clumps. Once she set foot in the aisle between the worst affected volumes, she could hear a susurrating sound as if a breeze moved through the pages. The books were actually shivering with fear.
“Calmly now,” she said infusing her voice with both confidence and command. “Calm yourselves. I am here.”
It was as if a sigh of relief ran through the shelved books.
A small black bird flew from the pages of a venerable volume on the topmost shelf. It was pursued by a set of snapping teeth which were rapidly gaining as it flapped its tiny wings in near desperation. The Night Librarian held out a small freckled hand and the bird clung to her. The snapping teeth stopped in their tracks before a voice laced with menace spoke.
“I am hunger.”
It was joined by another voice, and another and another…
“I am cold.”
“I am fear.”
“I am pain.”
More and more voices joined in until a cacophonous litany of pain and anger filled the night air.
The night librarian waited a beat then spoke a single word of power.
There was silence.
“Better. Now who speaks for the displaced ones?”
The voice that answered her was colder than a north wind and angrier than a volcano.
“I speak for all. And if you let us drink your blood and eat your story we will leave the dry books to their desiccated little lives.”
The librarian put her free hand in the sagging pocket of her cardigan.
“Show yourselves then.” She spoke with quiet dignity.
The angry one laughed. “I do enjoy a courageous meal.” Then it began to laugh. An insane, humourless sound that beat against the venerable timbers of the library. When it regained its breath it spoke sneeringly. 
“Do you have any idea what you are asking.”
“Several. Now show yourself if you don’t fear me.”
The very air seemed to hold its breath.
“Me. Fear you?”
Came a bang and a flash and a dark figure stood in the aisle facing the librarian and the terrified bird. It made to snatch the feathered one, but failed as the young woman simply twitched her hand out of reach.
“There is nothing for you here. Go home.” She spoke without inflection, but even so the darkling shuddered right down to its misshapen shoes.
When it answered her it sounded fretful.
“I shall go nowhere. You cannot banish me.”
“Can I not?”
All around there was a sound as of rushing wind, or rustling leaves and the whispers started up again.
“You can not banish us…”
The librarian took a knobbly stick from her pocket.
“Can I not?” she repeated softly.
The winds about her grew fiercer and whipped her skirts and sandy hair into disarray.
“Not even with your little wand.”
“Shall I banish you by name?”
It was as if a hurricane blew the pages of the shrinking books and tried to snatch the knobbly little stick from its owner’s grasp.
“Nooooooo…..”
The librarian sighed and concentrated.
“Rumplestiltskin. Begone.”
The darkling went leaving behind only a sour smell and the memory of fear. The librarian soothed the books before going back to her unending round of the tasks the day librarians thought themselves too beautiful to be worried by.

‘The Story Eaters’ is one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago