A sign hung down, still half attached to the top of the pay-booth, its broken back clapping against the heavy door set in the side of the small brick cabin. The words were barely visible:

…COME TO ….HELL…

Somewhere an owl shrieked and, despite herself, Jess drew a sharp breath. She took a step towards the broken, flapping sign and played the torch beam over it from end to end:

WELCOME TO SHELLEY’S FUNPARK

The owl screeched again and Jess smiled. You had to love it when the atmospherics played up to the occasion. It would only take a sea mist rolling in to turn this place into something out of an old-school Hammer Horror production. The really chilling thing was not any kind of supernatural danger here, it was the realisation that this was indeed an abandoned and empty place, with no one around who might have a phone she could use to call the roadside recovery and this place was a very long walk from anywhere. Only a year ago that would have meant very little. She might even have enjoyed the bracing breeze and the countryside at night. But not now. Now she would not make it more than a mile before she was crippled with pain.
The laughter carried on the night air, coming from behind the low roofed building immediately in front of her. At a guess it had once been some kind of cafe, but now it was heavily boarded up, metal shutters pulled over the windows, like a creature retreated into its shell.
Shelley’s Funpark? Why did that sound so familiar? Jess would have given it some more thought but the laughter came again, masculine, plural and loud. It was not from someone with any thought of trying to avoid attention. Still gripping the magnalight, its beam dimmed, Jessica made her way past the cafe-building and into the open area beyond.
The shadowy figures moving vaguely on the far side, close by the enclosing wall, sprang suddenly into stark relief and were revealed, as as an orange glow flared behind them. Jess froze, hearing drunken cheers as the fire took hold and watched as, like the ritual of some strange coven of witches, the group of youths all started throwing things into the flames.
She sensed this was indeed a ritual, though not one of any religious kind. Things were passing hand to hand, bottles of water and white cider. It was a scene she had witnessed a few too many times in her career. In her previous career, she mentally corrected and felt the small inner lurch of loss that always left in its wake.
Then someone moved right behind her and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders.
“Hey bros, look what I just found.”
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. 
No. It doesn’t. 
It really doesn’t.
Not when it breaks you inside.
That was all Jess could think, standing, paralysed by her past. There was not even a conscious sense of fear, though she could feel her heart rate slam up and the floor drop away. It was as if her conscious mind had shot out of her body and hung suspended, mid-air, above it. There was nothing she could do. It was going to happen again.
The yelp seemed to come from a great distance away not from right behind, but the moment the grip was gone from her shoulders, it was as if she were restored. Restored to a body in panic. She would have run blindly, but there was a gentle touch on her arm and a girl’s face, looking at her. They ran together.
Jess had no idea where they were going, past half demolished buildings, and broken metal structures that reared like scaffold dinosaurs, against the moon-lit sky. The ‘bros’ were either more worried about what had happened to their companion or already too out of it to be able to give chase, because after a few shouts and some sounds of running feet, the night closed behind the two of them into quiet.
They went past the barrier with an old height restriction sign on it and cartoon-like pictures of stick men standing up in cars on a roller coaster, or leaning out, circled in red with a bar through the image.Then they were clambering over a heap of twisted metal beyond. It was not a hard scramble the way her guide was going, or a long one, which was as well because the shooting pains had started up in her legs as they reached what looked a bit like a metal box, buried in the middle of the debris. 
The girl touched her hand again, then opened the door making some kind of sounds, as if reassuring an animal. Then a small glow of light came from inside and Jess went in. 
She was not really sure what she had expected. But not this. It was almost obsessively neat and very clean. For a moment, Jess was thinking of paisley furniture and over-polished wooden floors, then chastised herself for assuming that the homeless could not also be house proud. For that was clearly what this was, a homeless person’s private shelter. There was a counter top along two sides and a closed fire on the third wall opposite a comfortable bed. It was more of a sleeping platform really, covered in an odd variety of multicoloured fleece picnic blankets. Two very large cats were curled in the middle and watched her with wary feline eyes.
Jess took it in then looked at her rescuer. The girl looked to be in her mid-teens, a runaway maybe. That realisation pushed Jess out of her bubble of self-concern and she mustered a smile.
“Thank you, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there,” she said. The girl said nothing, just glancing briefly to the cats and then back to Jess. So she tried again:
“My name is Jessica Monday, what’s yours?”
The girl kept looking at her, but the silence went on.

From ‘Maybe’ by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

There’s magic in the water,
Just look you’ll see it’s there
It glistens like a sapphire
and gleams with a blue flare.

There’s magic in the water
As the stars begin to shine
Sprinkling stardust shimmers
Upon the ocean’s brine.

There’s magic in the water
You ought to come and see
As transformation ‘neath the moon
Casts magic on the sea.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Sensationalised ‘documentaries’

‘Taking the lid off’ stuff we mostly couldn’t give a toss about anyway.

Every couple of months a dubious news item spawns a shitload of opinion/bullshit/dodgy recollection/psychic predictions/WHY branded as fact. And an absolute avalanche of supposedly revealing documentaries.

Don’t know what I’m batting on about?
Consider this….
The butler telling all.
Some woman who made a wedding dress pontificating on the bride’s state of mind.
A ‘love rat’ exposing the goings on in failing marriage.
Some body language expert deducing from a photograph that X is unfaithful to his wife.

I think you may be getting my drift by now.

This stuff is formulaic in the extreme. Choose a celebrity – or better still a family with some notoriety – and forensically examine the person or persons you have selected as much to their detriment/canonisation as possible. Season the pot with copious amounts of ‘expert opinion’, statements from as many ‘friends’, ex-servants, and people who once saw them in Walmart, as possible, and, if it still feels bland, add a few carefully calculated half truths.

Market it ruthlessly and with little or no regard for the feelings/reputation/mental health of the victims, and you have a licence to print money.

And whose fault is it? The fault of every bored person who watches it, every airhead who quotes it, and everyone who comments on social media. Me? I can’t see why the ever-f*g heck anybody dignifies this sort of bottom wax by watching it or talking about it.
Bloody well stop it.
And that includes me.

So I shall hie me to a strip club and feast my eyes on swinging buttocks – which are far less offensive than shite telly…

It doesn’t matter what you think – this is Granny’s opinion and it’s not up for discussion!

After the biggers had gone indoors Numpty Nome crept out onto the grass and pulled a small pile of papers into his favourite hidey hole. He smoothed them tenderly and smiled at the pretty pictures.
Brenda laid a huge but gentle hand on his head.
“What you got, Numpt?”
“Pretties, Mrs Brenda.”
She bent her head and found herself looking at pictures of caravans in all sorts of fantastical situations.
“Oh, caravans.”
“With horses?” That was Wee Willie.
“Nay lad. This sort needs bloody great Chelsea Tractors to pull them.”
“Wassa Chelsea Tractor?”
Brenda laughed. “You’ll see one soon enough.”

©️jj 2021

I went to my Mate’s side, relieved to see his red eyes open. He essayed a smile.
‘Well done, Aaspa my love.’
I put my hand on his face for one second, then I examined him carefully. I was relieved to find that there were no broken bones, and his life force was still strong. But hungry. He needed to Feed. Quickly. I am not fertile, so my breasts do not produce Sustenance. That left only my own life force. I ripped open my clothing and offered him my breast.
‘Feed’ I said.
‘No. I won’t Feed on your essence.’
‘It’s our only chance. I’m too weak to carry you home. If you Feed you can carry me.’
‘And you trust me to stop in time?’
‘You are my Mate. I trust you with my life.’
‘Literally’ he whispered, then swallowed, and bit. The pain was excruciating but I made no sound. I just put my hands around his head and cradled my love as he drained me. How long he fed, I don’t know, but just as my consciousness was slipping away, he raised his head. For a moment I felt bereft, then he picked me up in arms grown strong again and I heard the snap of his wings. I rested my head on his chest and allowed the blackness to fall.

I awoke in the comfort of our own nest with my head pillowed on my Mate’s chest.
‘She awakes’ a soft voice said.
I turned my eyes to see a plain-faced and small-boned young Mother seated neatly beside me. She smiled, and an imp peeped cheekily from beneath her vestigial wings. ‘Do you need more Sustenance, lady?’
I sat up and found myself surprisingly well. I had been tended while I slept.
‘No. I think not. But you have my thanks. Blessings be on you and on your little one.’
She coloured with pleasure and dipped her head shyly. ‘I will leave you then.’

From Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then you’ve long passed your prime
You’re not going to have a good time
It just isn’t right
That you spent last night
Doing something that should be a crime!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Less than an hour later Dai and Bryn were drinking in a downmarket dive across town from the Titus insulae. The Dog and Onion was a taberna in what constituted the ‘bad’ side of Viriconium. It shared a street with several nightclubs and most of the local residents could be assumed to be the kind who were not going to be earning their living by methods that were ethical even if they were occasionally legal.
Heads turned to see who had come in and one or two people quietly stood up and began making their way out. Dai was pleased to see that Bryn was getting well known in this community. His own status was probably too far beyond the horizon of these individuals’ social vision for them to know who he was by sight. Besides, as always when he was out doing groundwork, Dai had dressed down.
They took a seat by the main door and Bryn nodded to the woman who was serving behind the bar.
“She’s half of what counts for organised crime in this city. Aoife Broanan. She and her daughters.”
Aoife had the hard eyed smile that Dai knew all too well from his years fighting crime in Londinium. She must have seen them arrive because once she had finished with the customer she was serving she came over and sat at their table. She glanced at Dai in brief assessing appreciation of his good looks, then fixed her attention on Bryn.
“Nice to see you SI Cartivel, what you doing here ruining my trade today?”
“Looking for someone, Aoife,” Bryn told her and showed her the three faces on his wristphone.
She pursed her lips and scowled. “Never seen them before. Sorry, can’t help you. But drinks on the house for all vigiles as usual.”
A moment later she was stalking back to the bar with a grace that seemed to belie her bulk.
“That went well,” Dai observed.
Bryn beamed back at him. “Better than I hoped.”
“I suppose it is good to have low expectations, then you are never disappointed. Shall we go?”
“What? And miss a free drink? We vigiles have a reputation to keep up Bard. Start turning down free drinks and next it’ll be no free sandwiches at lunchtime.”
Dai wondered what he was missing, but years of working with Bryn as his right hand had taught him to trust that there was something more here than he could see. So he sat back in his chair and smiled.
“You make a very good point. I hope the wine they have here is worth drinking.”
“The brandy is better. Local stuff.” Bryn’s eyes held high humour, but his face was straight. And Dai had to admit there was more than a touch of irony to think that this den of thieves was selling brandy produced by his own brother.
The drinks arrived, two shots of brandy in deep bellied glasses, brought over by Aoife in person and she set the tray down with a brief smile at Dai.
Not seen you in here before, but if you come by again on your own sometime know you can have a warm welcome.”
“Now, Aoife, don’t go corrupting more of my vigiles,” Bryn chastised her. The woman turned her smile to embrace them both then winked and went back over to the bar.  The brandy was indeed recognisable as Llewellyn produce, albeit one of the cheaper distillations. Bryn drank his in a couple of quick swigs and got to his feet.
“We’ve not got all day, you know, need to at least look like we’re making an effort to find these people. The Submagistratus is not going to be a happy man if word gets to him we’ve been lazing around in here.”
Dai downed the rest of his drink in one and followed Bryn out of the taberna and back onto the streets of Viriconium.
“So what was that all about?” Dai asked as they were getting into their all-wheeler. Bryn grinned at him and reached into a pocket to pull out a beermat decorated on one side with a local brewery’s logo and flipped it round so Dai could see the other side where the printed image had been pulled back to reveal a neat hand-blocked address.
“I think your baby blues touched our Aoife’s heart, Bard.” Then he ducked to avoid Dai’s fist.

From The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

The biggers got fish and chips, and sat in the garden with food and beer. A couple of gnomes liberated some chips, and quite a nasty fist fight broke out in the shrubbery when Hamish tried to claim a share of the booty.

Brenda restored order with her hobnailed boots, but the truce was looking shaky at best when oldest son rolled up his chip paper and lobbed it into the bushes. 

Hamish got trampled in the rush, but Brenda kindly saved him a lump of crispy batter.

“If I wasnae a married gnome.”

She clipped him round the head…

©️jj 2021

Caer made a gesture of dismissal to the Zoukai and slid from his mount. He ignored the undisguised envious glances he got from the men as they drifted off to whatever duties or pleasures awaited them in the camp. They could not know that every meeting he had with the Caravansi was more of an ordeal than a delight. Steeling himself inwardly, Caer crossed over to the pavilion and went inside. As the flap fell closed behind him, he felt as if he had entered a different world.
It was not as rich as many pavilions Caer had seen during his years on the road, but everything within it was exquisite and of the finest taste, culled from the choicest wares of every market on the Western continent and even some from beyond. Soft fleeces and felt rugs had been laid over the ground, some embroidered with intricate and exotic designs. Woven hangings looped from the canvas roof, filtering the thin sunlight to a jewel-rich glow. Suspended from the ridge poles were two delicately carved incense burners, which perfumed the air with the sultry sweetness of precious quindria resin.
Then he saw her and his breath caught in his throat. She was reclining upon a couch of furs, her long limbs at ease and a glimpse of their smooth skin visible where the fabric of her expensive robe was arranged to allow it. A young girl was serving her with wine and once she had taken a goblet for herself, she sent the girl to serve one to Caer as he rose from his kneeling bow.
“Sit,” she told him, gesturing to the place at her feet. “We have something important to discuss, Captain.”
“Your will, Honoured One.”
Caer settled himself uneasily on the rugs before the couch. The wine he declined. It was difficult enough for him to concentrate on business simply from being under the influence of the intoxicating beauty of the woman who employed him. This close to her, his usual confidence seemed to fail and left him suddenly uncertain of what he should do or say. He tried to tell himself this was because he had been in her employ for just nine days and during that time had not spoken with her beyond the most basic formalities needed to organise the caravan. But somehow he suspected he would still feel the same way after ninety days or nine hundred.
It did not help that as Alexa sipped at her wine, she was watching him with an intensity of focus that left Caer with the uneasy impression she could read his thoughts.

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then you listen to me
There are many things that you must be
Kind natured and sweet
Liking tea as a treat
Not rampant and bold and sexy!

E.M. Swift-Hook