The strawberries are red and sweet
Their bright juice stains his lips with bliss
And when he lays him down, replete
The wanton breeze steals just one kiss

©️jane jago

Take a handful of talented writers and a whole bunch of free and discounted books. That’s going to make Friday the 13th a lucky day…

Here’s a sample of Sam Nero PI by Jane Jago just one of the great titles and authors you can read absolutely free…

The moment she walked into my office, I knew she was trouble. Any private eye worth his salt knows that a dame like that in a dive like this spells trouble for somebody.
She was classy, and way out of my orbit. Even the sound of silk on silk as she crossed her legs spoke of money beyond my imagination. She uncrossed those legs, leaned forward, and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her handbag. I took my cue, lighting the end of her cigarette with my brass Zippo.
Leaning back in the tatty office chair, my visitor smiled a feline smile. She smoked in silence for a moment, and it crossed my mind that she looked as out of place as an orchid in a ditch.
When she spoke, her voice was almost as wealthy as her appearance. It was smoky, and sexy, and carefully modulated.
“If a person wanted to have somebody rubbed out, where would that person go?”
“The eraser factory?”
She leaned back and blew a smoke ring. “Very funny, Mister Nero. But I asked you a serious question.”
“I’m a private investigator, not a facilitator.”
My visitor laughed, low and husky. “Very good. And I’m not asking you to facilitate a murder. I’m asking you to investigate one.”
I leaned my elbows on the desk. “Aren’t the police investigating?”
“No. Or I wouldn’t be slumming it.”
“Two questions. Who died? And why not some up-level investigator with a shiny office and an even shinier reputation?”
She stared at me before leaning forward and stubbing out her cigarette with vicious little stabs. I couldn’t help noticing the perfection of her manicure and mentally pricing the job at more than what I earned in a month.
“Not so stupid, then.” Her voice lost some of its melody and grated a little on the ear. “I came to you because I heard you were honest, and maybe not afraid of getting your hands dirty. And who died? Lefty Galento. My father.”
It was my turn to stare. Then I spoke in carefully neutral tones. “Lefty died of natural causes.”

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Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Never say ‘I have not never’
Double negatives really ain’t clever
If your proofreading sucks
And you don’t give a ****
You may not get your Pulitzer ever

Jane Jago

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

He sometimes wondered if they knew what their fate was, but then again he couldn’t believe them intelligent enough to understand the nuances. And anyway he gave them a good life, didn’t he? They had food, warm beds and plenty of outdoor space to run around in. 

His life mate rather thought the strange noises they made were some sort of rudimentary speech, but as a female she was prone to odd notions and improbable fancies.

He was prepared to indulge her, though, as she produced litter after litter of healthy young.

All of whom were raised on hooman meat.

©jj 2022

I write my diaries daily, with details of my exercise and of the flowers, birds, and small animals we see in the gardens. I write nothing private or personal, as I am sure the keepers read my writings to ensure I am doing no wrong. The diaries are small red-bound books, about the size of the palm of my hand, with thin yellowish paper. I write with black ink and when a pen grows dry the keepers bring me another.
The books I am given to read are, I think, carefully chosen not to upset the even tenor of our lives. They are mostly stories of the old world, before the bombs and the plagues, and are often about animals, or such supernatural beings as flowered in the imagination of writers all those years ago. I miss the library in the place I was before, where I was permitted to read what I liked, so long as I remained quiet and cooperative. I learned much, but I never speak of it. The books I am now allowed reside on a shelf in the small sitting room which number eight and I have taken for our own. My diaries, however, live on a little writing desk beside my bed. I am lucky enough to have a bedroom to myself, as do number eight and two other girls. This is a privilege granted to us because we behave well, and never cause our keepers any trouble.
When matron visits at new moon, our names are never in the book for chastisement; we are always praised and held up as an example of the decorous behaviour expected in those who breed for the aristocracy.
If the keepers knew our innermost thoughts, we would be less petted. If they knew how we hate them, and how much we loathe their use of us, I think we would both be dead by now. But they do not, and we keep up our facade of colourless amiability in the hope that one day their carelessness will give us an opportunity to escape. It is a forlorn enough hope, but one we cling to.
From time to time there have been raids on this place. Breeders are a valuable commodity, and it is our guess that our masters are not the only ones who would make use of fertile wombs. When raiders come, we are hustled into a windowless, soundproof room, where we wait. Sometimes we wait for hours. Sometimes we wait for days. One time we waited so long that supplies were running low, and we began to fear we had been forgotten. When they finally let us out, all our old keepers were gone. One of the new ones let slip that their predecessors had either been killed or taken.
Since then, eight and I take care to be where the keepers cannot find us when the raid warnings sound. Unless we are heavy with child, we can easily climb the garden wall and hide among the servants. If climbing is out of the question, we take little-known passageways and conceal ourselves in curtained niches, or in the attics that run the length of this sprawling building. The first time we avoided the panic room, we thought there would be punishment coming our way, but the keepers only seemed pleased that we were back in our beds when the raid was over. We theorise that they would be punished for losing sight of us and so they choose to overlook this one misdemeanour in our otherwise blameless lives.
Sometimes, there have been questions about our seeming passivity, but we have grown wise to the signs of these, and we know what to say to which of our keepers to keep the curiosity of others at bay. We are always courteous to the keepers, and the midwives, and the many servants who buzz around the place largely ignored. Betimes, there have been new girls come among us who have had a mind to trouble. We have always seen the signs early, and ensured such as they leave us well alone. Eight is big and strong, and knows how to give pain without leaving a mark on the victim’s skin. I am not so big, but it is soon learned that anyone challenging me can expect to suffer subtle, but dangerous vengeance. If they are unable to find fuel for their malice among their fellow breeders, some of these disaffected girls have sought to have servants punished for imagined, or imaginary, infractions. We have thought this unfair, and spoken of the wrongness of the accusations with those among our keepers who are charged with discipline. We have always been believed. Mayhap we have made enemies, but we have also made friends. The friendship of servants is a better thing for our comfort and safety than the double-faced affections of most of our peers.

From The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Write one for children they said
And I jumped in right over my head
But the youth of today
Wears your patience away
And right now I wish I was dead

Jane Jago

They set off, not following the road, but heading uphill onto the high common land where sheep and goats roamed, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of yellow gorse.
For Julia, the ride was enchantment. She had her arms around the man she loved and her cheek resting on his back, and all the while they passed through the greenest and, she thought, the loveliest landscape she had ever seen. The only bar to complete enjoyment was the increasing rigidity in Dai’s shoulders as they neared his family home. 
They came down from the hillside onto an obviously well-travelled road, and not many minutes later Dai stopped the vehicle beside a wide white-painted gate. He screwed around to look at her.
“This is it,” he said somewhat grimly.
“Smile, love,” she admonished. “You don’t want to upset your mother.”
His face softened as he looked at her, then he got off the vehicle and opened one leaf of the gate. 
It was a long approach to the house and Julia was surprised to be passing through vineyards where the harvest was in full swing.
“I never made the connection,” she said in a voice of awe. “I knew your family were wine merchants with a vintner’s in Viriconium. I should have thought that maybe you have your own wines.”
“We don’t sell wine. It’s brandy. Distilled on the property.”
“Oh my. Why didn’t I know that?”
He managed an eloquent shrug as the all-terrain drew to a silent halt in front of a long, low stone-built house. Somebody must have been watching out, because the door opened and a little group of people hurried out to greet them.
First came a middle-aged woman with a coronet of jet-black braids and a pair of piercing blue eyes. She could only be Dai’s mother, Olwen, and everybody else hung back to allow her to greet her only child. He leapt off the vehicle and grasped his mother in a boisterous hug, lifting her quite off the ground and burying his face in her neck. She hugged him back for a long moment before putting her hands on either side of his face and kissing his cheeks. 
“Put me down and introduce your wife,” she scolded but Julia could see the tears of joy that sparkled unshed in her eyes.
Dai obligingly set Olwen on her feet and turned to lift a laughing Julia from the all-terrain.
“I’m sure I should be able to get myself off this thing, I just couldn’t figure out how.”
“Your legs aren’t long enough.” 
He kissed her lovingly before taking her hand and leading her to where his family waited.
“This is my wife, Julia,” he said with simple pride. Then he ticked off names on his fingers. “My mother, Olwen. Brother, Hywel. My sister-in-law Enya. And these are my nephews Merfyn, Angwyn, Brychan and….” he looked at the babe in Enya’s arms questioningly.
His brother grinned. “Oh. Him. That’s Dai.”
Dai strode over and smote his brother on the shoulder.
“You never did?”
“We did,” it was Enya who spoke. She looked at Julia. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Julia walked over and looked at the baby’s fair face. She blinked away a tear.
“No. I think it’s lovely. And I may not be able… We may never be….” she stopped and Dai came to stand behind her with his hands on her shoulders. 
Enya smiled a sweet smile.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Julia nodded mutely and Enya put the baby in her arms.

From Dying for a Poppy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The smell brought women to their front doors and prudent wives closed their windows. 

“What be that?”

The oldest among them pointed to the mouldering stones of the castle that stood high above them, and the plume of oily black smoke that hung around it.

“They’m burning a body.”

“Question is, who. Is it the old one? Or have he won again?”

The youngest wife sighed. “I don’t suppose us’ll ever know. But that knight was mighty fine.”

“Aye. But so was the old one when he first come here.”

The women shivered and went indoors away from the darkness.

©jj 2022

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…

After a pause, as though to be sure Grim had nothing to add, Jecks said: “Right.” Then he looked questioningly at the politician almost as if asking her permission to say something more. She gave a thin, slightly patronising, smile that included all three of them and spoke herself.
“I am sure I don’t need to remind you of the requirement placed upon you, in your employment, for the highest degree of confidentiality.”
She was definitely not CSF then.
“You know that is a given,” Jecks told her, his tone colder than before.
“Yes. Of course.” The woman was realising belatedly that she had just insulted them all.
Badly.
She cleared her throat and went on: “But this is a matter that has a lot of highly delicate political ramifications. You may recall the trial last year of Kahina Sarava?  Her exaggeration of the effectiveness of an algorithm suite she had developed led to a large amount of public money and private investment being funnelled into her corporation, Sarava Intellectual Properties. You may also recall the nature and purpose of the algorithm was withheld from the public trial in the interests of security.”
Cista Tyran had a strange expression on her face, as though something inexplicable had just made sense to her.
“Kahina Sarava? She was  —”
“That’s not important right now,” Jecks said quickly, speaking across her. “Please listen, comments can be made later.”
But Grim had seen the urgent warning in Jecks’ eyes and noted the slight frown on Cista Tyran’s face as she subsided back into her chair. His own expression, he was careful to make sure, maintained its usual deadpan. The other woman raised one hand a small amount, in a gesture chastising Jecks.
“But this may be relevant, I would like to hear what Var Tyran has to say?”
Cista Tyran did not even wait for permission from Jecks.
“I was just going to say that Kahina Sarava was the CEO of Sarava Int. and that was where Avilon Revid worked before he murdered his family and joined The Legacy. She was effectively his patron as much as his employer.”
Grim would have been willing to lay money that was not at all what Cista Tyran had been about to say, but the utter conviction of the way she said it now was enough to leave the other woman with nothing to do but nod and go on.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

If everyone learned from mistakes
Didn’t wait for disastrous earthquakes
Wrote with similar care
They give to their hair
Our books would be yummy as cakes

Jane Jago