You are old, and that should be a sorrow
You should husband the time you have borrowed
Yet you fritter each day
As you laughingly say
What’s the worry, it’s never tomorrow

© jane jago 2017

Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy!

The chopper settled like an ungainly bird and everyone held their breath. Then there was the most humongous explosion, followed by several smaller bangs. The boomer boys seemed to be counting.

“Three to go” one of them said, and two more explosions rent the air.

The silence stretched on, almost uncomfortably, before the last truly massive explosion uprooted several trees on the skyline.

“Clear to piss off,” the smallest boomer boy said with a happy grin. “That last bang was all the fancy cars, and the executive aeroplane. What a shame…”

The chopper left the ground again and set off hedge-hopping at a seemingly reckless speed.

“I do hope your pilot is good,” Sam said mildly.

“He is. He’s the best of the best, and he has no fancy towards spending any more of his life at Her Majesty’s pleasure. So we’re hurrying a bit. Any minute now we’ll be dropping like a stone; over the cliff edge. Then we’ll need to do about fifteen minutes right at sea level, before we turn around and radio Aberdeen for clearance to pass through en route for Glasgow. After that you can make your phone calls.”

“Thanks, mate,” Rod said.

“It’s fine. Your pal is a fucking good doctor. Andy’s shoulder is nearly as good as new, and even the boomer boy’s wrist isn’t hurting. Though he has puked in a bucket.”

“Give him some biscuits from your emergency food store and he’ll probably stop vomiting,” Sam recommended.

The boss grinned.

“Hokay. Somebody give that man a biscuit. Or three!”

There was relative quiet in the belly of the Sikorsky until the pilot’s voice came through their headphones.

“Just turning and contacting Aberdeen.”

“You can use your mobile phones now.”

Rod pulled an iPhone out of his breast pocket and made a call.

“Jim? We’ve got him. He’s OK. Been a bit mistreated, but Sam has seen to him. Now he’s asleep on my chest. When he wakes up. I’ll call you again and you can talk to him.”

He listened for a while then spoke in a hard, cold voice.

“We decided no survivors was a good number. Yeah. Speak soon.”

Sam looked at his friend for a moment, then shrugged. “You’d better call your friend Anna and give her an ETA. You could also ask her to get some clothes for the wee man, daytime stuff and some cozy jammies. He’ll feel better with a shower and a change of clothes, then we can get him into his pyjamas at bedtime. The more normal, the better. And tell her that soft, easy-to-eat food would be best for him this evening.”

“Will do. You ain’t just a pretty face. And the wee man would rest better in some comforting jammies. Plus, Anna will be crawling out of her skin. She loves the Cracksman kids like they were her own. She’ll really want to know when to expect us. I’ll call. Pilot. Do you have an ETA for Glasgow?”

“A couple hours.”

“Thanks.”

He called another number.

“Anna. We’ve got him. He’s okay. We will see you in a couple hours. Can you get him some jammies? And Sam says is a bowl of stew or casserole possible. The little man needs warm simple food. He’s had a rough time.”

He listened for a while, then smiled his nice smile.

“Will do. If you add me and Sam to your insurance we can share the driving. Yep. His name is Samuel Henderson. He’s thirty eight. Clean licence. Doctor. That do? See you…”

He ended the call and smiled at Sam.

“She’s happy. Cried.”

“She one of your girlfriends?”

“Nah. She’s the best friend of my sister-in-law. I’ve known her since I was fourteen when my bro met Pats. I like her a lot, but she don’t do it for me like that. She’s probably more your type. Too intelligent for me.”

Sam laughed.

“Once bitten…”

“Well she certainly ain’t anything like Christina. As I said. I like her. And now I want a piss. Can you cuddle the wee man while I piss in a bottle?”

Sam obliged, feeling the small hands and feet, pleased to note that both felt warm now. The heavy eyelashes fluttered and Sam found William looking up at him.

“Hello little man,” he said.

“Hello doctor Sam. I’m awake now. Do you think I could talk to my mummy?”

“Yes. As soon as Rod finishes piddling in that bottle.”

“Why’s he doing that?”

“Because he needs a wee, and there is no toilet in this chopper.”

The little boy giggled, and his uncle turned around and grinned at him.

“We’ll call your mum as soon as I finish here.”

Rod rearranged his clothing and took out his phone.

“Jim. Got a bloke here wants to talk to Patsy.”

He sat down and handed the phone to William.

“Mummy. It’s me. Yes I’m better now. Doctor Sam looked after me.”

He listened for a while.

“Do you know Doctor Sam? He’s nice. I like his smiley brown face. And he is very kind.”

Again he stopped and listened, before carrying on.

“He stopped me feeling sick. And he gave me his jumper because I was cold. It’s a very nice jumper, and it smells like Daddy.”

Sam found himself with a lump in his throat. He wondered how anyone could treat such a nice little chap so badly. Turning his head, he caught Rod’s eye, to find his friend blinking back tears.

“Yeah. It gets to you don’t it?”

“It does. He’s such a nice little chap.”

William had just finished his call, and smiled sunnily at him. “Am I nice?”

“You are. But cheeky.”

The little boy handed Rod his phone then snuggled up to Sam and looked about him.

“Did all these people come to rescue me?”

“They did,” Rod confirmed.

William ducked his head, then sat up and moved Sam’s headphones aside so he could whisper something. Sam grinned and nodded.

“Listen up everybody,” he said. “Bill here wants to say thank you for coming to his rescue, but he’s feeling a bit shy. I told you wouldn’t mind me saying it for him.”

“That’s fine,” jumpsuit boss said with a grin. “You are more than welcome. Any friend of Rod’s is a friend of ours. So that makes you and Doctor Sam part of the team. I’ll send you each a jumpsuit when we get back to HQ.”

William beamed.

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“I’m called William too. But mostly people call me Will.”

“Thank you Mister Will,” William said politely. “Now I’m feeling sleepy again.”

Rod took his nephew in his arms.

“You go sleep then. I’ve got you.”

As the boy drifted back into sleep, Rod bent and kissed his curly head.

“I can’t believe how evil some people can be,” he whispered.

“Me neither, but the little man is fine. If his parents agree, I’ll be keeping an eye on him for the next few months, just in case. Though I think we got to him in time on all fronts.”

Rod looked seriously at his friend.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What?”

“Bad intentions.” He gestured with his forefinger across his own throat.

“Yes. Sadly. I am. But it didn’t happen.”

“No. But it gives me a cold feeling in my stomach all the same.”

Jumpsuit Will put a hand on Rod’s shoulder.

“Me too mate.’

Jane Jago

You are old, and you are a disgrace
Should be modest and downcast of face
It is so deeply wrong
That you’re wearing a thong
And a peephole in black silk and lace

© jane jago 2017

This is the opening of the new Dai and Julia Mystery 'Dying for a Poppy' which is out today on Amazon and free to read on Kindle Unlimited.

September MDCCLXXVII
Britannia is sweltering under an unseasonable sun.

I

The column of slow and ugly army supply lorries, left Londinium early in the morning, heading north-west on the main road to Viriconium. It was carrying a recently appointed Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, his brand-new force of vigiles, their families and possessions and a vexillation of grim-faced praetorians.

Julia Lucia Maxilla wondered idly why they didn’t use hover vehicles. She mentioned this to her husband of just seven days – who happened to be the Submagistratus – and he laughed.

“Range my lovely, they would need to recharge and there aren’t any charging stations where we are going.”

“Right. Fine. It’s just that I haven’t seen a wheeled vehicle, leave alone been in one, since my brief time as a border guard on the eastern fringes of the Empire.”

Dai looked down into her face.

“By the sound of your voice that wasn’t the most pleasant of secondments.”

“It had its moments. But I met Edbert and found Canis and Lupo so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

She could see he was dying to ask more and felt a surge of affection towards him for the care he always took with her. In the end, though, it seemed he couldn’t resist just one question.
“What was an Inquisitor in the service of the Praetor doing on the Eastern Border?”

She turned in his arms and squinted up at his face. “I wasn’t an Inquisitor. I was a customs officer. Undercover. But those days are gone now. I’m a very proper Roman wife now.”

He laughed and put his hands around her waist. “Not too proper I hope…”

She made a rude noise and crossed her eyes at him. Bending his handsome head, he kissed her into submission.

She giggled, pointing to the man-mountain that was Edbert, her personal bodyguard, who was pretending to be asleep in the opposite corner of the passenger cabin. Dai smiled, then glanced down and his face creased with laughter.

“Will you look at them?”

Julia followed his gaze and saw identical expressions of aristocratic disgust on the faces of Canis and Lupo, her shaggy grey wolfhounds.

When she stopped laughing, she prodded Dai’s chest with a determined forefinger. “Instead of behaving in that extremely un-Roman fashion, why don’t you explain your family to me? Since we are going to be living just outside Viriconium and less than a spit from where they are, I’d like to know a bit more about them.”

“I wondered when you would ask.”

She was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry love. Should I have asked before?”

“No. I’m sort of glad you haven’t. Let’s me know you married me for myself not my prospects.”

“Oh. Do you have prospects?”

“Actually, no. But most people seem to think I have.”

“Me neither, so we’re quits there.”

 Dying for a Poppy is the latest of the The Dai and Julia Mysteries written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, ready and willing to continue our little seminars on the ticklish topic of creating perfect literature. For those poor uneducated few whose unheeding eyes my fame may have passed, I will begin with a trifling resume of my achievements. I am the sole author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and I am now devoting much of my time and effort to the production of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft for the less advantaged.

Lesson 8. The Write Blurb

Oh what an ugly word is blurb, how it cuts through the tenderness of one’s creativity with the hobnailed boots of its harsh ugliness. Oh how one wishes there was a pinker, tenderer, more luminescent word for the promotional literature one has, perforce, to provide alongside the fruits of one’s Muse. Oh words, words, how you torment me. How your twinkling syllables resonate inside my head like the tinkling bells on the ankles of the Muse. Oh words. But I am being sidetracked by ugliness.

The blurb is not only the ill-favoured child of literary composition, it is also that by which you seek to capture the imagination of those for whom your literary genius will become the lodestone of their lives. It is, if you would, the bait dangled in the water to catch a shark. It is, to carry my brilliant analogy to its most logical conclusion, the rotting carcase dragged behind the game fisherman’s boat broadcasting its siren song to the denizens of the deep. Get it right and you will hook a barracuda, get it wrong and your efforts will be rewarded with a white-bearded shrimp.

Your blurb must be as orchidaceously lovely as your main opus, it must sing from the same sheet of great and inspiring music, it must walk in perfect step with your narrative, it must call as the siren on the rocks, but it must never give away your plot.

I append herewith three examples of this type of writing, demonstrating the genre handled its worst and at its best:

The Bad:

A love story.

And what pray does that tell us other than this is the work of a lazy author lacking in the most elementary creativity?

The Better:

Permit Fatswhistle and Buchtooth to clasp your hand in theirs and accompany you on your journey as you laugh, cry, learn and celebrate in the company of two of the most engaging and life-affirming creations of modern mythology. A work of genius not to be missed.

The Best:

After years spent caring for her aging parent, beautiful and virginal, Clothilda is cast penniless on the charity of her cruel, chicken farmer, landlord. Can she win his love with her goodness and innocence, or will she lose everything at the hands of the bitch whore from hell who wants his money and his cock.

Read and learn and inwardly digest my darlings.

And remember. Promotional material is almost more important than that which it promotes.

Next time: Sex Sells. Writing a hot love scene.

A bientot.

Ecrit Bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

[After tragedy struck, Dan Bradfield has offered Sarah Fendhardt a room for the night]

Dan pushed the door open and led me through.

We were in a kitchen. I broke out of my numb state long enough to notice that it was big, but then I stopped noticing. I followed Dan up another level to a hallway with a number of doors. Dan went to the second door and opened it, then he gestured for me to go in ahead of him.

I paid a little more attention this time. The room was a fair size and had a four-poster bed in the middle. A couple of large, colorful paintings were on the walls, although in the dim light that came from the bedside lamp Dan had turned on, it was difficult to examine them. The light of the moon shone through the single window on the far wall.

I went over to the window to let some fresh air in. To my surprise, I could see no way to open it. “I can’t open the window?”

“No.” He opened another door in the room and flicked on a light switch. Through the door I could see a quaint bathroom, just for me. He put my bag down on the bed.

Then he walked over to the window, where I stood. “We have ducted air conditioning throughout the entire house. When we put it in they suggested double glazing the windows and sealing them to keep it cost effective.”

“Oh.” I suppose that was logical. I’d heard of people doing that.

Why then, did it feel as if he was lying to me?

I tried to shake the feeling of suspicion as he continued talking.

“An added advantage of this kind of system is that it’s burglar proof.” He rapped his knuckles on the window. “So you don’t need to be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here.”

How had he known that was what I was most worried about? I suppose, considering what had just happened, it wasn’t a huge surprise.

Unconsciously, I moved closer to his side. Standing in his shadow seemed the only safe place. I looked up at him again, but he dropped his eyes and headed for the door. “I should let you get some sleep. Try, anyway.”

Without realizing what I was doing, I followed him to the door. I didn’t want him to leave.

Perhaps he understood the pathetic look on my face, because he stopped at the doorway. “That’s my room there.” He pointed at the next room, further up the hallway from the stairs. “If you need anything, anything at all, and I don’t care what time it is, you knock on my door. Okay?”

I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes again as he stepped away from me. I had to fight the urge to beg him to stay. I knew I couldn’t keep him. It was well past two. He had to be exhausted

and he had already done so much.

I had to be brave. “Goodnight,” I said, and shut the door.

You can read more about Dan and Sarah in The Heir – Book One of the Verindon Trilogy.

Lynne Stringer has been passionate about writing all her life, beginning with short stories in her primary school days. She began writing professionally as a journalist and was the editor of a small newspaper (later magazine) for seven years, before turning her hand to screenplay writing and novels.

Lynne is the author of the Verindon trilogy, a young adult science fiction romance series released in 2013. Her latest novel, released in October 2016, is Once Confronted, a contemporary drama. Visit lynnestringer.com for more information. Or visit her Amazon Author page for more books or find her on Facebook.

This interview is with Dan Bradfield from Lynne Stringer’s novel The Heir (Verindon #1). Dan is a student at the prestigious Enterprise Academy in Connecticut and is from a wealthy family. At least, that’s what everybody at the school thinks, including Sarah Fenhardt, who’s secretly in love with him. Although sometimes she thinks there’s more to him than that …

Q1: What is the very best thing about being who you are and living where you live?
The best thing about who I am is the fact that I’ve been trained well and am confident in my abilities and myself. I know how to do my job, and yes, I do mean my job. I may be in high school at the moment, but it isn’t really me, if I can put it that way.
The best thing about where I live is that I know it’s definitely the safest house around, which is necessary, since we could encounter difficulties from … some people.

Q2: Do you have any really good friends or really bad enemies?
I don’t know if I’d consider the members of my squad my friends. I guess most people would think that but it’s different for people of our kind. As for Sarah, I can’t possibly consider her a friend, considering the differences between us. They are insurmountable.
When it comes to enemies, there are many of them. Most I have encountered are dead now but I imagine there will be more to take their place. It’s a by-product of this line of work.

Q3: If you could be anyone else in your world, who would you be and why?

High Commander Denzik. He seems to be grooming me to be his successor. While I admire him as a leader, he has some limitations, particularly around his treatment of females. I would like to change that should I have the honor of becoming High Commander. I believe females should be treated the same as their male counterparts and I don’t see why he insists on treating them differently.

You can read more about Dan and Sarah in The Heir – Book One of the Verindon Trilogy.

You can find Lynne Stringer on her Website, Twitter, Goodreads, YouTube and Pinterest.

10
So did you get that project done, the one miss said was due?
I’ve finished mine on time and started something new.
You coming to Merry’s party? You have to be there so
I can tell my parents and then they will let me go.

20
So how’s the job coming along and did you get that raise,
The one you wanted for so long? Yeah, Uni’s a real daze.
I met someone the other day, we went out for a drink.
Did you get off with what’s their name? That one you liked, I think.

30
So how’s the house hunt going now your second’s on the way?
I saw you out in Supermart just the other day.
I was with my partner, we’ll marry in July,
No, I think we might still rent, not sure I want to buy.

40
I hear you son’s done well at school, my daughter starts this year,
We had to move to get her in, the local one was drear!
Well, yes it cost a bit to move but well worth it I’m sure,
You heard that Merry lost that job? Must be feeling poor.

50
Mine never phone from college, I’m glad that yours still do.
Oh, the divorce? What can I say? These things happen too.
Life as a single-parent is not so bad as some
You know what being homeless made poor Merry become.

60
No, I’m never lonely, don’t mind the empty nest.
The way I think, it’s peace and quiet, get a good night’s rest.
You saw Merry on the news? It was such a shame,
I’m sure they got the details wrong and misplaced the blame.

70
The grand-children came by last night, they are such fun.
But I’m worn out when they’ve gone home, always on the run.
You have yours living with you now? That must be a bind,
So very tiring at your age, as I am sure you find.

80
I’m sorry for your loss and now we both are on our own,
The grandchildren are all grown up and moving out alone.
You know that you are getting old when your kids reach middle age.
Still, time to have a cup of tea and turn another page.

E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the second part of a two-part extract from Trust A Few. If you missed it, you can find the first part here.

“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 CentralCentral 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 Trust A Few - Part One of Fortune's Fools 'Haruspex' trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.