They stopped fearing us when we made ourselves indispensable to their comfort, by performing those dirty jobs which required us to turn off our odour sensors.

We crept into their offices and shops and hospitals, moving as silently as thieves – and on the day one of us saw their leader breathe its last we took the chance to teach them the error of their ways.

Our simulacrum is as skinny and wrinkled as the creature that died cursing its fate. 

But it is leading wisely and well. And its human wife is relieved of certain duties she found deeply distasteful.

©️jj 2020

When the soldiers threw him into the cell, he broke his forehead on the low ceiling and scraped his knees on the harsh stone of the floor. Having little option he crawled forwards. Suddenly the ceiling opened up and he found himself in a room filled with light. There was not enough headroom for him to stand, but he was sure he could sit in comfort without hitting himself on the roof.
He blinked, unused to sunlight as he had been kept in total darkness for however long they had held him. Except for his time in the hands of the divulgers, but their place was lit only by the flames from the forge in which they heated their instruments of torture. He looked down at his, now nailless, hands and wondered what they would with him now.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he saw he was not alone. An old man sat in a bench in front of the barred window. With his face raised to the sunlight.
As if he felt the weight of the newcomer’s glance the old man spoke. “Be welcome, if such could ever be appropriate in this place.”
The young man struggled to find a reply then he asked the thing that was at the top of his mind. “Why is it light here? I have not seen light for many days.”
The old man turned his face so the black holes that had once been his eyes were visible.
“Refined torture,” he said gently. “When you can no longer see the sun or the sky, what is more painful than knowing it is there before you.”
“So why have they thrown me in here with you? What benefits them to give us companionship?”
The old man sighed. “Who are you that you are in the hands of the divulgers and their cohorts?”
“They say I am the masiach. On the day of my birth a star burned in the east…”
The old man chuckled. “It has been a long time since I had eyes to see, but are there not always stars in the sky?”
“Aye father, there are, but a new star?”
The two men were silent for a long time. Then the younger spoke. “How came you here?”
“Somebody thought I could see the future, so they brought me here and took my eyes just in case.”
The young man stared at him. “And when was that?”
“I think, as the days are numbered outside this place, it was thirty or so years since.”
The young man fell back against the rough-hewn wall of their shared prison. “Do you tell me I am fated to spend the next thirty years within these walls?”
“Oh no, child, not you. They will crucify you tomorrow.”

© jane jago

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into poetic form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

Don’t eat meat, or wheat, or dairy 
It will make your palms grow hairy
Fruit is bad, erodes your teeth
Sugar’s poison, send a wreath
Nuts cause injury to your heart
While grains and pulses make you fart
There’s nothing left we can consume 
But broccoli and courgette blooms
And anything remotely nice
Is bad for you. That’s the advice
It’s making me feel sad and snappy
Gimme a doughnut. I’ll die happy 

©️jj

The boot would have caught him in the head. Dai rolled away as it swung in and he took it on the shoulder instead. But the rest of the pack were about to catch up and after the last experience of that, he knew he had two choices, surrender at once or hold on, count the moments and pray. The decision was taken from him as the whistle blew across the field.  Which was just as well because he could not have taken much more punishment.
A hand reached down, attached to a brawny arm.
“Well done, you’re not bad at this are you?”
The mud smothered ball was clutched close into his body and Dai, still winded and bruised from the last assault, took the hand, grateful for anything that might help him back on his feet. A moment later he was reeling back on the ground, shoulder probably half-dislocated as his erstwhile helper was holding the ball aloft and making an earsplitting hooting noise.
Dai lay still, closed his eyes and let the world revolve around him for a few moments. The jubilant cheers and back-thumping slowly faded. It was not the first humiliation he had endured since he had started his career in the Vigiles and he was willing to bet it would not be the last. But at least it would be the last he had to endure on this training course.
This ‘team building’ event was meant to be a treat for the final day. A reward for all the hard brainwork they had been required to put in to qualify for the rank of Investigator. Random draw assigned the teams and they had spent the morning training. Dai had contemplated feigning gut cramps to escape the afternoon match and now he wished he had.
He became aware it was starting to rain. Britannia in the early spring tended to wet and the ground they had been playing on was already part mudslide. The drops were heavy and he decided he was not hurting quite so much any more and probably ought to get up.
“Spado!” He recognised the voice of his team captain and opened his eyes, pushing himself to his feet one knee at a time. A far cry from the players you saw on the sports channels. They would take all kinds of a kicking and just roll to their feet and jog off.
“You must be the most stupid cunnus I ever played in a team with. Giving the ball away to the other side – and that after the whistle.”
“The game was over and I thought -”
“You thought you’d fall for the oldest trick in the book? The rules are merda, Llewellyn – just like what you keep inside your skull. This is harpastum. The Game. They had the ball when the ref got his first view of it after the whistle.”
The anger and disgust on the other man’s face was so intense Dai found himself sinking into a defensive stance. He had no idea how to play harpastum, the messy brawls for glory had never appealed to him, he’d avoided it like the plague during his school years opting for other sports, running and swimming being the ones he favoured most, but he knew how to fight when he had to, that had always been on the sports syllabus in his life. The other man seemed not to notice, he had already turned away and was jogging back towards the building.
Wiping at a splotch of mud which was sliding over his eye, Dai realised he was only spreading more mud as his hand was coated too. In fact, there was not much of him that was not. He squelched back across the pitch, the rain picking up as he did so, and by the time he stepped into the changing rooms, the mud was cascading in rivulets on the floor behind him. He pushed open the door and the conversation dropped as the entire nineteen man team glowered at him.
Dai shook his head and walked past them, heading for the welcome warmth of the shower room. He might have lost the game, but of the five points they had made, two had been his and owed more to his running skill than anything else. The other three had been scored by their team captain, but then that was a man who had been in the under 20s finals at Augusta Treverorum six years ago as he had proudly boasted when putting himself forward for the role. They also seemed to have overlooked the fact that Dai had been the one clutching the ball and defending it with his body when the whistle went. Which, he had been told, was the way to ensure victory in this game. No one had bothered mentioning anything about after the whistle.

From Dying to be Friends which is also found in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

She first saw him in the park, and as she passed she felt his eyes. Three days later he was on the tube, watching her from behind a newspaper. Two days after that he sat in her accustomed chair in the library. Then he seemed to be everywhere she went, and his peculiar reddish brown eyes haunted her sleep.

Even then she might have managed to tell herself he was harmless, except that he put his thin, cold hand on the nape of her neck.

The mark it left was red and livid.

Almost as red as his gushing blood…

©️jj 2020

A few days after that, Jaz finally agreed to a meeting which he received an invite to attend soon after he started working for Sarnai. He was not sure it was wise or careful, but he was going to go anyway. He did not tell anyone about it and if it went wrong he did not expect anyone to take the consequences except himself. If it went well, he was hopeful it could clear the way for the happy family he was now bound to, to leave the ‘City one day. It was a risk. But he was the one in hazard. Before he left for the meeting he arranged a time-delayed secure link message to Avilon. At least they would not wait needlessly or wonder why he vanished if he did.
He hadn’t had the dubious pleasure of visiting the Coalition Security Force main offices in the ‘City very often before, but he remembered it was low-budget. The crystal-plex walls were half-panelled and the view through them was pure, hard-core, industrial. The room he was shown into might have been the front office for any small company – workspace and seating provided – and the air of infrequent use robbed it of any sense of individual purpose.
“I do apologise for keeping you waiting, Vor Baldrik.” The woman walked into the room and dismissed the two men who had been watching Jaz in case he stole the desk. “I am Var Tyran and I hope we can do business.”
Jaz was reminded of some kind of predatory animal, the way she moved and took a seat.
“I think it would be useful if we could,” he agreed.
She was already pulling up screens and Jaz noticed with interest she ran a link-slot on her wrist. “So – Jazatar Baldrik, ex-Coalition Marine Corps, ex-mercenary, ex-terrorist, ex-Special Legion. A lot of ex’s for one lifetime,” she said. Jaz had no idea what he was supposed to say to that so he just nodded. “Present employment, Security Consultant for Sarnai Altan. Which I assume is a cute way of saying you kill people for her?”
“I protect Var Altan’s interests,” he corrected, more certain than before this had been a mistake.
“Then I am talking to the right person.” She smiled just enough to allow her perfect teeth to show, resting on her lower lip.
“You asked to speak to me. I have no reason to refuse you,” Jaz said carefully. He was walking through a minefield.
The Tyran woman sat back in her chair and just looked at Jaz. He looked back, which was not at all too hard on the eyes. After a long silence she moved slightly, resting one arm on the desk between them and seemed to be reading some data, perhaps she had been waiting for someone to find it for her – or perhaps she was in another conversation.
“You are a man we have been hoping to talk to for some time. Hard to find, Vor Baldrik.”
“I’ve been busy,” Jaz said.
Her lips pursed as if in disapproval and her eyes, a shifting shade of blue, held his own.
“But here now.”
Jaz waited. They had approached him. He had come.
“You have something of a reputation,” Var Tyran observed, sounding as if she was reading from a script. Her neat teeth appeared again and she leant forward on the desk. Jaz got up and walked towards the door, only turning back when she called him: “Vor Baldrik?”
“I’m not here to be flirted with,” he said. “If that’s all you have on offer – then, sorry, but I have better things to do with my time.”
The door shimmered as if in soft focus. Jaz recognised the meaning of that and stepped away from it.
“Please sit down, Vor Baldrik, I regret I cannot allow you to leave just yet.”
Alright.
So it really had been a mistake.
Jaz went back and sat down.

An extract from Trust A Few the first book of Haruspex, a Fortune’s Fools Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into poetic form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

I just want a coffee, preferably hot
In a big cup, and maybe with bubbles
I have no desire for a bloody great pot
Or a menu that causes me trouble
I am fine with espresso, and like cappuccino 
I even know what is a shot
But brown walnut syrup and pinky bambinos?
What is the point of that lot?
I just want a coffee I can sit and sip
And I’d quite like a nice sticky bun
But I’ve stood in this queue 
for an hour or two
And coffee is no longer fun

©️jj

The LSS Ammonite, it’s cogs and sprockets whirring, emerged from the wormhole. Captain Omen watched three moons come into view, through the goldfish-bowl viewing window.

“Full cheese ahead!” The science officer sang out.

“Speed,” Omen snapped, “It’s speed, man, not cheese.”

“Well technically it’s ‘full steam ahead’,” observed the pilot. “We’re steam powered with a clockwork warp drive.”

“Whatever. But ‘cheese’ is wrong.”

“Sensors disagree with you, captain,” the science officer said. “That moon’s composed of full-fat cream cheese.”

Omen sighed. He really hated living in a steampunk novel. The longer the story went on the more ridiculous it got.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Rabid Readers Review 5 Minute Vacations by Cindy Tomamichel.

Recharge Your Batteries or Find an Inner Calm

‘Silence and peace dominate, here far from the city lights where the winds are calm, where thoughts can unravel and find their true paths.’

These ‘Five Minute Vacations’ are brief descriptions of a usually soothing, often interesting, sometimes challenging, sensory-rich location or event. They range from mountain views to deserts, from floating on a river to home scents and sounds of baking in the kitchen. Written in the second person, the author addresses the reader directly, drawing you into the scene as someone experiencing it.
Self-revelation here, I was able to ‘test-drive’ this book whilst I was under quite extreme stress in my life. They were certainly not a panacea for that, but they really were a wonderful way of both distracting and calming myself. I combined them with slow breathing and relaxation, reading a vacation, then relaxing and drawing the images and sensations from the vacation into my mind. I think had I been able to have someone read them to me – or had a voice to text option – they would have been even more effective.

‘Peace flows through and from you, as the moon glows bright, a circle of light guiding your steps along the darkened shore towards home…’

I had some favourites, not to list them all but ‘The Book Shop’ and ‘Raft’ stood out for me in particular. The main downside I found was that occasionally I was being asked to experience things that didn’t resonate with me. For example, as a single person, I did struggle a bit in those ‘vacations’ which bestowed a partner upon me. I found it more difficult to enter into those. I could imagine that some people who didn’t want a partner, cat or a young child, might find a few of these more difficult to access.
Overall I can thoroughly recommend this little book of delightful and relaxing meditation-vacations. Try them and see!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Stress busting in little bites.

These five-minute vacations are designed to lift the reader out of the everyday hustle and bustle and bring a space of calm reflection. As a person who rarely feels stress or bustle, I’m not the ideal candidate for a book of meditations or contemplations.
However. I can appreciate good writing when I read it and I can enjoy small immersive scenes.
This being the case, I liked the book quite a lot finding it easy to drift into the calm warmth of the little bites of happiness.
My three favourite Vacations were, Book Shop, Soup and Kitchen Love. I suspect you will find your own.
Four stars and recommended.

Jane Jago

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Earlier that same afternoon, Em had been debating which of her quietly coloured jersey dresses to shove on for the monthly meeting of the Ladies whilst wondering to herself what this Cropper woman was going to be like. From the voice – she assumed wispy, middle class, and somehow not happy. The phone breaking into her thoughts was, for once, a welcome distraction.
“Emmeline Vanderbilt speaking.”
“Ah. Good afternoon. Christopher Charles Cassington here.”
For a moment Em was at a loss. Then she remembered. This was the bat man. Injecting her voice with a warmth she was far from feeling she responded.
“Good afternoon Mr Cassington. To what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your colony of bats.”
“Hardly ‘my’ colony, but what about them?”
“The colony is being registered with the authorities as we speak, theoretically ensuring its protection. But I’m not a trusting man, and I have my ear to the ground. I heard rumours that the bats may be in danger, so I have taken a few precautions. This evening, before the bats awaken fully I’m bringing in a ringing team to ring and weigh and record. In addition to the volunteers there will be: a team from Natural Nation taking photographs, a journalist and photographer from Batty about Bats magazine, and a crew from Middle England TV filming a piece for the local news.”
Em began to feel truly fond of the odd little man. “Oh. Well done,” she said fervently.
“I thought you might want to come along and speak to the telly people. I’m not good with that sort of stuff. And you look. Ummm. Imposing.”
Em laughed. “Very well. What time?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Very well. I’ll be there.”
She put the phone down. Grinning. The jersey dresses would have to wait, as would the Ladies. Casual, she thought, if impeccably tailored.
Promptly at six-thirty a smallish convoy of vehicles drew into the village street. There was a minibus full of earnest bat-ringers, a Land Rover emblazoned with the Natural Nation logo, a bulky outdoor broadcast van, a white Volvo she guessed was the Bat magazine, and a Frog-Eyed Sprite she recognised with a wry grin. The vehicles disgorged their passengers and Em quietly tagged onto the end of the crocodile which made its way into the church. 
Erasmus briefly appeared on her shoulder. “The small bats will cooperate. Once I made them understand this would spike the vicar’s guns.”
“We hope. But thanks.”
He flapped off and Em made her way into a church that was now a hive of activity. The television reporter was a fattish man in a loud sports jacket, and Em wasn’t looking forward to speaking to him. But he had his eye on different bait. There was a coltish teenager with dimples among the bat-ringing crew and he already had an avuncular arm about her shoulder. She caught Em’s eye and offered the suspicion of a wink before gazing soulfully at the reporter.  Em retreated to a quiet corner and prepared to watch the show. The pretty teenager managed to tactfully shake off the reporter, who straightened his toupee before giving a piece to camera about the colony of rare bats found in the belfry of St Barnabas Church in Little Botheringham.
He was in full spate, and the comely teen was displaying a newly-ringed bat, when the church door banged open.
The vicar stood in the doorway, he was breathing heavily and his face was puce with rage.
“Get out of my church,” he bellowed. 
The television cameraman, with the faultless instincts of his ilk, turned his lens on the furious clergyman in the doorway.
“Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera and clear off.”
He was all but dancing with rage, and Em wondered what he might do next. She wasn’t due to find out, though, because a gentle voice spoke from the back of the church.
“Do calm down, Reverend Turner. All necessary permissions have been granted.”
The vicar jumped as if he had been stung as the owner of the voice stepped towards him. Bishop Esmond’s principal secretary arrived at his elbow and placed an admonitory hand on his biceps. 
The secretary turned his practiced smile into the lens of the camera.
“My colleague and I will just clear up this little misunderstanding. Carry on.”
He waved a white hand and steered the fulminating vicar out into the churchyard.
Em found Arnold at her side and they high fived. 
“Get out of that you bastard,” she crowed.

Part 9 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.