EM-Drabbles – Forty-One

No one knew where Mad Mungo Munroe had come from, but everyone knew where he was going – straight to hell in a coffin lined with playing cards and stinking of whiskey.

But not today. Today he was where he’d always be found – at a table in the Sideways Saloon playing poker and winning.

“You’re a cheat!”

The whole bar froze as the loser drew a gun, finger tightening.

Munroe stared him down

“Never cheated at cards in my life, fella.”

“You’re a dirty liar, I’ll…”

Munroe’s gun fired under the table and the man folded.

“I just cheat at life…”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Coffee Break Read – The Duel

‘Enough’ the hulking Gregorius howled. ‘I have seen enough.’
The Sharing stopped and I became aware of the vampire before me trying to bring his will to bear on my mind. I kept my voice level and even.
‘Do you accept that I did not kill your brother?’
‘I do’ he said. I could feel the lie but said nothing.
The voice from the platform spoke again. ‘We find this female innocent of any wrongdoing. She did not kill your brother. Although she would have been within her rights so to do.’
The vampire howled again.
I pitched my voice with care. ‘He doesn’t believe. And he never will. I will never know a moment of peace while he is convinced I killed his twin.’
‘Perchance not’ the voice was measured. ‘What will you, Huntress?’
‘I will fight him.’
‘Fight him?’
‘Yes Great One. Fight him. To the death.’
‘Is this truly your will?’
‘It is.’
The vampire was delighted, and I could feel him beginning to gloat. Be over confident, I thought, therein lies your downfall my friend.
‘And does your Mate permit that you meet this vampire in single combat?’ Lucifer was polite.
Aascko spoke from behind my left shoulder. ‘It is not for me to permit or forbid. My Mate is free and equal. All I will say is that she has my love and support.’
‘Very well’ Gabriel’s discordant tones reverberated in my head. ‘It is agreed. You will begin on my count. Ready yourselves.’
Even as he spoke, the vampire brought the full weight of his mind to bear on me and leapt forward with his fangs exposed. I stood still for a second, as if pinned by his glamour. Then I made my move jumping towards the foul creature and butting his perfect nose with the bony ridge under my crest. Done properly, and believe me this was done extremely properly, such a move drives the bone in the nose right up into the opponent’s brain. As Gregorius fell like a huge rotten tree I reached into my weapon belt for a yew wood stake. I drove the stake into his heart and he crumbled into dust. There came a wind from behind me and the pile of dust was blown out of the vaulted space into eternity.
The disembodied voice from the platform spoke with deep contempt. ‘The vampire deserved to die. Probably more slowly than he did. He attacked foully, and was killed in fairness. Who is his Master?’
‘Raziel’ Lucifer bowed.
‘Summon him then.’
There came a sound like clashing cymbals and rattling drums, and a Dark Archangel walked carefully into the place. He bowed to the throne.
‘Almighty. What would you of me?’
‘Two vampires. One killed hell-hounds and almost killed a Helper. Then one Gregorius accused this female of killing his child. She agreed to fight him and he attacked before time. However the Huntress triumphed. I will have your word that this is where it ends.’
The Archangel bowed. ‘May I speak to the Huntress?’
‘You may. Politely.’

Excerpt from Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago.

Random Rumination – twenty

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into poetic form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…
Why are knickers
Necessary?
Is it because our bits
Are hairy?
What precisely do 
They hide?
What secrets do they
Keep inside?
Why are undies
Considered nice?
Leave them home and
Don’t think twice.
Why are knickers
Necessary?
I don’t know said
Aunie Mary

©️jj

Coffee Break Read – Meeting the In-Laws

They set off, not following the road, but heading uphill onto the high common land where sheep and goats roamed, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of yellow gorse.
For Julia, the ride was enchantment. She had her arms around the man she loved and her cheek resting on his back, and all the while they passed through the greenest and, she thought, the loveliest landscape she had ever seen. The only bar to complete enjoyment was the increasing rigidity in Dai’s shoulders as they neared his family home. 
They came down from the hillside onto an obviously well-travelled road, and not many minutes later Dai stopped the vehicle beside a wide white-painted gate. He screwed around to look at her.
“This is it,” he said somewhat grimly.
“Smile, love,” she admonished. “You don’t want to upset your mother.”
His face softened as he looked at her, then he got off the vehicle and opened one leaf of the gate. 
It was a long approach to the house and Julia was surprised to be passing through vineyards where the harvest was in full swing.
“I never made the connection,” she said in a voice of awe. “I knew your family were wine merchants with a vintner’s in Viriconium. I should have thought that maybe you have your own wines.”
“We don’t sell wine. It’s brandy. Distilled on the property.”
“Oh my. Why didn’t I know that?”
He managed an eloquent shrug as the all-terrain drew to a silent halt in front of a long, low stone-built house. Somebody must have been watching out, because the door opened and a little group of people hurried out to greet them.
First came a middle-aged woman with a coronet of jet-black braids and a pair of piercing blue eyes. She could only be Dai’s mother, Olwen, and everybody else hung back to allow her to greet her only child. He leapt off the vehicle and grasped his mother in a boisterous hug, lifting her quite off the ground and burying his face in her neck. She hugged him back for a long moment before putting her hands on either side of his face and kissing his cheeks. 
“Put me down and introduce your wife,” she scolded but Julia could see the tears of joy that sparkled unshed in her eyes.
Dai obligingly set Olwen on her feet and turned to lift a laughing Julia from the all-terrain.
“I’m sure I should be able to get myself off this thing, I just couldn’t figure out how.”
“Your legs aren’t long enough.” 
He kissed her lovingly before taking her hand and leading her to where his family waited.
“This is my wife, Julia,” he said with simple pride. Then he ticked off names on his fingers. “My mother, Olwen. Brother, Hywel. My sister-in-law Enya. And these are my nephews Merfyn, Angwyn, Brychan and….” he looked at the babe in Enya’s arms questioningly.
His brother grinned. “Oh. Him. That’s Dai.”
Dai strode over and smote his brother on the shoulder.
“You never did?”
“We did,” it was Enya who spoke. She looked at Julia. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Julia walked over and looked at the baby’s fair face. She blinked away a tear.
“No. I think it’s lovely. And I may not be able… We may never be….” she stopped and Dai came to stand behind her with his hands on her shoulders. 
Enya smiled a sweet smile.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Julia nodded mutely and Enya put the baby in her arms.

From Dying for a Poppy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

EM-Drabbles – Forty

Walking home at night, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Yesterday he’d watched her walk into the underpass, her bag swinging with each firm stride and the shadows of passing cars flickered over the graffiti. There was something about her – her face, her legs, her smell.

He’d watched but not followed.

Today when she passed his hideout, he hesitated before slipping from the bushes to follow her underground.

They were almost through the underpass before she knew he was there and turned, mouth open in an O of surprise.

“You look half-starved, poor little dog. You come home with me.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Coffee Break Read – Maverick

Ty’s link had reached him, dinging insistently on his screens as soon as the resupply hopper had dropped from FTL into the planetoid’s traffic stream. He got back to her right away.
“What are you playing at, Grim? I already gave you a three-day extension and you take that and ask me for two more. I know you have to live up to your maverick rep, but you are not helping us to build any trust doing the lone bounty hunter thing.”
He tried to sound penitent.
“I just need two more days, then I’ll be in and have something to make up for it. I promise.”
“That’s what you said last time. What is this? Seeing how far you can push me? I don’t take kindly to being pushed. You keep it up and I’ll push back. And I can push harder than you, maybe so hard you’ll find yourself off the case and back on basic duties for the next five years.”
“I’m not trying to push you,” Grim heard the slight edge of hostility in his own voice. Then he boxed it all off and swung himself into Ty’s corner for a moment – putting himself behind her eyes, feeling the intense pressure from Jecks, the weight of knowledge – greater than his own – about the possible consequences of failure in this investigation, and the frustration and concern that the man she was supposed to be working with was apparently running amok and not telling her anything even before they had hit the ground running. He took a breath to regain his own composure. Ty was not the enemy, she was his best and greatest ally. He spoke again, his tone much more conciliatory:
“I am working on something I got from a personal contact – I can’t take this down any official road, if you want it logged and signed up, it can’t happen at all. Right now, I‘m on leave and I’m my own master – trust me for two more days, please Ty, and I’ll be able to bring you something really worthwhile. Call me in now, and I can’t get that for you.”
He was guessing that part of the reason he had been chosen for this case was this very tendency of his to blaze off-trail and get things done. That and the fact he had a proven record which showed he really could bring down the big beasts of the criminal jungle when he was allowed to do so.
He could see Ty considering his appeal. She had to be a risk taker too – no one was going to assign a stolid jobsworth to this kind of investigation. But, she would also be grappling with the concern that she needed to assert her authority over him and it was very possible letting him get away with this might be one step beyond her comfort zone on that particular score. Grim hoped she’d realise he wasn’t seeing this as any kind of power struggle. He had no wish to challenge Ty’s authority – just a burning desire to get done what he needed to get done.
“At least tell me where you’re going to be for those two days,” she said, after a moment. Grim felt a tight satisfaction, knowing he had got his two days. Hopefully, that would be enough.
“A place in the middle of nowhere called Hell’s Breath,” he told her.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

Random Rumination – nineteen

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into poetic form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

I was biting my time as dust fell
And my bloody dire rear it was hell
I had swallowed some dollop 
Which I hope picked a wallop
But waiting was making me smell
Alongside me was my escape goat
A man who grasps time by the stoat
He has wobbly knees
And old timers disease
And his hearbuds are down by this throat
As I wrote this verse I could have sworn 
That you wouldn’t find any eggcorns
But it’s quite up to you
If you see one or two
Said the maiden alone and fallorn

©️jj

Author Feature – Arthur Rex Brittonum by Tim Walker

Arthur Rex Brittonum (‘King of the Britons’) by Tim Walker is an action-packed telling of the King Arthur story rooted in historical accounts that predate the familiar Camelot legend.

A FEEBLE SPRING sun melted the last of the snow on the hillsides around Arthur’s court at Caer Legion, beside the fast-flowing River Usk in the Kingdom of Gwent. Lambs frolicked on the southern slopes, calling to cautious ewes that shepherds had driven away from the snow line, and the wolf-ravaged carcass of the luckless member of their flock who had not survived the night.
Ambrose, Arthur’s Chancellor, turned his head away from the pastoral scene at his window at the sound of the door to his study opening. This corner of the grey stone abbey dedicated to Saint Alban had become his favourite retreat, a space for books and manuscripts where his good friend Abbot Asaph had provided parchment, vellum, ink and a writing desk in a cosy chamber, now warmed by a roaring fire.
“Ah, Ambrose,” Asaph said in greeting. “Are you keeping your numbers, or writing your story of Arthur?”
Ambrose smiled and put down his quill, rising to stretch his back and embrace his friend. “Dear Asaph, your loan of this room is greatly appreciated, as I can do little work in Arthur’s smoky long barn, or my cramped and damp quarters. Please sit with me by the fire.”
Asaph had grown fat in the ten years since Arthur’s stunning victory at Mount Badon, his travelling days as Arthur’s chaplain put to an end by Arthur’s insistence that Bishop Aaron make him abbot of a newly built abbey with its own lands. “Dear Ambrose, you are a much-valued and learned friend, whom our Lord Jesus Christ has sent to keep me company and preserve my sanity.”
Ambrose laughed and stoked the fire. “I am writing Arthur’s story, whilst it’s still clear in my mind. I have written an account of the terrible slaughter at Badon Hill, and Arthur’s slaying of the treacherous King Caradog of Gwent, that led to our settling here at the fortress of the legion. Once the rump kingdom of Dumnonia was stabilised, and Queen Morgaise restored to her rule in Exisca, Arthur led his followers to this place, as you know. I have set down the detail of it, and how Arthur has settled where yonder Roman
fortress stands between the river and the thriving settlement that has grown around the Roman arena we call Arthur’s Roundel.”
He sucked in a lungful of air and slowly exhaled. “I have recorded all of Arthur’s battles, from the very first when I met him, at the River Glein close to Lindum, swiftly followed by a second battle at a black creek known as ‘Dubglas’. He fought the Angliscs at Guinnion Fort, the Deirans at Ebrauc and, some years later, fought north of the Wall at Cambuslang and Celidon Forest. There are other minor ones, leading to his great victory at Mount Badon and the last battle, more of a raid really, when the remnants of Caradog’s followers were chased off, here, at Caer Legion.”
“Yes, as Arthur’s chaplain, I also bore witness to the slaughter from the safety of the walls of Caer Badon,” Asaph replied sombrely, as if recalling that day. “But do not forget to note that Arthur was presented with a shield by our holy bishop at Mount Badon, one that depicted the image of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus; and that he fought for Christ against the pagans that day; and he himself slaughtered as many as nine hundred and sixty with his sword, Excalibur!” Asaph raised his voice along with his arm, pointing in
triumph to the cobwebs on the beam above his head.
Ambrose laughed and nodded, “I shall, most holy Abbot, although it was not his first shield depicting the Virgin Mary, and the number of men killed by Arthur himself is greatly exaggerated by his followers, and is most likely the entire number of Saxons
slain on that day…”
Asaph brushed aside the correction and continued, “…and this abbey, dedicated to our most holy of martyrs, Saint Alban, was built by him in celebration of his coming and chasing off Caradog’s depraved followers.” He shivered at the memory. “It took us two years to convert the pagan people to the light of God’s ministry. Please record that.”
“I shall, holy Abbot. And in time, I hope to record that you have been made a saint, for you deserve it.”

Tim Walker is an independent author living near Windsor in the UK. He grew up in Liverpool where he began his working life as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. He then studied for and attained a degree in Communication studies and moved to London where he worked in the newspaper publishing industry for ten years before relocating to Zambia where, following a period of voluntary work with VSO, he set up his own marketing and publishing business. His creative writing journey began in earnest in 2013, as a therapeutic activity whilst undergoing and recovering from cancer treatment.

He started an historical fiction series, A Light in the Dark Ages, in 2015, following a visit to the near-by site of a former Roman town. The aim of the series is to connect the end of Roman Britain to elements of the Arthurian legend, presenting an imagined history of Britain in the early Dark Ages.

Arthur Rex Brittonum, a re-imagining of the story of King Arthur, follows on from book four in the series Arthur, Dux Bellorum, which won two book awards in April 2019 – One Stop Fiction Book of the Month and the Coffee Pot Book Club Book Award. 

The series starts with Abandoned (second edition 2018); followed by Ambrosius: Last of the Romans (2017); and book three, Uther’s Destiny (2018). Series book covers are designed by Canadian graphic artist, Cathy Walker. Tim is self-published under his brand name, timwalkerwrites.

Tim has also written two books of short stories, Thames Valley Tales (2015), and Postcards from London (2017); a dystopian thriller, Devil Gate Dawn (2016); and two children’s books, co-authored with his daughter, Cathy – The Adventures of Charly Holmes (2017) and Charly & The Superheroes (2018) with a third in the pipeline – Charly in Space.

You can find him on Facebook, Twitter and his own website.

EM-Drabbles – Thirty-Nine

They had lived in the shadow of the castle all their lives.

In more ways than one.

Lord Rancard was their protector and their employer and the brothers never forgot it. There had been the day their mother lay close to death and Lord Rancard had sent his own physician. And the day Glebit wed Gelis, Lord Rancard sent them a purse of silver.

So when the army of peasants arrived declaring the town free and Lord Rancard a criminal, the brothers acted.

No one would have suspected the nightsoil team that left the town that day included noble blood.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Much Dithering in Little Botheringham – 5

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

It wanted five days to the start of the new month and Ginny spent most of them trying to find all the things Stan and his pals had laboriously hidden in the wrong places.
She had got back from the shop to find them already in their van and about to go.
“Don’t worry about that cuppa,” Dan/Ian/Stan told her, as though he was doing her a big favour by letting her off making it. “Me and the lads’ll get going right away.” 
So she had tipped them and they were gone before she’d walked back into the house.
She had been careful to mark each box with its destination room, but they still seemed to have decided for themselves where each should go.
The room she planned to make into her study-office-come-reading nook, which had a wonderful view over the back garden, was so full of boxes she couldn’t even get through the door, whilst her bedroom had nothing in it except her bed – not even the bedding, which was presumably somewhere in the study under the boxes of her books. Fortunately, she had a sleeping bag in the boot of her car which meant she didn’t need to excavate frantically that evening, but she did ponder whether she might have been deliberately misled by Stan the removal man when he suggested she went to the shop.
The next day she was sorting the kitchen, unpacking things into drawers and cupboards whilst singing to the radio about how the sun always shone on television, when a shadow fell across the threshold of the kitchen door, left open to let in the fresh air.
Like most dwellings, the cottage had a front door which opened – via a short path and a fringe of grass – onto the road and was where visitors were expected to present themselves. The kitchen door was in the side of the house, accessed by a path with a high hedge that led to the back garden and was blocked by a gate at the front. So the sudden appearance of the shadow was startling and unexpected.
She spun around heart pounding and found herself looking into the eyes of the man she had bumped into on the way to the shop. Only now he was fully clothed. Jeans and a short-sleeved black Armani shirt, with a white dog-collar.
“Hello there,” he shouted. “I’m your vicar, Doug Turner. I did knock but the music… ”
Blushing furiously, Ginny grabbed at the DAB and turned it off.
“Sorry,” she mumbled and then managed to get out something about making tea and would he like one.
He accepted with a dazzling smile and for a few moments she was able to consume herself in finding and rinsing two mugs and dropping a regular tea bag in each.
Could you even give a mug of tea to a vicar? Didn’t it need to be bone-china cups and saucers and a teapot of Darjeeling not a ‘Happy Price’ teabag from the local shop?
By the time she was done he had leaned his muscular frame against the wall and he graciously accepted the proffered mug.
“What, no cucumber sandwiches?”
Ginny gaped at him blankly.
“I-I’m sorry?”
He shook his head and grinned at her and she noticed his teeth seemed a little large at the front.
“An old joke. One we vicars often get.”
“Oh. Right. I’ve not met many. In fact, I can’t think of any. I don’t think I’ve lived somewhere that had a vicar before.”
For some reason he found that hilarious and Ginny watched the tea in his mug slop dangerously close to the rim as he laughed.
“Everywhere in the country has a vicar,” he said when the laughter subsided and as if that explained why he had been so amused. “You’ll’ve had a vicar before but never knew it.”
Ginny tried to take control of the conversation again.
“Do you call on all your…” She fell at the first hurdle. What did vicars call their community? Flock? That sounded archaic. “…on all new people?”
Vicar Doug took a slup of tea and pulled a face. Ginny wasn’t sure whether that was a response to her tea making or her question.
“I try to get to meet new parishioners when I can, but I did want to apologise for running into you the other day. I thought you were a tourist.”
He made it sound as if running into tourists was perfectly acceptable behaviour. And perhaps it was in a place like this where tourists were no doubt seen as an annoying fact of life.
“Oh. I see. Well, I’m not.” She realised belatedly she hadn’t introduced herself and stuck out the hand not clutching her mug. “Ginny Cropper. Pleased to meet you.”
His hand stopped half-way as if he was having second thoughts about the shake.
“Not the Ginny Cropper?”
Her heart sank. She found herself resorting to an old line.
“Depends what you mean by that. I’m certainly a Ginny Cropper.”
“I meant, are you the woman behind the Virginia Creeper lifestyle brand?”
His hand completed the journey to hers but barely touched her fingers before withdrawing, the intensity of his gaze upon her.
You couldn’t lie to a vicar, could you?
Could you?
Ginny dropped his gaze and turned to look out of the small kitchen window, through it she could see the wheelie bin and a cat sitting on the recycling box. There was nothing to offer her an escape or inspiration.
“I was,” she admitted. “But I’ve retired – sort of.” 
There was a long silence behind her and in the end she had to turn around.
Vicar Doug was gone.
His unfinished mug of tea sat on the floor where he had been. 
As startled by his departure as his arrival, Ginny picked up the mug and emptied it into the sink, washing it out without really thinking. It was, she realised, her British Wildlife Society mug, which had a picture of an endangered species of native bats on the side.
Sighing, she decided she was going to find it more trying than she had realised to get used to life in Little Botheringham.

Part 6 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Start a Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑