He came shyly into that place, bringing with him the wild smell of the pine forest. Martha approached him as carefully as if he had been a wild thing.

“Do you seek a wife?”

“I do. But my homestead is far from town.”

“Accepted. I do not crave company.”

His eyes searched her face for a moment then he offered his hand

It was a warmly fire-lit night, two winters, and two babies later, when he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

“Why did you choose me Martha mine?”

“You brought the forest. And I knew…”

©️jj 2018

If Benny hadn’t been quick on his feet, the Mercedes would have run him down as it slewed violently sideways to stop half on and half off the pavement in a residents only parking zone. The driver took only seconds to slide off the leather seat and slam the door behind her. She strode off in the direction of one of the many over-priced eateries that populated the commercial side of the street. He gave her the stink-eye for a moment, taking in every detail of the rich bitch furs and fuck me shoes. Oh yeah, this one represented just about everything he despised in a human being. It was with some relief that he turned his attention back to the car. It was sleek, and black, and he had even caught a whiff if the smell of excellence when the door was open. He wanted that car so much it hurt, but he had promised his momma so all he could do was look.

On an evening of what ifs it’s also true to say that if he hadn’t been fucking the car with his eyes he would never have seen the keys its driver stabbed at her handbag fall into the gutter instead of the bag. He couldn’t believe his luck, and as soon as her expensively maintained ass disappeared behind the darkened glass of the trattoria he was on his knees scrabbling. Within seconds he had them in his hand. But what to do with them? He knew what his heart was telling him, and he also knew what a stupid idea that was. Even with the keys it’d still be theft, and the gates of the detention centre were always open for juvenile car thieves.

While he was thinking he heard the measured tread that indicated the imminent arrival of a beat cop. That sort of made his mind up for him. He trotted to the middle of the pavement and waited. When the cop turned the corner it was a face he knew and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Officer. Sir. I got problem. Rich bitch drops car keys. She gone in that place. Can’t follow.”
“Indeed you can’t.”
The burly cop held out a large red hand and Benny dropped the keys in it. As if pulled by an invisible string, both officer of the law and street kid turned to look at the Mercedes with identical expressions of longing on their faces.
“Some car, boy. Some car.”
Benny ducked his head.
“Sure is, sir.”
“Where you sleeping these days Benny?”
“Ma’s”
“Okay. Now you just stop here and let me see if I can’t get you a decent meal at least.”
The cop took out his personal mobile and had a long conversation in Italian. Benny started to fidget, and the man held up a thick finger.
“How many in your old lady’s flop these days?”
Benny did a count up in his head.
“Seven. Ma. Me. Little ones.”
“Sette. Bene.”

It was very quiet in the street now and Benny could quite clearly hear footsteps coming along the alleyway between two restaurants. A brilliantined head shone in the streetlamp as the white-aproned figure of a gold-toothed waiter slipped quietly out onto the street. The cop went over to him and they held a brief low-voiced conversation.

The cop came back with a big takeaway food bucket in one hand and some folding money in the other. He handed Benny the bucket.
“You think you can get that home safely?”
Benny nodded emphatically. The cop slipped two tens off the roll of bills and slipped them into Benny’s top pocket.
“Better scat then. You’ll be wanting to eat that before it gets cold.”

Benny dipped his head and went, covering the ground like lightning.

Later that night he lay on his bed with his belly full of pasta. Life was funny he mused, he sure as hell wanted that car but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t wanted pasta more….

© jane jago 2017

Ella had been raised to look beautiful, keep her mouth shut, and do as she was told. Being by nature malleable, she became adept at pleasing people.

On her eighteenth birthday, her father presented her with a fiancé. She gave him her hand and her sweet, absent smile.

They married in June and as they drove away from the ceremony Chas looked at his wife.

“Are you happy?”

She stared at him, perplexed. “I don’t know. What’s happy?”

He thought about her forbidding father, and understood.

“Happy is what I shall teach you to be…”

“I will like to learn.”

©️jj 2018

An extract from Dying to be Fathers by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago The sixth Dai and Julia Mystery, set in a Britain where the Roman Empire never left...

“So what do we do now?” Edbert asked. “We’ve summed it all up pretty neatly between us, but so far I don’t see where it gets us.”
Gallus opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by Bryn.
“It’s very much a case of waiting it out at the moment. I have people with ears to the ground and leaning on anyone they think might have any ideas. We are doing all we can do. When the reports come in, then we can act.”
Julia could feel for Edbert and in many ways shared his sense of frustration. She wished her heavy body away for just one day so she could be the one out there asking the questions, demanding the answers. But she knew Bryn was right and that he would be doing everything that could humanly be done.
“Then you had better get back to Viriconium,” she said, “in case those reports come in. I think we’re done here for now.”
Gallus gave a salute as if dismissed from parade, but Bryn stood solidly.
“Do you have a moment, Domina?” he asked. “Your cook is just outside the door looking very unhappy. She was wanting to knock when I came back in, but I said I’d let you know as soon as we were done.”
The one thing Cookie never did was interrupt Julia when she was working. If something had driven her to do so today it had to be very pressing and urgent, above the ordinary run of domestic crises.
“Of course, show her in please.”
Bryn opened the door and stood aside.
“Thank you so much Domina Julia.” Cookie’s normally placid face was creased with worry, and she never normally called Julia anything but dearie, Julia set her own worries aside and beckoned her forward. Cookie twisted her apron in her big red hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you but there is something odd going on. It’s my nephew, Ban and the boy Dewi who helps Edbert with the dogs, and the youngest garden lad, Cerdic. They are getting hold of porn somehow. And they have started trying to spy on the younger girls in the household. Luned caught them. She boxed all their ears and thought no more of it, except to come and tell me, but almost all the rest…” She took a deep breath before ploughing on. “I decided to see if I could find out what they are up to. I tracked them to the bothy, where they are now – swigging cider they have pinched from the store and watching stuff I don’t want to describe. And the youngest of them no more than fourteen. They’re not bad lads, but this..this… Well, I dunno what to do.”
Julia held out her hands to the distressed woman and nodded to Edbert who produced a massive handkerchief in one of his pockets.
“Chin up, fach,” he said. “They are all three under age, so a quick visit from the local law should frighten them into good behaviour.”
“It should indeed,” Bryn had managed to dredge up a grin. “We can go by that way as we leave. Bothy you said?”
Cookie nodded and Bryn cocked his head at Gallus. They left shoulder-to-shoulder, walking as easily together as if they were friends. Cookie blew her nose lustily and offered Edbert his handkerchief back. He looked at it in some distaste.
“Tell you what, Cookie, you can keep it.”
She smiled her appreciation, pocketed the hanky and ambled off back towards the kitchen.

Dying to be Fathers is released on 9 November but is available for pre-order now.

Bridges need trolls. They keep the sightseers coming. 

So we build a troll house, and advertise in Boulder Weekly and on the troll community Facebook page. 

What do we get? 

Bugger all.

Trolls these days are so busy with moving pictures and bodyguard duties that bridges are far beneath their notice

And that’s why the house under our bridge is occupied by a fat, alcoholic, gnome called Ethelred, who waves his willy at passing virgins.

Disaster?

Far from it. 

It’s the busiest bridge anywhere.

Young women come from far and wide to prove their virtue whist keeping their panties on…

©️jj 2018

From A Walking Shadow, the final book in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune's Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

“How long you friend to Avilon?” In the flickering light from the fire, it was hard to see the other man’s face clearly, but there was genuine curiosity in his tone. It was odd, though, how he pronounced the name with the emphasis on the wrong syllable.
Jaz gave a slight shrug. “If you add it all up – including our time in the Specials I’d say around fourteen, fifteen years.”
The other man seemed thoughtful.
“Avilon have many?”
Friends, presumably. That was easy.
“No. I think I was about the only one for most of that time. Now – he has more. And a woman too.”
“He is – change? Not the same?”
There was clear concern in the question. Concern Jaz couldn’t lay to rest. He nodded briefly and felt his breath escape in a slight sigh.
“Yeah. Much changed. Not the same at all.”
“But – he is Avilon?”
Jaz had no idea how to answer that. It was something he struggled with himself over the past few years. There had to be something or he wouldn’t have kept with the grindingly thankless task of nurturing the empty shell he found in the Specials. But sometimes – and more often now than before – he was left wondering how much of that had been wishful thinking and how much had been real. How much he needed it to be Avilon as opposed to how much it actually was.
“Sometimes it’s like you can see a ghost of who he was,” he said, at last.
“Ghost?”
“Uh – yeah – like a shadow of who he was.” Jaz moved his arm so the firelight sent his own shadow reaching away and gestured to that with his other hand. “He’s like a walking shadow of the man he used to be.”
“Shadow – yes.” The Overlord nodded, moving his hand to match the shadow. Jaz noticed the triple line of scarring on the back of the hand, identical to the scarring Avilon had brought back from Temsevar. He put a finger towards it, running his hand through the air as if drawing three fast lines.
“What is that about? Avilon has it also.”
The Overlord looked at him as if he wasn’t sure that the question could be a serious one, but he must have seen from Jaz’s expression that it was. Then he nodded slowly and shrugged off his coat, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt so his shoulder was exposed. Jaz saw a crude raised mark that he took a moment to realise was caused by some kind of strike branding process. He knew Avilon was similarly scarred but not with the same design. The other man covered his shoulder again and pulled his coat back on. “Slave mark,” he said. Then closed his fist so the three scars on his hand stood out. “Fighting slave mark.”
Jaz had no idea what he could say to that, but the other man went on, hunting for words. Clearly struggling, but wanting Jaz to understand. His gaze intense with it.
“Avilon make him – made him -” The Overlord broke off and started again. “He made his choice. To be fighting slave – to find me. To free me.”
Something shifted in Jaz and he suddenly understood what this man must have meant to Avilon and had no doubt at all what Avilon was to him. He held the intense gaze and gave a slight nod, then reached out his hand. The other man took it, his grip strong.
“You’re my brother’s friend,” Jaz said, making each word clear so he could be sure he was understood. “That makes you my friend.”
The other man nodded.
“My friend.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

We didn’t want a sister. We wanted a puppy. But we got sent to Auntie Enid’s anyway. And when we come home Alice was there. Red-faced and wrinkled, and in the crib beside Ma’s big old chair.

Tell the truth we wasn’t too much impressed, but she improved a bit, and by the time she was three we almost forgave her for not having a tail.

She started school today. Tagging along behind us kinda quiet and shy.

When one of the big girls pulled her braids, we stepped in. Hard.

Alice may not be much, but she’s ours…

©️jj 2018

i know you like a murder by Amy L Sauder is now available.

Chapter 1 – The 5 Ws of Murder

A narrator always gets to know the reader before spilling their deepest secret.
I am a murderer.
She was just a silly nothing of a girl until I made her rise to fame. A pennything.
I imagine a dreary donut-glaze day at the station before I dropped murder in their laps. I’d like to say the coppers pounded down my door in their cliché little way, but really it was a nice rap-tap-tap. Like the children’s ditty: Skunk in the barnyard, pee-yew. Murder in the theater…for you…
Clueless buffoons, more accustomed to traffic control rather than detective work. I wasn’t considered suspect; for all intents and purposes, I was victim.
“Tell us what happened.” “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?” “Any odd or unusual behavior?” and the kicker: “Is there anyone who would have motive?”
“Don’t we all,” I said. “Don’t we all hold a reason to kill.”
I wasn’t much help. Why would I be? I divulged a dozen motives, to bait their sniffers a million directions, all but mine.
I don’t think they liked me all that much. Whatever. I wasn’t looking to impress. I was looking to distract. Once their curiosities turned elsewhere, I could move on to tell you, my now-avid readers, the story.
My story.
Our story.
If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears, does it make a sound? If a person is murdered and the tale is not told, did it happen?
And so, I have found my audience. Yes, you. Won’t you read my story, sleuth it out? I take the role of murderer, now you fancy yourself a detective.
Sit down, cozy up. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but you may worry it’s been poisoned, and you may be correct. But hold it, dear reader, don’t twist your shirt in a bundle before I give you all the pieces.
What: death, cold and sudden
Where: the most dramatic place for murder, the theater
When: the top of Act III, naturally
Who: Too many names, there are too many names in the world. I only remember the one girl. Don’t be indignant when you struggle to recall names, too.
No matter. I will choose some form of name to distinguish the lot. Let’s call them:
Madame Director,
Homeless Hag,
Facilities Hawk,
Villains 1 & 2,
Shy Boy,
Makeup Artist,
and Cami’s BFF.
But the one you’re waiting for: Camille. Or Cami now, to be more relatable, more likeable. Hear the sounds roll off your tongue: the name Cami skips playfully from your mouth, while the nasal sound of Camille bodes aloof, unapproachable. The name change is product branding or whatever.
She’s a washed up writer. Now scriptwriter and also, get this, leading lady. She scooped that right up, and Madame Director allowed it even though Cami has never performed on stage.
Why: Cami got one of the useless English degrees and expected it was worth something. Interned at a publishing company, but they wouldn’t look at her manuscript without an agent; and she couldn’t interest an agent though she had an in with a publisher.
She’d tell that sob story, then with a twinkle in her eye promise that this theatrical production would put us all on the map.
Hopeful.
Deluded.
But I would make her keep that promise.
Alibis are useless in this investigation, because all of us, of course, were at the theater when it happened. As for motive, don’t we all have something worth killing for?
If you were a Criminal Psychologist maybe you’d have this case wrapped up by now. Tell me, which of the listed characters am I, the murderer?
But statistically speaking, you likely aren’t a Criminal Psychologist, so here you are. Still reading. So many questions.
You know, you could hand this over to a Criminal Psychologist to solve. But I don’t think you will. Not now.
It’s not real, you say. It’s a book. And you’ll pore through this story looking for answers, intrigued by the tale, fascinated by death.
Okay, detectivize. Draw up a grid, write up characters and clues, cross off cleared suspects. Or whatever you crime buffs do. Maybe you have the cliché marker board to track your clues, or maybe you have the string linking ideas throughout a crime-solving room. You sure get off on this stuff, don’t you?
So let’s get to it. What I haven’t told you yet is How. But I can’t just tell you how she died. That’s too easy. Too quick. Buckle up: you’re in for a villainous monologue.

A Bite of... Amy L Sauder

Q1:How much of you is in your hero/villain?

Considering my main character is a psychopathic murderer, it’s probably in my best interest to say I’m not completely like my characters but I can relate. I can definitely relate. Now hold on a minute while I answer the door; it’s probably the police here to arrest me…

Q2:Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

I love adventure as long as it stays within the confines of the page. I’m a wimp when it comes to pain, and I freak without my routine. Fictional worlds are much too chaotic for my tastes. I’ll put characters through the wringer plenty, but I’d like to stay holed up in the comfort of my home with a chai latte by my side, thank you very much.

Q3:Have you ever invented a language?

Doog ckul ngirugif newh ot pasw rsettel nda ton; em nda ym restis detabe tath trap. Lareneg elur si rdsawckab ptecxe sphargid ro srettel tath ntod tif rethegot enco deppilf. E.I. Newh em nda ym restis erew ngouy, ew etowr ekil sith rof a tecres edoc. Soed tath tnouc?

I guess that’s a yes then…

Amy L Sauder in her own words:

Amy L. Sauder is a writer, educator, and creative. She has been called quirky meta mystery and walking fairytale.  In her not-so-spare time, Amy coaches other writers and sells artistic fashion finds. While she has a degree in English, that has yet to land her amidst a murderous plot. Hopefully that doesn’t change.

You can find Amy L Sauder on Facebook, Twitter and her own website.

The door crashed open, and she could smell the booze. Her heart sank and she looked at last Saturday’s bruises which were only just fading from her arms.

He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her against the wall, backhanding her viciously as he did so. She made no sound, and he laughed harshly.

“Silence won’t save you this time.” He raised his booted foot.

The vegetable knife was only four inches long, but it was viciously sharp. 

She stabbed him again and again and again…

When she was sure he was dead she got back in her coffin.

©️jj 2018

Once everyone was supplied with a glass, Sam raised a toast.
“Let’s drink to love and friendship.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Danny agreed.
“Mind you I’d drink to misery and dislike if somebody would only feed me…’
Amid roars of laughter, Anna fetched a tray of tiny biscuits spread with pate, stuffed cherry tomatoes, and cubes of salty feta cheese.
“Just to stop my big brother fading away while I make the gravy.”
She went to the range, with Sam at her heels.
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. Or do you fancy carving?”
“Can do. What is it today?”
“Sirloin.’
“Easy-peasy.”
Sam put his glass down and picked up the carving knife and fork. Anna watched respectfully, as slice after slice of perfectly carved meat landed on the serving platter.
“Well bugger me,” she said almost reverently as she stirred the gravy.
He grinned.
“You want both joints carved?”
“Please.”
With the meat carved and the gravy in two jugs, Anna and Sam got the food on the table, and everyone dug in.
“Can you pass the water jug?”Jim asked, “I’m driving, so no more booze.”
“Me too,” Rod concurred. “If I was to touch a drop before driving her boy, Pats would have my nuts for a necktie.”
“I’ve got non-alcohol lager if either of you would prefer,” Sam offered.
“If it ain’t too much trouble that’d be great.”
Sam went to the booze fridge and got two bottles, while Anna fetched beer glasses.
“Thanks both,” Jim said somewhat thickly around a mouthful of succulent roast lamb.
“Manners Jim,” Patsy giggled.
He finished his mouthful and looked hurt.
“It’s a worry,” he said, “it’s rude to talk with your mouth full, and it’s rude not to say thank you. So which rude do you go for?”
There was a shout of laughter, and Patsy rapped his knuckles with a serving spoon.
“Can you imagine Sunday lunch at ours?” she said despairingly. “It’s a fucking bear garden.”
Charlie lifted his face from his dinner.
“T’isn’t, it’s worse than that. Last week the twins went to fight over the last roast potato…”
He subsided and Patsy took up the tale.
“Jim was no help. Could do nothing for laughing. I had to prize them apart with a serving spoon. Which broke…”
The laughter rose in waves again.
Danny patted her hand.
“Never mind, Pats. You wouldn’t be without them, would you?”
“God no. I love every smelly, sullen argumentative inch of all of them. And if they grow up to be like their dad there will be five lucky women out there one day.”
Jim put a beefy arm around her and dragged her over for a kiss.
“Love you too, you silly old bat.”
She grinned.
“You see how it is.”
Jim grinned at the assembled.
“This parenthood thing is a minefield. I dunno how most people navigate it. Me? I just follow Pats.”
“Yeah. And I go by my gut and the seat of my pants. And by dog training principles…”
This had the rest of the table in stitches.
“It’s true,” Jim mopped his streaming eyes. “I come in from work one night. Late. The twins were about two. She had them on the kitchen floor chewing bones.”
“They were teething. Doing my head in. Bones helped.” Patsy said irately, then she laid her head on the table and laughed until she almost cried.
“Sorry everyone,” she said between guffaws.
“But you should have seen Jim’s face that night. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or call a social worker. In the end he phoned his mum, who told him not to be a worry-arse. Apparently, he cut his teeth on his old man’s riding crop. At least there’s a bit of goodness in a beef bone.”
It was Bill’s turn to look up from his plate of roast beef and grin engagingly.
“I remember you putting me and Charlie in the puppy pen one day when we were whiny. Grandpa Cracksman took us out and fed us potato chips and Coca-Cola.”
Patsy laid her head on the table and laughed till she cried.

All in all it was a very happy Sunday, and when Patsy, Jim, Rod and the boys drove away Sam put his arm around Anna and pulled her close.
“I really like all of them. They’re real. In an increasingly plastic world they are as refreshing as a swim in a cold Scottish loch. However, we now have packing to do. We are catching a plane at eleven tomorrow morning. Pack for warm weather. Nothing formal.”
“For how long will we be away?”
“Sadly, I could only book a week. Even then I had to call in some favours.”
“And where are we going?”
He tapped her nose with one long finger.
“You’ll find out when we get there. Paul is driving us to the airport. So no need to leave the car in one of the overpriced car parks.”
“Good. Talking of cars. It having been ages now, I’m guessing the garage can’t fix the Audi?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot that. It’s fucked. When we get home I’ll have to get me a new car. I can’t keep using yours.”
“You could. In fact, maybe you should. I only need a small runabout. Perhaps it would be best to replace the Audi with something a bit less ostentatious than the Range Rover.”
“Anna. It’s your Range Rover.”
“Ours numbskull. If it’s our house it’s our Range Rover. And I’m sure it’s just the kind of car a consultant should be driving.”
He laughed.
“It certainly looks more at home in my parking space at work than the Audi did. It sits between a Jag and a four-wheel drive Merc, and seems to sneer at both. But what will we buy you to replace it?”
“Oh. I dunno. A Golf maybe?’
“Nope. Not a VeeDub. I think you should have an Evoque.’
“Okay. If that’s what you think. We’ll have a look when we get home. Now I’m off to pack my bikini.”
“Good. Is it itsy bitsy teeny weeny?”
“You’ll find out when we get there?”
She ran upstairs, leaving Sam to go and hunt up Danny for a bit of a chat, about cars among other things.

Jane Jago