The temperature rose and it rained all the night
Wreaking its vengeance on virginal white
Ripping aside winter’s delicate gown
And filling the rivers with thick foaming brown
Where there was ice just a moment ago
Now puddles are swollen by fast melted snow
And under our feet where we crunched yesterday 
The mud is a thick mess of boot-clogging clay
The sky now is blue and the fickle sun glows
As if to say “Really? You’re sure you saw snow?”
The temperature rose and the sky gave us rain
But who knows, tomorrow it might snow again.

©️jj 2019

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – ”
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -”
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -”
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”
“Let me get this right,” Charis said, incredulous. “You are telling me that because I took a break from the freight shunts to help a friend with their new business I am – ” It felt surreal and for a moment Charis had to close her eyes.
“No longer a citizen.” the official finished for her. “That is indeed so, Var Sweetling.”
She opened her eyes again and tried to deal with the situation in a calm and logical way.
“Look, if the Coalition needs me on the cargo runs so badly, I’ll go back to Rota tomorrow. They will be happy to have me back. They told me they would.”
The official’s face wore an expression which might even have held some trace of regret.
“I am sure you would and I am sure they would. But, I am sorry to say there is an issue with your doing so. Those posts are only open to those who are citizens of the Coalition. And, as you have now confirmed all the details which underlie the ruling of the committee, the status of your non-citizenship has already been confirmed.”
Charis felt her mouth dry up as her throat became suddenly constricted and sore.
“I want a lawyer,” she said, snapping out the words and without even waiting for permission she sent a link out to her mother. It failed to connect and dropped away.
“You are welcome to seek legal representation if you wish to re-apply for asylum, appeal the decision or seek citizenship, but only once you have been deported. As a non-citizen, you have no right to residency in any of the Central or other Coalition worlds, so whatever legal steps you feel you need to take will have to be conducted from outside them.”
The full horror of her situation impacted then and left Charis feeling weak, as though her muscles could not support her body. She felt herself slump back into the chair.
“I need to go home if you are going to deport me, I need my things. I -”
“That is not going to be possible. You will leave here for a detention facility where you will be informed as to what options may be open to you. I do suggest you co-operate as it makes the process less unpleasant for everyone, but most of all for yourself.”
“But – you don’t understand. I am a citizen of Central – raised here, educated here, my parents live here, all my friends are here, I don’t know any other life. I couldn’t survive a day on half the Middle World protectorates I’ve shunted cargo to, let alone on some below low-tech Periphery hell hole. I won’t know the culture, the way of life, the people. Why take me in and teach me, nurture me, make this my home – then throw me out? What was the point? It’s beyond pointless – it’s – it’s cruel.”
Her voice broke a little on the last word and she had to stop talking or risk allowing the tears of anger and frustration, which pricked in her eyes, from showing.
The official looked a little weary as if he found himself dealing with this situation one time too often.
“The Coalition always takes the cases of displaced minors, children who need asylum, very seriously and the Protected Children Program has been long established as a humane and fair way of treating unaccompanied or orphaned children who come to us in need. Those, such as yourself, who are accepted under Amendment D are required to repay the community through military service, which you did. After which you may be accorded rights of citizenship if you are working in reserved employment – as you were for many years. There is nothing unfair, pointless or cruel about it.”
Charis heard the door open behind her and, still in denial when her arm was taken in an iron grip, she felt as if the end of her life had begun.

From a Fortune's Fools book, Trust A Few, which is the first part of Haruspex trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Eyub’s eyes were drawn to her beauty as a needle to a lodestone, but he kept his face respectful and his mouth shut.

When the others twitted him, he answered them shortly.

“The lady guides us through dangerous terrain. Does that not merit respect?”

All but one of the mercenary band saw his point. The one who didn’t, died for his arrogance.

On the last night of the trip, with The City in sight, she came to his blankets. Afterwards, as she lay in his arms he felt her smile against his skin.

“Respect,” she murmured, “carries its own reward.”

©️jj 2019

Don’t choose your friends by the colour of their hair
The texture of their skin, the clothes they like to wear
Don’t choose your friends by the money they make
The job that they do. Or because they eat steak
Don’t choose your friends by the label on the box
It doesn’t really matter if they wear funny socks
Don’t think that politics makes for friendship strong
And dietary prejudice is just plain wrong
You might choose a friend for the book beside their bed
For their hopes and their fears, and the thoughts in their head
You might choose a friend by the things that you share
Or because they are kindly and truly seem to care
In the end choose your friend from the bottom of your heart
And because they don’t mind if you are a silly tart 
In the end choosing friends should not be down to rumour
It’s all about connections, and a shared sense of humour.

©️jane jago 2018

One is often asked to do reviews of other aspiring authors literary endeavours and after over a dozen forays into those depths, one has now made it very clear that only books of Outstanding Quality will be reviewed. Everything else appears on one’s annual ‘Did Not Finish’ record – a scroll of shame where many who have thought themselves worthy now lie banished, with a brief sentence to explain their failing.
There you will find people like JK Rowling (‘a puerile effigy of urban fantasy, masquerading as a morality tale, but in drag’) and JRR Tolkien (‘anyone who has to make up their own language to cover their poor literacy skills is truly execrable!’) and Tolstoy (‘the summum-bonum of Russian over-saccharine emotional indulgence.’)
So you may imagine one’s complete consternation when deep in the throes of composition, the door to one’s inner sanctum was thrown open and the vision of loveliness that is Mumsie threw herself on the chaise in the corner of the room. She was breathing heavily and the bluish Gauloise smoke from her nostrils reminded me of some delicate mythical creature.
“Moonie,” she said with some determination evident in her tones, “Moonie you are at best a poor excuse for a son. At worst you are a complete fucking waste of fresh air.” She paused for breath, leaving me hanging on her words like a delicate bushbaby in the darkest woods. Mumsie continued portentously, “I have just come from the pub where I have had to endure the complete embarrassment of hearing other people reading the utter crap you post on those females’ book blog, and pissing themselves laughing. I was tempted to put my foot down and stop it altogether, but if you are going to teach you need to learn.”
She extracted a dogeared paperback from her pocket.
“Read this, you deluded bastard, and perhaps it will give you half an idea what proper science fiction is all about.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind her the aroma of Pernod and cigarette smoke.
One was about to consign the horribly insanitary book to the waste bin when her fiercely moustachioed face reappeared around the panel of the door.
“You better fucking read it Moons. There will be questions.”
And so I read it. From cover to cover.
And I am still none the wiser.

My review of ‘The Midwich Cuckoos’ by John Wyndham

To summarise:  Something happens in a very uninteresting English village. Then some women get pregnant. Then they have some strange children. In the end, things blow up.

The writing is absolutely plain, plain and black. The characters are rendered with such mundane realism as to make them even less interesting than the locality. I did not find myself transported in any way and the necessary immersion in the author’s world never occurred. The dour realism, the lack of magic, and a story whose point passed me by completely, all of these meant that in a normal situation I would have cast aside the shabby little volume after a dozen pages. But Mumsie must be obeyed. So finished it was, and reviewed it is.

All one can say is that if that is a science fiction classic one has no idea why. One reached the end as unimpressed as one was at the beginning.

No stars.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It was quiet in the sleeping garden and Effie sat alone in the grass. She turned towards the sound of footsteps and was surprised to see a stranger coming across the mossy ground. As he got closer she realised his strangely jointed body glowed in the moonlight.

“Has nobody told you it’s dangerous to sit in midnight gardens?”

“It could be worse than my life now?”

The stranger lifted her calloused and burned hands and looked at the evidence of servitude.

“Perhaps not. Will you come then?”

“I will.”

They found her body at sunrise, laying peaceful in the grass…

©️jj 2019

Julia Lucia Maxilla stood up to her full four feet and eleven inches and stared at her co-investigator. She saw a tall, handsome man with black hair, pale skin and a square jawline. He glared down at her, and she was surprised by the blueness of his eyes. Her dogs came to lean against her, and this would have alerted her to the idea the man wasn’t precisely pleased to see her if her own intuition hadn’t already made that clear.
“Llewellyn, is it?” She kept her voice cool.
Behind him she could see another man trying to blend into the wall.
“Yes, domina.”
“If we are going to work together, I think we can dispense with such formality. The name is Julia.”
“Julia,” he hesitated fractionally, “I’m Dai Llewellyn. This is Decanus Bryn Cartivel, and is it permitted to ask what those dogs are?”
Julia decided to let the hesitation pass. She summoned a smile. “Canis and Lupo are wolfhounds,” she turned and indicated the huge Saxon who stood at her shoulder. “The dogs and Edbert guard me. In case you missed it, I’m not very big so if I need to intimidate somebody they help with that too.”
For a moment the Briton actually grinned, then he must have remembered whatever grievance was wearing at him and he started looking sulky again. Julia sighed inwardly. He was going to be difficult and that was a shame because he was really, really pretty. Before she got chance to snap his handsome nose off for him, he surprised her by holding out a hand to Edbert.
“Greetings.”
Edbert actually grasped his wrist and the two tall men stood eye to eye for a moment.
“You play nicely with my lady. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Her bodyguard spoke rarely and when he did his uncomfortably deep voice always reminded Julia of a thunderstorm in some far valley. She winced inwardly, rather wishing he hadn’t chosen to speak now and was surprised to hear a thread of amusement in the Briton’s response.
“You can be sure I’ll bear that in mind.”
“If you two have finished bonding, I have a visit to make.” Julia turned a carefully blank face to Dai. Dai. “You had better come with me. Edbert and your decanus can take a break.”
He frowned. “Does it pertain to the investigation?”
“No. And yes. It’s a duty visit to the Tribune. The Prefect is just a time server and she’s a complete waste of time as far as I can see. The Tribune is a different matter. Aside from policy, he and I have known each other since we were children.”
“Since you were children?” Llewellyn frowned. “But wasn’t the Tribune born in the Suburra? And raised in the insulae at the foot of the Capitoline Hills before he was adopted by a patrician?”
“He was. And so was I. Any questions?”
Dai shut his mouth with a snap. Julia could all but hear him thinking, and she took pity on him. It would make little sense to a Briton, who was no doubt raised on TV crime dramas which featured the poverty and criminality of the poorest slum area in Rome, that someone from that place could be in any position of influence or power.
“My father was a soldier, but my mother was a lupa, I think you use the term ‘whore’. My father was killed when he was twenty, in a border skirmish with the Mongol Empire, my mother died soon after of an occupational disease – she succumbed to morbus insu, an STD. I was raised by my father’s family who took me in because I was his only child and I think they wanted something to remember him by.”
“Oh. But how did -?”
“How did I get to be an inquisitor? A long story. And mostly painful, so can we leave it?”
She essayed a smile and her new colleague managed a half grin in response. Julia looked at him more closely.
“Your tunic,” she said severely, “is pretty grubby. That fish sauce must be days old. Do you have another?”
He nodded, wearing the expression of a schoolboy caught cheating in a class test.
“Good. Decimus is a fussy blighter. We’ll swing past yours on the way.”

From Dying to be Roman the first Dai and Julia Mystery from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

When all you have to hold on to is pride, people may think you cold and unyielding but you can’t allow yourself to care.

The day Owen rode away to war, Melandreth put her emotions in a box and hid the key.

Had she known he would be away for five years maybe she would have been more careful to remember the hiding place.

The day he rode back into the farmyard she should have felt joy, but she couldn’t. The key was lost.

She cried, and as he held her she found the key – in his strong, brown hands.

©️jj 2019

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an ageing rockstar in possession of an eight-figure fortune, must be in want of a nubile young woman to supplant his no longer appetising wife…

Eric Scoggins, the lead singer of The Wobbly Pebbles lay naked on the enormous bed in his Miami hotel and regarded his skinny, wrinkled body with sour amusement.
“I dunno about you,” he remarked to his sleeping penis, “but I reckon the only reason anybody wants us now is the fame and the money.”
For a moment he smiled as he remembered back when he started out in the business. Things felt different then, and groupies had seemed like an amusing way to chart the band’s rise to fame and fortune: the richer they got, the prettier the girls became. And, if pushed, he would have to admit to sampling a few along the way. But now he was almost seventy he would honestly prefer a cup of tea and an early night.
He sighed, and his thoughts grew sombre. The business of a farewell tour was exhausting enough without the necessity to run from the rapacious claws of the young and greedy. He wasn’t remotely interested, but these girls were unrelenting and he was beginning to feel like the quarry in a very bloody hunt.
To cap it off he was lonely, and only one person could help. He speed dialled a number in England and spoke to the person who had been the centre of his life for some forty years.
“I miss you. Please come.”
“Okay.”

Three nights later, as the band played its final encore ever, a particularly persistent blonde bribed a hotel desk clerk for a room key. 
Blondie let herself into Eric’s palatial suite, and slipped out of her clothes before disposing herself decoratively across the wide whiteness of the bed. This, she thought with a smirk, would be almost too easy.

It was more than an hour later when she heard the door to the suite open. Carefully tousling her blonde curls she sat up in the bed and plastered on a seductive smile. Almost at once her smile became a frown as she heard voices. What was going on? She had been watching and the old fool never brought anybody upstairs with him. But there was somebody with him now. Somebody who could wreck all her plans. Her smooth pink hands curled into claws.
The first words she could make out were spoken in the distinctive gravelly tones of a voice that had broken a million hearts.
“I’m going out on the balcony for a smoke. You coming?”
“Yeah. I will. But I need the bathroom first.”
The sound of what could only be a kiss pushed Blondie’s patience almost beyond its limits, but she managed to wait until she heard the balcony door slide and the sound of heels crossing to the bathroom. Quick as a flash she streaked across the corridor to where an ordinary looking, and far from young, woman was sitting on the john.
“Clear off,” Blondie snarled, “it cost me five thousand dollars to get in here and I’m not having some used up old tart ruin my chances.”
The woman looked at her incuriously. Then she laughed.
“I have a better idea. You clear off.”
Blondie led with her nails, going for the older woman’s face. But she was caught from behind and her wrists were held in an iron grip. She wriggled and kicked but all to no avail. The woman got up off the pan and disappeared for a second, coming back with a bundle of clothes. 
“You have two minutes to dress and leave. If you aren’t gone in that time I’m calling security.”
Blondie looked from Eric’s determined face to the bland expression of the woman who stood at his side.
“I don’t understand,” she said fretfully, “why don’t you want me? Everybody knows you are ripe for a wife upgrade.”
Eric shook his head.
“Just get out.”

It is a truth less universally acknowledged that some ageing rockstars might even love their wives…

©️jj 2019

If your mother is the queen of a nation of warrior women, and you are a small, male ‘mistake’, you better keep your nose clean and be diligent in your studies. Pieter did both these things.

He understood he must have a father, as must his muscular sisters, but only Mother mattered. 

When he was seven, a hulking man in fishscale armour came to the palace demanding ‘his’ son. 

Mother said no, and the enraged knight was holding a broadsword to her breast when Pieter was brought to the throne.

He killed the knight with his tiny dagger.

Mother smiled…

©️jj 2019