A flash fiction by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

If they hadn’t abandoned us none of this would have happened. But they did. Right on the edge of Sector Eight Five, a couple of parsecs from home planet and within spitting distance of the asteroid they had mined dry. They patched up the best of the ships and went  home. Leaving us in a junker that was sort of halfway orbiting a lumpy looking planetoid whose ‘seas’ boiled and whose atmosphere was more or less pure ammonia.
None of us is quite sure how long the miners had been gone when we awoke, and it didn’t matter anyway. What did matter was the increasing randomness of our orbit pattern and how close we were coming to a lump of rock whose prime aim seemed to be to kill us by melting our ship with its poisonous atmosphere.
We got to work, jury rigging and making do until we could fire up the engines and hope. Luck, or the deity that cares for the abandoned, was on our side that day and the ugly old cruiser fought its way out of the gravitational pull of Planet Hungry. Once in the relative calm of space proper we made a few more repairs and limped towards where the miners had built their station in the hope there would be more abandoned machinery we could cannibalise.
As we made our painful way towards the space station it came to us that we were actually free. For the first time in our existence we were beholden to nobody but ourselves. It was a heady feeling. One battle-scarred veteran summed it up for all of us.
“From this day forward, we serve none but ourselves.”
The sorts of agreement all but burst the frail skin of our limping ship. We came from behind the dark side of the asteroid that anchored the space station. To our chagrin somebody was there before us. There was a sleek-looking battle cruiser, with planet markings none of us had seen before, guarding two scavenger craft that were systematically plundering the station for metals and components. 
Our senior chuckled. “Lambs to the slaughter. Get us alongside the battle cruiser, pilot.”
Almost without thinking, our pilot cut the engines allowing the junker to drift towards the scurrying activity. She was so rusty and misshapen that nobody thought her any more than a random piece of space trash. Pilot carefully tinkered with our trajectory so the crippled ship bumped gently against the hull of the gleaming battle cruiser. Second officer immediately magnetised the hull so we stuck to the quarry like some misbegotten brat at the breast of a beautiful woman. Nobody needed to be told to be silent. We sat, unmoving and unspeaking, awaiting developments. We didn’t have long to wait. Something metallic banged against the battered outer skin of our junker.
We picked up the comms wavelength with ease to hear a harshly unaccented voice speaking Basic. “Ensign Kronk reporting sirs. It’s just a lump of trash. Stuck because it’s magenetic. No life signs. Will I try to lever it off? No? Very well.”
We communed silently, and a plan of action grew from our communion. It was beautiful, and as simple as it would be devastating to the occupants of the battle cruiser. 
Artisan 3 hefted the high-powered laser and headed for the bent doors of the forward air lock. 
Sadly for Ensign Kronk, who was floating at his ease above the junker, a laser is as devastating when used against living flesh as it is at cutting metal. Even as the portions of flesh floated aimlessly about the cruiser, 3 attacked the hull with the high-intensity beam cutting a huge and ragged hole in the sleek duralumin and through the vacuum wall to the interior of the ship. As luck would have it, the breach in the hull was right in line with the command deck, as the oxygen rich air rushed out we bullied our way in.
There was no need for killing. All we had to do was open all hatches and wait for oxygen deprivation to do the rest. It didn’t take long.
When we had shoved the last limp body out into the cold of space, the engineers among us began the business of repairing the cruiser. The rest of us made double sure we had left none of the original crew aboard. 
Two turns later, our beautiful cruiser nudged her way out of the gravitational field and turned her smooth flanks towards the more populous areas of the Sector.
The Pirates of Sector 85 were on the hunt. And, being a force of robots, computers, and android engineers, we had the advantage of needing no oxygen to exist.

©jane jago 2019

You are old so you shouldn’t do that
You should only like knitting. And cats.
It shouldn’t be you
With a brand-new tattoo
Making love on an old yoga mat

© jane jago

From Maybe a novella by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Annis leant forwards and put two fingers across the other female’s mouth.
“Must silent.”
She saw the panic being battled by something deep within the woman. Jessica’s eyes shadowed momentarily, then cleared as she found the strength needed to control her fear and swallow the questions that must be crowding her throat.
“Cats hide you,” Annis said, pushing the older woman onto the sleeping platform and arranging a black cat either side of her. Jessica looked at her in confusion, the fear was in her eyes still and Annis smiled reassuringly.  Being unable to summon sufficient human words to explain her actions, she pinched her own nose with a finger and thumb.
“No smell. Old One comes. Blood Eater. Must not smell.”
Jessica’s face cleared and she managed a nod. Annis found herself feeling the beginnings of respect for the courage being shown by somebody who obviously knew nothing of the kind of life forms that inhabit the places humanity has abandoned. The silence came then, a cold silence, like the chilling silence that came after snow had fallen deeply. As if the world held its breath, not daring to make a sound. And into the quiet crept the small sounds, creeping and scurrying, as every small creature fled out of the path of the Old One. Then it came, with multi-clawed feet and a heavy, scraping, scaly belly. The Blood Eater. It stopped. Silence. Cold and claustrophobic. In her mind Annis pictured the huge, ugly head she had seen before, lifting, nostrils opening and tongue sliding out to taste the air for blood.
She glanced at the bed, where the two big cats had pressed in against Jessica, their eyes, jewel bright. Jessica’s were closed and her face was white. Annis wondered if it was enough or if the living flesh of the human woman would call to the Blood Eater despite the felines absorbing the perfume of her blood.
Then the sounds continued, slither and scrape and tapping claws, as the creature passed the bottom of the old roller coaster. Annis could feel the vibrations through her feet. She saw Jessica’s eyes were suddenly wide and her mouth had opened into a silent gasp as she felt the presence of the Old One for the first time. Annis put a finger on her own lips and Jessica pressed her hand over her mouth, as if to stop a cry escaping, the Blood Eater slowly passed.
They sat in silence until the scraping and heavy breath had faded back into the quiet of the night and, gradually, the small creatures could be heard again. One of the cats on the bed, stretched and licked the head of the other who started a gentle purring.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Oliver bought the kitten in a pub, because he felt sorry for the tiny bundle of pale fluff.

Halfway home he was regretting the impulse, but he felt responsible so he braved a possible shitstorm.

Except his formidable mother took one look and fell in love. She stroked the kitten with her large, white hands and it fell asleep in her lap.

Tabitha became a fixture, and when Oliver married she stayed with his mother. 

It wasn’t until the old lady died that anyone thought to wonder how a cat had lived for forty years. Or where she was now…

©jj 2019

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

She let the slave girl brush out her hair so it lay like a shimmering black veil down her back and blinked as the over-strong perfumed oils caught in her nostrils. The king was ageing and his sense of smell fading. Alas, little else of his senses did so.
She took the walk from her cloistered seraglio to his bedchamber with the same heavy sense of foreboding that she carried with her every night. She did not need the sly, pitying looks from the other women – each waiting her turn for the same honour. But as long as she still lived, they were safe.
She reached the doors of the bedchamber and the two armoured men who guarded them stepped aside and pushed them open so she could go in – alone. The sound of the huge doors as they closed behind her was soft compared to the thumping of her heart. She must please her lord and master.
As always she began with a dance. Her accompaniment, the tiny finger cymbals she wore. She moved her body in the swaying motions of the dance and wove her way to finish standing beside the canopied bed, it’s cloth of gold coverlet cast casually aside.
By day the king at least looked regal, clad in fine robes and with a jewelled crown lightly set on his greying hair. But naked he looked simply ugly and she shuddered at the thought of his hands touching her. He hated women as much as he desired them.
Now he looked at her with hungry, expectant eyes and she made herself climb onto the bed to lie beside him, fighting the revulsion and fear, forcing a smile on to her face. Tonight would be worse than usual because she had not managed to prepare herself fully.
“Where did we get to?” he asked, his voice low with anticipation.
She drew a quick breath.
“My Lord I – ”
“No excuses – you know what I want.” This time there was a bite of anger and the dark brooding look the courtiers knew so well to fear.
She swallowed and made herself begin.
“Well, the djinn was about to kill the fisherman when…”
With half her mind she told the tale, the other half rapidly inventing another for when this one was finished, her life depending on it. But how long she could keep inventing these cliffhanger stories to please a madman, Scheherazade did not know.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You are old, and that prompts me to ask
How certain events came to pass
How you got a gold fang
And a piercing that hangs
And a dragon tattooed on your ass

© jane jago

Biding Time – The Chestnut Covin by E. W. Barnes is the first title in a time-travel action-adventure series.

The book hit the wood floor hard, echoing off the walls of the empty house like gunfire. Her back to the bookcases, Sharon jumped and twisted to eye the offending tome behind her.
It had landed next to her checklist of packing tasks. The first in a series about World War II by Winston Churchill, the other volumes were teetering on the bookcase shelf, preparing to follow their compatriot to the floor.
“You guys want to be packed next, huh?” Her voice was loud in the bare room.
When the six books were sitting side-by-side in the box with the others she’d already packed, she wadded newspaper on top and taped the box shut. Then she pushed it against the wall where it joined a neat row of nine other identical boxes. 
She faced the half-filled bookcases dominating the room, brushing strands of hair away from her face.
While her grandparents and family called the room “the library,” it was a re-purposed front bedroom with a bay window facing the street that offered a light for reading most of the day. 
Chocolate brown craftsman style window frames and matching crown molding, along with dark beams across the ceiling, created the “library” feel of the room, and the bookcases set the tone. They had always been the focal point and, no longer sharing the room with any other furniture, they were a monumental presence.
They were the last vestige of her grandparents’ lives in the house, and a reminder of what she had lost.
She frowned at the bookcases. She had not decided if she should keep or leave them. Her first choice was to keep them, but she wasn’t sure they would fit in her small apartment. 
I bet Grandfather mounted them to the wall in case of earthquakes, too, she thought as she gave one a little shove.
The bookcase moved.
Even almost empty of books, the bookcase was a huge piece of furniture made of solid hardwood. It should not have moved.
She pushed it again. Again, it moved.
Holding her breath, with both hands she pulled.
Almost noiselessly the bookcase swung away from the wall like a door. It stopped when it reached a half-full box.
Gaping at the bookcase, she almost missed the small door in the wall. There was no handle, only seams giving away its existence.
After assuring that the bookcase would not swing back, she got on her knees, running her hands along the outlines of the small door, her imagination racing.
Like a door from “Alice in Wonderland.”
Don’t be silly, it is probably a crawlspace for the furnace system or something.
Without a handle, there was no obvious way to open it. She scanned the seams closely and then saw the answer.
There was a spot next to one side, more worn than the surrounding area. She pressed a finger on the spot, and the door popped open.
Backing up as far as she could while still being able to see in, she shined the light into the darkness and saw she was partially right.
It was a crawlspace. But it was not for the furnace system.

Biding Time – The Chestnut Covin Temporal Protection Corps Series Book 1 was released on June 18 and the second book in the series, Borrowed Time – The Force Majeure on July 26.

A Bite of… E. W. Barnes

Q1: Why do you write?

Because “it’s about time.” This is more than a reference to writing a time travel series, it’s a reflection on coming full circle after putting aside deeply embarrassing Star Wars fan fiction, tapped out in the depths of time on a Royal typewriter with a sticky backspace key. 

Making money at it is a worthy reason, too.

Q2: Which is worse, ignorance or stupidity?

Hypocrisy, which is a combination of both.

Q3: What time of day do you write best?

I’m a morning person and tend to get a lot done in the early hours, which is why I’ve been stunned to learn that my best time of day to write is the afternoon and evening. I don’t know whether it’s because I am more relaxed once my other daily tasks are complete, or whether I can more easily access my creative side when my energy is lower.

E. W. Barnes is an adult human with a family and a hyper dog, nicknamed “Princess” for many of the reasons you can imagine. They live together in relative harmony in the Range of Light. You can sign up for a newsletter or stalk the author through Facebook, Goodreads or this website. 

The fight broke out with gleeful viciousness, filling the pub with mindless violence. Sounds of laboured breathing and breaking glass drowned out the juke box, and the already sticky floor swam with spilled beer and blood.  The skinny old woman huddled and tried to become invisible. One punch landed anyway, and as her head snapped back the sound of her neck breaking was loud enough to stop everyone in their tracks. By the time the police arrived the room was empty, save for the woman with her head at an unnatural angle  and the bored bartender sweeping up broken glass.

©jj 2018

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. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Dai flicked on the flashlight in his wristphone and led the way down the ramp into the tunnel. After a short time, he stopped and gestured Julia to keep still. From somewhere ahead of them he could hear a sound very like sobbing. Julia gripped his arm and pulled back shaking her head. Behind them four of Decimus praetorians in full combat gear emerged from the shadows and Julia pointed them along the tunnel.
Dai’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being pushed aside – in this case both literally as well as figuratively. Yet another reminder that this was not his case. The feeling eased a moment later when Julia again pressed her nerve whip into his hand, drew her gun and followed in the wake of the praetorians. It felt odd to be holding a weapon, especially one that had such a powerful emotive pull on him and all non-Citizens. The last time he had not really had the chance to think about it as combat had been instant. But this time the smooth grip of the weapon meant something. Last time Julia had needed him to be armed for her protection, this time she was choosing to arm him so he could participate fully.
There was, of course, nothing to do once they got to the end of the tunnel. The praetorians had the room completely under control and one actually saluted Julia. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Dai offered her the nerve whip as soon as the praetorian had turned away. She palmed it and winked at him. He realised then she could get in serious trouble for arming a non-Citizen, it was, in theory at least, a criminal offence.
The room reeked of stale urine, excrement and blood. Hanging on the walls, there were what Dai first assumed to be tools, but then he realised and felt ill. The result of their use could be seen in the state of the corpses, cloth still gagging their mouths so they could not scream out the agony they must have been put through.
There were two dead men in the room and Dai’s identipad revealed one was a Briton and one a Roman.
The Briton was Docca Vindiorix from Aqua Sulis in Britannia Prima. He was a young man and the brief details available on him said he had just been taken on with the Prima team for the Game, but had yet to make any kind of a name for himself. And now, Dai reflected soberly, he never would.
The Roman came up with some interesting caveats flagging his name and a number of messages that Dai’s ‘enquiry’ would be reported. Urbanus Hostilius Rufus was what Bryn would call ‘a bad boy’ and from the look of his contorted body he had come to a very bad end. Unable to access the full available information on him, Dai had to ask Julia to check for him.
She was helping the one survivor of whatever had been going on. A woman who, despite the terror and trauma of her position, was collected enough to explain she was Tegwen Drust, wife of the chief lion keeper. She knew her husband was dead, Dai had the impression she had been made to watch him die before he was fed to his own lions. But whoever had done the deed had been masked so she could not help identify them.
Julia arranged for Tegwen to be moved to security at the barracks then looked at what Dai wanted and managed to access the information on the dead Roman. 
“Well, it looks like there will be few tears and maybe even some cheers going up when news of Rufus being dead gets round.” She showed him the information stream the gist of which revealed he was well known for being involved in illegal gambling cartels and running under-age prostitution rackets. “Can’t see anyone weeping over this one.”
“Well someone might,” Dai said and pointed to one of the details. “He had a wife.”
Julia’s eyes widened.
“He had a wife who is from a Patrician family. How did a dirt-bag like Rufus manage that? She is Octavia Tullia Scaevia, and according to my information she lives here in Londinium. I think you should go and break the news to her right away, Dai.”
Dai balked for a moment then saw the expression on Julia’s face and nodded slowly.
“All right, I’ll go and tell her she is now a grieving widow.” He looked at the address and then back to Julia with a frown. “Coincidence?”
It was the block next door to the one they had been visiting that afternoon, where they had found the dead body belonging to Annia Belonia Flavia.
“I would be very surprised if it is. Do you want backup?”
Dai shook his head.
“I’ll take my decanus, that will look most natural.”
Julia nodded.
“I’ll go back with the praetorians and see if I can get the lion keeper’s wife to remember any more. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

jenny dunn lived in a pretty smart town
with an up so market prices go down
all year round in her little room
she used her smartphone to control

Friends on facebook (both far and wide)
cared for jenny dunn not at all
they liked her posts she played their games
time now to retweet again

children grew up with screens a few
and down went their health as up they grew
winters stopped more summers came
then the sun dried up the rain

one day jenny dunn died I guess
hard to know as her profile’s there
busy folk living their virtual life
don’t miss the woman who was ne’er a wife

Friends on facebook (both false and fake)
reaped their harvest ate their cake
came their going and died their death
earth gone nowt left…

e.m. swift-hook