This is the opening of the new Dai and Julia Mystery 'Dying for a Poppy' which is out today on Amazon and free to read on Kindle Unlimited.

September MDCCLXXVII
Britannia is sweltering under an unseasonable sun.

I

The column of slow and ugly army supply lorries, left Londinium early in the morning, heading north-west on the main road to Viriconium. It was carrying a recently appointed Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, his brand-new force of vigiles, their families and possessions and a vexillation of grim-faced praetorians.

Julia Lucia Maxilla wondered idly why they didn’t use hover vehicles. She mentioned this to her husband of just seven days – who happened to be the Submagistratus – and he laughed.

“Range my lovely, they would need to recharge and there aren’t any charging stations where we are going.”

“Right. Fine. It’s just that I haven’t seen a wheeled vehicle, leave alone been in one, since my brief time as a border guard on the eastern fringes of the Empire.”

Dai looked down into her face.

“By the sound of your voice that wasn’t the most pleasant of secondments.”

“It had its moments. But I met Edbert and found Canis and Lupo so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

She could see he was dying to ask more and felt a surge of affection towards him for the care he always took with her. In the end, though, it seemed he couldn’t resist just one question.
“What was an Inquisitor in the service of the Praetor doing on the Eastern Border?”

She turned in his arms and squinted up at his face. “I wasn’t an Inquisitor. I was a customs officer. Undercover. But those days are gone now. I’m a very proper Roman wife now.”

He laughed and put his hands around her waist. “Not too proper I hope…”

She made a rude noise and crossed her eyes at him. Bending his handsome head, he kissed her into submission.

She giggled, pointing to the man-mountain that was Edbert, her personal bodyguard, who was pretending to be asleep in the opposite corner of the passenger cabin. Dai smiled, then glanced down and his face creased with laughter.

“Will you look at them?”

Julia followed his gaze and saw identical expressions of aristocratic disgust on the faces of Canis and Lupo, her shaggy grey wolfhounds.

When she stopped laughing, she prodded Dai’s chest with a determined forefinger. “Instead of behaving in that extremely un-Roman fashion, why don’t you explain your family to me? Since we are going to be living just outside Viriconium and less than a spit from where they are, I’d like to know a bit more about them.”

“I wondered when you would ask.”

She was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry love. Should I have asked before?”

“No. I’m sort of glad you haven’t. Let’s me know you married me for myself not my prospects.”

“Oh. Do you have prospects?”

“Actually, no. But most people seem to think I have.”

“Me neither, so we’re quits there.”

 Dying for a Poppy is the latest of the The Dai and Julia Mysteries written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, ready and willing to continue our little seminars on the ticklish topic of creating perfect literature. For those poor uneducated few whose unheeding eyes my fame may have passed, I will begin with a trifling resume of my achievements. I am the sole author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and I am now devoting much of my time and effort to the production of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft for the less advantaged.

Lesson 8. The Write Blurb

Oh what an ugly word is blurb, how it cuts through the tenderness of one’s creativity with the hobnailed boots of its harsh ugliness. Oh how one wishes there was a pinker, tenderer, more luminescent word for the promotional literature one has, perforce, to provide alongside the fruits of one’s Muse. Oh words, words, how you torment me. How your twinkling syllables resonate inside my head like the tinkling bells on the ankles of the Muse. Oh words. But I am being sidetracked by ugliness.

The blurb is not only the ill-favoured child of literary composition, it is also that by which you seek to capture the imagination of those for whom your literary genius will become the lodestone of their lives. It is, if you would, the bait dangled in the water to catch a shark. It is, to carry my brilliant analogy to its most logical conclusion, the rotting carcase dragged behind the game fisherman’s boat broadcasting its siren song to the denizens of the deep. Get it right and you will hook a barracuda, get it wrong and your efforts will be rewarded with a white-bearded shrimp.

Your blurb must be as orchidaceously lovely as your main opus, it must sing from the same sheet of great and inspiring music, it must walk in perfect step with your narrative, it must call as the siren on the rocks, but it must never give away your plot.

I append herewith three examples of this type of writing, demonstrating the genre handled its worst and at its best:

The Bad:

A love story.

And what pray does that tell us other than this is the work of a lazy author lacking in the most elementary creativity?

The Better:

Permit Fatswhistle and Buchtooth to clasp your hand in theirs and accompany you on your journey as you laugh, cry, learn and celebrate in the company of two of the most engaging and life-affirming creations of modern mythology. A work of genius not to be missed.

The Best:

After years spent caring for her aging parent, beautiful and virginal, Clothilda is cast penniless on the charity of her cruel, chicken farmer, landlord. Can she win his love with her goodness and innocence, or will she lose everything at the hands of the bitch whore from hell who wants his money and his cock.

Read and learn and inwardly digest my darlings.

And remember. Promotional material is almost more important than that which it promotes.

Next time: Sex Sells. Writing a hot love scene.

A bientot.

Ecrit Bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

[After tragedy struck, Dan Bradfield has offered Sarah Fendhardt a room for the night]

Dan pushed the door open and led me through.

We were in a kitchen. I broke out of my numb state long enough to notice that it was big, but then I stopped noticing. I followed Dan up another level to a hallway with a number of doors. Dan went to the second door and opened it, then he gestured for me to go in ahead of him.

I paid a little more attention this time. The room was a fair size and had a four-poster bed in the middle. A couple of large, colorful paintings were on the walls, although in the dim light that came from the bedside lamp Dan had turned on, it was difficult to examine them. The light of the moon shone through the single window on the far wall.

I went over to the window to let some fresh air in. To my surprise, I could see no way to open it. “I can’t open the window?”

“No.” He opened another door in the room and flicked on a light switch. Through the door I could see a quaint bathroom, just for me. He put my bag down on the bed.

Then he walked over to the window, where I stood. “We have ducted air conditioning throughout the entire house. When we put it in they suggested double glazing the windows and sealing them to keep it cost effective.”

“Oh.” I suppose that was logical. I’d heard of people doing that.

Why then, did it feel as if he was lying to me?

I tried to shake the feeling of suspicion as he continued talking.

“An added advantage of this kind of system is that it’s burglar proof.” He rapped his knuckles on the window. “So you don’t need to be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here.”

How had he known that was what I was most worried about? I suppose, considering what had just happened, it wasn’t a huge surprise.

Unconsciously, I moved closer to his side. Standing in his shadow seemed the only safe place. I looked up at him again, but he dropped his eyes and headed for the door. “I should let you get some sleep. Try, anyway.”

Without realizing what I was doing, I followed him to the door. I didn’t want him to leave.

Perhaps he understood the pathetic look on my face, because he stopped at the doorway. “That’s my room there.” He pointed at the next room, further up the hallway from the stairs. “If you need anything, anything at all, and I don’t care what time it is, you knock on my door. Okay?”

I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes again as he stepped away from me. I had to fight the urge to beg him to stay. I knew I couldn’t keep him. It was well past two. He had to be exhausted

and he had already done so much.

I had to be brave. “Goodnight,” I said, and shut the door.

You can read more about Dan and Sarah in The Heir – Book One of the Verindon Trilogy.

Lynne Stringer has been passionate about writing all her life, beginning with short stories in her primary school days. She began writing professionally as a journalist and was the editor of a small newspaper (later magazine) for seven years, before turning her hand to screenplay writing and novels.

Lynne is the author of the Verindon trilogy, a young adult science fiction romance series released in 2013. Her latest novel, released in October 2016, is Once Confronted, a contemporary drama. Visit lynnestringer.com for more information. Or visit her Amazon Author page for more books or find her on Facebook.

This interview is with Dan Bradfield from Lynne Stringer’s novel The Heir (Verindon #1). Dan is a student at the prestigious Enterprise Academy in Connecticut and is from a wealthy family. At least, that’s what everybody at the school thinks, including Sarah Fenhardt, who’s secretly in love with him. Although sometimes she thinks there’s more to him than that …

Q1: What is the very best thing about being who you are and living where you live?
The best thing about who I am is the fact that I’ve been trained well and am confident in my abilities and myself. I know how to do my job, and yes, I do mean my job. I may be in high school at the moment, but it isn’t really me, if I can put it that way.
The best thing about where I live is that I know it’s definitely the safest house around, which is necessary, since we could encounter difficulties from … some people.

Q2: Do you have any really good friends or really bad enemies?
I don’t know if I’d consider the members of my squad my friends. I guess most people would think that but it’s different for people of our kind. As for Sarah, I can’t possibly consider her a friend, considering the differences between us. They are insurmountable.
When it comes to enemies, there are many of them. Most I have encountered are dead now but I imagine there will be more to take their place. It’s a by-product of this line of work.

Q3: If you could be anyone else in your world, who would you be and why?

High Commander Denzik. He seems to be grooming me to be his successor. While I admire him as a leader, he has some limitations, particularly around his treatment of females. I would like to change that should I have the honor of becoming High Commander. I believe females should be treated the same as their male counterparts and I don’t see why he insists on treating them differently.

You can read more about Dan and Sarah in The Heir – Book One of the Verindon Trilogy.

You can find Lynne Stringer on her Website, Twitter, Goodreads, YouTube and Pinterest.

10
So did you get that project done, the one miss said was due?
I’ve finished mine on time and started something new.
You coming to Merry’s party? You have to be there so
I can tell my parents and then they will let me go.

20
So how’s the job coming along and did you get that raise,
The one you wanted for so long? Yeah, Uni’s a real daze.
I met someone the other day, we went out for a drink.
Did you get off with what’s their name? That one you liked, I think.

30
So how’s the house hunt going now your second’s on the way?
I saw you out in Supermart just the other day.
I was with my partner, we’ll marry in July,
No, I think we might still rent, not sure I want to buy.

40
I hear you son’s done well at school, my daughter starts this year,
We had to move to get her in, the local one was drear!
Well, yes it cost a bit to move but well worth it I’m sure,
You heard that Merry lost that job? Must be feeling poor.

50
Mine never phone from college, I’m glad that yours still do.
Oh, the divorce? What can I say? These things happen too.
Life as a single-parent is not so bad as some
You know what being homeless made poor Merry become.

60
No, I’m never lonely, don’t mind the empty nest.
The way I think, it’s peace and quiet, get a good night’s rest.
You saw Merry on the news? It was such a shame,
I’m sure they got the details wrong and misplaced the blame.

70
The grand-children came by last night, they are such fun.
But I’m worn out when they’ve gone home, always on the run.
You have yours living with you now? That must be a bind,
So very tiring at your age, as I am sure you find.

80
I’m sorry for your loss and now we both are on our own,
The grandchildren are all grown up and moving out alone.
You know that you are getting old when your kids reach middle age.
Still, time to have a cup of tea and turn another page.

E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the second part of a two-part extract from Trust A Few. If you missed it, you can find the first part here.

“Let me get this right,” Charis said, incredulous. “You are telling me that because I took a break from the freight shunts to help a friend with their new business I am – ” It felt surreal and for a moment Charis had to close her eyes.
“No longer a citizen.” the official finished for her. “That is indeed so, Var Sweetling.”
She opened her eyes again and tried to deal with the situation in a calm and logical way.
“Look, if the Coalition needs me on the cargo runs so badly, I’ll go back to Rota tomorrow.
They will be happy to have me back. They told me they would.”
The official’s face wore an expression which might even have held some trace of regret.
“I am sure you would and I am sure they would. But, I am sorry to say there is an issue with your doing so. Those posts are only open to those who are citizens of the Coalition. And, as you have now confirmed all the details which underlie the ruling of the committee, the status of your non-citizenship has already been confirmed.”
Charis felt her mouth dry up as her throat became suddenly constricted and sore.
“I want a lawyer,” she said, snapping out the words and without even waiting for permission she sent a link out to her mother. It failed to connect and dropped away.
“You are welcome to seek legal representation if you wish to re-apply for asylum, appeal the decision or seek citizenship, but only once you have been deported. As a non-citizen, you have no right to residency in any of the CentralCentral or other Coalition worlds, so whatever legal steps you feel you need to take will have to be conducted from outside them.”
The full horror of her situation impacted then and left Charis feeling weak, as though her muscles could not support her body. She felt herself slump back into the chair.
“I need to go home if you are going to deport me, I need my things. I -”
“That is not going to be possible. You will leave here for a detention facility where you will be informed as to what options may be open to you. I do suggest you co-operate as it makes the process less unpleasant for everyone, but most of all for yourself.”
“But – you don’t understand. I am a citizen of Central – raised here, educated here, my parents live here, all my friends are here, I don’t know any other life. I couldn’t survive a day on half the Middle World protectorates I’ve shunted cargo to, let alone on some below low-tech Periphery hell hole. I won’t know the culture, the way of life, the people. Why take me in and teach me, nurture me, make this my home – then throw me out? What was the point? It’s beyond pointless – it’s – it’s cruel.”
Her voice broke a little on the last word and she had to stop talking or risk allowing the tears of anger and frustration, which pricked in her eyes, from showing.
The official looked a little weary as if he found himself dealing with this situation one time too often.
“The Coalition always takes the cases of displaced minors, children who need asylum, very seriously and the Protected Children Program has been long established as a humane and fair way of treating unaccompanied or orphaned children who come to us in need. Those, such as yourself, who are accepted under Amendment D are required to repay the community through military service, which you did. After which you may be accorded rights of citizenship if you are working in reserved employment – as you were for many years. There is nothing unfair, pointless or cruel about it.”
Charis heard the door open behind her and, still in denial when her arm was taken in an iron grip, she felt as if the end of her life had begun.

From Trust A Few - Part One of Fortune's Fools 'Haruspex' trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Alina dragged herself into the bathroom, deeply thankful for a double-wide shower stall, big enough to accommodate her burgeoning belly. She heard Joran return to the bedroom walking softly and felt him enter the shower behind her. He supported her carefully while she soaped and rinsed.
“Won’t be long now…”
She turned and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”

Joran helped her out of the shower and dried her tenderly on a big fluffy towel.

When she was dressed in a loose flowing gown with her hair properly imprisoned in a silken net, she took both his hands in hers.
“Has your father returned?”
“Aye. But he had no luck.”
With her last hope gone, Alina heard her own cry of agony as if from afar. She held her husband’s eyes with her own, aware that the misery in his expression was mirrored in her face.

She dropped his hands and placed her own palms on her stomach.
“There are two lives in here Joran. We only have a licence for one.”
She thought his face was the bleakest thing she had ever seen.
“I know. And how do you think I feel?”
“I don’t think I can begin to understand. Will you have to kill one of us?”
“Yes love. I can only leave the delivery room with one extra life. The Numbers prohibit any more. My family has only lost one member since the last child was born a decade ago.”
“Then you must kill me.”
He fell to his knees and buried his face in her white gown.
“That has already been suggested to me. I will not rip out my heart.”
“Then will you rip out mine? I have grown two lives here inside me. I cannot allow one to die.”

Joran stood up and they clung together like children. Caught in the toils of intractable law and unable to see a way out, all they could do was hold on and perhaps pray.

By the time of the family meal they had collected themselves enough to behave with propriety, and they even managed to ignore the spuriously sympathetic looks cast their way by those family members who had lost out to them in the childbirth lottery.

It was a long day, and the heat and humidity of the air in the place of the women all but brought Alina to her knees. But she had sufficient pride not to give in, and she was sitting tall and straight when Joran and his Grandfather entered the room.

They came straight to her side. Joran’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he smiled at her through them. Grandfather spoke directly to her.
“The Numbers have changed. Both your children may now be welcomed. Old Grace went to the God today. By her own hand. This was her gift to you.”
Alina thought she might faint, but managed to hold firm.
Joran took her hand.
“We will call our daughter Grace…”

© jane jago 2017

Tweedleeast and Tweedlewest
resolved to go to war
For Tweedlewest said Tweedleeast
had really gone too far
And as they spoke, the silverbacks
hid ‘neath the bed and shook
For Tweedleast said Tweedlewest
would soon be brought to book
Tweedlewest and Tweedleeast
did huff and puff and shout
And women in suburbia
cried who will help us out
The Slavic eagle heard their cries
his wingspan blocked the light
Which frightened both our heroes so
they clean forgot to fight

© jane jago 2017

Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy! If you missed the start you can catch up here.

The brawny chested jumpsuit guy had taken quite a lot of shotgun pellets in his shoulder and upper arm.

“The shot needs to come out. Local?”

“Can you try without?”

“I can. Yell if it hurts too much.”

“Oh. I will.”

Sam picked up a pair of sterile tweezers and made short work of removing the lead balls.

“Antiseptic now. This will hurt, but it’ll be fast.”

“Okay.”

Sam poured a whole bottle of antiseptic over the area and grinned at his patient’s inventive cursing.

“Only two places needing stitching. Again I have to ask if you want a local?”

“No thanks. But can I ask where you got so familiar with gunshot wounds?”

“You can,” Sam set the first stitch quickly and his patient barely moved. “Thailand. Working for Medicins sans Frontiers. We looked after kids who had been rescued from the sex traders, and quite often the rescuers got shot.”

He set two more stitches.

“Right. Done. Field dressing?” One appeared in his hand and he applied it with careful thoroughness.

“Thanks mate. That feels good.”

“Okay. The stitches are self dissolving so you shouldn’t need any more professional care. Keep it dry for a week, and you’ll be fine.”

The jumpsuits’ boss leaned over and spoke softly to Sam.

“They never intended giving the kid back alive, did they?”

“Probably not. The way they ill-treated him certainly makes it seem that way.”

“But he’ll be OK now?”

“Yes. Both physically and mentally. But I’m fucking relieved we got to him when we did. They hadn’t started really putting the frighteners on him, so he’s upset but not damaged.”

“You a trick-cyclist then?”

“No but my Dad was, and I’ve seen a lot of abused kids.”

“Is there anything else we can do for the kid now?”

“Not unless you can produce some hot food.”

“Soup?”

“Yeah. But how?”

“We’ve got a small stock of self heating pouches of food for emergencies. He’s welcome. The chicken soup is even palatable. And we’ve got bowls and spoons.”

“Great. But can we let him sleep for a few minutes first?”

“Can do. Warm soup after we have taken off?”

“Yes. Good.”

Sam turned his head.

“You holding, Rod?”

“Just about. I can keep a lid on the anger for Billy’s sake. But it ain’t easy.”

“No. It’s not. And I wouldn’t ask you to do it if he didn’t need you to be a calm, safe presence. Is he sleeping peacefully now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If he starts to twitch or show signs of distress talk to him calmingly. Tell him he’s safe and he’s with you.”

“Right. Can do.”

The helicopter door opened to admit the boomer boys and the rest of the jumpsuit men. One of the boomer boys was cradling his left arm and looked to be in some pain. Sam raised his brows.

“I think it’s broke. Got caught in a fecking booby trap. But now we need to take off PDQ. We ain’t got more than fifteen minutes before the whole thing goes up. We lost five while the boys dug me out.”

As he was speaking, the engine note of the chopper changed and they left the ground. Everyone got headphones, even the sleeping William, and conversation became a lot easier.

“We have to take a detour” the boss explained. “Firstly to put those hills between us and the castle when she blows, but also to come into Scottish air space from the North Sea. We’ve got a couple flight plans filed, and that one brings us in from an oil platform. We were never here.”

“No indeed,” the boomer boys agreed. “Not within a hundred miles.”

Sam laughed harshly.

“What about the survivors who saw you?”

“What survivors?”

“Ah. Good. Bastards.”

Rod reached over and patted him.

“Goes against the grain doc. Or does it?”

“Not with what they were doing to that little man. Now I’ve a broken wrist to look at. Somebody help him out of his shirt. Gently. Cut the sleeve.”

Willing hands obeyed and Sam eyed the misshapen limb.

“Don’t need an X-ray. That is most definitely bust. Both bones. And before you get all butch on me I’m going to have to give you a walloping great shot of local just to relax your muscles enough for me to put the bones in their proper place.”

“Can ye?” the injured man asked.

“If he can’t, nobody can,” Rod asserted. “As well as being my mate, the bugger is an orthopaedic surgeon what the nurses reckon is a genius.”

“Shut up you big tosser” Sam said mildly and shoved a needle full of something into the upper part of the injured arm. He took an appliance out of one of the packs, and waited about five minutes before poking the wrist experimentally. The man didn’t seem to notice.

“Okay. Lay him down on the floor and hold his head and feet. This will be quick but he may still feel it enough to struggle.”

He leaned over and gave a pull and a twist to the arm.

“Hold this still,” he barked and the boss obeyed while he wrapped what looked like a blue plastic bag around the arm, then he set a compressor going and inflated the splint around the arm.

“You’ll do for now. Sit him up and watch him for nausea. Sometimes that much painkiller can make people sick. If somebody calls ahead for the kit, I’ll do a proper plaster when we get to Glasgow. Tell whoever, that I want glass fibre bandages, not plaster of Paris.”

As he stood and stretched, he found himself the recipient of an unexpected round of applause.

“You’re a useful bloke to have around. I could have done the usual first aid, but I’d never have dared manipulate the bones.”

“No. Neither should I have. But I’m a cocky sod. And I’m good.” Then he stopped grinning. “As soon as we’re sure the castle has gone off bang, we should call this wee man’s mum and dad, so they know he’s safe.”

As if on cue, a brawny arm passed Sam a bowl of soup and a spoon.

“I ain’t made it too hot, have I?”

Sam tested the temperature.

“No that’s perfect. Somebody switch on his headphones. Let’s see if he’ll wake up and eat.”

Rod kissed the head that lay against his chest.

“Supper sleepyhead,” he said gently.

William stirred and opened his eyes.

“Uncle Rod. You really here?”

“I am. And so is Doctor Sam, who has some soup for you. It’s nice and warm.”

William turned a shy smile to Sam.

“You stopped me feeling sick. And you never hurt me. Thank you.”

Sam smiled at him.

“You are entirely welcome. You wanna try some of this soup?”

The little lad opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Sam fed him a spoonful of warm soup, then another. He ate the lot, then snuggled against Rod and dropped back to sleep.

“He seems awful sleepy.”

“Stress. Still drugs in his system. The relief of being safe. Sleepy is normal. I’d worry if he wasn’t.”

“Oh. I see.”

The pilot’s voice came through everyone’s headphones. “We’re going to land now, briefly. Until the bangs stop. Then we can piss off at top speed.”

Jane Jago