Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake.

(1) This is not your first rodeo with NaNoWriMo, why do you do it?

I have absolutely no idea lol. I think it’s the challenge of trying to write 50,000 words in a month and the fact that so many other writers get involved. You really feel part of a community – you can commiserate with others, spur each other on, take part in writing sprints plus you get bragging rights if you make it.

(2) What is the best part of doing NaNoWriMo?

The best part is having that daily focus to get your butt in that chair and get writing. I find that I usually write around 700 words per session so I know I have to sit down twice in one day. That kinda works for me as I have so much other stuff going on. But obviously, there are days when that doesn’t happen so then I know I have to try and find extra writing time. It’s like a huge push to get the words written. 

(3) What is the hardest aspect of taking part in NaNoWriMo?

Trying to get the words written lol. I mean, if I had lots of time to write then I would be kicking out 50,000 words every month so I really use November to try and give me a push on my latest project. It can be kinda depressing when you realise that if you knuckled down, you could write every day and you might be able to kick out 50,000 words every month. We writers so we use any excuse to beat ourselves up and procrastinate!

(4) What has happened with the book(s) you have written in a previous  NaNoWriMo?

I wrote The Rose Thief in my first NaNo year. It’s a humorous urban fantasy inspired by my love of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld and has the same observational humour. In my second NaNo I wrote The Gaia Project, the second book in my hopeful dystopian trilogy so my third NaNo meant the third book in the series, The Gaia Solution. My fourth NaNo (wow I’m really racking these up, aren’t I?) was my humorous urban fantasy novella The Interspecies Poker Tournament. These books have all been published and are available everywhere. Last year I changed track and wrote the beginnings of a brand new book with new characters and a new world. It’s fun and I will definitely be going back there to finish that story and write some more. 

(5) What project are you working on this year?

This year I am finishing off The Silk Thief and beginning The Bone Thief, both of these are humorous urban fantasy novels set in the same world as The Rose Thief and are a continuation storyline. Sort of. 

(6) Finally, what advice would you have for those attempting it for the first time?

Be gentle with yourself. Yes, the aim is to write 1667 words a day but it’s not the end of the world if you don’t make it. If you ‘only’ write 500 words a day – that’s still 500 more than you would have had. The key take-away from doing NaNo, I think, is being focused on your book and your writing and dedicating a portion of time every day to your craft. That is a sustainable goal that we can strive for. And if you only do for one month a year that’s still a book a year. Not too shabby at all.

You can find all Claire Buss‘ books on Amazon, share her thoughts on her blog, follow her on Facebook stalk her on Twitter or sign up for her newsletter. You can also participate in her Facebook group.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “Tell me why, tell me what you see?”

“It’s been a long and winding road, but after the things we said today, I’ve got a feeling we can work it out.” His voice blurred by rock and roll music. “Thank you girl.”

They had gone from ‘you never give me your money’ through misery to ‘love you too’.

No reply.

“It’s all too much.”

“What you’re doing?”

“Martha, my dear, money, that’s what I want.”

A long, long, long wait.

“Not a second time,” she said, “let it be, mean Mr. Mustard, you’re like the taxman.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

The police car drove to the bottom of the street at a sedate pace, turning around by the padlocked gate and returning to the main road equally quietly. Em’s mobile peeped. It was Agnes.
“Them buggers are on their way. We good to go, Em?”
“Yep. Let operation ‘thwart the bastard’ commence.”
Em and Ishmael walked to the top of the street where they waited in silence. First into their line of vision came an oddly formal little procession led by the familiar figure of Ronald Dump himself, flanked by Harmsley Gunn on his left and a thin man, with an earpiece in one ear and an iPhone glued to the other, on his right.
“Where are my pipers?” Dump’s strangely atonal voice sounded querulous.
“They said this is Dorset not Drumnadrochit. Then they effed off.” It was the thin man who spoke somewhat grimly.
“Schilling,” Ishmael spoke without moving his lips.
Em studied the man who was variously supposed to be either Dump’s right-hand man, or his boss, or even his boyfriend. She discounted the last strand of rumour, but which of the two other options was correct? The man himself was as unprepossessing as his boss if in a completely different mould. Dump was corpulent, bald, and smooth of skin, with one of those small heads that seems to have sunk into the rolls of flesh around the neck. Schilling, by contrast, was thin, bespectacled, saggy around the neck and eyes, and possessed of what looked to be a permanent five o’clock shadow.
The dynamic between the pair was difficult to decode, and Em decided it didn’t matter and gave up trying. Instead she stood quietly and waited for events to move along. The first sign of rent a mob came in the form of glockenspiel music and the sound of feet. Round the corner from the opposite direction to the Dump party came a group of sub-teenage girls, and a fair sprinkling of their grandmothers, playing a vaguely familiar tune on glockenspiel, tambourine, and penny whistle. They were followed by a troupe of trainee drum majorettes inexpertly twirling a variety of ‘batons’ – including at least two sets of nunchucks – and stamping their feet in approximate time to the ‘music’.
Ronald Dump positively beamed.
“Maybe we didn’t need the pipers after all, these lovely young things have come out to welcome me…”
Both lovely and young were perhaps open to interpretation, as was the musical skill of the orchestra. Em saw Ishmael frowning.
“Little Botheringham Marching Majorettes. Affectionately known in these parts as the panzer division. They don’t win many cups, but they’ve yet to be bested in a fight. If the Morris Men see them they run like blazes.”
Ishmael grinned his approval.
As the marching ladies bore down on his group, Harmsley-Gunn opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of it. Behind him, Em caught a glimpse of Ginny’s grinning face before the marching girls, and a crowd of local (and not so local) folk parted like the Red Sea as they encountered the Dump admiration committee. Coming back together again, the marchers turned smartly into the estate. The girls of the band stopped moving and marched on the spot, while those who accompanied them passed through their ranks and then turned to form a loose wall of flesh, duffle coats and Laura Ashley print. Having effectively blocked the road, the musicians turned around and broke into an enthusiastic if barely recognisable rendition of ‘We Shall Overcome’ led by Ginny who conducted with a baton that to Em, looked very like the one belonging to Major Harmsley-Gunn.
As the crowd behind them unfurled their banners and began to sing, it finally dawned on Mister Dump that this was whatever the opposite of a welcoming committee might be called.
He turned to his cohorts and snarled. “Get these people out of my way.”
Harmsley-Gunn stepped forward. “Go home all of you.” His little moustache bristled disgustedly. “And give me my cane back you atrocious female.”
Ginny ignored him but signalled the end of the singing as they completed the chorus, leaving the protesters standing in the silence of solidarity.
Harmsley-Gunn, face puce now with ill constrained fury waved his hands at them as if shooing a flock of chickens. “You are blocking the road to progress for the whole village.”
“What sort of an idiot thinks DumpCorp’s proposals are progress?”
The voice from the centre of the crowd was as resolutely middle class as Harmsley-Gunn’s own tones.
“The parish council thinks the plans are excellent,” Harmsley-Gunn spluttered. “We are unanimous. Now unblock the road before I call the police.”
The flour bomb that took him in the middle of his face burst just as it had been designed to do and left him standing like a forlorn ghost. Ginny slid the cane under his arm as if adding an accessory to a snowman.
“Not quite unanimous,” she said curtly.
Dump looked on in increasing amazement. He waved his pudgy little hands at the crowd. “Go away. Go away nasty people.”
Nobody moved.
Schilling spoke up. “Look here you lot. You can’t go about blocking public roads and refusing people access to their own property. Just go home and we will say no more about it.”
Ishmael grinned mirthlessly. “They most certainly couldn’t block a public road. But this isn’t a public road. It’s private. And there is no right of access to anywhere leading through it. So you’d be best advised to turn around and go home yourselves.”
Harmsley-Gunn, recovering from the assault to his person and dignity, drew himself up to his full height and flouryness. “As chairman of the housing association, I invite Mister Dump and his party onto the estate.”
“Nice try, old boy, but the trustees terminated their arrangement with the housing association two days ago. A little matter of malfeasance. The letter informing you is in the post.” He turned to Em with a slight smile “By the way do tell Jamelia that her work on that was watertight. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
As Ishmael spoke, Em could see a dozen or so DumpCorp security operatives moving purposefully towards the scene. The dog handlers were conspicuous by their absence and she idly wondered if Fang and Killer were still running.

Part 29 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

November sunshine’s more of steel than gold
Pellucid light that drips through cloud
And slides as subtle gleams
Transmuting green below and blue above to grey
Enwrapping all in chastest shades
Drawing more of shadow into each day
And close about the naked trees
Discarded twigs and leaves
Acorns, chestnuts, all next seasons seeds
And smoke that lingers in the clinging mist.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘City CSF headquarters.
The building was phenomenally understated. If the logo had not given it away it could have been taken as any other commercial or business premises — assuming the commerce or business was low key and struggling. It crossed Durban’s mind as the door swooshed shut behind him that if there was some sinister CSF plot behind Jaz’s disappearance he had just made it easy for them to complete the set. But no one moved to arrest him and he reached the enquiry point without any problem.
Then he just had to wait.
And wait.
He had arrived mid-morning and it was nearly mid-afternoon before he was invited through to be interviewed. He supposed they might have needed a little time to get over the initial panic of having one of the major criminal syndicate bosses walk in, with everyone desperately trying to push it up over their own pay grade.
Then when they managed to find someone who was either too senior to be able to pass it on or simply had enough courage and common sense to handle it themselves, they would have had to prepare what they would consider a suitable room for the interview and find someone they felt capable of conducting it. Durban was feeling almost sorry for them, almost willing to forgive the long wait. But not quite.
The person they had selected for the task of his interview was a woman who introduced herself as Var Tyran. Durban offered her a warm smile.
“I appreciate all the effort you’ve gone to for me today,” he said.
She looked a little puzzled.
“I — am not sure I follow you, Vor…?”
“Chola. Durban Chola. But you will have known that from the moment your security picked me up outside.” He let his smile become sunnier. “It will be so much easier to have this conversation if we all call a chair a ‘chair’ and not a ‘resistant material utilitarian design seating object’, don’t you think?”
For a moment she looked like she might have swallowed some resistant material then she actually laughed.
“Alright,” she said and nodded a few times. “I think you could be right. So what brings you here today?”
“I want to report someone as missing or displaced.”
The woman’s smile faded a little.
“You do? Have they been missing long?”
“This is the third day.”
“Well three days is —”
“Not long enough unless there is evidence of foul play?”
She nodded.
“There is evidence of foul play. He walked into your offices three days ago and hasn’t been seen since.” It was a guess, based on Jaz’s message, but Durban delivered it with full conviction, allowing the implication that he had evidence for his claim.
The woman said nothing for a moment and Durban could see she was occupied with a variety of screens and unphased by his accusation.
“And the name of this individual?”
“Jazatar Baldrik. He’s one of my employees.”
She stopped with the screens and looked at him then opened her mouth to say something but before she could Durban said quickly:
“It’s a chair — remember.”
She closed her mouth again and nodded.
“Alright. It’s a chair. We have no idea where Jazatar Baldrik is right now.”
“He was here though? Three days ago?”
She looked uncomfortable and went back to her screens.
“I can tell you what it says on the general log for this facility — Jazatar Baldrik walked in here of his own free will.”
She swiped a screen and shared it with him showing the entry which gave a time of arrival and the reason being a traffic violation.
“What was the charge?”
“Taking a private vehicle into a public-only zone. It’s what we call a ‘show and tell offence’, means he has to report in to be officially logged, charged and to pay the fine due.”
“So what has that to do with the CSF? It’s a local policing matter.”
The teeth were pressed into her lower lip as she smiled again.
“The local police have people based in this building too — we just help out sometimes.”
Durban shook his head. He knew the CSF were never going to admit any deeper interest in Jaz than they had to. After all, he was working for them. They were not about to blow him out to the key person he was supposed to be spying on and influencing for them.
“So what time did he leave?”
There was an awkward silence. Not good. She should have had that covered. It was his most obvious next question.
“There’s a slight issue with that. You see he was found to be in possession of an illegal, military grade, weapon. We had to take him in to make further enquiries and he was moved to another facility as it was decided keeping him here in the ‘City wouldn’t be very prudent all things considered.”
The words gave Durban a frisson of real concern. It made no sense. He was very sure Jaz wouldn’t have walked into a CSF office carrying anything illegal.
“So he’s under arrest? Please let me know where, so I can arrange a legal advisor to assist him.”
Var Tyran shook her head and managed to squeeze out a conciliatory smile which showed off the biting edge of her top row of teeth.
“I regret I’m not able to tell you where he was moved. However I can assure you, as I did when you came in, we have no idea where he is now. He was released the following day. No charges.”
“Released — where?” “I’m sorry, I’m not authorised to tell you where he was moved.” Durban felt his patience begin to wear. With a deliberate effort, he let a smile form and grow. “Var Tyran, I do appreciate you are having to work under certain restrictions of confidentiality. But I’m reporting this man, for whom you — corporately — had a duty of care and concern, as being missing or displaced. And wherever you may have released him back into the galaxy, he hasn’t managed to return home yet. Was the office you sent him to outside of the Middle worlds?” Var Tyran looked through him her own smile becoming more like a plastic mask. “If you will fill in this form then we can process the MD report for you. Then we will, of course, be in touch if we have any further news.” She shared the screen with the form and excused herself whilst he filled it in. After he had submitted it he was offered a very polite escort from the premises and again assured that he would be informed if there was any news.

From Haruspex Trilogy Edge of Doom a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The singing sands
Entice you on
With miles of gold
And a silver song
But though enchanting
Is their tune
Feet dance unheeding
To their doom
The singing sands
Of foul renown
Call out to fools
And suck them down

©️jj 2020

Friday the Thirteenth! 

Who’s afraid of Freddy Krueger then? Lights a fag from the stub of the last one and sneers. 

Look at yourselves will you. Frightening yourselves shitless about a random date and a fictional monster. 

Get a grip!

Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day. 

To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….

So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.

Stop watching horror films if you don’t have the balls to realise they are fiction. 

Don’t be looking for lucky items of clothing, just put your adult panties on and get on with the day.

Do not walk around with your fingers crossed. You will only wind up hurting yourself.

Put the bloody rabbit foot down. It isn’t lucky for f***’s sake. The poor bloody rabbit is dead.

To cut a possibly very long rant a little shorter here is the bottom line.

Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.

Again I say crap.

If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

Piss off. I’ve said all I’m going to say and you are annoying me now.

Happy Friday suckers!

The wooden bedstead had been in the family for more generations than anyone knew. Almost as long as the rambling farmhouse which each generation had rebuilt and extended to suit its needs.

The bedstead had been the place where family members had been conceived, come into this world and eventually left it. The old stained oak headboard bearing the marks of usage like proud scars.

But all things change eventually.

The latest generation thought the old bedstead too chunky, dark and unfashionable. So they replaced it with a stylish pine bed from Ikea – and had a bonfire in the garden.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Spado’ is a common insult in Dai and Julia’s world. Means literally ‘eunuch’, metaphorically ‘stupid fool’…

        That evening when he arrived home from work, Julia thought Dai looked weary, and she guessed at a difficult case. She was about to try and pry the problem out of him when fate intervened.
       Aelwen had picked up a word to add to ‘Dada’, ‘Mama’, ‘Dog’, and ‘Uned’. When Dai bent to pick her up she held out her little arms and carolled delightedly.
       “Spado, spado, spado.”
       Julia laughed until she all but cried and Dai wasn’t much better.
       “Where did she pick up that little gem?” he asked.
       “She and Luned were out in the garden taking the air when one of the apprentice boys fell off a ladder. He wasn’t hurt, but he fell into Cookie’s herb garden and that was about the least offensive thing she called him. They all thought Aelwen asleep. But. As you can hear. And she enunciates it so clearly. Luned and Cookie are mortified.”
       She watched the tension seep out of Dai’s shoulders and felt grateful for that, deciding to leave the thumbscrews for a later occasion. Instead, she watched indulgently as Dai and his daughter lost themselves in some rough and tumble and tickles. When she judged the baby to have had sufficient excitement she held up a hand.
       “If you and your potty-mouthed daughter are quite finished, I’ll get Cookie to serve some food.”
       Dai threw Aelwen up in the air and caught her expertly. “Lead us to it.”
       As they sat down at the table, Cookie brought bowls of savoury stew, with fresh bread, yellow butter, and sharp local cheese. Once she was sure Aelwen’s portion was properly cool, Julia put the bowl in front of her and a small spoon in one chubby hand.
       “Eat monster,” she said lovingly.
       Aelwen obliged, albeit with a lot of noise and splashing.
       “Look at her,” Dai said proudly, “not quite a year old and already feeding herself.”
       “And Merch – who is kindly cleaning the floor under her high chair.”

From Dying on the Streets the 8th Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on our YouTube channel.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Tights

That’s ‘panty-hose’ for those of you who live on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

I have never, in all my years on this earth, ever managed to get a pair on comfortably. 

Either one of the legs is twisted thereby cutting off the blood supply from the crotch down. Or there is a twist somewhere in the middle which results in a peculiar looking pattern and blue toes. Or the body bit is so long that it is necessary to pull it up over the boobs resulting in a Quasimodo-like silhouette. Or, worst of all, the bloody things crawl up your bum where they act like cheese wire.

And – as for having a wee…