Dale Carina’s Red Range Rover Sport pulled into the Backwater Shopping Centre strip mall. The L-shaped mall’s physical appearance left plenty of room for doubt that it had ever seen better days, despite the gentrification of the last word in its title. The parking lines were faded and scattered tufts of grass sprouted from a multitude of pavement cracks. Only four of ten stores were operating. A convenience store situated at the far, long end of the plaza, was most likely the main source of leasing revenue keeping the mall afloat. In the vacant store next to it, a sign announcing Coming Soon: Vic’s Vapes, had been heralding its own arrival for over two years.

The remaining stores were a nail salon, tattoo parlor and, squatting in the dark corner of the mall, Harley’s Bar and. Repeated visits from, and fines levied by, the Florida Board of Health had directly led to the demise of the missing last word: Grill. Legend had it that some twenty years ago, the owner, a frustrated Harley Denton, walked out of his establishment one fine summer’s evening with a 12-gauge shotgun. After striding about twenty feet into the parking lot, he turned and obliterated the last word of the sign. With a sense of closure, he announced loudly “Goddamned grill’s closed!” to the people in his vicinity who were busy coping with sudden-onset tinnitus.

Dale put on his windbreaker and trundled out of his car with a sports duffel bag in hand. As he headed toward Harley’s, he tried to pull up his extra-comfort loose-fit jeans with his free hand, but his stomach would have none of it and pushed the pants back down. He swung the door open and entered. God, I love this shit hole, he thought as the door shut behind him, plunging him into darkness that only served to heighten the aromas of mold, mildew and stale everything. Sure, there were a few small neon signs advertising one beer or another, but somehow any light that came off of those partially dead and flickering bulbs wasn’t capable of illuminating an area greater than a pair of fireflies could.

It wasn’t that Dale loved the cesspool ambience unto itself; it was that it made it the perfect place for him to conduct the more strategic parts of his business. A key element being that dark and dingy atmosphere. Even if you walked in on a cloudy day or at night, your eyes needed time to adapt – enough time for anyone to slip out the back exit without notice. Another factor was that the meager clientele it pulled in were either engaged in their own deals or lacked full awareness of their surroundings via habitual drug and drink. But best of all, he could smoke. Smoking was allowed here by virtue of Harley’s being a stand-alone bar thanks to the summary execution of food-service by the aforementioned Mr. Denton. To bolster this, both the bartender and the waitress chain-smoked. The pair looked to be in their early 60’s but it was a sure bet that they were much younger. Even the oppressive visual pall that surrounded them could no longer assist in hiding the ravages of time, sun, booze and smoke. The third person at the bar was a rail of a man who was looking at the shot of whiskey on the counter and the cigarette trembling in his hand as if he wasn’t sure which one he was supposed to be nursing.

Dale ambled to the far end of the room and sat at the table nearest the exit and the bathroom, making it doubly advantageous. The dry husk that passed as a waitress approached him. She had given up standard server lines like “What can I getcha, sugar?” or “What’ll it be, handsome?” ages ago when she realized customers who came here were neither sweet, nor handsome, nor tipped for that matter. So, she took the approach of least effort which was to stand and wait for a count of five. If nothing came out of a customer’s mouth she’d return to her perch on the stool near the bartender.

The Devil and the Wolf is a satirically humorous urban fantasy novel by Richard Pastore. Find out more on his website.

Q1: Twitter or Facebook and why?

Twitter. I’m just not the blogger-type. I wish I were, but it’s not part of my nature. Lord knows, I’ve tried.  I’m happy when I can find the time to read Facebook posts, no less create one. My author site gets about one update per month as well.  I like Twitter’s brevity and (relative) simplicity. It allows me more time to read and respond to followers.

Q2: What is your favourite dessert and why?

Yikes! I have to choose? Well, I’m a healthy eater 99% of the time and I honestly love and crave simple fruit-based dishes (I have a killer recipe for a peach/pear crumble – mmmm). However, for that 1% other time, yeah, cookie-dough ice cream.

Q3: Would you rather meet an angel or a devil from your book and why?

Excellent question and it’s a difficult one. I lightly play around with concept of good and evil in my book, so that members of both sides slide along the scale. I’m also going to sidestep the primary character. Methinks I know him too well already. If I can choose a specific one, then Lilith. I feel like that’s a character I can add more depth too, so I’d like to sit her down for an interview. That, plus I’ve heard she has some amazing anecdotes.

Richard L Pastore was born in Brooklyn New York on a sweltering summer’s day. He spent his entire formative years in that city until moving to New Jersey at the age of 21. Pursuing an education in Cognitive Psychology led to a career in User Interface Design. During a minor behavioral glitch called "midlife crisis" he switched careers to become a Business Analyst.

Although having traveled across the country quite a bit, he feels most at home along the eastern shore of these United States. Be forewarned, should you choose to engage him in a conversation regarding anything food-related; whether it be the history of, growing of, or cooking of; he won’t shut up. You can find him on Twitter, Goodreads, Facebook or his own website.

It’s cold here, cold as the hiss of an angered angel. Cold as the breast of a barren woman. But we are not made to mind the cold, I and my trillion brethren. We float gently down to blanket the stable where a baby cries and a man stares uncomprehending as his virgin bride presents him with an unexpected son.

It’s cold and we band together to hold in what little heat the beasts generate with their breath.

My brothers are glad to be of use to him they are calling the king, but I am afraid. I have seen stars where there should be none. I have heard strange voices singing. I have watched sheep herders bring presents of food and woollen blankets. I have seen camels from the painted lands of the east bring old men bearing unsuitable gifts.

They say snowflakes are individual. That no two of us are the same. But they say a lot of things. I look around me to see million upon million of my siblings locking arms and settling. I am the only one who does not fit.

I am a sad snowflake because I know that tomorrow will bring a warm wind from the south and we will all die…

©️ Jane Jago 2017

 

You shake your head and look so smug
You vow to breathe it never
That little word you overheard
That makes you feel so clever
Your neighbour’s secret, feeble lies
Are now laid bare before your eyes
To grasp them to your bosom close
Just makes you feel so warm
To hold a secret in your hands
So capable of harm
Your smirking smile, your baleful face
Bode ill for someone, spell disgrace
But as you whisper as you hint
And slyly lift the lid
You ought to hope that your own sins
Are rather better hid
© jane jago 2016

I first happened upon this book courtesy of Mumsie, who threw it at my head in a spirit of joyous playfulness.

“Here, you fucking retard,” she declared in lovingly honeyed tones, “read this and find out how to write a proper hero”.

After I had treated the suppurating wound on my cranium with arnica, I looked with some disfavour at the dog-eared and gravy-besmirched volume, wondering idly why it was peppered with what looked like boils. However, it was a perishing cold day, and the central heating boiler had noisily breathed its last, and I was made painfully aware that if I wished to be seated beside the fire in the withdrawing room I had better be doing something of which Mumsie approved. Thus it was that I made the acquaintance of the wild moorland, and of the orphan Heathcliff, and the cruelly beautiful Catherine.

Oh my goodness me. What power lurked beneath those broken-backed and besmirched covers. What majesty did one find in a flawed hero! How one sobbed as life turned against one so noble – and all for the foolishness that is the love of a female. How one felt for an orphaned boy treated worse than a dog, and how one railed against the fate that brought him to his knees. And how beauteous was his vengeance.

In essence, a man falls for a member of that inferior gender and is betrayed unto his death.

Five stars and a tear on one’s unblemished cheek.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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Nothing was said as they were riding back until a short way from his house, Zarengor reined in sharply, bringing his pony in front of Ralik’s and forcing him to stop.
“Gods, I am sorry Ralik. You should not have had to do that.”
Ralik said nothing. It was true. He should not. Zarengor cursed and turned his pony back to the street. They rode on in silence for a while before the other man spoke again.
“I do not know what I am supposed to have done. These people seem to want to find me a monster.”
“You think it is nothing of your own making?” Ralik was unable to keep silent at that.
He found it unbelievable that Zarengor should think he owned no responsibility for the reactions he provoked in others.
“I know what I have done elsewhere. Well, what I am believed to have done elsewhere, but I have done nothing to harm so much as the fingernail of any Harkeran. I am here to fight their war with them and I will do so and win it for them too if we have even the most leisurely break of good fortune. You would think they might have some sense of that.”
Ralik moved to ride alongside him. It was strange to him to see this side of the man whose strength and self-confidence had once been more than an inspiration for him. It made him question again what he had been doing in Harkera.
“Why should they be grateful to you? They do not know you except by reputation. Perhaps when you have won their war they will be grateful.”
Zarengor looked into the gathering darkness and shook his head.
“Maybe. And maybe they will suddenly find me inconvenient, an embarrassment, something best put away as quickly and quietly as possible. Or am I getting too cynical?” He sighed slightly. “Tell me, Ralik, have you ever known happiness?”
Ralik’s thoughts instantly filled with a beautiful face whose storm-grey eyes held a depth of emotion he had never inspired in any one before.
“I think so. But what man can ever call himself truly happy? The gods may take all we have in a moment,” he spoke quietly, but with conviction.
“Then perhaps happiness is not the goal, just a fleeting side-effect of other events in life. Perhaps the goal is something altogether more straightforward.” Zarengor fell silent a moment and the sounds of the evening streets closed in: a shout of laughter, a woman shrieking, a child crying, two dogs fighting. “What really matters to you Ralik? What do you steer your life by? What principle or creed governs your direction?”
The questions took Ralik by surprise. They were not the kind of questions one fighting man asked of another and they were questions he suspected that the Vavasor in a sober state would never have asked of him. He was tempted to say nothing, to let the moment pass. But, for some reason, the questions had touched upon the disturbing thoughts and events in his own life in recent days and he found himself considering them almost without meaning to do so.
“Honour,” he said stoically. It was the answer he would have given in all honesty until a few moons ago. But now? Well, now he knew there was something he held higher than honour, although he was not sure he could admit it to anyone else and he would still never forsake honour lightly.
“Oh yes, honour,” Zarengor said and sounded weary of the word. “We were brought up with it as our wet-nurse’s milk, you and I. Honour for ourselves, our families, our lord, our clan, our city – a desolate field is honour. Can it put food in the mouths of the hungry? Can it heal the wounds of the injured? Can it make Castellans strong and merchants wealthy? We make whores of ourselves for honour.”
Ralik was shocked.
“Without honour, what is a man?” It was the creed he had been born to and Ralik could recite its catechism as well as any other nobleman from the north. Zarengor looked at him directly for the first time in the conversation.
“I am not sure, Ralik, but I am beginning to think that without honour a man becomes something more. That without honour, he is free to choose the best way to live.”
“Then perhaps that would be a new way of honour,” Ralik suggested.
“Or perhaps it would be a new way of living.”
Nothing more was said until they dismounted at Zarengor’s house, a small but well-appointed courtyard residence in the wealthiest quarter of the city, close beside the residence of Ralik’s own Castellan. He had taken this house after the attempt on his life for greater security. The Vavasor threw the reins to the hands of a stable lad and strode towards the house.
“I am not to be disturbed,” he informed the guard at the door, then paused and turned to say briefly: “Good-night Ralik, I will not keep you up on my account any longer tonight – and thank you.”

From Transgressor Trilogy 2: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook.

I am old and I’m thinking the sky
Is the same blue as my father’s eyes
And I wonder if he
Will be smiling at me
When I finally say my goodbyes

© jane jago 2017

Lure of Flame

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.

Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.

Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.

“What makes you think you are worthy?”

“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”

“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”

Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.

The same yearning, the same questions.

Alone in her chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Artwork by Ian Bristow

Donald and Vlad went off in a cab
To fetch us peace worldwide
Donald fell down in something brown
And Vlad just laughed till he cried

© jane jago 2017

“Are you having a party out there?” a small voice demanded.

“Sort of,” Anna laughed. “You wanna come out?”

“Yes. But I’m in my jammies. It ain’t nice to go outside in your pjs.”

“Hang on love. I’m on my way in.”

Anna got up and jumped lightly aboard.

“How about you put your cashmere jumper on? It’s warm and soft, and it’ll keep your feet warm too.”

“Would it be suitable?”

“Oh yes. And you can sit on Rod’s lap.”

“And pinch a sip of his brandy?”

“Maybe. But now put your arms in the air and let’s dress you for outdoors.”

There was the sound of a small giggle before Anna poked her head out.

“Rod. Can you come and grab an armful of Bill?”

Rod got up and Anna passed out the small form, now warmly wrapped in the cashmere jumper he so treasured. He beamed at the assembled company.

“Hello Miss Chris,” he said, “is this your friend Miss Belle?”

“It is.”

“How de do Miss Belle.”

Belle, obviously enchanted by the old-fashioned courtesy, moved forwards and solemnly shook the small hand that was half hidden inside a much rolled up holly-red cashmere sleeve.

“Pleased to meet you Mister William.”

Bill giggled delightedly.

“You’re a nice lady. And very pretty.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Chris laughed, “she will get a swollen head.”

“Oh my,” Bill said faintly, “I didn’t mean that to happen.”

“It’s OK, little man,” Rod explained. “She don’t mean that literally. It’s another one of those sayings. It just means she will get conceited.”

“Like big-headed?”

“Yes. Exactly like.”

Rod turned a grinning face to Chris who was looking guilty. “Don’t worry. Thing about Bill here is he’s very bright and very literal minded, so you have to be prepared to explain stuff. He likes to learn.”

Bill smiled seraphically.

“I do. But you should meet my baby  brother, Charlie, he’s much worser.  Mummy says he only stops asking questions when he’s asleep.”

“Many a true word,” Anna said ruefully, “he’s the only Cracksman who can’t be distracted by food. On the upside, he’s perfectly willing to accept ‘I don’t know’ as as answer.”

“He is,” Rod agreed.

“And he’s a lot easier to handle since you taught him to do his own research on his iPad.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should, but he’d already taught himself to read, and partly how to use a computer, so I thought it best for him to learn properly.”

“How old is Charlie?” Belle asked faintly.

“He’s five.”

“Jeez…”

Bill chuckled again.

“You do get used to him. And he’s shite at football.”

Everyone laughed and Rod fondly flicked the curly head that rested against his chest.

“Language cheeky!”

 

Whilst Bill was busily being the centre of attention, Anna pulled out her phone and took a couple of shots of the happy child. On review, one was spectacularly good, and she found herself smiling just looking at it. Bill’s face was alight with laughter and mischief, and Rod was grinning down at him with his face full of love. On impulse, she handed the phone to Sam.

“Oh my goodness,” he said softly. “You so have to send that to his mother. Like right now…”

“I do don’t I?”

 

She sent the message and waited. Within about half a minute her phone rang. It was Jim.

“Whatever you do don’t lose that picture. In fact, send it to my comp right now. It’s fucking brilliant. Pats is in meltdown.”

Anna laughed and complied.

“Done.”

Jim calmed down a bit.

“It was just fantastic to see the little man laughing. We know it isn’t over, and he will have difficult times. I guess we’d been focusing so hard on the bad stuff that we really didn’t believe he could be having fun. It did us all good to see. Even the twins got a bit misty. Is that the famous jumper he’s wearing?”

“It is. And don’t it suit him?”

“Yeah. He looks like a robin off a Christmas card. Thanks for looking after him.”

“No trouble. We love him too. Even Sam. See you tomorrow.”

 

Then she turned her attention back to what had become quite a jolly little party and had the satisfaction of watching a random group of people finding common ground and a shared sense of humour. They sat outside until past closing time, and all were reluctant for such a pleasant evening to end.

 

Next morning, the campervan crew was up bright and early and had everything ready for the off before breakfast time.

They didn’t linger over the breakfast table and were on the road by half-past-nine. Bill waved frantically and blew kisses to Belle and Chris as they pulled gently out of the pub grounds.

“I liked them,” he informed the assembled company. “They were very nice to us. Weren’t they? Anna, can you tell me again how you know them?”

“They are friends of Danny’s. He used to work with Belle in Moscow.”

“So, are they diplomatic people?”

“Retired ones.”

“They aren’t old enough to be retired.”

“No. Retired isn’t a good word. I’d better explain. When you are a civil servant – which is what diplomatic people are called – and you have worked for twenty years you can have a pension. Lots of people take the pension then get another job. That’s what Belle and Chris did. They took their pension and bought the pub.”

“Thanks Anna. I understand now. Can I play my aliens game on your iPad please?”

“Of course you can.”

Sam, who was taking the first stint behind the wheel, grinned at Rod in the passenger seat.

“If the traffic is kind, we should have Bill home by early afternoon. In a lot of ways it’s been a good trip.”

“It has. We going back to Scotland?”

“Not unless you want to. It was only an excuse to spend some time together. And I’d sooner be close to Billy until I have to go back to work. Then you can take him and his brother to the land of the midnight sun…”

“Yeah. That makes sense. I just feel a bit guilty about your holiday.”

“Berk. I’m still having a holiday, and I wouldn’t have missed meeting Bill for the world.”

“Yeah. He is pretty special.” Then he thought for a minute. “I reckon if I phone Patsy she’d wait dinner for us. What say Anna?”

“Why not stick the postcode in the satnag and see what ETA it gives us? It’s set up for campervan speed so it won’t be too far out.”

“Will do.”

Rod crouched over the centre console.

“I hate these fucking things. Ah. Got you you bastard! It says we should be there by one o’clock.”

“Right. Now press the blue button on the left, and it’ll tell you if there’s any reported snarl-ups on our route.”

“It says no reported incidents.”

“Well call Pats then. I reckon you’ll be able to last until one-ish. What d’you think Bill?”

“I can wait for Mummy’s cooking. Will you tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her?”

“Yeah. Course I will. Better still I’ll give you my phone and you can call her yourself.”

He passed back his phone. Bill looked at it critically.

“What you been doing to your phone Uncle Rod? It’s a bit mangled.”

“I probably dropped it.”

“He did indeed drop it’ Sam confirmed. “First on the golf course at Gleneagles. Later on a stone floor in a distillery. And those were just the instances I witnessed. Does it still work?”

“It shouldn’t,” Bill said somewhat severely. “He’s very careless with his possessions. But it do… Hello Mummy. It’s me. We’re on the road. Anna’s satnav says we should be there by one o’clock. Can you save us some dinner? What do I want for dinner? Anything you make. Best will be seeing you and Daddy. Have you missed me? I’ve missed you too. Lots. Everyone has been very, very kind. And I’ve had Uncle Rod, and Anna, and Bonnie, and Sam. But I still wanted you. And I’m happy that we’re going to be there soon. Give Daddy and Gandalf kisses from me.”

 

He ended the call, and for a minute he looked so sad that Anna had to give him a hug.

“What, little man?”

“Mummy was trying very hard not to cry. It must have been so hard for her. I’m very sorry to have caused her so much worry. I shall be glad to give her a big cuddle.”

“Listen Bill,” Anna said firmly “you don’t have anything to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault.”

She’s right,” Rod confirmed in his deep tones. “Whoever is to blame it most certainly isn’t you.”

“No it isn’t,” Sam put in his two pennorth. “You can’t take the blame for the bad guys. Don’t even think it.”

Anna felt the small shoulders relax under her hands.

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes. Thank you all. You do help me.”

“Good,” Rod growled, “that’s what grown ups are for. Now give me back my much abused phone and go back to splattering aliens.”

Bill giggled a bit, and did as he was bid.

Jane Jago