In Devon, the railway runs right by the beaches
Past small sandy inlets and bright golden reaches
Then follows the river whose tides are so steep
Over salt-smelling marshes and waters so deep
In summer the sea is as blue as the sky
And reflects the white seagulls as they hover by
But in winter the waves crashing over the line
Carry the feeling of wildwind and brine
And over the railway the white salty spume
Collects in a way that defies any broom
In Devon the railway runs right by the sea
Which is almost as nice as you think it might be

©️jane jago

Summer is icumen in
Loudly sing cuckoo!

Or some such rubbish…

Since time immemorial (even before I was born), people have been seriously skittish about the summer solstice. 

Building bonfires, prancing around in impractical clothing, singing songs, and celebrating the longest day of the year. All of which was perfectly understandable – back in the mists of time when things like the rotation of the earth and other such wholly fascinating science were undiscovered and people seriously thought that prancing around naked with a wreath of mistletoe on your noggin guaranteed health, wealth and happiness. (Of course it didn’t. You were more likely to catch a heavy cold – if you were lucky. Or an STD – if you weren’t.)

This having been said we are now in the twenty-first century. We know that the days stretch and contract, the moon waxes and wanes, the seasons more or less follow a set pattern, and it’s quite likely that time will continue to flow in a linear pattern.

There Is No Excuse for turning up on Salisbury plain (probably in the pissing rain) to listen to some geezer in a nightie exhorting the sun to carry on rising. It will rise and set as it pleases, and our sad little ball of clay will continue its eccentric orbit without the intervention of a man who gets his hair cut at an MoT station.  It just doesn’t make sense to burn enormous amounts of fossil fuels in order to get to an event that’s supposed to be about being at one with Mother Earth (who would probably clip you around the earhole if she had hands).

Stop it already.

If you want to greet the rising sun do it in your garden. Or in the beer garden of the Dog and Prolapse. Or in your local park. Just don’t drive there. 

Personally, I shall be greeting the sunrise from behind closed eyelids – unless of course Gyp wants out for a piss. In which case I will salute the sun in my own back garden – and I shall be fetchingly attired in a candlewick dressing gown of indeterminate colour and vintage paired with a pair of wellington boots. (The grass in my garden is seriously unkempt because that’s how me and Gyp like it.) Unless of course it’s raining in which case I will remain in the nice dry kitchen giving the sunrise barely a glance as I swear at the fucking dog.

In a nutshell then. There is nothing special about the summer solstice – or the winter one, or the equinoxes. These things just happen. (I blame physics myself, but that’s another whole story.) 

So. Just please grow up. Wear normal clothes, or some clothes anyway. Don’t eat odd mushrooms. And please stay the fuck at home; the A303 was never built to cope with Druidic influxes.

Right that’s bloody midsummer dealt with. Me and Gyp are off down the pub. He fancies a Guinness and I’m gagging for a pint of Crop Circle.

Piss off then. Or are you buying the beer?

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…

Good writing excites me, he said
As he tumbled down, heels over head
But he never mentioned
The ongoing tension
Between writing and earning one’s bread.

Jane Jago

Our family had been making superior moonshine as a sideline for five generations. But then The Shortages struck and the price of booze soared. We were suddenly making a fortune, but we reckoned it only a matter of time before the bad guys wanted in.

Two immaculately tailored gentlemen paid us a visit. Grandma signalled for us boys to disappear and went to greet them. They were inside quite some time, and then Grandma led them up through the orchards to where the still sat in a deep-walled valley in the icy cold waters of a stream that came straight down from the mountains.

Once they had gone the old lady shrugged. “We may lose some profits short term.”

She was right about losing profit, within six months the big guys’ cheap rotgut had undercut us so far that we just stopped selling. Though we did keep producing and stockpiling,

Then the sickness started. First a trickle, then a flood. Men struck down with stomach complaints that left them vomiting blood. At first nobody much cared, then the sons of wealthy families began to fall prey.  

It almost goes without saying that the cheap rotgut was literally rotting guts. There were repercussions, and Grandma reckoned it time to reopen our bottling plant.

Ma looked the old beldame between the eyes.

“Okay. What did you do?”

“More what I didn’t do Charlaine. I mighta forgot to tell them to clean the car radiators before they made ‘em into a still.”

© jane jago 

You can listen to this on YouTube too.

The dreamcatcher hung in the sunny window, feathers stirring slightly, crystal beads glinting.

Useless thing. 

It didn’t stop the bad dreams coming to him every night, didn’t catch the creeping menace, whispering voices in dark corners, haunting his sleeping hours, accusing him of having failed her and showing why it was his fault she had left.

The dreamcatcher was her first gift – even before she’d moved in – to give him sweet dreams of her, she’d said.

He took the thing and threw it out of the window.

That night he slept well for the first time in over a year.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“This is an intrusion into my dear friend Octavia’s privacy,” the woman said imperiously. “It is intolerable.”
Dai lifted his head to see her eyes flash with anger and felt the sudden insignificance of a being a mere non-citizen, provincial Briton in the presence of over a hundred generations of pure Roman patrician breeding.
“I – I apologise, domina,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.
“I should think so. And if you wish to keep your job you will be certain this does not make it into any official report – or unofficial one. If a single word gets out, I promise you that I will ensure you have no job and no licence to live in Londinium ever again either. Do you understand?”
Dai felt his throat dry up. She more than had the power to do precisely that if she chose.
“I understand you, Domina Lydia.”
There was a slight flush of colour then in her face and for a moment Dai wondered at it, then he realised that she had not thought he recognised her.
“I am glad you do,” she said quietly. “You can leave now. I will look after poor Octavia. But remember what I said.” 
Dai bowed again and moved towards the front door, as Octavia detached herself from Bryn and was scooped up into the arms of Domina Lydia who made soothing noises and stroked her hair whilst glaring over her head with cold command at Dai and Bryn.

They left the apartment block in stunned silence and it was only once they were walking back to their vehicle Bryn broke it.
“You handled that well, Bard, your poet’s charm worked a treat.”
Dai shook his head.
“I’m out of practice, is all.”
Bryn stopped by a street stall.
“Two portions of garum and chips, not wrapped.”
They stood waiting as the chips were thrust into paper cones and the pungent sauce poured all over them. Bryn paid with his wrist phone and they continued walking, eating the chips as they went.
“Did you notice something odd?”
“I noticed a lot. Like the way you buried your head in her tits for example.”
“More like she did the burying bit.”
“You weren’t exactly fighting her off. Can’t say I blame you though. Not every day you get to put your face in the perfumed cleavage of a Roman matron. Or not without having your balls sliced off for it. Must have made it almost worth the threats from that pompous bitch at the end. Like we give a cracked cack whether some Roman lives in the lap of luxury or not.”
“It wasn’t that,” Dai said quietly.
Bryn looked at him.
“Oh?”
“No. She was just terrified we’d seen her there. She didn’t ask what had happened to Rufus or even who we were, which means she must have known us. And I don’t know if you have a celebrity job on the side, Bryn, but I’m really not that famous.”

From Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. You can listen to this on YouTube.

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…

Be careful with words I was warned
For they can be spiteful if scorned
And an innocent verse
Can become something worse
If you don’t watch for meaning and form.

Jane Jago

“Have you known Avilon long?”
The Vavasor seemed not to notice the intense interest which underlay her casually phrased question.
“Since the Alfor Fair – although we met in less than sociable circumstances. Qabal Vyazin paid fifty-thousand reynar for him – left him to rot for the best part of a half-moon then gave him to me to look after.”
“He was your slave?”
“Hardly. Qabal doesn’t part with a fifty-thousand reynar investment that easily. A keeper is not the same thing as an owner.”
“Then you must have liked Avilon a lot to take him with you when you left the Warlord,” Aisha observed thoughtfully.
The Vavasor looked uncomfortable for a moment.
“Sore point – I wasn’t thinking too clearly right then and if I had been given the choice I’d not have opted to drag a Kashlihk fighting-slave across the countryside whilst playing tag with Qabal Vyazin for my life. Fortunately, although I thought it far from fortunate at the time, the gods intervened in the person of that famed humanitarian and liberator of slaves, Durban Chola.”
“Durban Chola?” Aisha echoed with amazement. “What in the world would Durban Chola want with Avilon?”
“Ah, I see you know the selfless man,” the Vavasor sounded ironic.
“Well enough to know that there isn’t a bone in his body that is selfless nor one that isn’t as devious as a sneak-thief. I’ve had a few dealings with him in the past.”
“That I would like to have seen,” the Vavasor said reverently. “The thought of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object springs to mind.”
It was a compliment and he delivered it with a gallant smile that almost made Aisha forget she was an old woman with a son and two daughters grown and five other children buried.
“We drove a hard bargain between us,” she agreed, but was unwilling to be diverted from her objective. “So why did he want Avilon?”
The Vavasor shrugged.
“Who knows? Spite, perhaps. But it has been exercising my brain for the past fifteen days on and off.”
“Has Avilon no idea to it?”
“If he knows he’s not said so – not to me at any rate.”
“He seems to care for you, a lot.”
The Vavasor glanced at her slightly puzzled.
“Who does? Durban?”
“No. Avilon. He hardly left your side when you were ill.” Almost immediately Aisha regretted her words as a tangible cloud settled between them.
“I didn’t know that,” he said softly and then, in a strange tone. “I am afraid that the Kashlihk has made something of a habit of saving my neck.” Then he smiled suddenly. “It seems a popular hobby for people. At this rate, I will be indebted to half of Temsevar before the year’s out.”

From Transgressor Trilogy: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The last day of the world was scheduled for the following Tuesday.

After a lot of heated discussion as to what should be the exact date, a compromise was reached between the scientists, the religious communities and the politicians. Next Tuesday it was.

Despite some panic, Tuesday came and went. People carried on working, playing, learning, loving – living. There was outrage, of course. The scientists said it had been a political decision, the religious leaders praised their gods for saving us all. The politicians were heard to observe, acidly, that they had not specified which ‘next’ Tuesday they had meant.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago