Life had been pretty bad for Charlie and her flock before they arrived in the big garden where they could spread their wings and find worms in the soft ground. 

The years were happy, but slowly the flock decreased until only Freya and Charlie remained. Then just Charlie. She missed the others but still enjoyed life. Then there came a day she felt too unwell to go out. A couple of days later she woke to brilliant sunshine and flapped out of the coop.

“Where’ve you been?” Freya clucked and together the flock made their way over the rainbow bridge.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Bargain Carnival was always on the final day of the Fair and was a time when, in theory, traders would sell off their remaining goods for a song. Many people kept back their cheapest lines especially for Carnival day, but there were always some excellent genuine bargains to be had and it was an essential place to be if you were a discerning buyer.
The day was beautiful, a jewel of Temsevaran summertime and the thin red sunlight was strong enough to make a shimmer of mist rise from the flat-topped roofs of the brightly painted houses, as Durban made his way towards the plaza. He chose a back street knowing that the main roads would already be jammed solid with people jostling at the barriers to have the first pick of the bargains on offer. Even so, the way he chose had already drawn quite a crowd. Those that knew him smiled and let him pass but others resisted blocking his way with knees and elbows.
“Let me through,” he appealed. “My wife is having a baby – our first child.”
No one stopped to consider why that should be any reason to let him into the plaza, the crowd just drew apart as if by magic and helpful hands guided him to the front whilst congratulations and good wishes were offered. They were very simple folk, the good people of Alfor. As he ducked under the barrier he was challenged by a fierce looking young Zoukai who did not know him. Durban smiled winningly.
“I am the bird doctor,” he explained. The young man stared at him, then spat in the dust.
“So? What’s that to me?”
“Your end of run bonus, I suspect. You see one of the singing birds has feather cramps and if it is not treated immediately that will spread like wildfire. Before you know it – wumph.” He threw up his arms expressively.
The Zoukai struggled with that for a moment.
“Wumph?” he repeated in a doubtful tone.
“Yes, wumph,” Durban’s voice took on a ring of confidential urgency. “All two thousand of CaravansiNedriq’s precious singing birds would go ‘wumph’. And that would be the last you’d hear about your end-of-run bonus, I can tell you.”
He fixed the younger man with a penetrating amber glare. The Zoukai’s confusion seemed to clear at the mention of Nedriq’s name.
“Of course – the bird doctor. Well, you better go in then.”
Durban treated him to his sunniest smile and headed quickly to the nearest caravan, which as he already knew, belonged to Caravansi Nedriq.
He had plenty of time to select what he wanted from the choice wares on offer. Most of his purchases were special commissions from those who knew that he would be the first into the plaza. At noon the bells rang out across Alfor and the human tide descended, sweeping away all in its path. But by that time Durban Chola was settled comfortably in a wagon being served wine by the slave girl Shemille. With him was the Caravansi Alexa’s recently appointed Zoukai captain, Shevek.
“Ah. The liquid gemstone of Alfor wine,” Durban declaimed reverently, sniffing at the dark red beverage before he sipped. “I will miss it sorely, I always do – the tragedy is it travels so badly. The world needs to come to Alfor, for the wine cannot go to the world.”
Shevek looked unimpressed.
“Oh it travels well enough – unless you tell the vintner that you intend to sell it elsewhere, then it sours.”
“Is that so?” Durban asked with interest. “Then perhaps the barrels have ears and the wine becomes homesick at the thought of leaving Alfor.”
“And perhaps the vintners prefer to keep their monopoly intact.”
Durban let it pass. Zoukai were an unimaginative breed by nature.
“Whatever, this wine is good and the wine I shall drink on the road tomorrow will be poor by comparison.”

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

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Random Indignation 

We live in an imperfect world, peopled by imperfect humans. 

Except the shining ones. The social media illuminati whose antennae are so exquisitely tuned and whose sensibilities are so perfectly nuanced that they take it on themselves to police the rest of offensive humanity.

They will have gained some notoriety, which they propose to use to bludgeon the rest of the world into their way of thinking.

They would be better occupied discovering whether or not there is offence being caused before exercising their opinions.

Do not rant on anyone’s behalf before asking, politely, if such is necessary, or acceptable.

The Fifth Horseman (Horseman’s Harem Saga Book 1) by Frieda Kilmari.

The only thing worse than suddenly waking up in a magical house with the insanely gorgeous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Being the Fifth.With no memory of who I am, where I came from, or what I’m doing here, I’m thrust into a new life with four people who I might want more from than just friendship. But with no past, how can I possibly plan for a future?
The only clue as to who I am? Four different species’ magic resides within me—Vampire, Fae, Shifter, and Witch—and between them, I might be the most powerful creature on the planet.

I know I should be freaking out, throwing some kind of tantrum or having a meltdown, but something about this place just feels like home. I belong here. A relationship, even just a friendly one, with all the Horsemen scares me, and the suddenly large expanse of my future makes me apprehensive about everything I’ll see and lose along the way, but despite the insecurity, I have the potential to really exist here. I can’t remember my past, and I know I’ve left people behind on Earth, and maybe one day I’ll go back to see what my life once was, but right here and now, this is my present, and it’s time to learn what that really means.

The Fifth Horseman (Horseman’s Harem Saga Book 1) is out now!

A Bite of… Frieda Kilmari. 

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

I’d definitely rather be a villain. You know, in a fictional way. I’d get to do that evil villain laugh, eat as much cake as I want, not have any moral obligations, and crush anyone who annoys me. Oh, oh, oh. Can I wear a cape? Like, a dark purple cape with swooping eyeliner and grungy eyeshadow? That would be awesome! Heroes are okay, but they’re forced to be good, morally obligated, and can be kind of stiff. Villains are free to be whoever they want to be. And they don’t HAVE to do anything. If I were a villain, I’d just lounge around the house all day eating hot chocolate and cake, and then go out in my hot, sizzling villain outfit whenever I need a pick-me-up. 

Q2: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Did someone say cake? Chocolate cake? Ohhhhhhh, chocolate cake with white chocolate frosting . . . Oh, or maybe a chocolate cake with strawberries and strawberry frosting. Oh, or maybe a chocolate muffin tower with gooey brownie centers . . .  Oh, or a giant salted caramel chocolate cake . . . Mmmmm. 

Q3: You can have four guests at a dinner party. Name the four people living, dead or fictional you would most like to entertain.

Dinner date with four fictional characters? Hmmm . . . Sounds like a fun night for someone who reads as much romance as me. I’d definitely pick Loki; he’s hot, he has awesome powers that would be hilarious as a dinner party, and did I mention he’s hot? Evil Regina from Once Upon A time. Could you imagine the showdown between her and Loki? That’s a show I’d pay to see. From a safe distance. Add in some hot, rugged Aragorn from LoTR and Jack Sparrow, and we have ourselves an orgy–I mean, dinner party. 😉 

Frieda Kilmari is an author, writer, and editor residing in south-west England, who loves all things fiction. She has a passion for fantasy, romance, science-fiction, and poetry that runs her life, from her career to her passions. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and her own website.

The chair was just as she left it when she got up to make that last cup of tea, her broad red shawl left spilling over the cushions, a magazine discarded, open to the page she had been reading – was going to read when she returned.

But something happened as she stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.

A footstep, then a familiar presence, close beside her.

“Hello love, I came back for you like I said I would. Sorry it took me so many years.”

Her neighbour found the side door open and the house empty.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

The volume of chatter was all but deafening and even when Agnes brought in plates of cheese and crisp brown rolls and a crock of yellow butter the volume just seemed to go up.
Jamelia stuck a plate in her hand. “Grab some food and we’ll go sit in the window seat. You can observe the gruesome foursome from a safe distance.”
Ginny did as suggested and slowly began to sort out the characters in her head. The four who stood around the table and howled with laughter at their own jokes were, she thought, the extroverts of the family. They appeared to be having a whale of a time although most of the gags were filthy enough to have her blushing even from the other side of the room. She found Jamelia’s presence a comfort and when they finished eating it seemed perfectly natural to have their own quiet conversation about Ginny’s new status.
Jamelia finished with a smile. “So you see it’s not scary at all. And those four are as good as gold. They just need to let rip every now and again. They aren’t like us.”
“What do you mean, us?”
“You and me, Ginny. We’re used to hiding stuff. Those four live on the extreme outside of their skins so it comes hard to them. This is like a catharsis for them.”
“Yes. I can see that.” She took a breath and reminded herself that sharing was a good thing to do. “I used to hide behind the words I wrote on my lifestyle blog and the persona of Virginia Creeper. I guess I only really hit real problems when I couldn’t do that anymore. Not being able to write my blog meant I’d lost my place to hide. But you?”
Jamelia’s mouth twisted. “Oh me? Trained in law because all my cousins were doctors and my parents wanted to outdo them. Given in marriage to a man twenty years my senior with heavy fists. Widowed at forty. Expected to return to my father’s house and be my stepmother’s unpaid servant whilst working flat out to earn their keep. Met Em. Got Made. Told my father to find another fool. Alone now save for my nest sisters. It will be nice to have a sister of a more contemplative turn of mind.”
Ginny felt a rush of empathy and friendship for the proud beauty at her side but understood it behoved her to tread carefully. “I expect you will find me a sad trial. Most people seem to…”
Jamelia gave her arm a squeeze. “You are too hard on yourself, you know?”
The door opened quietly and Em came in. There was no fanfare nor noise nor anything, but the atmosphere changed immediately. What had seemed like a pissup now felt to have purpose and import.
“I don’t know how she does it, either,” Jamelia breathed.
Agnes took one look at Em’s face and stuck a glass in her hand. Em necked whatever it was in one go and sighed.
“I fragging well hate demons.”
“I guess we all do. But Ishmael is the best at what he does.” Lilian spike sturdily and Em smiled.
“I guess he is, but he stinks of hell and brimstone.”
Agnes handed her another drink. “You going to tell us then?”
“Yes. But nobody interrupts please.” She held up a hand to add visual impact to her request. “Alright, what we know is this. DumpCorp somehow thinks it is perfectly okay to turn people out of their homes in order to make an imposing entranceway to its latest ‘leisure facility’. According to the planning application it already owns all the land. I rather doubt the truth of that assertion. And even if it is true for Harmful-Galoshes’ land, the housing association does not have the power to sell the estate. According to a certain not particularly tame hotshot lawyer, the association runs the housing on behalf of a charitable trust. The trustees being the chair of the parish council, the bishop, and a representative of the tenants. Which means. With our lawyer friend nominated to represent the tenants, and the bishop on side even if HG has voted to sell he is outvoted. So actually they are stuffed. They just don’t know it.
“What we plan to do is confront DumpCorp’s earthly representative when he comes to gloat. Ginny is our parish council mole who will give us the details.”
Then bedlam broke out. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Only it wasn’t everyone. It was Agnes, Lilian, Ellen, and Petunia.
“They will shut up in a while,” Jamelia promised. “In the meantime I’m going out for a smoke. Are you coming? You can enjoy some fresh air or join me having a fag. Can’t do you any harm now.”
“Fresh air sounds good,” Ginny agreed, and still holding her drink she followed her new sister and friend into the garden.

Two days later the company Ginny was in was far less comfortable than that of her new nest sisters. Sitting in the plush conference room in the Bedchester Council offices which she had found following the directions of Major Harmsley-Gunn (“Can’t be slumming it in the village hall, what?”), she looked at her fellow Parish Councillors and realised they were all representatives of the extremely wealthy demographic of the village. They gave her odd, distant, smiles as if uncertain why she was even there and talked amongst themselves ignoring her completely.
Harmsley-Gunn arrived in company of a man whose face made Ginny’s guts cramp. The spiderlike, bespeckled Dominic Schilling. For a moment their gazes locked and she had a terrible dread that he might recognise her. But his look swept on and past, taking far more interest in the blonde sitting next to her who was wearing Versace and Dior and with a heavy diamond dripping from each earring.
The introductions were made quickly and no one objected when Harmsley-Gunn announced that they were being joined by new resident Virginia Cropper. Again no reaction from Schilling, but then he would only have known her by her married name.
“Right,” the Major said when the pre-meeting formalities and minute reading had all been done, recorded by the silent and capable parish clerk. “Now let’s make sure those crazy old bitches of the Ladies Association can’t stop us making this sale and bringing fresh blood and prosperity to the village. Mr. Schilling is here to tell us how to do it.”
Ginny sat back beside the Major, said nothing when his silver ferruled cane slipped off the table and landed unnoticed in her large canvas bag, and took many notes.

Part 27 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

After summer’s glory and October’s golden leaves
In comes bleak November and gaunt, skeletal trees
The winds blow hard, like steel is hard
With neither stint nor quarter
The cold comes in, winter begins
Jack Frost starts his slaughter.

There’s never, in November owt of soft or mellow
It’s not cheery December, coming with a hearty bellow
The mist in swathes, makes people wraiths
And bites with chilling ease
The dark days come, no warmth, no sun
No care that it should please.

Some take the time for fireworks, some for thanksgiving,
Most feel the creep of cold and dark with woeful misgiving
For like a dirge, November’s purge
Sweeps out the summer’s gains
And in its place, no trace of grace
Sets hail and freezing rains.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Her phone rang as she made her way onto the platform of the station, and her first instinct was to ignore the call and phone whoever back when she got home. But then she remembered her boyfriend, Tom, was cooking for her that night. He might have a question that needed answering while he was still at the store shopping for ingredients, so she decided to at least see who it was. Sure enough, Tom’s smiling face was on the screen. She boarded the train with a group of others, then answered.
“Hey, Hun.” It was hard not to sound put out, knowing what his call was likely to be about, but she tried.
“Hey. Sorry, but I totally forgot which veggie you said paired well with salmon? And am I getting white rice or brown?”
He was hopeless. Wonderful … but hopeless. “It’s asparagus, love. And brown rice.”
“Right. I bloody knew it. I’m gonna kill Kyle.”
“Kyle? Don’t tell me you’ve been taking cooking advice from him agai—”
There it was—a flash of horror in the otherwise mundane surroundings, black eyes locked onto hers. Panic hit and her heart rate shot up. She quickly looked around at the other passengers, hoping to find one whose expression matched the way she was feeling. But no one appeared to be remotely disturbed. They carried on looking at their phones or staring blankly out the window. She tried to find the mask in the crowd again, but as always, it was gone.
“Julie…?”
Tom’s voice reached her as if from somewhere in the distance.
“Julie, you still there?”
“Yeah … I’m here.”
“You okay? You sort of stopped mid-sentence.”
“Yeah, just remembered something, sorry.”
She hadn’t told him about the masked face to save him worrying to death, or even worse, getting hurt or into trouble doing something foolish that should be left to the police. But maybe tonight she would need to speak up about it. Not the cheeriest dinner table conversation, but this was starting to really frighten her, and he had the right to know something that was impacting her life in such a severe way.
“Alright,” he said, though Julie could tell he was doubtful. “Well, I’ll leave you to it so I can finish shopping. See you in a bit.”
“See you soon.”
The train stopped at Barking, and she got off with a few others. Normally she took the bus from there to her flat, but tonight she decided it was worth paying the extra and hailing a cab to make sure she wasn’t followed straight to her home. The sound of rain beating the ground prompted her to get out her umbrella as she left the covered station behind and went around the corner for a black cab. Most of her friends used Uber, but Julie always felt more secure in a traditional taxi. Thankfully, one was sat waiting. She walked towards it and opened the door.
As she got in, folding her umbrella first, the cabbie was yelling at someone through his open window.
“Oi, mate. What yer think yer doin’?”
She shut the car door and looked through the rain-streaked window to see what was happening. There was a man at the driver’s window, bundled up in raincoat with his collar lifted. It was too dark to see his face in any detail.
“Back off,” the cabbie yelled when the man didn’t move. “I’m already ‘ired. You’ll need ter find yerself another—”
The man thrust his arm in the window.
Something flashed in the light of an overhead streetlamp.
Blood spattered the windscreen and the cabbie slumped over the steering wheel.
Julie screamed and fumbled to open the door to jump out but was shoved back in by a gloved hand. Menacing black eyes held her gaze as a man crouched down to enter the car. She fumbled with the latch on the passenger side door, kicking at the man with her flats. He managed to grab one of her feet, and no matter how hard she tried to kick at him with the other, it didn’t seem to do any good. He wagged a finger at her with his free hand.
“Now, Julie, that’s not very nice.” He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a knife. “And I was so hoping we could be friends.”

‘Haunted By Darkness’ by Ian Bristow is one of the spooky stories and poems to get you in the Halloween mood today in Haunted – the Sparkly Badgers spooky anthology which is free to download. The artwork is also by Ian, check out his Art with Ian YouTube channel for more.

I never thought to fear the dark
Ne’er thought that there could be
A creature in the dark of night
More terrible than me
I was the hunt that split the dawn
That roused them from their homes
That drowned them in the water deep
That burned their evil bones
I and mine rode proud and tall
And took our duty straight
We dragged them from their covens
There, to face their lawful fate
Until the night I rode alone
Until they dragged me down
From my horse with evil force
Till I lay on the ground
They kicked me with their cobbled boots
And stabbed me with their knives
How could it be that such as me
Fell victim to old wives
And even as I prayed for aid
They tied me to a tree
I knew then from their laughter
They would make an end of me
And now I ride a spectral horse
A creature with no home
As on the gibbet slowly swing
My empty mortal bones

©️jj 2020

An extract from  How To Start Writing A Book brought to you courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Here we go again.

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar. I had hoped that I’d not have to come up with another one of these. I was kicking back with a Pernod and Pimms spritzer enjoying the blazing sun in the back garden and admiring the abs on my new next-door neighbour as he was up a ladder fixing something on his roof, topless. But then the peace was broken by a call from that pompous prat I have the misfortune to have to claim as my son. He is back to being his obnoxious self as if nothing had happened to dent his massive ego.
The good news is I am spared his presence for another week, as he has decided to take a short ‘cultural cruise’ of some other Greek islands with someone called Stavros. The bad news is that it means I have to get out my iPad and come up with something vaguely intelligent to say to you lot.
I hope you bloody appreciate it!

Life Lessons for Writers – Three: People

And by ‘people’ I also mean aliens if you write that science fiction stuff Moons is so fond of. They are people too. And so are those elves and dwarves – and vampires. In fact, any character you ever write, even a talking computer, is going to be people. So you might as well listen up as too many of you wannabes don’t have the first idea about any kind of people except those who are exactly like you.
Oh yes, you might write about some poor orphaned starveling who is abused by the world, but does she think and act like someone who’s been through that kind of experience? Or just your weak and idealised imagination of what it might be like? I mean, how many genuinely damaged people do you count in your close circle? If the answer is ‘Well, Olivia’s parents divorced and she had to give up her horse riding lessons which left her traumatised for life’ or something similar, then you need to rethink writing that starveling. You. Have. No. Idea. And if you don’t, then no amount of effing imagination is going to fill in the gaps.
And, no I’m not saying you can only write about your own level of privileged life, I’m saying get out there and meet the kind of people you want to write about. Go to that dive bar, visit that job centre, help out at that homeless shelter, and find out what the people you want to write into your stories are really like. And the same the other way around. You want to know how the better off think, go along to the local posh golf club and listen in on their banter, hear what they really talk about. A useful tip here is go volunteer to visit an old people’s homes – chat with them. You’ll get the full monty on life across the spectrum, I promise you.
Don’t be like my naive and self-righteous prig of a son who firmly believes that he understands all people because he is one.
Oh, if you can’t bring yourself to actually go to those places and interact with real people, then you can at least read about them. That’s what the more precious twonks amongst those who call themselves writers (yes Moons, I’m looking at you) that I know seem to do. Most are too bloody afraid of real people to go out and actually talk to them.

Right. I’m done. If my sodding son is not back by next week I’ll be posting cocktail recipes with naked pictures of me drinking them. You have been warned.

Now bugger off!

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV