Tom nursed Mollie through the ravages of the cruelest of wasting diseases. When he finally closed her eyes the rest of his life stretched empty before him.

His daughter turned up with a shivering puppy under her arm, and he snarled at her.

“What makes you think I want a dog!”

“I don’t think you do, but I promised Mum.”

So Chunky came to stay.

Tom awoke one morning to the memory of Mollie’s voice.

“We always wanted a dog.”

Tom smiled at Chunky and understood at last.

The only thing he could do for Mollie now was to live.

©jj 2019

She loved him so much, closing her eyes to his little vanities and the pinpricks of disrespect. He was, she knew, so ingrained in her heart that she would always forgive him. Even after a night when all she could do was cry, he only had to touch her cheek and the sun started to shine again.

She loved him so much. Feeling superior to her friends whose husbands were not the centre of the universe, she overlooked his meanness and his mistrust. 

When he began criticising her every move she accepted that she must be doing something wrong and tried everything she could do to ameliorate his disgust. She knew it was just one more storm to weather and kept her face turned towards the sun.

Only it didn’t seem as if he was going to come around any time soon. And it hurt her heart to see the contempt in his eyes.

One night, when he was ‘away on business’ she sat looking at the television through dull unseeing eyes, when a phrase leapt out of the screen and forced her to wakefulness.

‘Abuse doesn’t always leave bruises.’

She felt herself falling, and curled into a foetal lump on the rough tweed carpet where she fell prey to the cruel claws of the cold place in her chest where her too-trusting heart had been.

She loved him so much that when he returned from his tryst with his latest mistress he found her still curled on the carpet. He pulled at her shoulder with an impatient hand, only to have her lifeless body roll onto its back.

It seemed to him that he would never forget the sadness in her dead eyes.

©️Jane Jago 2019

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

The building was huge. Even the elevator was a comfortably furnished room with ambianced views through false windows clearly streamed from the grounds outside.
Having reached an upper floor, the aide led him through a series of rooms which formed a corridor of adjacent chambers. These contained some kind of art gallery or museum, or most probably both, with real objects sitting on plinths and the ambiance set to reflect something of their original culture and history. It was impossible not to stare at some of the more interesting items on display.
“Var Sarava is a great collector,” the aide said, as Grim found himself standing, mouth slightly agape before a gorgeous mythological creature the size of his own head which had apparently been carved from a single, huge gemstone. He was impressed against his will.
When he was shown into the final room, the normality of it was disorienting after the opulence of the gallery. A very human scale and comfortable social room, with its focus where deep-cushioned chairs were set around a delicately inlaid table. There were two windows on adjacent walls, both framed with looping curtains, and showing very different views of the grounds. One wall had shelving with antique ornaments and beautifully bound old-style books. For a moment, as the aide quietly left and closed the door, Grim didn’t realise that there was anyone else in the room.
She stood perfectly still beside one of the windows. A petite and slender figure with softly blonde hair and a face that looked as if it had been flesh-cast from a mould, the sort of preternatural smoothness the extremely elderly achieved. She wore a blue garment, which could only be described as a robe. Its elegance was in its simplicity, its ornamentation in the way the colour was reflected, highlighting the brilliance of the blue eyes that watched Grim as he noticed her presence.
“Vor Dugsdall. I apologise for compelling you here to endure such a garish display of wealth. This was never my favourite home, but it is the one I am now, sadly, obliged to inhabit.”
Grim wondered how he was supposed to take that. He decided that face value was the best way.
“I could think of worse places to have to live,” he said.
A quirk of emotion danced in the dramatically blue eyes. “I am sure that is so.” She moved one hand and the room’s ambiance resolved itself from comfortable social area to plush business office. The curtains vanished to be replaced by neatly folded blinds, the inlaid table became smooth, the flooring changed from wood parquet to sleek moulded tiles, the shelving became a plain wall where art could screen and the ambiant colours shifted from warm browns and dark reds to cooler blues and black. The small woman walked with a very erect and slightly stiff gait across to Grim.
“Now you must try and convince me that I have made a good decision to involve myself in all this again.”

E.M. Swift-Hook.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old, so just please give me room
And stop handing me your doom and gloom
You are just such a bore
And I’ve heard it before 
Can’t you put on a less mournful tune 

© jane jago

An extract from 3D SpecimAn the first novel by award-winning screenwriter Julia Nest.

TWO DAYS UNTIL THE COUNTDOWN

Dave woke up earlier than usual. He glanced at the clock and remembered it was Saturday. That meant the alarm wouldn’t go off. There was nowhere to rush off to, nowhere he needed to be – he could stay in bed for as long as he liked.
But he couldn’t go back to sleep. The events of last night kept creeping into his head. He had to do something about them, at least think over what he had to do next.
Dave pushed his head back into his pillow and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. His mind was racing… Something had happened, and it kept playing in front of his eyes.
Every Friday the Board of Directors threw parties. They were all prime examples of a typical ‘overpaid consultant’ and instigated protocols, supposedly, ‘to strengthen corporate spirit’. However, they also became a way to weed out those who didn’t “fit in” with the collective ethos. Indeed a few brave souls refused to take part now and then, citing prior commitments or work-life balance. The Board deemed all such employees as ‘bad team players’ and soon they were asked, none too politely, to find new jobs elsewhere. Dave loved his job, and he didn’t want to lose it. He was a professional at what he did, and could just walk into another job but the issue was that Dave didn’t like change. He was comfortable. He’d got used to his colleagues. At least that’s what he thought.
He recalled the events of the previous evening, one of the Director’s assistants had approached him by the pool.
The party was in full swing, it was too early to leave and not late enough to jump into the pool. As part of the corporate camaraderie, usually one over-enthusiastic junior colleague would elect to do this fully clothed. The guests were drunk enough to be having fun, not counting their drinks or thinking about who was taking who upstairs, yet. Dave, however, knew exactly how many drinks he had has. After half finishing his second cocktail, he sat down and sprawled out on one of the deck chairs. Close enough to be considered part of the festivities but far enough away to have his own space.
For the first time in a long while he was actually enjoying himself. He’d managed to ditch an already drunk colleague who was trying to get him to drink faster and sidestepped the office ‘cougar’ who had been hunting him.  
Now he felt at ease. As carefree as he would at his own place but more relaxed as the alcohol finally started to flow through him. He liked his place, it was his sanctuary but it still felt lonely at times.
Even someone as solitary as he was needed company once in a while. The company of the possum, who was hiding in the bushes near the pool, sometimes was not enough.
And then Dave spotted ‘Assistant Director’ Bob, heading in his direction. Dave glanced left and right, hoping that Bob was not looking for him. But he was. Dave made an effort to smile, he started thinking of what he could say to make ‘small talk’ but decided he’d let Bob talk first, after all, he clearly had something he wanted to say.  
Dave called Bob ‘Pudgy’ Bob, behind his back, as he reminded him of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Pudgy was getting closer. Bob had an ‘evil’ squint in his eyes and his mouth was set in thin-lipped sneer…  Dave knew Bob envied him. He’d seen him watching him when he escaped the ‘cougar’ a woman that he knew Pudgy liked. He doubted that Bob would have refused her advances and would be upstairs with her right now if he could. But women didn’t want Bob, women didn’t like Bob. His bouncing belly, balding head and bread roll fingers were hardly a turn on. He was definitely the opposite of Dave. 

A Bite of… Julia Nest

Q1: Why did you choose to write science fiction rather than any other genre? 

I have always been curious about two questions: “What awaits us in the future?” and “What if..?” That’s what ultimately led me to writing sci-fi

Q2: What were the most frustrating and the most rewarding moments in writing your first novel?

I was afraid I couldn’t handle it. After all, before starting to write my first novel I only wrote scripts for TV. But I was afraid in vain: as soon as I started writing, I couldn’t stop. The most rewarding moments were consultations with world-famous scientists who are engaged in 3D bioprinting – I resorted to their help so that my novel is reliable in terms of the scientific perspective of the novel.

Q3: What is your favourite fast food and who do you most enjoy sharing it with? 

I cannot live without French fries. It’s cool to pack up with friends to watch a movie – and crunchy.

Julia Nest is an award-winning screenwriter. More than thirty of  her scripts been filmed so far. She always had a passion for books –  sci-fi specifically – and also for writing. Hence Julia’s first novel 3D SpecimAn. You can find her on Facebook and Goodreads.

Something she had once thought of as self was fighting for breath, while those who kicked the broken body laughed.

“Whore,” the biggest said and spat into the blooded mess that might once have been a face.

“I think we’ve killed it,” another remarked.

The lights went out, and the men manning the cameras moved to ease their cramped limbs.

“Best yet,” the ‘director’ beamed, “but snuff movies do use up women…”

Those were to be his last words alive.

It really isn’t wise to kill and maim in a grove sacred to the forest gods. 

It makes them hungry.

©jane jago

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

As she wavered on the edge of tears there came a polite tap on the door. Boudicca stepped away from Decimus as he straightened his spine.
“Come.”
The Praetorian who came into the room looked about as shocked as it is possible for a properly hard man to be.
“Report, man.”
“Sorry dominus. Marcella Tullia Junius. We went to her apartment. There was nobody there. At least nobody alive. There was a dead servant, female, poison suspected, and two lap dogs.” The man stopped and Julia could see a muscle working in his cheek. He got himself together and carried on. “Two lap dogs. You know sir, them little balls of fluff. My mother has one, it’s a soft little thing. They was kicked to death.”
Julia could understand the soldier’s repugnance and gave him the ghost of a smile. He thanked her with his eyes before pressing on.
“We thought that whoever had taken the lady must have killed her dogs before abducting her. But it doesn’t seem as if that can be true. One of the neighbours saw her leaving. On the arm of a very well dressed man. Overheard her saying that all loose ends were now tied up.”
“Good man,” Decimus spoke kindly. “Cut along now and get yourself a big drink. Tell them I said.”
When the door had closed behind the obviously shaken man, Julia looked at Decimus.
“Cold culpa,” she said before pouring a cup of mead and draining it in one gulp. “One assumes,” she spoke carefully lest her voice shake, “that Domina Marcella had no more use for her lap dogs.”
“So it would appear,” Dai sounded just as sick as she felt. “And can anybody tell me why that seems worse than killing her servant?”
“I can,” Boudicca volunteered, “them animals was small and helpless and she will have petted and spoiled them until she turned on them. I’m doubting whether the servant was ever a pet and she must have known what sort of person her mistress was.”
Julia lifted one small shoulder and spoke softly.
“Indeed. I just don’t think we’ll ever find their mistress and that disturbs me almost more than I can say. But for now I have to go and make a long and complicated call.”
Dai offered her a conspiratorial look.
“You want me to come and hold your hand?”
“Tempting. But I won’t put you in the firing line. Himself is liable to fry my ears until he calms down.”
“Wait with me,” Decimus said with gruff entreaty, “I could do with another drink and somebody to talk to.”
Dai looked uncomfortable and Boudicca favoured him with a singularly charming smile.
“You are all right,” she said. “I’ve got work.”
She kissed Decimus and rolled out of the room. Julia followed her, trying very hard not to laugh at the men’s faces.
“Score one to you,” she said as the door shut behind them.
Boudicca laughed and clapped Julia on the shoulder with one meaty hand.
“You need not worry about Decimus. I’ll look after him.”
She headed for wherever, leaving Julia to make for the comms room and a secure line to the Praetor.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I do remember the fifth of November
When fireworks recall a plot
To blow up the whole bloomin’ lot

I do remember the fifth of November
When kids called ‘Penny for the Guy’
At the people as they walked by.

They’d make them before the fifth of November
From old clothes with newspaper crammed
Then sat in an old go-cart or pram.

But now we remember the fifth of November
As a day for fireworks planned
Displays both modest and grand.

But kids don’t make guys for the fifth of November
They no longer put up that cry
Instead ‘trick or treater’s come by…

E.M. Swift-Hook

From Iconoclast: Not To Be the next book in the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

“You Lastas?”
The man was grey-haired and bearded, though wearing a look that said he wasn’t much slowed down by it. He had come from the staff area behind the sleek counter, so he wasn’t just a visitor like she was. Lorelea nodded cautiously, making it a brief movement. She wasn’t too surprised he had recognised her. Her long face with its high cheekbones would always give her heritage away to other Clans.
“My grandpa was too. On my father’s side, you understand,” he said.
She did. It meant the connection between them was very loose, not like he was related on his heritage side, the maternal side.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, her tone rising into a question.
“Lienz.”
“Lorelea.”
“You here alone?”
Never let them think you’ve not got back up. She could almost hear Jaz’s voice in her head.
“Uh—no. Well right now, yes, but I have family in the ‘City.”
The eyes as grey as the hair and beard widened very slightly.
“Strange. I think I’d have heard if any Lastas hit town. Stranger still, I heard you’d parked a ship on your own.
How could he know that?
Lorelea met his gaze with a slight shrug. Suddenly she wasn’t sure what she should share and what she should keep secret. He was Clan, but not her own, and clan feuds and politics could be complex and dangerous. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
It’s not something you can do there, Lea, in the ‘City a mistake gets you dead.
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” he said, his expression caught between amusement and something else—something Lorelea didn’t recognise. “Let me get you a drink on the house and you can tell me what you need. A place to stay? Work?”
All those things seemed to reek of permanence, of staying here indefinitely and something deep inside her revolted at the thought.
“Information,” she said. “I was trying to find someone.”
Lienz leant back and looked appraising as if her admission had changed something very fundamental in their relationship.
“Well, you’ve come to the right person for that. I know just about everyone worth knowing in the ‘City. But you need to be careful who you go asking about, Lorelea Lastas, and who you ask. This isn’t a good place to be asking questions about some people, if you get my meaning.”
She finished eating and pushed the empty away. Avoiding his gaze because his words reminded her of how vulnerable she really was in this place. “Thanks. I’ll have that drink.”
Lienz made a gesture and a young man came running from behind the counter, a tattoo clear on his forearm. A Clan tattoo. Mendive. Lorelea felt her heart pick up a little and wished she knew more about current clan politics. She had no idea if Lastas and Mendive were on good terms or not. There had been a feud, she knew, but that was when she was a child. A lot could have changed since then.
She let Lienz order the drinks and wondered if she had been as clever to come here as she had believed. The older man might have read her thoughts, or perhaps he had seen her react to the clan mark on the youngster who served them.
“In the ‘City we have enough other problems than to go fretting around over Clan history, you know. We’re all blood if we go back far enough and here, well, that counts for a bit more than any daft family arguments.”
His smile was reassuring, but she still wondered if he was just saying the words or if he really meant them.
“Even if so—I…”
“We’re cousins, Lorelea. I’ve Lastas blood in my veins.” He smiled at her and raised his drink in a silent toast. Outsider style.         She felt a release of tension she hadn’t realised she held. He had claimed her as kin—family. Clan. Despite herself, she returned his smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Welcome. Now, what are you doing here on your own? I had heard your people had pretty much settled in the same place the last thirty odd years or more. ”
“Like I said. I need to find someone.”
The steady gaze seemed to harden slightly, but not at her—more on her account.
“Someone hurt you?”
She shook her head quickly, annoyed he could see.
“No. This is a friend. He may be in trouble.”
Again, she felt the weighing judgement of Lienz’s eyes. It was as if for every word she spoke he was reading another half-hundred behind.
“This isn’t a good place to be in trouble,” he said, after a few moments. “I think you don’t want to get this friend of yours into any more so won’t tell me his name until you trust me some. Which is a shame as trouble often moves fast in the ‘City.”
“I don’t even know for sure he is here.” Lorelea could hear the defensive protest in her own voice. Lienz was right though. Both that she didn’t fully trust him and that she probably needed to. Needed to be able to trust him, at least.
Lienz sighed and offered a wan smile.
“Some people make life hard for themselves,” he said. “Alright, You need a place to stay, and I have an apartment needs someone to live in it. No charge. I can get you work too if you want. Decent pay. Or if you’re willing to hire out your ship, you can sit back and count the credits.”
“It’s Clan property,” she lied. “If it flies, I’m aboard.”
“Fair enough,” Lienz conceded easily, “but what about the rest?”
Lorelea hesitated. She knew he was right. She would have to face up to the fact that this was going to take time, and she needed to plan for that. He had already claimed her as both Clan and kin which meant a lot as it placed on him—on them both—duties of tradition. His offer was generous, and if the search took longer than she originally thought, she would be glad of any work he could put her way. With a strange sense of reluctance, even though it made solid sense, she gave a nod.
“Alright. That’s kind.”
Lienz smiled again.
“You’re Clan. And you can owe me a favour for it.”

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Are you crying? 

No. It’s the sun in my eyes.
Makes them water
I’ll just dab them dry.

Are you remembering?

Leave me alone, she said 
In this crowded world
All that I have is my head.

It’s only a churchyard 

His bones are long gone to dust
And yet I may find him again
If I have hope and I trust
And what if I am crying
Under this tree in the rain?
You’re the voice of an algorithm 
How can you feel my pain? 

© jane jago 2019