Nothing Left to Lose is the tenth book in the Lost Dogs series by Nils Ödlund and it rounds out the second major story. It’s the end of the series, but not the end of the story…

Alene sold a couple of t-shirts to a middle-aged man, and a book on anfylk baking to a woman not much older than herself. The cash machine worked the way she expected it, and all the items had neat little price tags on them.
No one asked her help to find anything, and no one seemed to recognise her. Someone asked if she’d heard about the fire, and she said wasn’t it terrible and she hoped no one got hurt, and that was that.
For a long time, she stood and stared at the cash box. It held enough money to see her with food and tickets for a week, just there for the taking.
The curse didn’t scare her. She’d never fall in love again. The affliction had seen to that. The beast, and her five-year old self hiding in the dark tunnels. She hadn’t thought about her since yesterday, but now, between customers, and with the music on the speaker sounding like a summer breeze in the mountains, the dream from the other night came back to her.
The dream, and the memories, and she’d better find something to do before the past crushed every single spark of joy she’d ever felt..
A pile of t-shirts that needed folding.
Books that needed putting on shelves.
Surfaces that needed dusting, and a floor that could do with a bit of sweeping. Once she got started, there was no shortage of tasks that perhaps didn’t need doing, but that could do with being done.
The beast kept quiet, Alene lined up a group of toy soldiers advancing on a stuffed rabbit, and the music drifted off to birds and forest sounds.
A little old lady showed up, kept calling her Sallay, and asked if she’d lost weight because there was something different about her that she couldn’t put a finger about, and did she have a suggestion for a birthday present for a four-year old?
Alene didn’t have the heart to tell the woman she wasn’t Sallay, but helped her find a wooden locomotive, put it in a box and wrapped it in sparkly paper. Forgot to check the price and convinced the old lady she’d already paid rather than open up the present and see what the tag said. Little Corinne probably wouldn’t care anyway.

A Bite of… Nils Ödlund  

If you knew nobody would ever read a word you wrote, would you continue writing?

No. I don’t think I would. The whole point of writing something down is so that it can be read. The stories in my head don’t demand to be told. If I knew no one would read what I wrote, I’d just keep the stories to myself. Easier that way, and I can change things up on the fly as I want to, without having to worry about words and text.

As a writer, what is your ambition?

I want to provide an enjoyable escapist reading experience. Sometimes, the real world can get a bit much, and I want to help provide a way to escape from that, even if just for a little while. I want to create a world that readers feel like they can step into, and characters that stay with them even after they stop reading. I want to create stories that mean something.

What is your favourite tipple?

I’m quite partial to Jameson lately.

Nils Ödlund is originally Swedish, but lives these days in Cork, Ireland. He’s an avid reader, gamer, and fan of geek-culture. He picked up writing as a hobby, almost by accident, back in 2010, and it quickly grew into something of an obsession. In 2017 he decided to get serious about it, and in early 2018, he published his debut novella Emma’s Story. Since then, he’s been working on the Lost Dogs series.
When not writing, he enjoys hiking through the Irish countryside, reading, or playing games.
Unlike every other author in the history of all authors ever, Ödlund does not have a cat.
You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and his own website.

She seemed to us to be barely more than a child as she leaned hip-shot against the perimeter fence in the sickly light of a dying lamp. We didn’t think she’d be making eating money that night. But then he came. He was tall, big, and warmly wrapped against the cold.
His hand found the girl child’s throat and he dragged her into the darkness. There was one agonised scream.
The girl sauntered out into the fitful light and the red eyes of a golem looked up at us.
“That’s one-nil to justice, should you be keeping score.”

©️jj 2021

Art by Ian Bristow.

The adventures of Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson.

Hustle it was as the little cross-country train was already tooting its whistle. Homes, who had the speed of an athlete when he chose to exert himself, shot over the bridge with Bearson and Yore puffing in his wake.
“You would think,” Yore grumbled, “that a serving officer of the law would be able to outpace a normally sedentary pig.”
Bearson didn’t bother to answer – being not built for physical exercise he had no breath left for debating police donkeys.
On the platform the train awaited, and if it were possible for a contrivance of wood and steel to appear impatient one would have said that the little train seemed to be waiting for them with barely concealed annoyance.
Homes had a carriage door open and the two confederates all but fell into the train.
“I say, you two,” Homes was in self-congratulatory mood. “I thought we were supposed to be hustling. It’s a good job one of us isn’t too fat to run.”
He barely evaded the heavy clout Bearson aimed at his porcine snout.
“If you are going to be like that I’m sorry I held the train for you.”
Bearson, who was feeling thoroughly disgruntled, glowered. “Well I don’t suppose you would have bothered of it wasn’t for the fact I have your ticket in my pocket.”
Homes chortled. “Good deduction old chum. But never you fret, I have your interests at heart.” He showed his sharp, yellow teeth in a gin before carrying on. “Yonder is an emporium where one may purchase a cream tea, or, should one be about to embark, a hamper containing scones, country butter, strawberry jam, and clotted cream.”
Bearson’s mouth watered.
“It’s an awful shame we hadn’t enough time to obtain such a thing.”
Yore sat up.
“I could make them hold the train,” he said determinedly.
“No need, old chap.” Homes was expansive. “If I’m not very much mistaken here comes our hamper.”
Indeed, two stout gentlemen in stripy aprons were cantering along the platform, bearing between them a large and obviously heavy wicker hamper.”
“Cream tea for Piglock Homes,” the fattest of the two cried in stentorian tones.
Homes threw the carriage door wide and hung out at a precarious angle.
“Over here,” he cried and the hamper was brought to the door.
After pushing it through the aperture the men held out their large, red hands. Homes put a shilling in each and the men saluted politely.
The guard came along and slammed the door and the train pulled busily out of the station.
Bearson and Yore picked up the hamper and followed Homes’ scuttling little figure. They found an empty compartment and Bearson opened the hamper.
He groaned. “Look at this.”
Yore elbowed him aside and stared at the Lucillan repast.
“I suppose,” he said in an awed voice, “this means we have to forgive Homes for being such an annoying little piggy.”
Bearson didn’t deign to reply, being too busy slathering a sultana scone with strawberry jam and thick yellow cream.
He passed it to Homes, who had settled in one corner of the carriage. Homes sunk his teeth into the sweet treat.
Yore, who had sunk into his Ulster like a grey phantasm of depression, blinked slowly. “I have a premonition of disaster,” he enunciated.
Bearson made a rude noise with his lips and passed the inspector a scone oozing cream.
“Stop premonitionising,” he advised, “it’s injurious to the digestion.”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

April wears a bright green dress
Embroidered oe’r with flowers
She never fails to impress
With sunshine and with showers.

And although sunny days do come
Within her weeks’ purview
The cold and blustery showery ones
Are often with her too.

But April carries all the hope
And all the dreams of spring
And as the days through April lope
The thoughts of summer bring.

Then when April passes by
You’ll hear the old folk say
The April rains that made us sigh
Will bring a blooming May.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“So, run this past me again, Drew – you want me to join a unit that does not exist to help babysit a group of the Vanguard’s freaks and failures? I am sure you have held back the bad news until last.”
Drew felt himself wince at the cutting tone. Prudence Armitage was not one to mince her words – it was more usual for her words to mince those she spoke with.
“Purdie, Purdie…”
“Don’t you ‘Purdie’ me, Andrew Gilroy! I have just got back from a reconnaissance mission and my mood is foul.”
He loved the way her slightly upper-class accent lingered over the last word, making it sound almost onomatopoeic. But then he adored almost everything about her and had as long as he knew her. Seeing her sitting in her mahogany and glass office, her back straight and her head slightly tilted up so the chisel sharpness of her profile was accentuated, he was irresistibly reminded of their first meeting in Rome. Then she had coal-black hair framing those amazing grey-blue eyes and a gloriously athletic body. She still had the body, but now her choppily short hair was steel, as if it had finally come to match every other aspect of her. For maybe the thousandth time he wondered why he had never asked her to marry him. Now it was twenty years and a hundred encounters too late.
Sighing slightly, Drew turned away from the piercing iron gaze which made him begin to feel uncomfortable like being under the twin barrels of a shotgun. He picked up something, anything, from her desk and looked at it without seeing.
“Silver medal. European Junior Gymnastics Championships. I was 13 years old and trying not to be seen as an overachiever. Even at Roedean that could lose you street cred. Coming second was my social salvation.”
He put the framed medal down quickly and pulled his attention back to the matter in hand. With Prudence, honesty and straight delivery were always the best policy.
“The thing is Purdie, we really are in a bit of a jam. The whole notion of apprentices and preparation for initiation, filtering out the unsuitable as we go is being made redundant by the present crisis. There has been nothing like it in centuries. Sanctorum was not designed to be a – mainstream operation unit. It was set up to be what its name suggests – an asylum for those we couldn’t risk in the open.”
“More like a semi-secure unit for the crazies who can’t adjust to being able to see demons.”
“That is an exaggeration. It has just managed those with adjustment issues. But the numbers recently…” he broke off. Then working to keep the slight trace of his near desperation from his voice, said: “It is getting very bad. You will have heard they opened a new training facility on the Perthshire Estate – already there is talk of a third being needed. And Sanctorum…”
“Sanctorum is being overrun by maladjusted post-millennials who think they are at Hogwarts?”
“Not quite.”
“But close enough?”
Drew just looked at her. He knew she was being deliberately difficult, but as always he had no idea why. The neat grey outfit gave away nothing of her personality. She wore it like armour. 
Sometimes he wondered how she felt when most of her peers – those she had been in training with and who had become her friends – and others much younger than herself, were now in the upper echelons of the Vanguard’s ranks and she was still a lowly commander. It was not that Purdie had ever lacked ability, but as Gita Sharma had read out of from Purdie’s psychological profile at the selection board for this post, she was not suited to take on the responsibility of an independent command. She was, Gita had observed, simply the best lieutenant – fiercely loyal, well able to give orders and run field-missions, so long as the ultimate authority was not herself. 
If Purdie was consciously aware of that aspect of her nature and the degree to which it defined her prospects, he had no idea. But she had never shown any sign of resentment even at the promotions of others who had once served under her – or any particular desire to seek a place higher than the one she had held now. Secretly, he suspected she had no wish to leave active service and trade her weapons for a desk and computer terminal.
“Really Drew, you know I have all the maternal instincts of a seahorse. Is a baby-sitting job the best use of my abilities? We are being overrun – what happened in Penrith is just the tip of a very ugly iceberg. We need every capable initiate in the field twenty-four seven. It is not the time for me to be sitting on my bum in a glorified…”
“Sanctorum is a fully operational unit within the Vanguard.” Drew spoke more sharply than he had intended “It has had the highest proportion of mission losses of any active unit in the Vanguard over the last year. They get sent in where anyone more…”
“You mean they are seen as disposable cannon-fodder? Or is their commander a useless wanker?”
“No. I mean it has stood where others would have run. Its CO is a highly competent woman, Janice Roslaird. She has been doing an incredible job with people that no one else can handle. Sanctorum is…”
Purdie lifted a hand to silence him.
“It’s alright Drew, you don’t need to give me the full heart-wringing oration – I have already heard the sound-byte.”
Gods, the woman could be so damn cold! Drew felt his anger rising, then saw the slightly mocking look in Purdie’s expression and bit back his intended retort.
“It’s an assignment, not a volunteer position,” he heard himself say tightly. “I didn’t come here to persuade you – only to inform you. A courtesy between old friends.”
She looked away then, for once perhaps shamed. He could only hope.
“Who put me up for this?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.
“It’s not like we have many options. Roslaird needs a rottweiler – but she gets you instead.”
“She asked for support?”
“Of course not. She may even resent you – I am sure you would love that.”
Purdie shook her head briefly, but whether in denial or resignation, he could not tell. Then she got up and moved around the desk to stand with him. For the first time he noticed the gouges on her neck and the patch of naked scalp where a row of stitches ran into her hair. Close up he could see etched into her face the marks of exhaustion together with contained physical pain and…
“We lost Nish in the Penrith thing,” she said, as though reporting the loss of a cricket match rather than of her most trusted Sergeant for the last five years. Possibly, rumour had it, something more. “He was torn apart by demons – literally. Bits and pieces. Nothing left.”
Andrew swallowed, unsure now.
I’m s-sorry. I was not informed.”
“It’s alright, you are in good company. His twin sister can never be told and his parents will have no body to bury and be left to wonder forever why he didn’t come home.” She sounded almost offhand, but the storm-sky eyes were unfocused. “Still, you know what they say – the war must go on.”
“Purdie, I…” 
She moved her body slightly in easy evasion so his comforting hand reached only into air and he withdrew it quickly.
“So. Who? Who do I have to blame for this? Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you that. You know I can’t.”
“Karl? Christa? Josh?”
Drew shook his head. His silence determined and final. Purdie closed her eyes in resignation, head slightly bowed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow – unless you need medical attention? No? You are sure? Then you’ll get the orders tomorrow to report to Karl at HQ. He’s to brief you formally, after which you will be removed from our active files and transferred to Sanctorum.”
She nodded once, then managed to recapture a brief waspishness which Drew felt was almost entirely for his benefit.
“Does it have to be Karl? He is such an adolescent with attitude, and his cynicism…”
“…matches yours?”
It was always hard to know with Purdie, but it was just possible that the warmth in the smile she gave him then was more than just acknowledgement of his attempt at humour. Whilst he was still trying to decide if that was so, she reached over the desk and swept her grey jacket from the back of her chair.
“Take me for a drink, Drew, and I might even forgive you.”
Following her from the office, he wondered if Karl and Gita really knew what they were doing in pushing for Purdie to be given this assignment and wondered again if he had been wise to let himself be persuaded into supporting the notion…

E.M. Swift-Hook

I gave him the glad eye years ago
He clearly remembers the occasion
When he chased me beneath the mistletoe
And I had no thought of evasion
And all through the years as they tumble by
And we tumble into the hay
He reminds me it’s all the fault of my eye
As it noticed him gladly that day

©jj 2021

The Working Title crew bring you the opportunity to enjoy wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries.
The mythical ram is surprisingly fond of roast lamb with all the accompaniments. If you want to start a fight with an Aries suggest that redcurrant jelly is a more proper condiment than mint sauce

Taurus.
Taureans are not, by nature, attracted to gourmet dishes. They are prone to consider food as fuel rather than pleasure. Generally speaking Taurus cooks consider any food that takes longer to prepare than eat a waste of time

Gemini.
For a sign represented by twins Gemini people have remarkably restrained appetites. They can, however, always be tempted by chocolate – particularly in the shape of a certain biscuit and caramel bar, which comes conveniently two to a packet

Cancer.
Cancerians tend to look sideways at any food they consider to be ‘messed about’ – by which they mean anything that isn’t served with chips and peas. Fish in batter is a favourite although they are willing to allow a sausage with the proviso it contains neither herbs nor garlic

Leo.
Leo’s appetites are as large and genial as those of the sign’s spirit animal. Shepherds pie, beef stew, and anything on which you might sensibly pour custard are all greeted with roars of delight

Virgo.
Sushi, sashimi, raw vegetables and hummus. For some inexplicable reason the zodiac’s virgins like their food raw. It has been postulated that they equate cooking food with the removal of its virtue

Libra.
Baked goods of a complex nature appeal to this sign’s affinity with measuring devices. If you would ensnare a Libra with your culinary skills one would humbly suggest the croquembouche

Scorpio.
Just shove an unfeasibly large amount of booze in whatever you propose to feed a Scorpion. Boeuf bourguignon. Champagne sorbet. Chicken in cider. Get the buggers drunk and they will sing your praises forever.

Sagittarius.
The archer sees himself as a gourmet of endlessly refined tastes. Sadly, though, this illusion masks an insane desire for the pub grub incarnation of lasagne – complete with chips (fries if you are a colonial)

Capricorn.
This sign is characterised by the inability to sit still for more than five minutes. Ideally, then, hand held food of simple pedigree. Give the goat a pasty and he will be your slave forever.

Aquarius.
The house of responsibility. Requires to read the food map before eating anything. Ideal meal is locally sourced and heavily vegetable based. Borsch and spelt bread is an ideal. But do stand back when an Aquarian belched

Pisces.
It is perhaps surprising that Pisceans love to eat fish. It seems to resonate with some masochistic inner swimming thing. Salmon en croute is the absolute apogee of their imagination.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Caldwell was the newest gnome in the Garden, and he wasn’t making himself popular with his constant questioning. Today it was Ernie’s turn, but even that worthy’s monumental patience was wearing thin.
“You casts your hook into the pond. And you sits.”
“Wassa point of that?”
“If you sticks around you might even find out.”
Caldwell sat on the mossy bank moodily throwing twigs into the water. He was completely unprepared for the arrival of Big Bertha with a wheelbarrow.
“Oh good. You’re doing nothing. There’s manure to be shifted.”
Caldwell quickly learned the benefits of fishing as a hobby.

©️jj 2021

That day of all days when making bloody silly jokes is all right.
Only it isn’t. It isn’t funny to send your sister a photoshopped image of her boyfriend in bed with a blonde. It isn’t funny to put an announcement of your mother’s death in the local paper. It isn’t funny to  befriend somebody online only to make them the but of your annual ‘humour’ fest.
Just stop it.
It’s not funny. You’re not funny. Leave humour to those who don’t equate being funny with making people cry. Stop being an asshat for ten minutes and consider how you would enjoy being the but of one of your own ‘jokes’.
For those of you who find themselves on the receiving end of one of these gems of sparkling ‘wit’ I have the following advice.
If the perpetrator is an online acquaintance, by all means retweet or reblog the offensive item adding one or more of the following hashtags:

#sentbytheguywiththegherkindick
#sentbyadiscardedlover
#sentbythebitchwhohasnofriends
#thanksasshole

I think you get the idea.
However, should the ‘joker’ be known to you outside cyberspace, vengeance is perfectly acceptable. Consider one of the following:

Itching powder in the underwear.
Chilli in the wine
Pepper in the chocolates
And the classic – A kipper wired to the exhaust pipe of their car

Soooooo. To recap. Don’t do personal April Fools jokes. They are seldom kindly and never funny. 
But.
If you do. Expect vengeance…

Have fun until the next thing pisses me off.
Granny

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

You are old and the fast passing years
Should fill you with sorrow and fears
It shouldn’t be you
With a camera crew
And a blog about sex and craft beers

© jane jago