I am breeder number thirteen. In the last ten years I have given birth to seven children. I have never been permitted to see any of them, although I was lucky enough to hear each one cry as it was carried away to the nurseries. I know my babies must be healthy, because I am still here. Those who cannot bear viable infants do not stay. We do not know where they go.
Of the original twenty breeders brought to this place, only I and number eight remain. There have been many others. Some have stayed. Some have gone. Some have died. We currently number eleven. I am the only one who can read and write fluently. Those who raised me until I was brought here had me taught. At that time it was not forbidden.
I count myself lucky. I was raised by foster carers outside this place, and, although I have never been loved, I was raised carefully. Some others are not so fortunate. They have been wrenched from their families because they are fertile. They have had names. They have had mothers and fathers. They have known what it is to be loved. I pity them.
The keepers are not unkind, but we are little more than vessels to them. They consider our physical health carefully; as our only function is to provide the children the rich and powerful cannot make for themselves. Our mental health is less of a consideration, but as long as we perform regularly, and without complaining, they have no reason to make us miserable. Indeed, when it was discovered that I am literate, I was given books, and writing supplies, on condition that I made no attempt to teach anyone else these skills. I am too thankful for the solace to be found in reading to defy this prohibition. I also have my herb garden from whose produce I make simple remedies for female ailments. This is encouraged by our keepers.
For as long as I have conscious memory I have presented the world with a face of mild compliance. It is the hardest thing of all to do, especially when you burn inside. But it has kept me alive. Most of the other women in this place think me odd in the extreme, as I keep myself busy all day; they prefer to spend their days eating sweetmeats and their nights pleasuring each other. All the time, they speculate about the men who come to leave their seed in this place. This speculation is as bad for the mind as sexualised idleness and too much sweet food are for the body. If girls grow fat, keepers will restrict their access to foods, and drive them to the gymnasium for exercise, but if the minds of the same girls are clouded with foolish dreams about the fathers of their babies who is to care?
I have one friend; she is breeder number eight, the other survivor of the original intake of twenty girls. Mostly, number eight and I keep to our own company, although of late we have been joined by number sixty-two, a small, pale girl who had a hard time birthing twins, and seems to find our company a solace.
In order to retain our sanity, we decided long ago never to think about the men whose seed we incubate. We also try not to think about the babies.  Putting men out of our minds is easy, as we never see one. The seed is brought to us by the midwives, who implant it in our wombs with painful devices. And if there should be a difficult birth requiring the aid of a doctor, the doctor’s face is hidden. I have my babes easily, as does number eight, so I have never been even that close to a male person. The truth of the matter is that as far as memory serves me, I have never actually seen a man. The only time I can even remember having heard male voices is when we are gathered together and forced witness extreme punishment being meted out by the masked minions of the Enforcer.
Not thinking about the babies you have borne is more difficult, and I think all breeders have many wakeful nights wondering where our children are, and hoping they are loved. My friend and I never speak of it.
Eight and I take as much healthful exercise as we are allowed. We like best to run in the gardens, although this is not always possible. When we must stay inside, we run on the mechanical roads, and practice the hand-to-hand combat we learned from our friend, number two. She was an exquisite oriental girl who taught us the beautiful dance that is called Tai Kwon Do. She also taught us to balance our minds, and tricks to enable us to always present a calm exterior. When she went away, we were sad, but hid it in the ways she had taught us.
In the evenings, or when we are heavy with child, I read out loud and number eight makes exquisite embroideries. It is not such a bad life; at least we have companionship.

The opening of The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old, and you should be depleted
Modern techno should have you defeated
But you bought an iPhone
Never leave it alone
And I’m shocked by the filth that you tweeted

© jane jago

There were two other men in the hot bath, lazily reclined and talking in low voices. They were both, Dai could not fail to notice, wearing heavy Patrician rings so even when naked they were still marked out as superior beings, paunches and all.

“It is incredible who they allow in here nowadays,” one said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Dai. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I didn’t think natives were allowed in these baths – never seen one before, anyway,” his companion agreed. “I’ll have a word with the curator, we can get it removed.”

Dai was grateful the heat had already made his skin very flushed or his reaction to their words might have been visible, as it was he decided it was not worth creating an issue that might fall back on Julia to deal with as she was the one who had signed him in as her guest. That was the only way any non-Roman would be allowed in a public premises deemed ‘sub aquila’ – where you had to walk under the eagle on the portico to get inside, and it meant she was personally responsible for his behaviour. So, instead, he curtailed his bathing and pulled himself out of the pool on the far side to from where the Romans lounged.

He had to walk past them to leave the pool room and as he did so, one made a crude gesture with one finger, his patrician’s ring glinting gold. Dai froze mid-stride and turned back, fists balling as he did so.

“At least,” he said tightly, “I have a real dick and not just a picture of one on a ring.”

The water beside him erupted and he decided not to wait whilst the two heaved themselves from the water like bull seals onto a rock.

From Dying to be Roman one of the novellas in ‘The First Dai and Julia Omnibus‘ by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

He hung the naked Adonis in his study, but was displeased to notice that the room began to grow dusty.
“The cleaner won’t go in there. It’s the naked willy.”
“Couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“What about if I cover the painting?”
“We can try it.”
This worked perfectly well, until the regular cleaner went on holiday. The temp was cleaning the study and her screams could be heard above even the roar of the vacuum cleaner.
People ran from every direction to find the woman rigid with shock. You don’t expect a picture to be masturbating because it thinks itself unobserved.

©️jj 2021

The reunion gathering in the The Red Dragon was subdued.
It didn’t help that a travelling bard was singing of the Nine who saved the Kingdom. The story in the song was a pretty enough confection, Hepsie thought, but most all lies. And it was a reminder that the last time they had set out as companionship of nine and returned as seven and now just four of them sat around the table.
Hepsie had a lot on her mind but she could see that even the usually irrepressible Stref took the news about Raya like a blow to the gut. At least it stopped him from squabbling with Linis for once as they always used to. Or maybe it was deeper than the one event, maybe he had grown up some. Linis certainly had. The poise and calm were the same, but the sophistication, elegance and self-command spoke to something new. When the conversation turned to their next step and the long journey to the mountains she simply lifted a hand to silence everyone.
“I don’t see why we need to make this into a grand trek. There are other ways to get there.”
Poll looked thoughtful. “Aye. There is for sure. We could use the Guild of Fartravellers. But they would ask more than all I own for the price of the spell.”
Which was true. Fartravel was expensive and for a reason. Only the Guild knew the spell and word was that it took so much from the caster they would need days in bed after to recover.
“That might be so, but I have the price of it. How do you think I came to Durmouth so quickly when Raya sent word to me?”
“We couldn’t ask…” Poll began to protest.
“No. This is the same as before. We all bring to this our strengths. That I have the gold is no more to the point than that I have my bow.”
“Before, we all had nothing except our skill, our muscles and our wits.”
“We were young then, Poll,” Linis said gently. “Now we have other resources. A lifetime of them. Just as we used the strengths of our youth before, now – if we are to succeed – we must use all the strengths of our age and experience.”
So it was settled and the next day they gathered in the Travel Court of the Guild. It looked like any other courtyard Hepsie had ever been in, cobbles, and stone walls. Except that there was only one wide gate and the high stone walls were featureless aside for plaques on which were carved sigils. She recognised one or two and wondered what they might have to do with travel at all. Or maybe they were just there to confuse people like her, with some small knowledge of magic, to ensure the real spell remained secret.
Hepsie and Poll were with their hill ponies, Stref with a broad-backed mule he had found somewhere and Linis with her chestnut mare. All the mounts had bedrolls and side packs of supplies. Hopefully, they hadn’t forgotten anything because there were no taverns or towns in the high mountains.
Hepsie found herself whispering a prayer to Shal and then wondered why she did so. It was unsettling as she was never the one to call on any god. But there was no time to give it any thought more because the Guild Spellcaster and her two apprentices, were beginning the spellcasting, sending them to the place Linis was holding in her thoughts. That was the big limit on Fartravel, as everyone knew, you had to have been there first.
The magic tingled on her skin and Hepsie resisted the urge to scratch at it. Hepsie’s barrel-shaped pony snorted and rolled its eyes as she tried to soothe it. Stref was having a fine time keeping his mule in place as it sidestepped and tried to pull away. Even the chestnut mare had her ears flattened. Any moment they would all try and bolt. This was going to be a disaster.
“Everyone alright?” Linis asked
Hepsie blinked. Then shivered. They were high in the mountains. Just like that. She hadn’t even felt a moment of transition, and if there had been anything to see she had missed it, focused as she was on keeping her pony calm. No wonder the Guild spellcasters could charge such high prices.

From a fantasy tale by E.M. Swift-Hook

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

I am old and my needs are quite small
I will just make a list of them all
A home of my own
An iPad and phone
And a man with a good set of balls

© jane jago

Nothing Left to Lose is the tenth book in the Lost Dogs series by Nils Ödlund and it rounds out the second major story. It’s the end of the series, but not the end of the story…

Alene sold a couple of t-shirts to a middle-aged man, and a book on anfylk baking to a woman not much older than herself. The cash machine worked the way she expected it, and all the items had neat little price tags on them.
No one asked her help to find anything, and no one seemed to recognise her. Someone asked if she’d heard about the fire, and she said wasn’t it terrible and she hoped no one got hurt, and that was that.
For a long time, she stood and stared at the cash box. It held enough money to see her with food and tickets for a week, just there for the taking.
The curse didn’t scare her. She’d never fall in love again. The affliction had seen to that. The beast, and her five-year old self hiding in the dark tunnels. She hadn’t thought about her since yesterday, but now, between customers, and with the music on the speaker sounding like a summer breeze in the mountains, the dream from the other night came back to her.
The dream, and the memories, and she’d better find something to do before the past crushed every single spark of joy she’d ever felt..
A pile of t-shirts that needed folding.
Books that needed putting on shelves.
Surfaces that needed dusting, and a floor that could do with a bit of sweeping. Once she got started, there was no shortage of tasks that perhaps didn’t need doing, but that could do with being done.
The beast kept quiet, Alene lined up a group of toy soldiers advancing on a stuffed rabbit, and the music drifted off to birds and forest sounds.
A little old lady showed up, kept calling her Sallay, and asked if she’d lost weight because there was something different about her that she couldn’t put a finger about, and did she have a suggestion for a birthday present for a four-year old?
Alene didn’t have the heart to tell the woman she wasn’t Sallay, but helped her find a wooden locomotive, put it in a box and wrapped it in sparkly paper. Forgot to check the price and convinced the old lady she’d already paid rather than open up the present and see what the tag said. Little Corinne probably wouldn’t care anyway.

A Bite of… Nils Ödlund  

If you knew nobody would ever read a word you wrote, would you continue writing?

No. I don’t think I would. The whole point of writing something down is so that it can be read. The stories in my head don’t demand to be told. If I knew no one would read what I wrote, I’d just keep the stories to myself. Easier that way, and I can change things up on the fly as I want to, without having to worry about words and text.

As a writer, what is your ambition?

I want to provide an enjoyable escapist reading experience. Sometimes, the real world can get a bit much, and I want to help provide a way to escape from that, even if just for a little while. I want to create a world that readers feel like they can step into, and characters that stay with them even after they stop reading. I want to create stories that mean something.

What is your favourite tipple?

I’m quite partial to Jameson lately.

Nils Ödlund is originally Swedish, but lives these days in Cork, Ireland. He’s an avid reader, gamer, and fan of geek-culture. He picked up writing as a hobby, almost by accident, back in 2010, and it quickly grew into something of an obsession. In 2017 he decided to get serious about it, and in early 2018, he published his debut novella Emma’s Story. Since then, he’s been working on the Lost Dogs series.
When not writing, he enjoys hiking through the Irish countryside, reading, or playing games.
Unlike every other author in the history of all authors ever, Ödlund does not have a cat.
You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and his own website.

She seemed to us to be barely more than a child as she leaned hip-shot against the perimeter fence in the sickly light of a dying lamp. We didn’t think she’d be making eating money that night. But then he came. He was tall, big, and warmly wrapped against the cold.
His hand found the girl child’s throat and he dragged her into the darkness. There was one agonised scream.
The girl sauntered out into the fitful light and the red eyes of a golem looked up at us.
“That’s one-nil to justice, should you be keeping score.”

©️jj 2021

Art by Ian Bristow.

The adventures of Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson.

Hustle it was as the little cross-country train was already tooting its whistle. Homes, who had the speed of an athlete when he chose to exert himself, shot over the bridge with Bearson and Yore puffing in his wake.
“You would think,” Yore grumbled, “that a serving officer of the law would be able to outpace a normally sedentary pig.”
Bearson didn’t bother to answer – being not built for physical exercise he had no breath left for debating police donkeys.
On the platform the train awaited, and if it were possible for a contrivance of wood and steel to appear impatient one would have said that the little train seemed to be waiting for them with barely concealed annoyance.
Homes had a carriage door open and the two confederates all but fell into the train.
“I say, you two,” Homes was in self-congratulatory mood. “I thought we were supposed to be hustling. It’s a good job one of us isn’t too fat to run.”
He barely evaded the heavy clout Bearson aimed at his porcine snout.
“If you are going to be like that I’m sorry I held the train for you.”
Bearson, who was feeling thoroughly disgruntled, glowered. “Well I don’t suppose you would have bothered of it wasn’t for the fact I have your ticket in my pocket.”
Homes chortled. “Good deduction old chum. But never you fret, I have your interests at heart.” He showed his sharp, yellow teeth in a gin before carrying on. “Yonder is an emporium where one may purchase a cream tea, or, should one be about to embark, a hamper containing scones, country butter, strawberry jam, and clotted cream.”
Bearson’s mouth watered.
“It’s an awful shame we hadn’t enough time to obtain such a thing.”
Yore sat up.
“I could make them hold the train,” he said determinedly.
“No need, old chap.” Homes was expansive. “If I’m not very much mistaken here comes our hamper.”
Indeed, two stout gentlemen in stripy aprons were cantering along the platform, bearing between them a large and obviously heavy wicker hamper.”
“Cream tea for Piglock Homes,” the fattest of the two cried in stentorian tones.
Homes threw the carriage door wide and hung out at a precarious angle.
“Over here,” he cried and the hamper was brought to the door.
After pushing it through the aperture the men held out their large, red hands. Homes put a shilling in each and the men saluted politely.
The guard came along and slammed the door and the train pulled busily out of the station.
Bearson and Yore picked up the hamper and followed Homes’ scuttling little figure. They found an empty compartment and Bearson opened the hamper.
He groaned. “Look at this.”
Yore elbowed him aside and stared at the Lucillan repast.
“I suppose,” he said in an awed voice, “this means we have to forgive Homes for being such an annoying little piggy.”
Bearson didn’t deign to reply, being too busy slathering a sultana scone with strawberry jam and thick yellow cream.
He passed it to Homes, who had settled in one corner of the carriage. Homes sunk his teeth into the sweet treat.
Yore, who had sunk into his Ulster like a grey phantasm of depression, blinked slowly. “I have a premonition of disaster,” he enunciated.
Bearson made a rude noise with his lips and passed the inspector a scone oozing cream.
“Stop premonitionising,” he advised, “it’s injurious to the digestion.”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

April wears a bright green dress
Embroidered oe’r with flowers
She never fails to impress
With sunshine and with showers.

And although sunny days do come
Within her weeks’ purview
The cold and blustery showery ones
Are often with her too.

But April carries all the hope
And all the dreams of spring
And as the days through April lope
The thoughts of summer bring.

Then when April passes by
You’ll hear the old folk say
The April rains that made us sigh
Will bring a blooming May.

E.M. Swift-Hook