“Good Morning, can I help you?”
“I’m here for a date.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have any dried fruit at this time. Can I help you with something else?”
“Not a date you eat, the other kind.”
“I am sorry, I misunderstood your meaning. It is the fifth of November. Have a nice day.”
“No. A date. A meeting with romantic overtones to ascertain if the participants have enough interest to repeat the procedure.”
“I’m sorry. There is no one here who can resolve your problem at the moment. Please try later or call our helpline. Have a nice day.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Anna half expected a call to say Sam would be late, but at six fifteen she heard his key in the door, and Bonnie came bustling into the kitchen. Sam followed her grinning all over his face. Anna went into his arms and received a very satisfactory hug, before he went out to the boot room to take off his shoes and dump his coat and bag.
He came back into the kitchen and petted Bonnie extravagantly.
“This dog is a miracle. Mrs J isn’t ordinarily a great fan of animals, but Bonnie had her wrapped around her paw in about two minutes. I dunno if it was waiting so nicely to have her feet dried, or sitting at my feet doing her doting dog impression, or permitting herself to be stroked without jumping up or getting pushy. Whatever. The old dear fell in love.”
Anna laughed. “She’s a very calculating canine. But we love her, don’t we?”
“We do indeed. Before I forget, we already have one extra for the party. Mrs J’s favourite nephew is visiting her that weekend, so I said he was welcome. Is that OK?”
“Yes. Of course it is. The more the merrier.’
“Just one thing. He’s a gangster.”
Anna laughed.
“No. Seriously. He is. He’s Jim’s friend Geordie Jackson. About five feet of Glaswegian hard man, with more tattoos than I have ever seen on a human being before. Plus a flick-knife in the top of his sock.”
“That should be a laugh. Danny will be enchanted. He really likes gangsters, and they seem to like him. When he was working in Brazil he used to go to the favelas and play poker with the hard boys on his days off.”
“Rather him than me.”
“Oh indeed. I always felt sorry for Paul who lived in constant terror that something would happen to Danny.”
“I can see that. But I’m guessing that Danny couldn’t.”
“No. He’s fearless and deeply unimaginative himself, and can’t understand worry. There are times when I could clip his ear for him. However, Paul loves him and understands his odd ways. So.”
“So indeed. Now then. You promised me steak did you not? Do you have time for a nice glass of wine with me before you frizzle it?”
“What does the word frizzle signify?”
Anna demanded, trying very hard not to giggle.
“The word frizzle, woman,” Sam replied in lofty tones, “indicates any one of the many cooking processes of which I have no knowledge whatsoever. I leave such things to those into whose area of expertise they do fall.”
Then he spoilt his high-minded pose by grabbing Anna and tickling her until she screamed. She lolled against him sniggering.
“You are very, very silly, my love. Don’t ever get too grown up will you?”
“Shouldn’t think it’s very likely. My dad was as daft as a brush; he used to drive Mum mad by refusing to conform to the way a psychiatrist is supposed to behave. Mum was a bit more conventional, until he got her going – then she was hilarious. Half a glass of wine was enough…”
He looked down at his hands.
“I miss them, you know. I just wish you could have known them.”
He sounded so sad and strained that Anna put her arms around him and cuddled him strongly; slowly she felt the strain drain out of him. He looked down at her and smiled.
“You are my personal miracle,” he said wonderingly.
“Right back at you love. Now go get me a big glass of wine while I hunt up some nibbles before frizzling you a nice piece of steak.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

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

Freda and Bill

Freda and Bill went up the hill
To the shop at the end of the street
They bought syrup for chills
Viagra pills
And corn pads for Freda’s sore feet.

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

“Sheep.”
Dai pointed to the tussock pocked hillside that veered up sharply from the bottom of the valley. These sheep were a hardy local breed with grey-white fleeces and small curling horns. They moved with agility over the rocky slope, their flock spread out into groups, pairs and singletons.
It was early morning and the report of a new theft had them driving through the wild country that formed the hinterland between Viriconium and the coast.
“The first question I have,” Bryn said, his own gaze firmly on the narrow road ahead as it wound along beside a stream at the bottom of the valley, “is how do you take sheep from a hillside like that? I mean it’s not like they are in a field and you can just wave your arms at them and back up a trailer to the gate. You couldn’t bring something big enough to carry all those along a road like this anyway.”
They were heading out to the small crofting farm which had been the victim of the last sheep rustling incident, in the hope of gaining some insight into who might have known where the flock was when it was stolen.
“Dogs,” Dai said, wondering if he was right. “Or maybe people on quads?”
“At night?” Bryn sounded doubtful. “And over this terrain?” He gestured with one hand to the high-lifting hills on either side.
“Drones, then maybe? Though no one seems to have seen any around that shouldn’t be there, I did the checks. It does make you wonder.”
They reached the main farm buildings after a bumpy journey over a potholed mud and gravel track that led up from the road. Two skinny herding dogs with lolling tongues and high lifted tails followed the woman who owned the croft out of the door of the small cottage, built from local stone. She stayed by the house as Dai and Bryn parked up and got out, the dogs now sitting beside her. For a moment Dai was reminded of Canis and Lupo sitting beside Julia. These dogs had an owner not much taller than Julia was, but maybe a decade older. She stood, back held stiffly straight and chin lifted with an almost defensive pride, brown eyes fierce, her dark blonde hair half hidden under a woolly hat.
Bryn gave her a friendly nod as she looked between them. “You’ll be Hyla Edris, I’m SI Bryn Cartivel. We’re here…”
“About last night?” The woman’s voice sounded taut.
“That’s right. I was hoping you could help me understand a few things about what happened and then we might be able to get your sheep back more easily.”
Hyla Edris shook her head, and Dai was sure he could see an extra brightness of moisture in her eyes.
“No. You won’t be bringing my girls home. They’ll all be dead by now. But the fools that took them have no idea what they did.”
“What they..?”
“My girls weren’t bred for eating They were all bred for their wool. Five different rare breeds I had in my flock, from three different provinces. They were worth a lot, lot more than just meat on the hoof.”
“You’ll have insurance for them?”
“Oh, for sure, there is a man due out tomorrow to talk to me about it. Seems there was some problem with my paperwork. But that won’t bring my girls back, will it? And even though the money will help, my business is ruined.”
“You can get more sheep,” Dai said. “Surely even rare ones?”
The woman shook her head as if he was missing the point. Then she gestured towards a recently re-roofed outbuilding. “My business is spinning and weaving. I keep the sheep because I can’t buy in the wool I need. It’s not so simple as you think. But then you lot from Viriconium, you know next to nothing of what life is like for us here in the hill farms. We’re not all inbred yokels chasing round a few sheep, there’s some of us with a bit more going on.”
Dai spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I promise we will do our best to bring those who took your sheep to justice.”
Which was when she saw the silver band of Citizenship on his finger and her face changed. A quickly hidden mix of fear and anger.
“Roman justice. Killing people for entertainment. That’s not going to help me… dominus.” She made the honorific sound more like an insult.
Bryn cleared his throat.
“I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. Where were the sheep last night?”
The woman drew a tight breath as if to get herself back under control.
“I had them in the low field because I was supposed to have them microchipped today.”
“So it would have been relatively straightforward for someone to steal them? No need to go all over the hills for them?”
“Very.”
“Who would have known they were in that particular field?” Dai asked and almost winced at the ferocity of the look the question earned him.
“Most everyone in the area.”
“Local gossip is that good?”
This time there was more of contempt than anger in her face. She put a hand into the pocket of the long coat she was wearing and pulled out a much folded sheet of paper which she thrust into Dai’s hand. He opened it out noting the Demetae and Cornovii administrative area official logo at the top. It was a notice of compulsory microchipping of all sheep in the district. It included a list of names and dates for all the farms in the locality.
Dai passed the letter to Bryn who read it quickly.
“At least one other farm on this list has had their flock stolen,” he said.
“Now isn’t that just the coincidence.” Hyla Edris sounded bitter.

From Dying to be Fleeced one of the bonus stories in The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Day One: Everything is prepared. I commence the summoning upon the morrow when the moon is dark. The name I scribed upon the black scroll is TYPHON the monstrous destroyer!

Day Two: The deed is done. I stood in my circle of power, forcing the entity to appear in my triangle of conjuration. I have unleashed it into the world to do its worst!

Day Tree: What havr I donne? All wo4ds I writr are runied! I chekcud the skrojl adn sea my errar. I hafe mispelled by misspelling. The H smudged and the N torn away before the castngi…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook is a Fortune’s Fools short story. Tegwyth used to receive gifts at Midwinter, until she became one herself. Alone in the snow, she will do anything to survive because of the one thing that matters most to her…

The loaf was within reach now. But so was the coat and it was that Tegwyth slid carefully from the stool first, looping it around her and under her cloak out of sight. Then she reached out again for the bread.

“I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

It was the bearded man. He had moved away from the fire, perhaps so the other two could get to know each other – or perhaps, feeling simply not wanted there anymore. Either way, he now stood on the far side of the table. His face hard, although his voice sounded more as if he were offering her friendly advice than any threat. But she had just become a thief – she had stolen his coat, its warmth so good around her, the warmth of life in the bitter cold of winter. And the price of theft, even if she had been free and not hunted as an escaped slave, was death.

For a moment she thought to run. To flee. Break away. Rush for the door and out into the snow. But as if he could read her thoughts, the bearded man had taken a step to the side so she would have to pass him to be able to leave. His hand curled on a strange looking item clipped onto his belt. But as he moved and light fell on her face, his expression changed. It seemed to soften, as the warmth of the sun softens the hard packed ice. His hand moved away from his belt and he shook his head.

“Sweet truth and dare, you’re only a bloody child,” he said. And reaching past her he picked up the loaf. Tegwyth wondered when he would notice she had taken his coat, maybe he would see the flash of brilliant colour through one of the holes in her cloak, maybe he –

“Here, you hungry? Eat this and I’ll get you some hot soup to go with it.”

Her hands closed over the bread. It felt soft and smelled of yeast and grain – and life.

E.M. Swift-Hook 

A Midwinter Miracle is available on Audible,  as an ebook and paperback and can be purchased from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Googleplay. This special edition has typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

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

Hippie Frannie

Hippie Frannie somebody’s granny
How does your garden grow?
With poppy seeds and ganja weeds
And hookah pipes all in a row, row, row,
And hookah pipes all in a row.

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

In The Redhead, the Rogue and the Railroad by Jane Jago, immerse yourself in a Wild West that never was. Journey across the land with Mir and Cuchilo as they pick apart interconnecting conspiracies that threaten their country and their lives. 

Three days later a modest buckboard drawn by a single horse made its way along a dirt road that ran between stockyards full of bawling cattle. Closer to the buckled iron railroad track, there were a couple of warehouses and a dispirited looking hotel. The driver pulled up outside the building and tied his horse to the hitching rail. He was a big man, with a shock of white hair and the beginnings of a belly. His companion, who he handed down from the carriage with exaggerated care, was a small woman who wore a black dress made high to the throat and a close bonnet. As her feet hit the pavement she looked up into his eyes and spoke very quietly.
“Sheesh Cuchilo. How in hell do women manage to put up with dresses?”
He laughed. “I dunno Miri, but just you hush up now. A wife should be seen and not heard.”
Promising herself he would suffer for that one at a later date, Mir put her game face on and followed meekly at his heels.
The sour-faced man behind the desk ignored them and carried on reading a dogeared book.
Cuchilo bashed one big fist on the tarnished bell that sat on the desk. The clerk bestirred himself sufficiently to look up.
“Chu want, mister?”
“A room for the night.”
“You want a room?”
Mir knew how difficult it was for Cuchilo not to grab the rude clerk by his scrawny neck and shake him until his bulging eyeballs rattled. But he did well, merely leaning on the the desk and clearing his throat.
“This is a hotel ain’t it?”
The clerk blinked twice and pulled a leather-bound volume towards him. “I guess we got a room if you put it like that.” He opened the book and pushed it across the scarred wood. “Sign here. Name and add-ress if’n you got one.”
Cuchilo took up the chained pen and wrote.
When he finished the clerk glanced at the page.
“Reverend Green, huh? That’d be your summer name then.”
Cuchilo eyed him and he sort of shrunk into the collar of his grubby shirt.
“Summer, winter. Don’t make no difference to a wandering preacher.” Cuchilo sounded amiable enough, but Mir reckoned the clerk had about a minute to start finding his manners. That worthy must have noticed too, because he spoke with a good deal more civility.
“That’ll be sixty-five cents for the room with another twenty-five to stable your horse.”
Cuchilo flipped him a yellowboy. “Keep the change.”
The clerk handed him a key.
“Room ten. It’s out back. Stable’s out back too. You can get food at Rosa’s Cantina down by the railroad.”
Then it seemed as if he had run out of words because he hunched a shoulder and went back to his book.

A Bite of… Jane Jago

How much of you is in your heroine?

Other than her being younger, prettier and far more capable than me we might be twins.

Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

It would be nice to be interesting and claim that I write to exorcise trauma, suffering and unluck. However that would be a big fat hairy fib. All I ever intend to do is tell a story in the most accessible manner possible.

Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

No. But it is important to include the possibility of all shades of belief and orientation.

Why do you write?

Because I can’t not write. I just like the process and the honing of the craft. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

And finally: Chips (fries) or pasta? 

Chips. Obviously. Anybody who can seriously ask that question can never be included in the ranks of my intimates as we rampage through life frightening the young with our elderly enthusiasm and total lack of f**ks to give.

Jane is a genre-hopping pensioner whose writing is informed by an attitude that has been referred to as ‘a bad influence’ and an inability to stand on her sense of humour.
Don’t read her books if you are easily offended by the reality of the human condition. You can find her on FaceBook, Twitter or this blog.

Women were the first victims. Behind masks of outrage, many of the men in power sniggered like schoolboys and uploaded pictures of their female political opposition to be made AI naked, which would then be leaked anonymously.

Then a new app hit smartphones called ‘Ding Dong’ which had nothing to do with doorbells. Now those male politicians found their superbly AI predicted naked torsos, paunchy and flabby, with whatever the uploader desired, put in place of their penis and moulded to look like it belonged.

Within days there were laws in hand all over the world to ban the app.

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…

The sleek, gleaming corridors and brilliant fake sunlight had Joah half convinced the very air was sweeter here than her home. They were on the floor below the Presidential Suite. She had never climbed so high before; even the most prestigious of the celebrity glitterfest awards she had been to were held in a posh venue several floors down. Zarshay, in her neat, fashion-conscious outfit and without the tight hood suppressing her hair, looked nothing like the ultra-rational Xexe Chay she played in the show. Instead she was transformed into the perfect appearance of a PA, radiating an aura of efficiency. It was on such occasions as this that Joah wished she was as good an actress.
The meeting room projected from the side of the tower with a solid but transparent strip running across the floor, offering a vertiginous vista of the city below. But in this room, you were not encouraged to look down. The ceiling gave the appearance of being intangible, and somewhere above them an illusory sky seemed close enough to touch, soft blue, the colour of Heila’s eyes, with fluffy clouds. Joah wondered what the trick of it was.
They were served by silent figures who could have been people or not, it was hard to tell these days. Drinks and nibbles. Zarshay nibbled. Joah didn’t. Her guts were too tight even to let her sip at the drink in front of her on the dark oval table.
The door opened several times as they waited, and each time Joah was half out of her seat before she realised it was not the president’s aide, just a lowly admin or security person doing a check. After the third false start, she felt Zarshay’s hand squeeze her own, reassuring and calming. Glancing at her, Joah saw she was wearing her best “we can do this” smile.
She knew when Dain Strand finally arrived. There was a sudden flotilla of fussing humanity filling the room and then he appeared. He shook Joah’s hand with a warm grip. She found herself thinking there was not too much family resemblance, but it did not surprise her to be dealing with a Strand. The president was renowned for liking to keep his extended family gainfully employed at a high level.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, as if they were friends and he had asked her over for a social event. He moved past her before she could reply, and settled into a chair on the other side of the table, flanked by two of his staff who Joah assumed were bodyguards.
“Look, let’s get down to business right away — I’m sure you have places you need to be, Ms. Meer, and so do I. Your show — the one about that spaceship. It’s a good show. Great show, in fact, I’ve not missed an episode since it started airing. The president loves it. He loves it a lot.” He stopped speaking as if that was all he had to say, and there was a moment of awkward silence.
“Uh — well, thank you for saying so. We do try to pack in as much fun and excitement as we can. I am happy you both enjoy it so much.” Joah bit her tongue to stop herself gushing.
“I do. A lot. And it has given the president an idea — something the whole of the City can get behind.” Dain Strand paused and suddenly Joah could see the family resemblance in the way he managed the moment. “The president wants to build The Golden Strand and he wants you and your crew to be a part of it.”
Joah closed her mouth, which had fallen open on the word “Strand”. Not for the first time, she wished she had even a fraction of Zarshay’s ability to act.
“I — I —”
“I know what you are thinking, and I promise you that you’ll get full royalties for use of the name and theme, and we’ll be packaging out some media prompts with your people getting to share a platform with the president for the launch of the project as well. But I’ll need you to make over all the blueprints, designs, everything, to my engineers.”
His expression was serious, but it had to be a joke.
“We don’t run to blueprints. It’s only some virtual modelling artwork,” she explained, hearing the edge of desperation in her own voice. “It’s not like it’s a real spaceship or anything.”
Dain Strand smiled and she felt the full force of his predatory charisma.
“I know that,” he said, lifting a hand as if waving away her protests. “But building it would be a project everyone in the city would get behind.”
Zarshay had been silent until then, but now she spoke.
“What I am hearing, Mr. Strand, is that you want to get the city to support this project, not that you want to build a ship to explore the galaxy.”
For a moment there was a cold silence, and Dain looked at Zarshay in a way that made Joah’s flesh creep. Then he laughed, a short, mirthless bark of sound, and leaned towards Joah.
“She’s good. If she’s on your business team, I can see why you do well.” He winked, and Joah suppressed a shudder. Then Dain was pushing himself to his feet. “Well, as we are on the same node here, I guess my work is done. I’ll leave the details to the legal team.”
Everyone rose and Joah had her hand pressed once more, then the president’s emollient hatchet man was gone.

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 0110