When life is all shouty you should shelter take
It batters the hatches you battened
It whips like the wind ‘tween the folds of your coat
And makes you know something has happened

It rises on hind legs and gets in your face
Its breath stinking bad like a sewer
It trips up your feet like a broken shoelace
And all you can do is endure

Life chooses the moments you least do expect
And pounces just when you are down
It likes to happen the very worst times
When it knows you have no help around

It happens by threes, it happens by fours
It happens in streaks and bad patches
And all you can do when it happens to you
Is take cover and batten those hatches.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

You know there is something seriously wrong when the Hon Rodney comes home with the following: flowers, champers, chocs, and a guilty grin. If it isn’t April he probably doesn’t want you to do your wifely duty in the bedchamber, so you should be prepared for the worst. 

The silly ass will have volunteered for something that he knows you are not going to like. It could be any one of many things, but my particular bête noir is the fundraiser in the garden.

My garden is my pride and joy, and it is famous across three counties for the wonderful collection of camellias, and, later in the year, my cherished roses. And then himself comes home, all pink jowls and pinky ring and only bloody well wants to host a garden party in June. Not unnaturally, one’s first reaction is profane in the extreme. However when one digs beneath the belly fat and the little vanities, the Hon. Rodney isn’t such a bad spouse so one is obliged to make the best of a bad job. As our daughter, Caroline, once said: ‘Taken by and large men are at best unsatisfactory and at worst complete wastes of oxygen. On that scale the Pater wasn’t such a bad bargain.’ But I digress. The garden party.

Having firmly established that there is zero chance of anyone setting foot in the rose garden, one needs to make a plan. Not anywhere near as simple as it sounds. I have known women whose gardens have been so far decimated as to be unrecognisable. 

I have been through so many incarnations of this horrible possibility that I feel qualified to offer the following advice. If you have a room that opens out onto the lawns, so much the better (if not a marquee on the tennis court is your only viable option). Fortunately for me, the Hon. Rodney’s billiards room has a wall of roll-back glass doors (erected in the roaring twenties for his sun-mad grandmother – who ended her days looking like a walnut with dyspepsia and was living proof that you can be too rich and too thin). Be that as it may the room is ideal, and it has a wide terrace which commands views of my precious roses. Note: do not provide chairs otherwise the assembled company is likely to remain until the sun goes down. Indoors, the billiards tables can be moved to the sides of the room and covered with plywood and large cloths to serve as buffet tables. He doesn’t like it a bit, but a certain sense of justice makes him admit the fault lies with himself and the hypnotic appeal of the bosom of the yummy mummy whose fundraiser we are suddenly supporting.

So far so good. Now to the food and the drink.

Food.

You could spend three weeks concocting pretty finger food. Or. Go to your nearest supermarket and grab a very large trolley full of ‘Party Food’ plus olives, cheese, and an assortment of potato-based snacks – I will leave it to you to decide what my plan of action might be. While you are shopping don’t forget paper plates, disposable serving dishes, and paper napkins. Never mind the environmental objections to disposables. Look at it this way. The amount of power and water the dishwasher would use to clear up after a hundred middle-class oiks will more than offset the throwaways.

Drink.

This is not the occasion for cocktails or punch. Send the Hon Rodney to Oddbins (other purveyors of wine and beer can be found dotted across our fair country) with a shopping list and instructions to hand same to the employee who offers to help him.  If left to his own resources the booze would cost thousands of pounds. While he is there he gets to hire wine glasses by the box. Do not risk the Waterford crystal on fundraisers; some will get broken and it’s all but irreplaceable. When the HR arrives home, a little worried that ‘nothing over a tenner a bottle’ may mean undrinkable, open a random bottle and drink it between you. He has no palate, and as far as most women are concerned, a glass of wine is a glass of wine.

And that is how it’s done.

Important notes: One – this is a very good time to obtain a nice new diamond, or that good looking hunter you’ve been pining for. Two – do not forget to place Mellors in the entrance to the rose garden with a shotgun and instructions to repel boarders (there is no need to insist that he puts in his false teeth).

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff!

It was a sad fact that being called Graham didn’t go with being a nome. And neither did a penchant for long words, a leaning towards political leftism, and a plant based diet.

All of which meant Graham took an awful lot of bullying, thinly disguised as ‘banter’ from a section of the garden community. Until one night, under a gibbous moon, his patience snapped.

Next morning, the croquet lawn resembled a war zone, with disembodied bits of nome broadcast like discarded toys.

Bertha smiled grimly. “If they gets reassembled, maybe them buggers’ll learn when a joke stops being funny.”

©jj 2022

Somewhere in a Wild West that never was…

As darkness fell, the air chilled abruptly, reminding anyone with the brain to think that winter wasn’t far away. The woman slowly uncurled herself from her crouch. She moved soundlessly away from her place of concealment and walked to where a blighted tree dominated the skyline like a rotten tooth. When she was within twenty paces of the tree a tall figure moved out of the deep blue shadow. He pushed the black Stetson back from his forehead and scratched his head.
“Miriam,” he said, “they never told me it would be you.”
“Ditto, Cuchilo. Somebody has a strange sense of humour.”
When he smiled his teeth showed very white in the moonlight.
“Somebody does indeed, although that’s for later.”
“Aye. Now we need to move.”
They jogged away, quietly and in perfect step. Cuchilo took the lead, and Mir kept station two feet back and on his right. The sky clouded over above them, and the moonlight became fitful, but Cuchilo didn’t allow a little thing like a dark sky to slow him down. After about thirty minutes of steady jogging he gestured for a stop and whistled briefly on two notes. A figure detached itself from the shadow of a clump of mesquite and came forward leading two horses. One was Cuchilo’s cream-coloured stallion, Hombre, and the other a bay gelding of unremarkable appearance. Both horses whickered a soft welcome and the boy leading them looked surprised.
Cuchilo grinned. “Hush boys.”
The horses quieted but the human boy still showed the whites of his eyes.
“It’s okay amigo. The horses know my companion quite well. This is my wife.”
The boy ducked his head respectfully and Cuchilo said something to him in that musical language nobody not born to his people could ever grasp. Grinning, the kid kissed his fingertips, before fading into the undergrowth.
Deciding there was nothing she could profitably add to the conversation Mir climbed into the saddle. Cuchilo leapt onto his own horse, before offering his most businesslike look.
“Where to?”
“I want to be at the dry riverbed where last of the old railway line disappears into the desert before dawn.”
“That should be doable, the horses are fresh.”
He turned Hombre and headed off in what Mir knew would be the right direction – even though she herself would have had to wait for the cloud cover to disperse before she had any idea of which way to go. She clicked her tongue at the gelding and they followed where Cuchilo led.
Now she had leisure to think about it, Mir saw an irony in blindly following a man she had once loved so dearly – and who still held her soul in his hands, even if he had broken her heart when he left her. However, right now there was no help for it, and in some ways it was comfortable. Cuchilo may have decided a woman of his own people would suit him better as a wife, but that didn’t mean Mir couldn’t trust her life in his hands. She could. Okay, she was. He must have been in tune with her thoughts, because he motioned her forward so they rode knee to knee.
His voice was a bit grim when he spoke to her and if she hadn’t known better she might have imagined she saw pain in the way the muscle moved along the hard line of his jaw.
“There are things we need to speak of, but now is neither the time nor the place.” He reached over and touched the back of her hand. “Can we be partners again? At least until this job is complete.”
It almost sounded as if he regretted their parting, but that couldn’t be the truth. It had been him who ended their marriage so abruptly. She tried to file those kind of thoughts to a quiet place in her mind and turned to look at him.
“Partners it is.”
He smiled and she felt a traitorous warmth in her chest.

From The Redhead, the Rogue and the Railroad by Jane Jago which is available all through February for 0.99.

Because life happens…

Life is like a sweet-smelling rose,
The pollen gets right up your nose!
But the petals unfold
And the heart is of gold
And the ending…? Well nobody knows.

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Cheezer had a problem. His wheelbarrow needed oil. It shrieked and groaned, advertising his whereabouts to every predator that stalked the night garden. He looked in the potting shed, but the oil can was as dry as his throat when a tawny owl all but landed on his head. The squeal of his traitorous barrow seemed scornful to him and he was about to cry when Bertha’s big hand proffered a tube.

“Try this.”

He squeezed a dollop onto the axle and tried a tentative push, to be rewarded with silence.

“Woss KY Jelly?” he asked.

“Never you mind, boy.”

©jj 2021

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

The meal went on much longer than either of them intended and it was late in the day when Vane finally returned to his office, planning to process anything which might require his immediate attention, before meeting up with Cista again to spend a night on the town. He checked the log with half his mind pondering what ambience he should set to be ready in his accommodation for later and discovered, around the time he and Cista sat sipping their after meal drinks and sharing childhood memories, Avilon Revid was being discharged. He had already been released into the care of the Criminal Rehabilitation Department on the strength of Vane’s recommendation.
That was unexpected.
Such things were notoriously slow to feed through the processing of Coalition bureaucracy and despite what he had told Cista, he had not expected the discharge to be finalised for a few days at the least. Not that it mattered, in fact he would enjoy seeing her face when he told her the good news, but it did mean he needed to do one more thing to satisfy his own conscience before heading back to his accommodation to get changed for the evening.
He raised a link to the outer office where the duty admin would be working.
“Sir?”
“Get me a link to ex-Lt. Jazatar Baldrik.”
A very good soldier, popular and respected by his fellow convict legionaries and well known, even admired, for his ability throughout the Special’s command structure, as high up as Vane himself. It remained one of the most rewarding moments of his career when Vane completed that man’s discharge. No one could doubt it was well deserved and Vane knew this was someone who, in the rest of his life, would demonstrate the wisdom of the Special’s five year pardon policy by becoming a model citizen.
It even made sense such a man might have extended some measure of protection and friendship to one so vulnerable from complete memory loss. But Vane wanted to be sure Jaz Baldrik knew where he stood, and what expectations were being placed upon him. Having no idea what kind of briefing the CSF or CRD would provide, Vane wanted to be sure he fully understood what he agreed to take on.
“I am sorry, sir,” the admin answered after the briefest pause, “he got listed as MD eight cycles back, reported by the property agent he leased an apartment from. No further update on that and I can’t find a current link access for him.”
Missing or Displaced.
But Cista had told him –
Dropping the office link, he switched to his personal one, a sick sense of realisation gripping his stomach as he called Cista. The link he had used to reach her just moments before, coming up to his office, when they had laughed and confirmed where they were to meet to go out for the evening, was dead – registered as disconnected. Cista Tyran, if that was indeed even her name, clearly felt her mission accomplished. For a moment Vane considered contacting her department directly, but there was no accusation he could make that would stand any official scrutiny. It had been his responsibility and his decision after all.
“You complete idiot,” he muttered, full of anger at himself, as the implications hit home. “What the hell have you just done?”

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

Because life happens…

The secret of living is plain,
It’s not about pleasure and pain.
It is simply enough
To take smooth with the rough
Then grab for the vodka again.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Fated Sky is free to download until 9 February

Caer sat on his pony looking at the dead body on the ground and wondering if he should send more scouts back towards the road, almost a day’s trek behind the caravan. This man had been alone, half-mad and no threat to the caravan, but others might even now be following the same path that they had taken from the road and for the same reason they had taken it: others who were scouts for brigands, bandits or bigger caravans than his own.
He spat in the dirt and narrowed his eyes as he looked past the file of wagons, ponies and people. It was late afternoon and his breath misted slightly in the air. The long cold winter was over, but in the barren Wastelands, spring was always slow to come. The air still carried a biting chill, even in the heat of the day and the distant peaks kept their mantle of snow and ice, tinged with crimson by the light of the huge red sun. Spring was having to claw its way free of winter’s greedy clutches so that Temsevar could bask in an all too brief season of warmth and growth.
The Wastelands were vast and magnificent. Here and there, standing proud and alone in the plain, like the lost sentinels of a forgotten age, were towering flat-topped mountains of rock, some so massive they were too big to cross in a day on foot. It was as though at some point in the distant past the ground had simply dropped away, leaving the high plateaux stranded above, like giant stepping stones, creating a two-tier terrain. If in the winter, these high grounds were the coldest and most exposed, in the spring they seemed always flushed with new vegetation before any managed to creep out of the more parched stones below.
Caer made his decision. With the work to be done, the four men he already had out scouting their back trail were all he could spare for the moment. He called to one of the mounted men who was riding with the caravan.
“Shevek, we are camping here.”
The man he spoke to wheeled his pony away and rode at a brisk pace towards the front of the train of wagons and animals, issuing sharp orders to make the night’s camp around the rocky debris beneath the steep cliff face of one of the high monoliths. Caer felt a familiar sense of satisfaction as those orders turned the straggling ranks of moving people, ponies and wagons into a brief flurry of chaos, before brightly coloured awnings, tents and pavilions sprung up from the chaos, like strange blossoms. Caer and his men rode through the quickly forming encampment, shouting instructions, solving problems, helping secure ropes and encouraging any who were slow to respond with the whips they carried curled in their belts.
In a remarkably short time, the caravan resembled a miniature town with streets and open spaces, stables, and pens. Fires were being kindled, children tending the animals as women kneaded dough and cut the vegetables for the evening meal. Toddlers screamed and got underfoot or rolled like puppies amongst the big, sharp-toothed dogs, which ignored them and begged for scraps with soulful eyes and then turned on each other snapping and snarling when an unsavoury morsel was cast their way.
Once the familiar routine was well established, Caer’s men guided their mounts towards the middle of the camp. The ponies’ short stubby ears, thick coats, wall-eyed glares and powerful necks, made them far from beautiful to look upon, but their split hooves could splay to grip surefooted even on snow and ice or could run fast on firmer ground. It was their broad backs which carried the burden of human traffic in both trade and war with a sturdy strength and agility which, for Caer, had a beauty all of its own.
The men who rode were as tough as their ponies. The older ones amongst them wore their hair long, stained red and tied back into a heavy braid, the greater length of the braid telling of ever greater age and experience. The youngest men had their hair shaved so close to the scalp as to seem bald. They were not even allowed to begin to grow a braid until they had served a year of apprenticeship with the caravans. All the men wore coats made from a brightly coloured heavy-felt cloth, over shirts with billowing sleeves, patterned skirted jerkins made from fleeced hides and plain felt britches which gathered loosely into calf-high boots. All were armed: every man wore a bandolier of wooden cartridge boxes over one shoulder and carried a crude pistol; one or two had a long-barrelled musket or rifled carbine, on their backs and each wore a long-bladed knife with an ornately carved hilt and whips hung looped at their belts.
These men were of the Zoukai, a brotherhood of warrior guardians, hiring themselves to protect the caravans which carried the trade of Temsevar. Named after the swift and ruthless, red-plumed predatory birds which hunted from the skies in these very wastes, they were bound by a strict code of honour which placed loyalty to their captain and their caravan above all else.

You can keep reading The Fated Sky which is free to download until 9 February. It is the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The cover is designed by Ian Bristow, you can find his work at Bristow Design.