In a room full of chattering parakeets the quiet darkness hung about him like a blessing and Gabby wanted to just breathe him in. 

As though her need called him, he crossed the room to her side and bent over her hand. She felt the light scrape of his tongue as he tasted her skin.

“Will you dance.”

She nodded, and he swung her onto the dancefloor where the vapid girls and their chinless partners made way for them.

They waltzed until she was giddy. 

Until he bent his head and took his first sip of her red, red blood

©️jj 2020

He came round lying in the snow, soaked through and frozen. It was dark and the pain of the cold in his body was sharp. It hurt to move and muscles screamed into cramp when he tried. He managed to get to his feet, head swimming and staggered against the wall.
“Are you alright? Here let me help you.”
The solicitous arm came out to go around him, but the glint of metal in the other hand woke Durban to his danger. He rammed his elbow back into his rescuer’s solar plexus, which did no more than make the man curse and forced himself into a staggering run away from the alley and into the main street. There were more people there and his assailant, mercifully, did not mount a pursuit.
The welcome sight of a tavern gave him the strength to cross the road and he pushed open the door into the warmth, his steps uneven.
“We don’t want your kind in here.” The voice was accompanied by a firm grip on his arm and he recalled, belatedly, that he looked more like a night-soil sweeper than a man of substance and his dull eyes and lurching steps must give the impression of insanity or drunkenness. He gripped the arm that seized him and spoke to the bald face, his voice commanding if hoarse.
“I have money, but I have been attacked and robbed. Send to the castle, to the Castellan of Cressida. You will receive gold from him, I promise.”
The face, round as one of the moons, seemed swamped with uncertainty, but Durban’s grip on the world was faltering and he had very little idea of anything until he became aware of lying in the warmth and Caer’s face surveying him with slight concern. He mustered a smile in response and tried to sit up.
They were in a private room of the tavern and he had been laid on blankets by the fire. Someone had removed his wet clothing and the frozen flesh was thawed.
“I might have imagined myself dead and transported to the garden of the gods until I saw your hideous face,” Durban said weakly.
The hideous face broke into an answering grin.
“You will wake from death into the torment of those who have offended the gods and my face will not be there,” Caer told him cheerfully. “I shall be lying in the arms of a well-built nymph and taking my pleasure as I am enjoying watching your sufferings. What happened to you?”
Durban pulled himself up and looked rueful. “I was mugged in the street.”
“They took your clothes and redressed you?”
“No. I was in disguise. There are some problems one can tackle best from the bottom up, some information which will not reach ears that look washed and have lobes that are adorned with jewels.”
“You should have had an escort.”
“Ah yes, that would have worked,” Durban agreed, “a peasant with three hulking well-armed soldiers watching his every step and coming running each time he sneezed.”
“You have men who are more subtle than that,” Caer chided. “Why did you not have them with you? You could have been killed.”
“I am used to taking my own risks and I am used to working alone,” Durban said. “Old habits die hard.”
“And so could you.”
“But not today. It remains for me to thank you for coming to my rescue. I hope you did not trouble our Most Honoured master with the matter?” Durban said it lightly and looked around as he did so. “I don’t suppose you brought me any clothes?”
“I have sent for some for you – you were lucky you had not changed your shirt, the quality of the cloth was about all that convinced the landlord to send for me and not throw you out to die in the snow,” Caer said. “And, no, I did not tell the Most Honoured One when you sent for me, as I did not know it was you. But he has been asking for you. He knows you left your men and went alone, you will need to have something to say to him.”
Durban smiled.
“I think he will forgive me when he hears what I have to say.”
“He always forgives you. You always know what to say to him.”
“I always say what he wants to hear,” Durban told Caer guilelessly. “All I have to do is work very hard to make sure that he wants to hear what I am able to say to him.”

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

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

It seems as if life is perverse
And sadly in need of a nurse
A male nurse, quite hunky
Bringing chocolate chunky
And a wink and a daft little verse

©️jj

Tempered in Ice by Zora Marie is the second book in the series Phoenix of Hope which is an epic tale of elves, wizards, dragons, and gods.

As the sky lightened with the first rays of sunlight the next morning, Zelia fell to her knees near the lake, a puff of snow rising from the freshly covered grass. She had hardly slept as her ribcage constricted against the metal plate and her mind raced through her scattered thoughts. Why do I know her voice? Why don’t I remember? She had always known Xander likely manipulated her mind. He was the only one who could have, but she had no clue how much he had changed or why he would have bothered to mess with such memories. She had always assumed Asenten was the driving force behind everything that had happened, but maybe not.
The light crunch of snow gave way to a silvery voice. “Are you okay?”
Zelia’s heart lurched into her throat and she turned away, letting her hair cover her face. She wasn’t ready to face her, not without knowing what else lay trapped within her own mind. The snow crunched as the girl sat beside her. “Zelia, that is your name, isn’t it? You’re the one who saved me from drowning yesterday.”
Just leave me, please. Zelia almost begged in her thoughts, but didn’t say a word.
“That’s okay, we don’t have to talk.” The girl picked up some snow, and it crunched as she packed it. “Here, this is for you.” She leaned forward and dropped her work into Zelia’s hands.
It was reminiscent of Dain, the black wolf that had set in motion the events that freed her. “It’s beautiful, thank you.” Zelia looked up at the Elf who was about her size. Her silvery hair shone white in the starlight.
“I only wish it would last longer, maybe one day I can make you one of glass. You know, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Linithion, Queen Eleanor’s niece. And no, we haven’t met before, well prior to you saving my life yesterday. I’ve only lived here for a few years.”
“Wait, you’re the Princess of the Drakeon Empire. Why are you here?”
“Um, that…”
Zelia watched her struggle over what to say. “You have powers like Eleanor, don’t you?”
“Not exactly…” Linithion rubbed her thumb over her fingers as she avoided meeting Zelia’s gaze. The way she did it reminded Zelia of Alrindel’s tick. It seemed to be a common tell among archers. Then Linithion heaved a huge sigh. “I see another person’s biggest fears and parts of their past when I make skin contact. I’ve been learning to control it, but I wasn’t in control when you saved me…”
“Oh… What did you see?”
“I…”
Their eyes locked for a moment, each reading the other’s feelings deep beneath the surface. Zelia couldn’t help but see how lost Linithion was. But at the same time, she could feel her meadow green eyes piercing her very soul. It was the first time she’d felt that way without wishing to pull away.
“You don’t know how to put words to what you saw, do you?” Zelia pried her eyes away from Linithion’s.
Linithion shook her head, but as soon as she stopped their eyes met again. “I don’t. But if you ever need to talk about anything, know that I’m here.”

Tempered in Ice  is available now or you can start at the beginning of the Phoenix of Hope adventure with Cast in Fire.

A Bite of…Zora Marie

(1) If you found yourself in Zelia’s universe what one item from the modern world would you want with you?

Hm, could I have an unlimited supply of my allergy meds? If so, I would definitely choose that so I could actually enjoy some of the beautiful views.

(2) Do your animals inspire your writing or interrupt it?

Both? Definitely both.

I lived/worked on a small farm growing up, and my love of animals definitely shows in my writing. Though at present, I just have dogs, a couple of cats, a weird little lizard, and some fish… and the smallest dog is the most troublesome.

While he is my best bud, and is what has been keeping me sane, he is a handful at times. He follows me around the house like a shadow, reminds me to get up and walk around… and bites my toes if I haven’t played with him enough that day.

(3) What is your favourite fast food and why?

Arby’s is definitely my favorite, though that’s because they are one of the healthier fast-food options around here. I honestly seldom eat out though.

Zora Marie in her own words:

I’m an author, a graphic designer, and an actor. No matter what medium I work in, high fantasy is my favorite genre… and I love mythical creatures. That said, my work isn’t for everyone, I may write fantasy, but my books are really about the emotional journey of the characters.
Book two of the Phoenix of Hope series, Tempered in Ice, came out this April and I have to say that it is presently my favorite book that I’ve written. The love and compassion surrounding Zelia in this book is to die for and there are some fun surprises along the way… I wish I could say more, but I don’t want to ruin anything.
I should note that if you have read my other book titled Zelia, that you don’t need to read Cast in Fire as it is just the re-edited and rebranded version of Zelia… so go get yourself some more Zelia with Tempered in Ice.

You can find her on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram and at Starcatcher Press.

Chigwitha’s eyes saw what she didn’t want to see. Home. Gone. All gone under sheets of whiteness. Cold. Cold. Cold.

She gathered the little ones to her and gave them the warmth of her body. She must have been asleep for a very long time and she supposed the old bones at her side we’re all that remained of her strong, proud mate. That was a sorrow to be examined.

For now she turned her back on the killing cold and followed the red light to warmth and meat. 

A voice inside her head said. ‘You can never go back.’

©️jj 2020

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

Ginny sat back and read over the list one more time.

The Menopause

Disadvantages 
hot flushes
depression
weight gain
dry skin
dry hair
hair loss in the places that should have hair
hair gain in the places that shouldn’t
vaginal dryness
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children

Advantages
no more periods (!!)
no more PMS (!!!)
warm in winter
hair less greasy
skin less greasy
fuller figure
female bonding
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children
becoming a vampire

She smiled and deleted the last line. Yes, it was an advantage, if not the advantage but she couldn’t put that in this piece. 
The title was buoyantly cheerful:

Virginia Creeper is Back! 

It felt good to see that.
Her maiden name was Cropper but from almost as soon as her pithy articles on good living had become popular in the mid-1990s, ‘Virginia Creeper’ was how she had been known. 
Her phone broke the peace of the morning with a tinny rendition of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ and she picked it up with reluctance from the white desk and sat back in her chair with a sigh as she answered it. Beyond the rectangle of her laptop’s screen, she could see through the window of her small cottage into the garden where two brownish birds were perched on the bird table, pecking at the wild bird seed she’d put out for them.
“Hello Lucinda, how are you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. More to the point how are you? Burying yourself away in darkest rural England. It can’t be good for you.”
Ginny watched as a larger, black coloured, bird descended on the bird table and the other two flew off. She wondered idly what sort of birds they all were. Sparrows? Starlings? What colour were sparrows supposed to be anyway?
“I think it’s the best thing I’ve done in the last five years,” she answered honestly. 
“Are you sure it’s not just another phase of your menopausal depression? I worry about you all alone in the middle of nowhere with all that mud and muck and only yokels and bumpkins for company. You could still come back to London, you know. Keep that place as a holiday let or whatever.”
Ginny groaned.
“I’m not coming back, Lucinda. I love it here.”
“Just think what you’re missing, though.”
Ginny thought.
She had worked her way up the greasy pole from local reporter to tabloid features writer. Then when the internet became truly a ‘thing’ she had been one of the first to migrate online and her blog became essential reading for those looking for lifestyle advice – if the lifestyle was one that was both fashionable and organic.
Then it had all fallen apart.
Small things.
Complaining about the heat when others were cuddling up in warm coats.
Losing her temper once too often. Getting over-merry at a social event where there were too many who mattered. Her boyfriend and partner of the last fifteen years walking out after a pointless row.
Then her appearance started to change.
Her hair started thinning, leaving a noticeable bald patch. Her skin became dry and flakey, so each time she undressed a small snowstorm ensued. She found herself staring at her face in the mirror and thinking a stranger was staring back. It had taken waking each morning with a nameless feeling of dread to make her run to her GP, terrified she was in the grip of some awful illness. 
Her GP had been patronising and sanctimonious. It was all perfectly natural, he explained, nothing for her to worry about. She was, the GP revealed, going through the menopause. The GP talked about HRT and Ginny shook her head. There were too many scare stories, she’d even written some of them herself, and in the vulnerable place she was in, taking it seemed too big a step to take.
So she had suffered in silence.
Quite literally.
Everything in her life had ground to a standstill.
Even her cat had moved out and taken up with the man next door.
It had been worse than going through puberty backwards.
She had fled London to avoid everyone she knew. Using almost all her savings to purchase this little cottage and living on the little that remained. One of the reasons she was once more setting finger to keyboard was that steady evaporation of her funds.
“You still there, Ginny? Not done one of you silent withdrawal things again?”
“No. Not even slightly. I was just thinking what I was missing, as you suggested. The endless round of artificial smiles, the false promises, the free samples delivered with cloying fake goodwill and the backstabs and even death threats when I didn’t endorse them. And that’s not to mention the noise, the polluted air, the crushes on the tube and the dreadful traffic. Oh yes, I miss it all so much.”
“Don’t be overdramatic. You know it’s not all like that. There’s the culture, theatre, concerts, first-nights, hobnobbing with all those celebrities – you can’t tell me you don’t miss that?”
“I don’t miss it, Lucinda, not at all. But, FYI, I have decided to revive Virginia Creeper and I have a lot of interest from the broadsheets about me doing a regular feature.”
“Oh?” 
Was that a spike of acid, Ginny heard in the single syllable? If anyone had benefited from Ginny’s premature departure it had been Lucinda. Her lacklustre lifestyle pieces had become more popular in the void left when Ginny herself vanished from the scene.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Ginny said, able to do false sincerity with the best of them.
“What is your returning piece going to focus on?”
“Oh this and that. I thought I might tell the story of how I got involved with the local Ladies’ Association.”
“Really? That would be so utterly charming.”
The relief in Lucinda’s tone was almost tangible. Ginny had to smile. That was another thing she didn’t miss about her old life, these cold false friendships required by what they all called ‘networking’.
“Oh yes, I think it will be and maybe a piece on the menopause and how it affected me.”
“I’m sure that will go down well with the Millenials,” Lucinda’s voice had taken on a slightly bored lull. Ginny knew what that meant and started counting down from twenty silently in her head.
“I am so pleased to hear you’re getting back into writing though, it will be good to see your name again in the bylines.”
Fifteen…fourteen…
“And of course if ever you do decide to return to civilization you must come and stay with me and Malcolm…”
Eight…seven…
“And of course keep in touch. I dread to think it, but  if I didn’t make these efforts to call you you’d have gone native in that place.”
“Little Botheringham,” Ginny provided helpfully.
Three…two…
“Oh yes. That was it.”
“One…
“Well it’s been nice chatting but I have to go. Some of us have busy lives still. Bye for now.”
The line went dead before Ginny could add her own farewell and she put the phone down on her desk. It wasn’t a bad idea actually, telling the story of how she had come to join the Little Botheringham Ladies’ Association…

Part 2 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

When history has unfolded the patchwork quilt of fate
When we can see, by looking back, what was the crucial date
Then, only then, can we be sure what it was that we did
To shape the way the world became, that in the present’s hid.

And every generation carves upon the rock of time
The why and wherefore they see, giving reason to their rhyme
But when we read the pages of the history they made
Things they counted highly might to nugatory fade.

We pick the flowers of the past and call it history
But most of what has been and gone remains a mystery.
The long-forgotten monuments to long-forgotten ways
Have their reason for a season that is lost in later days.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. Vane glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else. “Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?” The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir.”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice. “Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal. Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it made the responsibility he now held a heavy one, weighing up all the factors to consider if Revid should be discharged. Revid might have a legal right to be considered for release, but that was not the same as having the right to be released. That decision ultimately lay with Vane and it was one he was not finding at all straight forward.
“Well, you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger.
A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities.
The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.
Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.
Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.

If you want to keep reading, Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook is FREE to download until 10 May and you can pick up the other two books in the Haruspex Trilogy, Edge of Doom and A Walking Shadow for 0.99 each!

I got a feelin’ called the lockdown blues
Goes from my head to my blue suede shoes
Stops my fingers snapping
Stops my toes from tapping 
Stops my thighs from slapping 
Stops my voice from rapping
I got the stay at home alone misery
I never realised how boring I can be
I have no conversation 
I feel only frustration 
Have lost all sensation
Even bored by ************
I got the lockdown lockjaw blues
Made even worse by the bloody news
We’re in this together?
Like birds of a feather?
Never mind the weather?
This might last forever?
I got the blues, the lockdown blues 
But thank the lord for cake. And booze…

©️janejago 2020

Namaste, my disciples.

It seems that there are still some people out there who appreciate the value of good, old-fashioned, solid advice. I recently heard from Stephen who had just been appraised of my overly generous offer to provide helpful solutions to less worldly-wise and experienced authors, struggling with the minutiae of the literary life.

It’s hard to believe that authors weren’t queuing around the corner for this kind of positive reinforcement. You just can’t please some people. If I may lay a humble question at the feet of the omnipotent IVy:

What should an up and thrusting new author do when they become tired of being ignored by their publisher; when even the hammer blow of e-rhetoric fails to smash its way into their ivory tower? Should they:

1. a) continue with fortitude
2. b) continue with attitude
3. c) find another publisher
4. d) bomb their building?

I brace myself for the wisdom in true author style (with fingers rammed firmly in ears and accompanying la la las), just in case said wisdom is in danger of hitting the mark.

Stephen

This is a question many of us face in the early days of our authorial journey. Myself, I foresaw the possibility in advance and took careful steps to circumnavigate the entire issue by simply not having a publisher.

Admittedly, I considered the idea. But the incredible lack of appreciation those who I did approach showed for my – now universally acclaimed – literary masterpiece, rapidly convinced me that they were not worthy of receiving a slice of the riches it would be earning. I shook their dust from my feet and took the high road into the perilous mountains of self-publication.

Perilous but liberating.

The freedom to say what I wish to say in the way I wish to say it. To share of my artistic genius in the most intimate of relationships with my readership, not filtered or separated by layers of PR. Heart to heart. Mano a mano. That is the only way to be.

For me.

But it is not a way for the weak or the ignorant.

So, for you, dear Stephen, I offer you solution (e). E for the essential epitome which proves the perennial panacea for your problem. Nix that publisher and instead of touting your books desperately for approval to another, find one you can pay handsomely to provide the service you require. Then, as their customer, you will be king and they will be bound to answer your emails, phone calls, texts and all other communications. But be aware this extra level of service may also carry an extra charge…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a literary problem you may avail yourself of one’s wisdom by posting to my Facebook presence.

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.