Barry had always wanted to be a gangster. In his mind he was Tony Soprano, or maybe Vito Corleone. He wanted to wear a fedora and spats, and carry a concealed handgun.

He burned to be outlawed, to be feared, to father a dynasty of shifty-eyed sons who carried razor blades in the peaks of their ball caps.

And he had most of the requirements for the job. He was mean, shifty, dishonest and naturally violent. He would, to coin a phrase, be willing to sell his mother for a pittance.

But then there was his face.

Sorry Barry.

©️jj 2020

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

Ginny felt a little helpless as the removers (or were they movers since it was the first time they’d moved her things?) huffed and struggled with her large white oak dresser.
“Please be careful with…”
“It’s alright Mrs. Withers, me boys know ‘ow to do it just fine.”
She cringed at the use of her married name. It was something she had hoped to leave behind in London, but as all the documents for the house she was selling had been in the name of Virginia Withers, she had found it more practical to do everything around the move in the same name. One of her less good life-choices had been to maintain her married name in daily life to avoid the issue of having people recognise her.
The first thing she planned to do when she had settled in was change the name on everything from her bank account to her utility bills to Cropper. She had been out of the limelight for five years, more than long enough to have sunk from view in the fast moving world of celebrity social media – besides who even read blogs nowadays. All the millennials preferred video format.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the dresser’s built-in mirror as it was carried into the house, Ginny suppressed a shudder at the thought of appearing on a video. She had put on more weight than was acceptable and her thinning hair, now mostly concealed under a brightly coloured scarf, had once been brilliant coppery waves and part of her trademark look.
“Any chance of a cuppa, missus?”
The chief remover who was called Stan or Dan – or was it Ian? – she hadn’t really listened when he introduced himself as she’d been worrying about the standing harp (shewas going to learn to play in the peace of the countryside) at the time.
“A cuppa?” She wondered if she would find her selection of organic detoxers in the ‘ready box’ she had prepared for the kitchen. A nice cup of rooibos would be nice or maybe a comforting ginger flake and lemon peel.
“Yeah. You know. Tea bags. Sugar. Milk. Mine’s two and leave it until its got a colour like it’s been in Ibiza a month.”
Ginny felt her mouth fall open into an O shape and that was the sound that came out of it too.
“Me and the lads been working pretty hard today. Cuppa would be nice. Wouldn’t mind a couple of bourbons or custard creams to go with it neither.”
“Custard creams?” Ginny started panicking. She was sure she had a few oatmeal and natural fruit biscuits in the ready box, but custard creams and builder’s tea?
“There an echo in here?” Ian – or was it Stan, she so wished she had been paying more attention – gave her a cheerful grin. “Passed a shop up the road, if you’re needing milk you could try there,” he said helpfully. “We’ll carry on here, don’t you worry.”
It was one of those situations Ginny loathed. 
The last thing she wanted to do was go to the local shop looking like this. She knew these communities could be very judgemental on first impressions and if she made a bad one it might be years before they accepted her here. But if she didn’t provide the refreshments Dan was demanding, who knew how he’d treat her furniture?
Giving way in the face of grim inevitability, she rescued her shoulder bag from her car and headed back along the road towards the village shop. It had been one of the selling points of both the cottage and the village for her. Firstly that there was a thriving village shop – complete with a post office counter at the back – and secondly that the cottage was no more than five minutes walk away from it. 
The walk took her past the little church which was apparently one of the finest examples of some style of architecture in the country. Looking at it she had to wonder if that was brutalist or utilitarian, then she realised that she was studying the church hall and the church itself was on the other side of the road. 
Feeling embarrassed by her mistake, even though no one need ever know she had made it, Ginny put her head down and increased her pace. Which was why she nearly ran into a solid muscular torso, covered with manly hair coming in the other direction, attached to a pair of equally hirsute legs in shorts and trainers.
Gasping out an apology, she stepped aside at the last moment and glanced up to see a face that belonged on the set of the latest BBC period drama. That made her miss the fact she was on the edge of the pavement and had a strong arm not shot out to catch her, she would have wound up sitting in the road very likely with a twisted ankle.
“S-sorry,” she said and the face gave her a tolerant smile. The sort it probably gave to elderly ladies, young children and journalists. Then she was standing on the pavement again and the runner had gone.
She reached the village shop feeling a little overwhelmed and took a moment to sit on the bench outside. A plaque proudly declared it had been provided by the Little Botheringham Ladies Association and she felt oddly grateful to them for allowing her a place to gather her wits after bumping into Ross Poldark and before braving the village postmistress.
In fact she found the owner of the shop to be quite charming and not at all the severe and judgemental type. Her style was smart casual denim, dark designer jeans with a grey worsted jacket.
“Angela Pendle-Burton,” she said and held out a hand. “You must be she who has taken on Flo Maybush’s cottage.”
“Taken on?” Ginny suddenly realised she was beginning to resemble a mynah bird. But people kept saying such odd things.
“Oh, so you didn’t know?”
“There’s something wrong with it? I had all the checks done so…”
“No. No.” Angela held up both hands displaying a heavy gold link bracelet as she did so. “It’s just Florence was in the Ladies Association so I sort of thought…” She trailed off and smiled then went back to scanning and packing Ginny’s purchases.
“The Ladies’ Association seems to be very active here.”
“Oh yes, very. They look after the village very well. They  funded the cricket pavilion being rebuilt and the new children’s playground. And when there was talk of closing the school they organised a huge campaign to save it. And we are the only outlying village which still has an hourly bus service into Bedchester. Everyone appreciates the work they do for us.”
It came to Ginny that if she wanted local acceptance then maybe this offered a way to get it.
“That sounds very worthy,” she said, swiping her card to pay for the tea, milk and biscuits. “How does one join the Association? I’d love to be involved in village life like that.”
Angela gave her the same strange look as before.
“I’m not sure you’d… But still. Here.” She reached under the counter and produced what looked to be a business card.
The bell that announced someone had opened the shop door jangled and Ginny turned to see the jogger come in, still clad in shorts.
“Oh hello, vicar,” Angela greeted him cheerfully. “Come for your usual?”
“Yes please, Mrs. Pendle-Burton and I’m hoping for something a bit extra today.”
His voice was deep and as he spoke his gaze locked with Ginny’s stirring something uneasy somewhere below her navel. She snatched up her shopping and took the card Angela was holding out, dropping it into the bag as she scurried out of the shop.
Vicar?
Seriously?
Part 4 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

They coughed last night, and coughed the night before.
Going to keep coughing tonight and soon there’ll be many more.
When they’ve coughed, we’re scared as we can be.
Can’t stop the coughing hitting us as we don’t have PPE.

They’re warning us, they’re warning us.
Need full protection now for all of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are more of us.
As some of us won’t make it through alive.

Coughed last night, and coughed the night before.
Going to keep coughing tonight as I can’t get help anymore.
Now I know I’m as sick as I can be.
For SARS Covid Nineteen is much too much for me.

It’s killing us, It’s killing us.
One ventilator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars for our government
Which is telling us how well it was prepared.

E.M. Swift-Hook

There were two of them.
They walked into my office looking as if they’d just come in on a low-end freetrader’s scrapheap and hadn’t found time to freshen up since. I’d not known they were coming and that suggested something urgent, which meant something dangerous.
The good news was I knew one of them. Halkom Dugsdall—taller than most who were tall, dark red-brown hair that always stuck out as if he’d not combed it in days, and eyes like the business end of an energy snub.
His work brought him out here two, maybe three times a year, sometimes more and we’d shared stakeouts and bar tabs enough that we’d got to know each other pretty well. Him, me and Commander Burgas who headed up the local police here until his retirement three cycles back. We’d made a formidable team.
The last time I’d seen Dugsdall must have been at Burgas’ formal retirement event. He’d missed the private party after because of work commitments. But then he was the Coalition Security Force’s ‘go-to’ operative for hunting the very worst criminal scum. His frequent visits were down to the fact that my patch attracted a lot of them. It was at the sharp end of a frontier sector on the Periphery. After you left it, there was a mess of wildcard prospecting and mining concerns, a few low-tech Protectorates and a cluster of thinly populated Independent worlds which the Coalition couldn’t be bothered to stretch its hand out to grasp. The butt end of the galaxy and all my very own.
Even though I’d already figured that this visit was far from being a social call, I mustered a warm smile.
“Good to see you again, Grim. Who’s your friend?”
She reacted with blank surprise to my use of that name. Alright. Not a friend. She was tall too, but where Grim was leanly muscled, she was just skinny. Shiny black hair with a metallic lustre and cheekbones that seemed keen to get out ahead of her nose. A challenge, as her nose was pretty prominent itself. Cold eyes scoured me from above it. Seemed she didn’t like me already. Or maybe she didn’t like the voice I’d chosen from the handful I kept on my favourites menu.
“Good to see you too, Saj.” Grim gestured between me and the woman. “Sajmar Dyep—Tak Tanka.”
We nodded to each other and, introductions out the way, I let them sort themselves out to sit down and reached over to the synth to serve up a tray of mild stimulant drinks. They looked like they needed that.
“Thanks,” Grim said, helping himself to one from the tray and passing another to his companion as he carried on talking. “Sorry to descend on you like this, but it’s one of those fast action things. You know what I do, and Var Tanka here is a specialist in matters relating to the Legacy.”
Var Tanka? So formal. Definitely not friends then. Or maybe she was just so senior, us regular street-level operatives weren’t going to make it onto her link-list of contacts.
“We don’t get much trouble with the Legacy here,” I told her. “They tried once, but those terrorist fanatics could never make any ground with the sort living on my patch. People here are all about how they would like more Coalition involvement, not less.”
“I find the facts are more valuable than speculation, Dyep. But your opinion is noted.”
Oh my! Underling know your place…
Grim cleared his throat.
“Sajmar has some expertise on the Legacy herself, Var Tanka. She worked undercover in a Legacy cell before she took on the local CSF office here.”
“Oh? Really?” The cold eyes flicked away from mine. “That must have been some years ago then. There’s been a lot of change in the Legacy’s approach recently.” She wasn’t going to give me any ground.
Grim met my gaze and held it just long enough whilst the other woman was busy pulling up screens and pinning them over my desk.
“This is who we are here for.” She stabbed a finger towards one of the screens and my heart sank. “Ozrin Walorn. He has a history of low-level smuggling, but evidence links him with a recent incident of piracy in the Varn Sector and”—she impaled another screen with her nail—“his name’s occurred in relation to a Legacy-backed attack on a planet called Kesser. We think he helped supply the rebels there, resisting Coalition integration against the local government forces.”
Oh Ozzy! What have you been getting involved with now?
“We have reason to believe Walorn is registered as a resident in your area,” Grim added.
What could I do? I moved my head forward the small amount allowed by the couple of fused vertebrae of my neck. It approximated a nod.
“He is someone who’s crossed my screens before,” I admitted. “If he’s at home, I can find him for you. Where’re you staying?”
“We didn’t get that far yet,” Grim said.
Tak Tanka waved me away. “I don’t intend to be here long. This is a courtesy call. We could have linked you for the information, in fact, instead of wasting—”
Grim cut in.
“In fact, we realised that your local knowledge would be of immense value in locating our target, which is why we are here. And as that might take a short time, we’ll take rooms in the spaceport stopover.”
Maybe she’d more sense than I’d thought, because Var Tanka snapped her mouth shut as Grim spoke across her.
“I’ll be in touch later today,” I promised him. “Let me see you out.”
Tak Tanka had already risen from her seat and was stalking to the door, her entire body from her stiff, erect spine to the set of her shoulders screaming disapproval. As I moved around the desk to be polite and escort Grim, I glanced up and caught his eye again. He was a hard man to read, his face more a mask for his emotions than a mirror of them, but I was pretty sure I could see the dislike there.
I stopped at the door and Tak Tanka turned, didn’t notice me for a moment, then looked down and her mouth opened slightly. Pity or horror? I always made a private bet on which it would be. But this time it was surprise followed by the same dismissive coldness as before.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said and opened the door to free her from having to reply. Grim gripped my shoulder briefly and followed her out.

The opening of The Invisible Event, which is a Fortune’s Fools story by E.M. Swift-Hook. One of the stories in Challenge Accepted, an anthology of speculative fiction, featuring people with disabilities who rise to the challenge. 

I sing a song of spring and flowers
Quiet moments gentle hours
Grass of green and sky of blue 
Nature in her brightest hues
Daffodils in petticoats yellow
Primroses in colours mellow
As I sit beneath the sky
I think of you and wonder why
You walked away and stole my heart 
Although you swore we’d never part 
I sing a song of spring and sorrow
Perhaps I shall forget tomorrow

©️Jane Jago 2020

Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes! 

Today’s Victim is Julia Llewellyn, one half of the husband and wife team who solve the Dai and Julia Mysteries in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules, written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

(1) You had to leave Rome and all the trappings of high civilisation for the rather backward province of Britannia. What do you miss the most and what is the best aspect of living in Britannia?

When you come from where I do the trappings of civilisation mean little. I was a scruffy kid from the slums who remembered only too vividly what it meant to be hungry. My grandparents gave me better than that but I still ran with the Suburra gangs and learned to fight and swear rather than being civilised. To be honest, the only thing I miss from Italia is olives. Britannia has given me a family and that’s kind of all I could ever ask for.

(2) Dai is renowned for his classic ‘celtic twilight’ brooding and moodiness, how do you deal with that?

Dai’s moods are legendary. Mostly I ignore them. But if he gets on my nerves too badly I get in his face. Or shove Aelwen in his arms. He can never resist her dimples.

(3) Being regarded as family by the Tribune and the Praetor must have disadvantages as well as the obvious advantages, how do you deal with those?

The biggest disadvantage about knowing those two is….. those two. They are basically a pair of overgrown schoolboys, and mostly above the law. I love them like brothers, but like brothers they can be a right pain in the ass. Also stupid people think I can be bribed or frightened into using my ‘influence’ with the Praetor. That’s a pain – although it usually hurts them more than me.

4) What would say is your core motivation in life?

I have two. A belief that justice is for everyone no matter who their pater might have been. My family. Dai, Aelwen and Rhodri are the heart of me and the motivation for most of what I do.

(5) What is your biggest regret about the past and your biggest fear for the future – and your greatest hope?

Regret? Probably being captured and raped by the Mongols when I was just a kid. It took some living down. But even then I’d not change it, because I firmly believe I’m where I am now because of where I was then. ‘Change one thing. Change all’
Fear? Something bad happening to my children.
Hope? Those same children. I hope they will grow to be proud, happy people who understand how much they are loved

“Gutwulf, will you hold the fragging thing still…”

Circe waved her mascara brush at the goblin in the horned helmet.

“How am I supposed to keep still when a half-dressed siren is using my blade as a make-up mirror?”

“Your problem halfwit. If you hadn’t broken the sea mirror you’d still be raping and pillaging and I’d be back on my rock. But you did break it, and now we are stuck together for seven hundred and seventy seven years.”

Gutwulf considered. 

He cut Circe’s throat, deeming death less than the dishonour of life as a ladies maid.

©️jj 2020

If ever a woman was between two unwanted destinies…

I was sitting astride one of the sturdy roof supports of the smithy with my back against the warm stone of the forge chimney, listening to two men discussing my future.

One was William Smith, a brawny giant of a man who was making nails as he spoke. The other was the Puritan gentleman who now owned my family home.
“Nobody,” the dark-clad man was saying, “is able, or willing, to tell me where I might find the daughter of the house.”
“I shouldn’t think they know,” William’s bass rumble held a thread of amusement.
“And you, master Smith, would you tell me if you knew?”
“That would depend.”
The man rounded on him angrily. “I could turn you out in the streets and have you whipped from the village for your insolence.”
“You could try, but I own this smithy free and clear, and I’m not a man easy to intimidate.”
They stared each other in the eyes for a long moment, and it was the Parliamentarian who looked away first.
“No harm will come to the girl of my doing. I would marry the chit, or, if she will not, her father is alive in the Low Countries with others of his party.”
William made a deep humming noise. “So, the girl must either marry a man she has never set eyes on before, or she must leave her home to follow a father who is as like as not to lose her in a game of cards. Not a lot of choice.”
The dark gent ground his teeth. “Do I not know that? But it is the best I can offer.”
There was a long moment of silence broken only by the musical ring of hammer on anvil as William beat iron into nails.
“And what if there was another way?”
“I am listening.”
“The girl is as wild as one of her father’s hawks. She is not one to be tamed by any man. Marry her against her will and you would spend your life looking behind you. Let her be. It may be that you could come to know her that way and in time.”
“She doesn’t have time. The family of her father’s second wife has designs on her person.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason her father wants her. Money.”
“Money?”
“Aye. The girl is wealthy in her own right and there are many who would use that wealth.”
“Including yourself,” William’s voice was full of contempt.
“Yes. But at least I would use it to address the neglect of her home and it’s acreage. And I would be kind.”
William studied him then shrugged his massive shoulders. He threw the last nail into the bucket and shifted his head to look up to my perch.
“What do you think, Miss Henrietta? Will you marry? Or will you go to your father? Or…”
He held up his arms and I jumped into them before turning to look into the narrow, dark face of the man I was to spend the next fifty years married to.

© jane jago 

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

Should you wonder if something tastes nice
Just listen to this sage advice
You can try a small bit
If you don’t like it, spit
If you do, bite it big once or twice 

©️jj

“Captain’s Log update. Further to the recent encounter with the last human colony in the Calamarti Sector, The Golden Strand is currently moving into uncharted space. We are following up on reports of the existence of a mythical and demonic alien race. The Kyruku.”
Captain Gervain’s elegant and poised outline could be seen silhouetted in profile against the receding planet as she finished recording her log.
“Do you believe the colonists, Captain?”
The youthful-looking science officer lacked expression in both her voice and her face. Despite the question, she displayed zero curiosity. It was as if the captain’s response, whatever it might be, was of no more than academic interest to her.
“I don’t know,” Gervain admitted after a moment of reflection. “Sub-Commander Stude seems to think the colonists have some genuine grounds to believe they do exist. He says the landing team he led met too many who had stories to tell about them for it to be a complete myth. But all I really heard from him was wild stories of the curse they are supposed to carry.”
“It is completely irrational to believe such accounts,” Science Officer Chay agreed, her tone clipped. “To accord any credence to the entire concept of a curse requires an irrational and superstitious mindset.”
The captain lifted one eyebrow and leaned closer to her colleague, lowering her voice so the rest of the crew wouldn’t hear. “Between you and me, I think you have Arlan Stude pinned, Xexe. You don’t get much more irrational and superstitious than he is.” She smiled knowingly at her science officer, who blinked and tilted her head.
“I am not sure I can agree with you, Captain. In my experience, Sub-Commander Stude makes highly rational decisions.”
The captain drew a sharp breath, but whatever she had been going to say next was silenced on her tongue. The lights on the flight deck suddenly flickered and a siren began blaring the “High Alert” warning. Both women turned and looked towards the huge viewing screen, just as a brick-shaped vessel shimmered into view against the backdrop of stars. It looked ugly, with the rusted colour of its hull and the alien technology appearing to human eyes like protruding pincers, needles and claw shapes.
“Will you look at that?” The expression on Captain Gervain’s face was a well-crafted blend of wonder and horror. Beside her, the deadpan of the science officer was a brilliant counterpoint. High emotion set against pure mentation.
“I see it, Captain. It is there. The Kyruku. Do. Exist.”
Two such different female faces, one shot. Perfect.

Joah Meer glanced from the monitor view back to the studio where the two women stood in an empty room staring, rapt, at a blank wall. They really were very good. She had them hold their pose for a few seconds longer than was strictly needed, stopped the recording and smiled.
“Nice work. Take five and then we’ll be setting up to get the fight scene recorded.”
Heila, whose role as captain of The Golden Strand had lasted three seasons so far, stretched slowly as if she had been cramped, and glared at Joah.
“I’m not doing that hurling myself around on the floor thing again, so don’t ask.”
“Never, darling,” Joah said, soothingly. “You might get another bruise, and you have a full-exposure publicity shoot tomorrow.”
Beside her, no longer stone-faced, Zarshay snorted and broke into a grin. Heila scowled at her.
“So funny?”
“Full exposure? Oh my, the life of a leading lady.”
Which was enough to send Heila stalking out in high dudgeon. Zarshay was still grinning as she navigated through the two tech-droids and their human keeper, Wilf, to reach Joah’s console. Joah opened her arms and hugged her tight, lifting her off her feet as they kissed.
“Seriously? You have booked Heila for a skin shoot?”
Joah shook her head.
“Of course not, it’s just a usual media thing, but she has been getting so precious recently, I’ve been tempted. It’s like she thinks we should change Starways Pathfinders to The Heila Camarthy Show.”
Zarshay made a rude noise and laughed.
But something of the tension was still there when they were adding the space-battle scenes.

From ‘Star Dust’ by E.M.Swift-Hook one of the stories set in The Last City a shared-world science fiction anthology.