Then suddenly a soft voice cut through all the chatter.
“Hey, Isabel.”
I whipped my head up, looking over my open laptop.
It was Tarek.
Jesus. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
I decided to take in the entire sight of him. Since he had addressed me directly, I finally had an excuse to take a good look at him. I decided afterward that it was kind of a mistake.
He was wearing a black T-shirt with dark jeans. His T-shirt hugged his chest, which, like his entire body, was lean and muscular. His short beard and goatee were neatly trimmed. He was certainly dark enough to be what Lara and Eric called “my type,” although I usually went for Latin men. I guessed his age to be about 28, but his eyes held an experience that made him seem more mature.
He wasn’t super-tall. I guessed that he was between 5 feet, 9 inches and 5 feet 10 inches. I was 5’6” so I more or less did a quick comparison. His curly black hair hung in carefully groomed, tight tiny ringlets around his face and almost down to his shoulders. He was incredibly sexy. He probably had to spend a lot of time on his hair, moussing it up, and that if he let it go it would probably be frizzy. His curls reminded me of Lara and her unruly hair, although her ringlets were more tousled and larger, and always framed her beautiful face perfectly. She was forever straightening it, but I kept telling her it looked gorgeous in ringlets, like Tarek’s curls did now. I felt myself softening a little at the thought of my sister, but I steeled my reserve and plastered a semi-scowl on my face. My scowl and general surly attitude were my defense mechanisms. After enough unpleasantness, people generally left me alone. I liked it that way.
Eric, Josh and Dinesh were somehow building up a tolerance for it. It was starting to piss me off.
Lately, everything was pissing me off.
I had to admit, however, that I was intrigued as well as annoyed. Few people had the nerve to come and talk to me like this, with no warning.
I decided not to say anything at first. I just stared and raised my eyebrows.
He waited a good three to four seconds before he spoke. The left corner of my mouth started to go up into a smirk. Invariably, there were only two reasons a guy like this, a semi-stranger no less, would deign to talk to me. If he was going to miss class and wanted to get my notes, he was shit outta luck. And if he wanted a booty call, well, I wasn’t quite sure yet how I would handle that. Little did I know, he wasn’t going to ask me either of those things.

Miscalculated Risks is the first book in the Law School Heretic series written by Maria Riegger. You can find out more about Marie, her writing and the series on her website.

An interview with the author of the Law School Heretic series.

1. In a romance what do you feel is most important: a shared sense of humour, tastes in common, sexual attraction or something else?

One of the most important things is the willingness to seek to understand the other person. In any relationship, romantic or otherwise, there will be differences. Your success depends on how you handle the differences. You need to be willing to try to understand where the other person is coming from. For example, you are a saver and your partner is a spender. But did you think about why your partner spends rather than saves? Is that rooted in his/her childhood?

I have issues with how romances are depicted in some movies and television series (and some books), in that it’s difficult to understand how some characters connect and feel emotionally attracted to each other. The audience usually wants the couple to get together right away, but that’s often not how it works in real life. It’s usually this process of sharing and starting to be vulnerable with each other, and then realizing that there is this emotional and intellectual attraction.

2. If you could meet one author, dead or alive, who would that be and why?

I would love to meet Ken Follett. Eye of the Needle is my favorite thriller of all time. It is a tightly constructed, fast-paced novel with an unlikely (and flawed) female lead. Follett is a terrific multi-genre author. In addition to thrillers, he writes historical fiction as well (Pillars of the Earth, set in medieval England, is another of my favorite novels).

3. What is the one piece of advice would you give your fifteen year-old-self – do you think she would take it?

I would tell her not to sweat the small stuff, and, honestly, 70-80% of it is small stuff. Don’t worry about things that are out of your control. I know it’s easier said than done, but the older I get, the less I tend to worry about outcomes, and the more faith I have that I will be able to deal with whatever is thrown at me.

Would my fifteen-year-old self take the advice? I think she would listen, but then do whatever she wanted.

Maria Riegger is a banking/corporate attorney in Washington, DC by day (please don’t hold that against her), and a fiction author by night. She is a Gemini whose head has always been in the clouds. Indeed, from a young age, her mother scolded her for not paying attention. An irreverent Gen X’er, she writes gritty contemporary romance, with plenty of sarcasm. You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

I order my drink at the bar
The ice-cubes chiming in the glass
“You want a straw with that?”
Pretty plastic colours
I think what I saw
Last night on TV:
An ocean choked
With plastic waste
I say no
The last straw.
Simple.
Really.
Just,
No.

One might never have read this book had it not been that Mumsie decreed it a winter project last year. One resisted as best one might, but in the end it is never wise to argue with one’s mater as a clout around one’s ear with whatever the woman has in her hand at the time can be injurious to both health and beauty.

One attempted to ask what particular merit the uninspiring looking volume was hiding under its brown paper dustcover. But Mumsie merely looked up from her copy of some other boring old book and slapped one large, square hand hard on the boards of the dining table.
“You,” she intoned in a doom-laden voice, “call yourself a writer. So you better effing well learn to write, and you just might do that by reading some people who actually can. Bloody read it. And don’t skip. There will be questions.”

Knowing when discretion is the better part of valour is just one of the things a public school education teaches. So I read it. And here is my review.

Précis: Something happens and lots of people go blind. Then some plants start walking about killing people. And there is a girl.

Review: This is absolutely black, plain and black. There is no artistry in the choice of words. No beauty in the language. No heroism. The story is told as colloquially as if the ‘hero’ (if one could call him such) was talking to his rough chums in some public house. There is no attempt to elevate the story of his struggle beyond the mundane and everyday.
There is not even a decent happy ever after. Does humanity triumph? Or do the plants win?  I couldn’t tell. I was left dissatisfied and unsettled. This is not a nice book.

Two stars. Awarded for proper spelling and punctuation.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Why is Twitter
Full of bitter
Shitters?
Who stick their nebs
In the web
Like celebs.
Why is the net
Full of regret
And lost bets?
From those who lost
Now counting the cost
Of winter’s frost.
Why are kids
Under lids
Or on the skids?
Before you post
Like a ghost
Ask yourself who hurts most
Let’s clean Twitter
Oust the bitter
And replace the
Shitters
With glitter

©️ jane jago 2018

An extract from The Fated Sky - the first book in Fortune's Fools.

The day was beautiful, a jewel of Temsevaran summertime and the thin red sunlight was strong enough to make a shimmer of mist rise from the flat-topped roofs of the brightly painted houses, as Durban made his way towards the plaza. He chose a back street knowing that the main roads would already be jammed solid with people jostling at the barriers to have the first pick of the bargains on offer. Even so, the way he chose had already drawn quite a crowd. Those that knew him smiled and let him pass but others resisted blocking his way with knees and elbows.
“Let me through,” he appealed. “My wife is having a baby – our first child.”
No one stopped to consider why that should be any reason to let him into the plaza, the crowd just drew apart as if by magic and helpful hands guided him to the front whilst congratulations and good wishes were offered. They were very simple folk, the good people of Alfor. As he ducked under the barrier he was challenged by a fierce looking young Zoukai who did not know him. Durban smiled winningly.
“I am the bird doctor,” he explained. The young man stared at him, then spat in the dust.
“So? What’s that to me?”
“Your end of run bonus, I suspect. You see one of the singing birds has feather cramps and if it is not treated immediately that will spread like wildfire. Before you know it – wumph.” He threw up his arms expressively.
The Zoukai struggled with that for a moment.
“Wumph?” he repeated in a doubtful tone.
“Yes, wumph,” Durban’s voice took on a ring of confidential urgency. “All two thousand of CaravansiNedriq’s precious singing birds would go ‘wumph’. And that would be the last you’d hear about your end-of-run bonus, I can tell you.”
He fixed the younger man with a penetrating amber glare. The Zoukai’s confusion seemed to clear at the mention of Nedriq’s name.
“Of course – the bird doctor. Well, you better go in then.”
Durban treated him to his sunniest smile and headed quickly to the nearest caravan, which as he already knew, belonged to Caravansi Nedriq.

E.M. Swift-Hook

When the vulnerable must be hidden
The transgender swept under the bed
Their entitlement is quite forbidden
An uncomfortable truth killed stone dead
When science-based seems like a curse
And diversity causes us fear
To say evidence-based feels perverse
As cluelessness stops up our ears
When the foetus of hope is hung on the rope
Of ignorance foul yet persuasive
Then comes the day when it’s truthful to say
That stupidity is all-pervasive

©️ Jane Jago 2017

Nancy O'Hare an independent traveller with a particular focus on remote, lesser-visited destinations, shares her most poignant experiences. Her stories have emerged over twenty years of living and working in five continents and travelling through more than sixty countries. Here she visits Ollantaytambo which was once a major city of the Incas.

This takes us a step back into the Sacred Valley. This valley was like a pearl necklace that traced Incan villages along the Urubamba River. The narrowly chiselled ravine started at Cusco, the diva of Incan cities, which offered ancient sites, lush accommodation, eclectic restaurants and a peppy personality. The valley then led through a few other Incan villages until it reached Ollantaytambo. Beyond Ollantaytambo, train tracks extended onward to Aguas Calientes, the drop-off point to visit Machu Picchu. The overall circuit contained an interconnected delight of sights in a relatively compact area. Whereas Aguas Calientes turned out to be touristy, busy and verging on tacky, Ollantaytambo remained as composed as it surely was thousands of years ago.
Ancient Incan storehouses towered over one side of the town, while exposed terraced hills crowned with a grand fortress dominated the opposite side. From a distance, the storage huts looked like a piece of honeycomb stuck to the rocky cliff face. After climbing a narrow, dusty track, we could see that the complex was composed of tiered townhouse-like stone structures.
A couple of dogs from town followed us up the narrow and arduous rocky path, familiar with its terrain. They played and wagged their tails for the most part, not noticing the steep ascent. During our return, they proceeded to latch onto the next set of hikers taking the same route. It seemed the dogs had designated themselves as chaperones for anyone climbing to the storehouses.
Expansive views from atop the adjacent terraced hillside exposed the valley beyond. The scene directly below highlighted a maze of ceremonial walls surrounded by the ancient structures from which we had started our climb. In the centre, a strangely familiar Inca Bucks Coffee Shop displayed a neon sign whose lettering imitated an all-too- recognizable green font known to coffee lovers worldwide.
We spent another morning walking alongside the Urubamba River to see an old quarry located six kilometres southeast of town. Little remained except vacant spaces on the rock face. Long ago, heavy boulders had been floated upstream, manually manoeuvered out of the river and then chiselled to engineer the fortress city of Ollantaytambo. An occasional dud stone lingered along the path, apparently unworthy of transporting farther and left where it lay for hundreds of years.
Ollantaytambo was once a hub for the Incas’ administrative, agricultural, religious and military activities. It seemed things had changed little in this town over the years. During our visit, farmers still tilled the fields using plows hauled by pairs of oxen. A father directed while his eldest son balanced on a wooden tee fastened to the cows’ harness. A younger son walked behind to gently steer the contraption. Ancient stone homes were spun around the town square like a spider’s web, yet definitively sturdier. These buildings were once home to ancient Incas and now housed present-day families. Plaster had filled time-worn defects, and new wooden doors updated the entrances. Some panels were freshly painted in a sky blue, while others peeled to reveal layers of faded blue paint curling down to darkened, washed-out wood.

You can find Dust In My Pack on Amazon, iBooks, Indigo, B&N and Smashwords.

Stories from Nancy O’Hare’s personal quest to explore our planet are now available to help you create your own travel experiences. For twenty years, she coupled her love of diverse cultures with a career in finance; she has been based in Nigeria, Oman, Switzerland, Australia and Canada—plus completed a couple of short stints in Qatar and Ecuador. Between work assignments, O’Hare and her husband have taken multiple around-the- world trips for months at a time, covering all seven continents. They gravitated towards hidden gems tucked away from the crowds and aimed to see the essence of a place.

Q1: Why did you give up a twenty-year career in finance to write about travel?

Although this might not sound like an obvious transition, I originally went into accounting because every company across every country needs accountants. My CPA enabled me to experience places not only as a visitor, but by living there. Australia, Oman, Switzerland and most recently, Nigeria became my home. My husband and I both love to explore different cultures. We have quit our jobs on a couple occasions and travelled for months at a time, including a year-long round-the- world trip covering all seven continents. I had never expected to move to Nigeria, yet my time there triggered a desire to push my boundaries and try something completely new.
I craved a change from my structured office role and writing offered a flexible alternative. Ideas fluttered around in my head, completely unrelated to my finance background. Other adventure travellers—or armchair readers—might also thirst to know unexpected places. They might feel intrigued by lesser-visited regions around our world. I wanted to switch up the traditional travel narrative into a useful structure. So, I grouped my ‘best of’ experiences into common themes, such as hiking, ancient sites and animal encounters. Each section combines travel advice and descriptive stories to bring a place alive. Free previews are available on most online bookstores, so you can see exactly what I mean.

Q2: What was the most difficult trek you have done?

Two treks stand out. My husband and I have done a lot of hiking and thought we could handle a little mud during the rainy season in northern Laos’ Nam Ha National Protected Area. Well, over three days, we became well acquainted with incessant leeches and steep, slippery trails that needed a machete to navigate. The worst aspect was our sleeping huts. They had been poorly maintained and become home to swarms of bees. The mosquito nets had been stolen and in the second night’s shelter, a massive hole had been torn from the roof. Our guide advised not to swat the insects or we could get stung. So, both evenings at camp were spent with critters literally crawling all over us. They left overnight but returned around 5:00 a.m., their buzz a gentle wake-up call.
The other trek was a nine-day hike in Uganda’s Rwenzori mountains. We climbed Africa’s third highest peak, Margherita. The upside with this trek is its absolutely stunning, otherworldly scenery. The downside, I was not in as good of shape as I should have been and conditions were difficult. It was not uncommon to spend a few hours hopping from tussock to tussock across boggy plateaus or hiking up muddy trails turned into gushing streams. Day after day of hiking through mud and sludge in a high-altitude environment distorted my enjoyment of this otherwise amazing journey.

Q3: What message do you hope readers take away from your stories?

People are basically the same wherever you go. They care for their family and are trying to make a better life for themselves. I have seen this over and over, yet often people tend to fear the unknown. I am frequently asked if I felt safe or if a place is dangerous. The reality is that most incidents that do occur are fairly localized. You need to be aware of your surroundings no matter where you are, in your hometown or across the world. I remember flying into Maputa a couple days after riots erupted over rising bread and fuel prices. I initially felt uneasy, yet the streets were calm. We did not go out after dark, but during the day locals gave us advice, people smiled and went about their business. On another occasion in Malaysia, a staff at a remote guesthouse doubled my husband and I on the back of his motorbike to a hospital for a malaria test. People help one another. My advice is to travel, away from the mass tourist sites and seek a more realistic perspective of what a region offers.

In 2017, Nancy O’Hare published her first book, Dust in My Pack, which captures the real stories behind her most memorable journeys and intriguing sites. You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Goodreads and her own website.

At seven fifteen, Sam parked his scruffy Audi in the pub car park. He sat for a moment, wondering about the next few days, then got out of the car and hefted his small bag from the boot. Striding into the beer garden, he made himself slow his pace as he headed for the little camping field, where the woman he had spent all of the last week, and most of the last year, thinking about would be waiting for him. His feet made no noise on the grass as he rounded the hedge. He saw the familiar campervan, with the black dog sitting inside the door, and then his eyes turned to the woman who sat at her ease on a comfortable chair with a glass of wine on the table at her elbow. She wore a simple white dress and her long brown legs were stretched out in front of her. He walked softly towards her and she turned and smiled.
“Hello Sam.”
“Hello yourself.”
She stood to greet him, and he bent his head to kiss her laughing mouth.
“You look gorgeous.”
“Smooth talker. You look pretty good yourself.”

Then for a moment there seemed to be nothing to say. Bonnie rescued them by jumping out of the camper and greeting Sam enthusiastically. The small interruption allowed the humans to collect themselves.
“Oh Sam,” Anna laughed helplessly. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“And maybe it was. We just have to give ourselves some time. And you do look gorgeous.”
“I tried. Somehow it didn’t seem right not to make an effort.”
“That’s nice. Makes me feel like you think I’m worth an effort.”
“That remains to be seen. For now, how about a glass of wine while the food heats up?”
“Please.”
Anna jumped into the camper and passed out a glass and a bottle.
“Sit. I’m just putting the lasagne in the oven.”
Sam poured himself a glass of wine, then sipped carefully as he sat in one of the two chairs.
“Hey. The wine is excellent, and I’ve always liked these chairs.”
Anna laughed and came out of the camper carrying a small tray. Sam jumped up and took it from her hands. She laughed again.
“Just something to keep us going while supper cooks.”
“Antipasto. How sophisticated.”
Anna sat beside him and reached for her own glass of wine. She nibbled an olive and smiled at Sam.
“Eat. Or I’ll snaffle the lot.”
He grinned, and they both reached for the olives. He grasped her hand and turning it palm up bit gently into the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. She felt a hitch in her breath, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I didn’t say eat me.”
“But you were right there, and I couldn’t resist a nibble.”
“Shut up and have an olive.”

After that, the conversation got easier and by the time their supper was ready they were almost as relaxed with each other as they had been on their previous dates.  They moved inside for the lasagne, and Anna put together a simple green salad to go with the pasta and the warm garlic bread. They sat opposite each other at the small table eating and talking. Sam cleaned his plate with the last of the garlic bread, then grinned wryly.
“It’s a good job you ate the garlic bread too, otherwise a snog would have been right out of the question.”
She leaned over the table and kissed him softly.
“You taste all right to me.”
Before she had the chance to move away Sam put a hand behind her head. He nibbled her lower lip before kissing her deeply.
“You taste more than all right. But I guess we should deal with the dishes before we start fooling around. I’ll wash.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I do. You cooked. And it was delicious.”

They cleared up, working side by side in complete amity. When the little galley was spick and span, Sam smiled at Anna.
“Does Bonnie need to go out now?”
“She’d like to.”
“Shall we then?”

They walked hand in hand down to the little stream. Bonnie had a noisy drink, then came and looked up at the two humans with a quizzical expression on her dark face. Sam stroked her ears before taking Anna by the shoulders and bending to her mouth. This time the kiss was hot and urgent and left Anna’s knees close to buckling. She wrapped her arms around him and clung on tight. He laughed delightedly. “Like that do you?”
“Mm, but my legs are going to collapse if you carry on doing it.”

He swooped her up into his arms and strode back to the open door of the camper. Bonnie frisked around them enjoying this new game. Sam put Anna down just outside the door, and kissed her thoroughly.
“You sure you want this?”
“Oh yeah.” She fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his head down for another kiss. Somehow, they made it inside, where things rapidly turned a bit frantic.

When the world reclaimed them, they lay entwined and Sam smiled down into Anna’s face.  
“Well, well, well. You are a pleasant surprise.”
“How so, kind sir?”
“A tiger under the snow. A body like a goddess. Simultaneous. I never had that before. You?”
“Umm. No. But I haven’t had a lot of lovers to compare.”
“Could one be rude enough to ask how many is not a lot?”
“One.”
Her voice was very small.
He hugged her tightly.
“Don’t sound ashamed. Choosy isn’t a failing.”
“Not so much choosy as nobody else wanted me.”
He was genuinely puzzled.
“Why would you even think something like that?”
For a moment Anna studied Sam’s tattooed chest. Saying nothing. Then she lifted her face and met his eyes.
“Because it’s true. You wouldn’t have noticed me a year ago. I’d stopped hiding when I met you.”
“Hiding?”
“Protective colouring. I was a plain, gawky teenager, and then there was a lot of shit at home to deal with, and in the end I had a job where anonymity was almost essential. So I developed strategies to prevent people noticing me. Ill-fitting clothes, unflattering hairstyle, never saying boo to a goose, never looking people in the eye. And so on.”
“So what changed?”
“Too much to explain. I realised that my life was a crock of shit. And I bought the camper so me and Bonnie could have some fun.”
Then she couldn’t talk any more and hid her face against his chest again. He stroked her hair, then she felt his fingers removing the comb that had by some miracle kept it in a knot at the nape of her neck. He combed the waves out gently before kissing her temple.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you embarrassed and sad. I really do have feelings for you. Apart from the best sex of my life, you are beautiful and funny, and I’m very lucky just to be here.”
“Don’t be sorry. I have to learn to talk about it.”
“Not if you don’t want to…”
“I do. But I think I can only manage it in bits.”
“Fair enough. I’m not pushing you.”

He rolled her over and ran those knowing fingers up and down her spine before massaging her shoulders and spanning her narrow waist with his hands. He found a thin, white scar just above her right hip.
“Is this one of the things it’s hard to talk about?”
“Yes. I was fourteen. My mother threw a knife at me. I lost a lot of blood and some internal bits and bobs.”
“Oh baby. I’m sorry. Why?”
“Dementia and alcohol abuse.”
“Shoot. You did have something to cope with. However, you came through it strong and lovely.”
“Thank you.”
She rolled onto her back and used a fingertip to trace the tattoo that wandered across his chest.
“Tell me some more about Smaug.”
“A little rebellion, but you know that. I knew I was going to be a responsible surgeon for the rest of my life, and I wanted something that was for Sam the rebel. It fucking hurt. And my wife hated him.”
“Oh? How odd. I think he’s sexy.”
“Do you now?”
“I do indeed.”
“You wanna demonstrate?”
“Maybe.”
She walked her fingers down the dragon’s back and followed its tail down.
“Careful woman,” he growled softly, “dragons can be dangerous.”
“I’ll take my chances. Just lay back and take it like a man.”
He rolled onto his back and put his hands above his head.
“Be gentle with me.”
“No chance.”

Jane Jago