You do the daftest things when you live alone.
Like eating chocolate cake for breakfast and using half a tin of alphabetti spaghetti to compose bad haiku, or drawing a face on your toenail where it peeks through a hole in your sock and serenading it with an out of tune chorus of ‘Liverpool Lou’.
Or sitting staring at your smartphone for twenty-three long minutes wondering if he will ring – or even text.
But at least, when you go to bed after dining on microwaved porridge, you don’t have to fight for the duvet or sleep in a damp patch…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

For some reason the meeting was taking place in the sound recording room. After they finished the visual side of it, Joah usually insisted the human trio recorded their speech again. They were, after all, not word perfect and inflection precise in the same way their virtual co-stars could be. It was built with special insulation to eliminate any sound leakage in or out.
It was a bit of a squeeze getting them all inside and the door closed, especially for Dog who always found he took up more space than anyone expected. And Joah looked less than her usually confident self. That troubled Dog. He trusted Joah and if she had reason to be nervous it made him unsettled. At least Zarshay seemed at ease, she grinned at Dog as she squashed herself in beside him.
Heila looked long suffering and slightly bored, but that meant nothing, of course.
“So what is this about?” she demanded and then pulled a face. “Someone did not use deodorant today.”
“Shut up, Heila,” Zarshay said in a pleasant tone. “Before we start talking about anything else — are you staying with the show or are you jumping ship to Undergrove? Now we don’t mind if you are, but Joah and I would like a straight answer, please.”
Dog gave a small bark of surprise. He couldn’t help it. Not that anything Heila did should surprise him anymore, but that took a lot of beating.
The blue eyes instantly filled with moisture. “How could you think such a thing? I’m a woman of my word and I signed for five seasons.”
“You signed for six with Hopeless Hearts Hospital and walked out to join us after three,” Joah pointed out and the threatened tears seemed to reabsorb themselves somehow.
“That was different,” Heila snapped. “That show was going nowhere fast. SP is in a different league.”
“So why were you flirting with Lon Undergrove?” Zarshay asked.
Dog wondered if she also caught the brief look of cold calculation on Heila’s face, smothered stillborn by a wounded smile.
“Talking over old times, darling, that is all. He and I were almost an item once.”
It was pretty clear neither Joah nor Zarshay were buying that. They just looked at Heila. Dog was glad he was not the one getting those looks. There was a hollow silence of expectation that hung in the room.
“Alright,” Heila lifted both her hands. “Yes, I was talking with Undergrove. They have a new show and want me for it. Nice money. Very nice. But only if they get Dog too. Lon says he likes our chemistry on screen. I told him there was no way Dog would leave SP, but he wanted me to try anyway.” She crossed her arms and huffed out a breath glaring at Dog as if it was all somehow his fault. Then she looked back at Joah and Zarshay and her expression changed again. “I’m sorry, alright? It won’t happen again.”
Joah’s face tightened.
“I’m serious here, this is something we need to take on as a team or it’s going to sink us — and maybe sink a lot of other people too. If you are going to play on being the spoilt brat Hiela, walk now because things are going to turn very nasty.”
Dog shook himself and earned an elbow in the ribs from Zarshay. But Joah’s words had the desired effect and Heila looked strangely expressionless for once.
“You’d better tell us,” she said, the usual childlike singsong she managed to make into a mature sultry roll for her Captain’s voice, was suddenly absent.
“This is not going to be easy to explain,” Joah said, “but it’s us against the President.”

Dog felt the furrows on his brow deepen as Zarshay and Joah went over what had happened and his mind flipped back to that evening out with Teram and his salvage crew. It was like taking the hopes and dreams of half the city and whoring them out for cold cash.
“We’re not going to do this thing, are we?” he asked as the two women finished talking.
Zarshay patted his hand reassuringly. “Do you really think me and Joah would buy into something like that?”
“But you left them thinking you have and you’ve signed us away — me and Dog — without so much as a do-you-mind?” Heila sniffed and crossed her arms.
Dog barked out a laugh. “You mean like you were going to do with me if I’d gone for your dinner dance date?”
At least Heila had the good grace to avoid his eye and study her fingernails intently. Then she looked back at Joah. “So what do you want us to do? I assume you have a plan?”
Zarshay grinned broadly and Joah nodded her expression grim.
Dog leaned forward as they started to explain.

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1000

Flowers on a grave
Fresh ones every day
Delicate remembrance
From he who went away
A prayer for understanding
Bent head and blended knee
In this mind the sorrowing eyes
Of she who set him free
He knew he would return for her
He saw his future clear
He never thought he would come home
To find her waiting here
He was her strength and harbour
She was his heart and care
In life she was his one regret
In death she stripped him bare

©️jane jago

The boutique was a small, narrow shop, half-hidden in Brighton’s rambling lanes. The shop owner obviously knew Anna and Bonnie well, greeting them both with affection. “And who do we have here?”
“Mine,” Anna said laughingly.
“Well keep a tight hold on him. Now what can I do for you today?”
“I need a kick-ass dress for a big bash.”
“How kick ass?”
“Right up there.”
“I got three real belters in your size. You want to try them and let mister sexy have a say?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
The first dress was vintage, bronze-gold velvet. Sam hated it and said so. Number two was apricot silk jersey. Sam liked it better, but wasn’t knocked out. Anna shrugged and went back for number three. When she emerged from the changing room, Sam let out a low whistle. Anna stood before him in a skin-tight deceptively simple sheath of grey fabric shot with rainbow shades. Whenever Anna moved, a thread of colour picked up the light. He was stunned.
“That’s it princess. That’s kick-ass if ever I saw it.”
“I thought so too. I’ve got some dangly earrings, so jewellery is covered. Gotta get shoes, though.”
Shoes came from another shop in the Lanes; skinny strapped sandals with toothpick heels.
“My feet are going to hate you, Sam. I’ll be expecting a foot rub at the end of the evening.”
“That’s a deal, and those shoes are so sexy that I can promise more than your feet getting rubbed.”
She snickered wickedly.
“Now. What about you?”
“Got a monkey suit. Clean too. Still in the cleaner’s bag from the last time. Got shoes. Might need a new silly shirt. Think the old one is a bit crap.”
“Well. We’ll get that too. And a new bow tie. A proper one.”
“Shit Anna. I can’t tie one of those things.”
“I can.”
“Oh well. In that case.”

They finished their shopping happily and were just meandering back to the car when Sam stopped suddenly. He stood stock still in front of the window of a tiny jeweller’s shop.
“Look Anna.”
“Look at what?”
He pointed to a ring box in the corner of the window.
“Oh,” Anna said softly, “how lovely”.
“I thought so too. Let’s go see if it’s your size.”
He grabbed her unresisting hand and towed her into the shop with Bonnie at her heels.
“Can we see the emerald and diamond ring in the window please?”
The man got up from behind the counter and unlocked the window.
“This one?”
“No. The one in the red leather box.”
“Ah yes. That’s exquisite. But it is rather expensive.”
“Let’s see if it fits the lady before we talk money,” Sam said firmly.
The square-cut emerald was flanked with blue-white baguette-cut diamonds, and the ring slid onto Anna’s finger as if it had been made for her.
“Like it?” Sam asked tenderly.
“Love it. But it’s a lot of money…”
“So? You can’t have a cheap engagement ring.”
Anna couldn’t speak, so she just blinked and nodded her head. Sam turned to the shopkeeper.
“I think the lady likes it. We’ll take it.”
The jeweller’s face was wreathed in smiles.
“I have a particular fondness for that ring, and it looks as if it was made for your fiancée. It’s early twentieth century and was pretty battered when I bought it. I spent many hours restoring it. If it’s your engagement ring, I’ll throw in the matching wedding ring as part of the deal. It’s platinum too, set with diamond chips, and carved to match the shoulders of the engagement ring. How will you be paying?”
“Debit card all right?”
“Certainly.”
“Done.”
While Sam and the jeweller did business, Anna stood looking at the lovely ring on her hand. Then she bent and showed it to Bonnie, who wagged approvingly.
“I think this means you and me will be marrying Sam. Do you approve?” she whispered into one soft, black ear. Bonnie flattened those ears and wagged harder. Anna hugged her dog, too happy to be sensible. When she came back to herself, Sam had finished his business with the jeweller and was smiling down at her.
“Come on lovely, we’re cluttering up the nice man’s shop.”
He held out his hand and Anna put her own in it.
They left the shop handfast, clutching multiple shopping bags, and followed by a happy-looking black dog. The jeweller shook his head and smiled.
“Stupid with happiness,” he remarked to nobody in particular, “I wish them well.”

When they got back to the car, Sam stowed the bags and belted Bonnie into the back seat. Anna, still in a happy daze, just stood staring at the emerald as it winked green fire at her. Sam scooped her into the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.
“Now,” he said on a laugh, “you do realise you just promised to marry me, don’t you?”
“I guess I did. But it’s OK, Bonnie approves.”
He laughed, then leaned over to kiss his lady love.
“I ought to ask you properly, though. I love you, will you please marry me?”
“I love you back much harder, and of course I’ll marry you.”
“Good. Now direct me to the Lamb and Flag.”
“Not simple. I’d better drive. I just need to moon over being engaged to you for another five minutes, then I’ll be OK.”
In the end, they both mooned, entranced by the beauty of the ring and the sweet promise of a life together. They were brought back to earth by Bonnie’s wet, warm tongue.

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

So here I stand and raise my flag
To mark my point of view
I hold it high above the crowd
So they can see it too

I shout my truth in voice so loud
With little care for tact
The voice that speaks the loudest wins
Opinion made fact.

I see you mouthing thoughtful words
But care not for your whys
I subscribe to the YouTube truth
And know the media lies.

And when the experts say I’m wrong
We all know experts fail
They don’t mean what they’re on about
They’re paid to tell a tale.

And scientists are in the pay
Of those in the deep state
Who only want to crush the truth
And silence all debate.

So don’t tell me of climate change,
I know it’s just weather.
Claim lives saved by vaccination?
Don’t you pull my tether!

I might not know where China is
But I’ve had education
You can’t fool me anymore
With your United Nations.

It used to be a real pain
To get what I think heard
Then someone made the internet
So I can spread the word.

And now there are a million flags
All waving in the sun
And to all it’s plain to see
My day has just begun!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar. 

Having made a reprise of my contributions to my son’s exercise in futility in writing pieces for this blog – which culminated in How To Start Writing A Book (a lamentable exercise in how not to, which I did my best to improve with limited success) – the two mad women who run this thing asked if I would consider offering more ‘life lessons’ for those aspiring writers daft enough to read them.

In case you are wondering, Moons (my benighted son) is now lost in some fifteenth draft of what he laughingly calls ‘literary fiction’ but which is thinly-disguised and very badly written gay erotica. He now declares his science-fiction attempt ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ to have been his ‘juvenalia’ and the pompous little prick sincerely believes he has a chance at the Booker Prize with his new heap of steaming crap. Sadly, from what I’ve seen of the competition, he might even be right.

Anyway, enough of that, I need to start earning the fat fee they are paying me for this guest appearance and having given the matter some thought I’ve decided to start with one of the big moments in every writer’s career.

Life Lessons for Writers – Four: Reality Check

There comes a point in every writer’s life – well maybe not every writer but most by far of you lot reading this – when they realise they are not going to make it to the ranks of a second Shakspeare in terms of literary acclaim – or even that of a J.K. Rowling.

No. Shit. Sherlock.

I am always amazed how long it takes the dewy-eyed enthusiast to figure this very simple fact. It’s as if when someone starts writing, their logical and discriminatory brain dribbles out of their ears to be replaced by some pink fluffy clouds and unicorns wearing garlands dangling the Amazon logo and woven with ribbons which spell out ‘Fifty Reviews’ or some such shite.

Seriously people, grow up! 

If your teenage daughter told you she was going to be the next Ariana Grande, you might praise her aspiration but be pretty sharp in making sure she was still studying for her exams. Just because you have a few more years under your belt doesn’t mean you are immune to the starry-eyed syndrome. The fact you idolise becoming a fat, wheezing weirdy-beardy like GRR Martin rather than a svelt sexy singer doesn’t shift the needle on the ‘likely to happen’ dial by so much as a smidgen.

What gets me though is how writers respond to this moment of grim epiphany. 

1. They ignore it and continue to imagine themselves as God’s gift to the literary world, refuse to take any criticism from anyone, spewing ever more dreadful ‘pen babies’ into a recoiling ether until even their own mother refuses to read anything more they write. This is my son Moons for you – pretentious twonk that he is.
2. They realise how true it is, and conclude that they will always suck and never make their fortune at this writing lark so they should throw down the pen for good and go off to put all their focus into something easier and more profitable like becoming a lawyer, a banker or CEO of a nasdaq-100 company.
3. They take it on board proportionately, review what is a realistic expectation of what they can accrue from their writing and based on that make a clear decision about where writing can and should fit into their life. The answer to this being different for each writer as some have more ability to work on production and marketing than others.

Unfortunately (1) and (2) – doubling down or utter abandonment – seem to be the most common reactions resulting in both an over-spill of writers of dreadful books who will brook no remedy and the loss of some who might have penned some decent stories. I’m here to advocate for number (3) and to suggest you flush both the marshmallow and dollar signs out of your brain and take a clear hard look at what you do. 

Just because you will never be an author who people hold conventions about and dress up as your characters, like Tolkein, doesn’t mean you can’t write stuff people like reading. Whatever you write and pretty much however good or bad it is, there will be some corner of the internet full of geekish sub-genre fanatics eager to read it. You can, and should, be working on improving your writing, listening to criticism (not slavishly but with a genuine interest in learning and polishing your craft) and making your best fist of it all.

So have your reality check, work out if this is really a beautiful career or a pretty cool hobby, then get on with what you writers do best – Writing. Your. Books.

The letter was old.
He found it under the carpet when he took it up to get a new one. It must have been pushed under the door and somehow slid beneath the carpet.
The handwriting was hers. Dramatic, full of curlicues and flounces, just as she always was – until she vanished.
Sitting by the hearth he read the words she had written twenty years before and pushed under his door.
‘I can explain. Meet me tonight in our special place. Xxx.’
Twenty years too late.
He threw the letter on the fire and added another log from the pile.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I wasn’t afraid, but to another woman his heavy cold hand would have been terrifying.

As he ushered me into the room I kept my eyes lowered and my thoughts to myself.

“The place of books.”

His oddly sibilant voice echoed through what instinct told me were locked bookcases. The lectern in the centre of the room with its single open volume called my feet and we walked.

Before I stopped, I knew what I would see. Emptiness. Hungry, impotent, emptiness.

“Touch it.” My escort sounded oddly desperate.

I turned to face him and made my voice mildly incurious. “What is today, Messire Scarlett.”

“It is Thursday the forty-third of Summer, my lady.”

I turned back to the book, and, even as my escort made to press my hand to the vellum, I moved, snake-quick, so his own hairy palm kissed the blank page.

And the moving finger writ.

Marmaduke Scarlett – born Monday the fiftieth of dark winter, deceased Thursday the forty-third of summer. 

Scarlett screamed as his body decomposed around him until there was naught left but an evil smell.

It is hard to be afraid when there is nothing out there more terrible than you…

©jj 2020

A selection of rhymes by Jane Jago, made age appropriate for those for whom their second childhood is just around the corner…

There was a Little Gran

There was a little gran
In a purple campervan
Divorced from a city go-getter
Never had much fun
As a trophy wife and mum
Finding life after sixty much better!

You can find this, and other whimsical takes of life in On The Throne? a little book of contemplation from Jane Jago.

Prandium was a pleasant meal, with Aelwen dispensing smiles and cuddles and the adults chatting lightly. By the time everyone had progressed to spiced milk and tiny cakes, Aelwen’s head was drooping like a poppy on its stalk so Julia buzzed Luned who came and bore the little one away for her afternoon nap.
Once they were gone, Julia looked shrewdly at her guests. “There is a fire in my sitting room, and a decanter of Llewelyn brandy. We can be comfortable and undisturbed, and you can tell me what the problem is.”
Lavinia took Marcella’s arm. “I told you Julia would see there was something wrong.”
“You did, Mater, and you were right. The question is more whether or not she believes me.”
“When we are all sitting by the fire you can try me.” Julia ushered them into her sitting room and closed the door. 
Lavinia settled her daughter on a deeply cushioned settee and sat beside her. Vulpes came to stand beside his mistress with his big head on her lap. She smoothed his ears and turned her sightless eyes on Julia.
“I heard somebody being killed last night.” When Julia didn’t react she carried on speaking. “Because I’m first violin, and because I’m blind and need a dog, Vulpes and I merit a dressing room to ourselves.  Anyway, after the performance last night somebody from the hotel where we are staying was supposed to come and collect me. But they must have forgotten. It wouldn’t be the first time. And somebody always remembers in the end.” She patted her mother’s arm. “It’s okay, fach, as long as I have Vulpes with me I’m fine.  But I digress. There is a big sofa in my dressing room, so Vulpes and me cuddled up. I must have nodded off, because I woke up feeling a bit disoriented. Vulpes was growling softly, but I shushed him and pulled a blanket over us both. He remained alert and I became aware of voices. Quiet voices, three or maybe four, arguing viciously. They seemed to me to be talking about some sort of a scam or con trick. One of them wanted out, but the others weren’t having any. Said he was in too deep to quit. He suddenly seemed to snap, and shouted. ‘I’m out and you can’t stop me.’ One of the others laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then I heard a sort of a muffled pop. And the sound of something heavy falling to the floor. I didn’t dare move or make a sound, and even Vulpes kept silent although all the hairs on his spine stood on end. We heard something being dragged along the corridor outside. Then whoever came back. Laughing. Said something like ‘nobody will find him there’. Then they went away. I was just wondering what I should do when I heard a familiar footstep. It was Claudius, my umm… sort-of boyfriend, come to find me. For some reason I didn’t want to rock the boat, even with him, so I kept my mouth shut and just pretended to be asleep…”
Marcella wound down and, by the look of her, she was on the verge of tears, but Julia’s investigative instincts hadn’t been blunted by her time out of official law enforcement.
“That isn’t all, though, is it?”
Marcella stopped stroking Vulpes and her hands writhed together miserably in her lap.
“No,” she whispered. “I think somebody suspects I heard. And I don’t think they are the sort to leave living witnesses behind.”

From ‘Dying to be Believed’ one of the exclusive bonus short stories in The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.