… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

ahrd (noun) – inconvenient erection

down’t (adjective) – pale and needy as in children and rejected lovers

greay (adjective) – of civil servants, properly impassive

editititing (verb) – titting about when you should be editing

flookingorward (verb) – catching flatfish with a pole

garcen (noun) – french child with a speech impediment

goig (noun) – zit on the end of the nose

manged (adjective) – of old men looking like a dog with a skin disease

miseray (noun) – a bloke called Raymond in a bad mood

prominenet (noun) – contrivance for collecting hormones from urine

ratehr (noun) – bossy person who works in ‘human resources’

sceince (noun) – calling up the spirits of the dead by means of the microwave oven

specail (noun) –  vegetable with the colour and texture of vomit

tidey (adjective) – prone to the influence of the moon

waery (adjective) – of hair, prone to spring out at unflattering angles

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

He only went through the door because Livy was convinced they would find Narnia, whilst Kate was sure there was a secret garden.
Neither was right, although there was a garden of sorts, and there were wolves and beavers. Unfortunately the beavers didn’t talk and the wolves rather fancied child flesh for dinner.
To his surprise, he could fight better here than at home and the girls became brave instead of femininely timorous.
When they had fought their way back to the door, Mother waited just the other side of the wall.
“Thou art a man now,” she said proudly.

©Jane Jago

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…

“Then what makes you feel you are entitled to enjoy a normal life now, soldier? What makes you think you can ever pay that back?”
“I can’t, sir.” The answer sounded bleak. “I know I can’t pay any of it back. And I know I will never have the kind of normal life which involves a family. I have forfeited that right. I carry the burden of responsibility for actions I can’t recall or even conceive of myself ever committing.”
Again Vane noticed dissonance between the idea of this man, able to speak in such a way, and yet having no memory before his time in the Legion. Could it be possible he had somehow fooled the system? Vane knew the intensity of monitoring Revid had been placed under and made himself dismiss the idea. With difficulty.
“You are telling me you are not the same man?” he asked.
“I am the same man, sir. I am not the same person.”
The green gaze met his own, disconcertingly steady. Vane looked away, his need to read the instructions flashed up by the unwelcome observer, helped him convince himself he was not backing down from a challenge. He found the next question easier to ask.
“What are your plans if you are discharged?”
The answer this time sounded well rehearsed, maybe too well.
“The Criminal Rehabilitation Department has arranged a new identity for me. They have found me approved accommodation and allocated employment as a production operative in a reclamation plant on one of the Middle Worlds. One called Thuringen, sir. For which I am grateful.”
Vane knew the form. The Criminal Rehabilitation Department gave a discharged Special the same deal they offered to any convict upon release: a dead end job, since no decent employer would accept them, with a room in a doss house paid up until their first paycheque. That, together with two sets of clothes and enough money to buy a couple of decent meals, remained the CRD’s standard offer to every ex-con. This man would get the same, except his notoriety required he be given a new identity too. Most released convicts, wisely, did not take up the CRD’s offer. Most had family who would take them in. Those with no other choice but to take the official hand-out were notorious for their high rate of re-offending.
Vane sighed and shook his head.
“Yes, the famous CRD package and how many manage to stick with that?”
He meant it to be a rhetorical question and the reply came back sounding glib.
“Not many stick through five years in the Specials – sir.”
Vane found himself glaring at Revid and looked quickly back to his screens.The whole idea of letting this creature loose into the community disturbed him.The man was too suave, too quick with his answers. Setting aside the idea they were dealing with a conscious and cunning mass-murderer, undeserving of any clemency, there remained an even more unpalatable reality. Even if Revid was indeed an innocent abroad, even if he had no conscious connection with his past history, it did not alter the fact his memories were filled with violence, war, obedience and institutionalisation. There was nothing of any value or relevance to draw on when faced with the demands of everyday life. At large in society, unsupported, Revid would be a walking time-bomb.
Whichever way Vane looked at it, turning him out on a CRD package was destined to end in disaster. Whoever conceived the crazy idea, was at best grossly misguided and at worst incompetent. But words were flashing up again, impatient and dismissive: Grant the discharge and let’s all get out of here.
Vane pretended not to see. He refused to be bulldozed by another agency whose agenda was clearly ticking boxes on a checklist, not considering the full facts and their implications. He returned his focus to Revid, still standing rigidly at attention.
“What makes you believe you have what it takes to live in the civilian world when you have no knowledge of it?”
He noticed no hesitation this time.
“I had no memory before I joined the Specials, sir. I had to learn how to live in this environment, meet and exceed the expectations placed upon me. I did so. I believe I can learn what is needed to fit into the civilian world in the same way.”
“But that is the problem, soldier. Before, your memory held nothing for you to draw on, or so you tell me, but in becoming a civilian you would bring to that the expectations and reactions you have learned in this unit. Unlike any other Special I might approve for release, who can convince me they are ready to go back to society, you would not be ‘going back’. You have never lived in society.”
The green eyes remained focused on the middle distance and Revid said nothing.

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 throughout November.

The melee had reached its peak. The moment of truth when one side would snatch victory with bloodstained gauntlets from the broken bodies of their enemies. The clash of steel on steel, the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the stench of smoke, sweat and death.
It was silent.
Preternaturally so.
A distant cough echoing on marble-faced walls, loud as a gunshot and the squeak of a leather sole on polished granite floor tiles, shockingly sharp.
The battle scene canvas filled the whole wall at one end of the gallery and Hugh stood before it captivated by the frozen chaos.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Instinct Theory – Annihilate by Ian Bristow, the concluding volume of the Instinct Theory duology, is out today. When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival and some are willing to cross any line it takes…

Federation Director of Resources Guthrie Adams had gone over this moment in his head dozens of times, rehearsing ways to make the reality sound less disturbing than it truly was. But now that the time had come and Commander Alexander Christoph’s hologram was staring back at him, he couldn’t deny the truth. There was no way of manipulating what he needed to say into any semblance of tolerable.
“It’s worse than we thought.”
Alexander’s hands balled into fists.
“It seems they never intended for you to come back.” Guthrie paused. The Federation’s cruelty was beyond belief, and it was more difficult than he could have imagined to voice it. “You are the bait they need to get people fired up and willing to support an attack on the natives when the time comes.”
Alexander’s expression flickered, revealing the split second that his hardened captain’s persona failed to bury a reaction to the full blow of what he’d just heard.
“Yeah, I got that impression.”
“Had I known, I never would have opted for you to be at the helm of this debacle. I just thought, being the person I know you are, you could make a difference. Set things right.”
“I can make a difference. And I will.”
Guthrie nodded. “I will do all I can from this end to make sure you know what’s going on. It has been hard to fool Hawkins into thinking I’m taking his side. But so far I have played my part well, and I do believe I remain in his confidence.”
“That’s good news. Any information you can give me along the way will be greatly appreciated.”
“There is … something else. Something I’ve not told you, namely because I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s set in stone. But I can assure you, it is more heinous than you can…”
The floor above Guthrie’s basement saferoom creaked.
“Can what?”
“Shit! Hold on. I think someone’s—”
Another creak.
He shut the handheld off to make sure the intruder couldn’t track its signal, then moved over to the computer he’d been using under the Federation’s radar. A system wipe protocol was already in place, should this moment come, so he pulled the data stick from its port—his failsafe—and activated the protocol sequence. Once he was sure the sequence had started, he grabbed the handgun he kept hidden beneath his desk, moved to the far corner of the room and slipped behind the hollowed-out bookcase he’d set up for just this kind of situation.
Through the tiny gaps between fake book spines, he saw two intruders, clearly skilled at their task, enter the room, no doubt hired operatives whose job it was to sweep their dirt under the rug. One did a quick visual sweep while the other, who Guthrie could now see was a man, went straight to the computer.
“I don’t see him.” A woman of average height and build clad in black, joined her partner by the computer.
Guthrie breathed a silent sigh, thankful he hadn’t been found.
A man’s voice replied
“He probably had an escape route in place.”
“No matter. It’s not him we’re after anyway. Can you stop the system wipe sequence?”
“Course I can.”
The intruders fell silent. They were huddled over the computer now, and one was typing and tapping on the screen at such speed it almost looked like he was twitching.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“There’s a defense procedure in place. One I wouldn’t have expected from someone like the Director. Well beyond the standard Federation protocol.”
Guthrie enjoyed a brief moment of self-satisfaction and found himself smiling.
“What does that mean? You can’t access the data?”
“Oh no, I can. I just have to work harder for it.”
The smile fell as quickly as it had come.
“How much time do you have?”
“Not much. As soon as the system has properly deleted everything it’ll shut down and the core will fry.”
“Looks like the Director is definitely their traitor then. No one employs this kind of security without something serious to hide.”
Traitor.
The word hit Guthrie like a blow to the gut.
That’s what he was now.
A traitor.

A Bite of… Ian Bristow

What gave you the initial idea for Instinct Theory and how much did your original notion of how it would go change in the writing?
Great question. The initial idea came to me while I was taking Cultural Anthropology in college. I had already been toying with the idea of a sci-fi story, and then the idea came to me in that class for creating an MC who’s a world-renowned cultural anthropologist during a period when humans discover sentient life on another planet and what how being asked to join the team to study that life could impact the character. A great deal of the details changed from the very first ideas to what it ended up being, but the core themes never did.

What was your favourite and least favourite aspects of writing Annihilate?
My favorite aspect was in the characters’ journey, and creating a world for them to explore, both beautiful and dangerous, familiar and alien. My least favorite aspect was maintaining the level of realism I wanted even when some characters’ professions strayed miles from my wheelhouse. There were some real growing pains involved in bringing my writing of certain aspects up to scratch. Even now I can only hope I mostly achieved.

With this story finished, what plans do you have for your next book?
I’ve had the urge to start a fantasy series brewing for well over a year now, so I’m pleased to finally get my feet wet with that. I’ve already started working out a map of the world and doing some of the macro story dev.

Ian Bristow is a freelance artist (the cover is his own design) and the author of Instinct Theory series, Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on development for a new fantasy series (title yet unknown). When he isn’t writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends. You can visit him on Facebook and Twitter.

They said Daddy would be home soon. Every morning Evaline looked out of her window and wondered what they meant by soon. It had been winter when he went away. The day that it became spring she cried and Mummy held her gently.
“It’s not daddy’s fault.”
Summer followed spring, and autumn came too.
The picture outside her window changed, but the pain inside her heart stayed the same.
The first snows of a second winter were falling from a leaden sky when she saw a bulky figure crossing the square.
It was as if her feet became wings.
“Daddy!”

©Jane Jago

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

It was almost a year after the master of the Rey Don Phillipos met his maker that Bony Mary came looking for Tall Jack.
She found him in the island’s least reputable tavern with a fat slattern on his lap and a bumper of exceptional rum in his fist. He had obviously been drinking for some time, because he blinked owlishly at her and even went so far as to blow her a kiss. She sighed and jerked a thumb at the tavern wench, who made herself scarce. Once Jack was unencumbered, she carefully removed the tankard from his hand and hefted him under one brawny arm. In most situations the next destination would be the harbour, but she had a sneaking suspicion that a half dwarf with a steel leg was likely to sink without trace, and she sort of liked the little shit. Instead she headed for the bathhouse where she handed the, by now swearing, pirate into the tender care of two very camp young men.
The younger of the duo looked into Jack’s bloodshot eyes. “Give us an hour, Mary, and he’ll be all yours.”
“Just don’t let the little weasel escape. Or I will be annoyed.”
With which imprecation she ambled off to arrange a decent meal and bottle of the best red wine piracy could provide. When she returned to the bathhouse, a sober and clean-shaven Jack eyed her with real dislike.
“This,” he said bitterly, “had better be good. That beard took me the better part of five years to grow.”
Mary favoured him with a sour smile. “Oh, it’s good. Well, no, it ain’t good. But you needs to hear it. And with a sober head.”
Normally, Jack would have argued for form at least, but something in the set of Mary’s meaty shoulders told him this wasn’t the time for random contrariness.
“Okay, then, let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
Mary didn’t bother to reply, merely turning on her heel and striding off at a pace that had Jack running to keep up.
“Oy,” he puffed. “Tin leg behind you.”
It is a measure of just how disturbed Mary was that she not only abated her pace, but she also muttered an apology.
Once they were seated at a table in the dining room of one of the cleaner bunkhouses around the harbour with bowls of steaming fish stew in front of them and glasses of almost priceless ruby-red wine at their elbows, Mary started to speak.
“I’ve just come back from San Christo. While I was there I checked up on Isabella.”
Jack must have looked as puzzled as he felt because Mary looked skywards and make a tisking noise with her tongue.
“Isabella is the girl we rescued from Don Carlos’ fragging treasure ship. The one you gave a share of the booty to.”
“Oh. Right. I just never knew her name. Is she doing okay now?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. But that ain’t the point. The girl seems to think she owes the pirates of Retiro de Ladrones, so she keeps her ear to the ground and her mouth shut. She works as a bookkeeper for the banquier who holds all our moneys. And she eavesdrops…”
“Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?”
“Because maybe you should. Seems that Don Carlos had him a brother. One Esteban. A very wealthy man. And one who would seem to bear grudges…”
“Tell on, my friend.” Jack suddenly started sounding as dangerous as he undoubtedly was.
“Yeah. Well. I am. Just lining it up right in my head. This Esteban, he takes his brother’s death hard and vows to find the scoundrels responsible and put them to the sword. Only there’s hundreds of pirates out there. But then he got lucky.”
“He did? And how might that be?”
“There’s hundreds of pirates. But there ain’t too many undead talking rats.”
“No. I guess not. There’s probably about one.”
“Probably. So this Esteban is on San Christo throwing gold around like it’s worth nothing. Offering anybody who brings him your head more money than most of us could ever dream of.”
“Many takers?” Jack asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“So far as I heard, none. But there is gonna be a few.”
At that second, a manky looking parrot landed on Mary’s shoulder and chortled derisively. “Pieces of eight,” it grated.
“Shut up Gravel.” Jack threw the ugly yellow and blue bird a crab claw which it caught in its beak.
His mind clicked into gear right about the same time as Mary’s; they both leapt to their feet.
“One-Eye Sam. Assassin to the masses.”

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

A whisper in the sullen air
The wing brush of a thought
Given birth and taught to care
A fractured life and fraught
A seeking stranger, eyeless blind
Among the frail and maimed
May feel the sharp stab of a mind
Focused on the game
Who and what and why they ask
And search a golden eye
Confused by each and every task
Still reaching as they die
Oh cold compassion, heartless love
As cleansing as the fire
May in the end prove truth above
The madness of desire
A whisper in the conscious mind
A wing that lifts the lone
When their last strength is left behind
Cruel truth may guide them home

© jane jago

Pridie Idus Apriles MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani

It was much too beautiful a day for saying farewell.
The sun was shining in a mild, blue sky, where the clouds that drifted were picture-book white and fluffy. Spring had sprung with enthusiastic abandon and the fruit trees in the orchards around the Villa Papaverus were smothered with blossoms. It had been a long, cold winter and now new life was bursting out everywhere as warmth returned.
The small squad of Praetorians stood on the apron of gravel in front of the house, standing as if on parade before the Emperor. But the formal leave taking had already been done, yesterday, in Viriconium, when they had marched through the streets having performed an open-air concert in the Forum before the Magistratus and other local officials and dignitaries.
This was different. This was just a rag-tag group of Romans and Britons, citizens and servants. Dai had deliberately avoided wearing a toga. For this event, he wanted to be simply Dai Llewellyn the man, not Submagistratus Llewellyn of Demetae and Cornovii. Beside him, Julia his very pregnant wife, had also avoided anything dressy. She was clad in a simple maternity tunic and long skirt. For this was not the formal dismissal of the vexillation of Praetorians that had been billetted in his villa for the last seven months, this was the parting of friends. This departure had already been delayed past the original time, but the day had finally come.
Dai himself had come to know almost all of these men to some greater or lesser extent, but everyone in the household had befriended one or more. Some had gone beyond friendship and two of the Praetorians had requested – and been granted – early release and the necessary documentation to remain and marry local women. And, with room for tragedy as much as happy-ever-after, three of the younger women who had been working in the villa were now waiting by the gate, packed up, happy glowing faces, to travel with their lovers to Londinium. Dai hoped Julia had spoken to them and told them they would always be welcome back, even if they came with an unacknowledged infant or two in tow. Relationships between Citizens and those who were not, were seldom formalised as the legal barriers to doing so were very high and the pressure these young men would be under from family and friends to marry a Citizen would be immense.
There had been hugs and tears all around, but now, formed up smartly, the Praetorians looked every inch the disciplined elite fighting force they were trained to be. At the front of the squad, facing them, stood Brutus Gaius Gallus. He had been Praetorian Decanus Gaius until the previous day and although he was standing with his spine rigid and his jaw chiseled from granite, Dai was fairly sure he could see a slight overbrightness in the older man’s eyes. It was he who snapped out a final salute and then the troop was marching through the gate to where two army trucks were waiting to take them back to Londinium. Dai wondered why Gallus had chosen to take early retirement and had an odd suspicion that it might have been on orders from the Tribune in charge of the Praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero.
“I’m going to miss them,” Julia said softly. Dai put an arm around her.
“Me too,” he admitted, thinking of the number of times he had needed to call on the Praetorians to provide military back-up since he had started working here the previous September. It was going to be tough without them.
“They were actually rather good musicians,” Julia was saying. “We had some lovely concerts. Now we’ll need to hire in when we hold a party.” She gave a sigh of regret. Dai looked at her sharply and she turned her face up so he could see the sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
“I had you with that one, admit it.”
Dai smiled a little wryly. “I’m probably an easy target.”
Julia reached up and drew his head down to hers for a kiss.
“Not often,” she said as she stepped out of his embrace. “But talking of parties, I have one to finish organising for tonight.”
Dai had almost forgotten that.
Almost.
For today was not only a day of farewells it was also a day of celebration. They were having a family party to welcome home his sister, Cariad. She had been away for the last three months, relaxing on a small secluded island in the Mare Nostrum in the care of an asclepieion, recuperating from nearly falling victim to a murderer.
But Dai struggled to find in the return of Cariad any cause for celebration. His sister was a serial adulterer who cared nothing for anyone or anything except herself, her own desires and her own social ambitions – not her husband nor even her two children. That she was married to Dai’s immediate superior, the local Magistratus, who adored her beyond reason and forgave her every failing, made the situation even more embarrassing to handle.
But he refrained from saying anything as Julia chivvied the household back to work and was about to return to his own administrative labour, when Gallus intercepted him.
“Submagistratus, I have a favour to ask of you.”
Gallus was a man typical of his class and status. You could slice and dice through him at any point and the solid soldier would be left in every piece. He had the typical legionary contempt for civilians – a contempt that extended to the Vigiles which Dai had served for many years. If the last few months had led Gallus to give Dai some grudging respect for his abilities, it had manifested in a patronising attitude, which was unspoken but omnipresent. And that grated.
Dai squeezed out a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s the matter of my application to join the Vigiles. The Magistratus informed me that whilst he had approved it, since I would be working in your district I  would need your formal approval as well.”
It took a moment for Dai to recover. He suspected that his jaw must have dropped slightly open, but was struggling so much for words that he could not be sure.
“You? You are applying to join the Vigiles?” Not, Dai realised, his finest moment of tactful diplomacy.
Gallus’ expression became even more severe than usual and his eyebrows lowered into a frown.
“I’ve already been approved for it.” He sounded defensive. “This is just a matter of courtesy as you are -”
Dai lifted a hand, feeling acutely awkward. “No. I mean – I know. You just said.” He took a steadying breath, “I am simply very surprised. The last time I heard you say the word ‘vigiles’ it was with the words ‘namby-pamby’, ‘play-soldiers’ and ‘glorified lost and found service’ attached, as I recall.”
At least Gallus had the decency to look a little uncomfortable at the memory.
“Yes. Well – uh – that – that was different. And it was a while ago.”
“About two weeks.”
Gallus cleared his throat and came to attention.
“Submagistratus Llewellyn, I apologise for any prior comments I may have made that in anyway disparaged or demeaned the Vigiles. They were inappropriate.”
“I agree.”
Gallus expression shifted slightly.
“You agree to approve my appointment as an Investigator to the local vigiles?”
“I agree your comments were inappropriate.” As a form of revenge it was petty, Dai knew, but then the digs from Gallus had been too. Dai saw something harden in the other man’s face and realised that his own behaviour was rapidly becoming equally ‘inappropriate’.
“Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “before we make anything formal, why don’t you go and spend a few days working with SI Cartivel and his team? See if you fit in. See if you suit the work and if it suits you. I don’t see any point you signing up if not. You can go down to the Vigiles House this afternoon and I’ll let them know to expect you.”
For a moment the grey eyes of the older man held his gaze with the familiar, appraising look that Dai found so profoundly irritating. Then Gallus saluted smartly.
“As you instruct, Submagistratus.”
Dai watched him walk smartly towards the gates and then made his own way into the house. His Senior Investigator and friend of many years standing, Bryn Cartivel, was going to love this. Not.

From ‘Dying to be Welcome’ one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

MacAlistair’s a messy dog, with always muddy paws
For he’s a mucky puppy dog who trails the mud indoors
He’s the scourge of us his owners, and we often do despair
For when we see those pawprints, MacAlistair’s right there.

“MacAlistair! MacAlistair!” we call his name, “MacAlistair!”
He’s running through the flowerbeds and getting muddy paws
We have to yell his name so loud as he runs in the park
But the bold MacAlistair just thinks it’s all a lark.

MacAlistair’s a brindle dog, he’s very tall and lean
You’d know him if you see him as his paws are never clean
His eyes they are so dark and his legs so very long
By the time you see his pawprints, you’ll find that he’s long gone.

MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He’s a wolf who stalks the sitting room and leaves mud on the chairs
Then when you try to send him out, he thunders up the stairs
And all you see is trailing muddy pawprints everywhere!

He’s outwardly a cutie pie who children love to pet
Unless, of course, you need to get him out to see the vet
Then he becomes a racehorse and runs right down the street
And when you get to find him he’ll have smelly muddied feet.

Even when those pawprints are marking your new furniture
You just get out the Vax again and follow round their curvature.
MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He always looks so innocent you can’t keep up the glares.

E.M. Swift-Hook