Until relatively recently, I thought I had seen just about everything in the way of persuading silly women to part with their cash.

Oh boy was I wrong…

The wife of one of the more intelligent grandsons brought it to my attention with a snort of derision. It seems she had received a birthday present list from her sister – which included specific items of ‘yoga wear’ from a company we shall refer to as X to protect the innocent. Man, oh man, do they know how to charge. We could see nothing on their webshite under fifty quid, and as granddaughter-in-law so succinctly put it she certainly don’t like her sister in the financial bracket that madam’s specific wants fell into. 

We laughed a bit and sent the offending bitch a subscription to a cookery magazine (given that she don’t cook and barely eats).

However, this piqued my curiosity so I spent an instructive hour researching ‘exercise’ clothing. 

Sheesh.

Leggings ranging in price from a hundred quid to a grand.

Tit squashing ‘support tanks’ fifty quid to the sky.

Socks at fifty quid a pair. (Somebody is gonna be so pissed off when the sock fairy nicks one of them bastards.)

Cashmere ‘warm down’ suits (whatever the feck they are) with a starting price of around £250. 

Even my friend Mavis’ favourite granny shop sells these cashmere trackies by another name… I have now checked with Mave who says she wouldn’t be seen dead as the cashmere stuff is all beige – her taste runs more to hot pink, fuchsia and tomato red. But I digress.

I quick add up on m’fingers had me reaching for a ciggy.

I reckon that to join the yoga generation you have to spend upwards of a grand on clothing, plus a yoga mat, a course of classes presided over by a stringy man whose wedding tackle seems about to escape the confines of his strangely shapeless underkecks, and a Nissan Leaf (other electric cars with slightly less silly names are available) to arrive in.

I may be old. I may be fat. But flip me at least I have never spent a young fortune in order to be miserable…

It had been the rule in her parent’s house that the last words spoken in any farewell should always be words of love.

It was a rule that Rebecca had never understood, as she complained to David when he was still her fiance: “How can you say loving stuff when you’re mad at someone? That’s against human nature.”

Years later, David forgot their anniversary and booked a business trip that day. Hurt, she had shouted hateful words at him as he left.

When she heard about the plane crash her heart broke, but never again did she break the rule.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The railroad formed the first leg of the great trek to the rich lands beyond the desert, and it was rumoured that, long ago, the tracks ran from coast to coast. Nowadays, however, the railroad came to an abrupt end in a place of cattle yards, whorehouses, and bars. Hard-eyed women, and conscienceless men, preyed on the stream of humanity that poured out of the cross-continental trains as they puffed and wheezed to a halt alongside the ramshackle platform.
A dispirited-looking Church Army Band played hymns and waved collecting tins, more in hope than expectation. Behind them, a twice life size head of General Stonejaw Johnson, with his piercing eyes and pointing finger, adjured ‘upstanding young men’ and ‘modest females’ to join the Army in its fight against Shaitan and all his works. Which might have been ironic if any of the denizens of Trail End were of a mind to enjoy irony.
The Friday train came all the away from south-eastern ‘civilisation’, and its passengers had endured the swaying, clanking ride for the best part of ten days. Those who were in the first half dozen carriages fared better than their less affluent cousins in the rest of the train – whose accommodation more resembled cattle trucks than anything else.
When the train shuddered to a halt, the doors of the rear carriages burst open and a stream of humanity walked, crawled, or fell into the merciless light of the midday sun. They were converged upon by the whoremasters, slave drivers, and purveyors of dubious modes of transport who found it worth their while to endure the discomfort of a rail-end town in the name of profit.
The unsatisfactory daughters, disappointing sons, and con artists just ahead of the law, who occupied the front carriages exited the train in a rather more leisurely fashion, and most were met by family members, pre-appointed guides, or the representatives of the wagon masters retained to carry them west. There was a good deal of hand shaking and back slapping at this end of the platform, and while the sharks of every kidney circled each other a figure slipped quietly out of the train on the opposite side.
It was a slight scarlet-haired woman, dressed in functional leather boots and a khaki frock coat. She jumped lightly to the ground and reached back inside for a sturdy leather back pack. Adjusting the straps of the pack she pulled a pair of smoked goggles over her eyes and walked purposefully away from the crowds.
She crossed the goods yard and squatted down in the shadow of a ramshackle warehouse. Pulling the hood of her coat up to cover her flaming red hair she composed herself to wait. In time, the train was pulled away from the platform while its engine was laboriously turned around on an iron turntable powered by slave labour – humans being cheaper and more expendable than horses. The woman sat, barely breathing and becoming less and less visible as the hours crawled past. As far as she was able to ascertain only one person noticed her: a tall muscular stevedore with brown skin and eyes the colour of the desert sky. He nodded just once, before dropping an eyelid in a swift wink. She wondered if he might be her contact, but as thinking about it required more effort than she was prepared to expend with a long night ahead of her, she simply withdrew her mind from the surrounding area and sat motionless.
As darkness fell, the air chilled abruptly, reminding anyone with the brain to think that winter wasn’t far away. The woman slowly uncurled herself from her crouch. She moved soundlessly away from her place of concealment and walked to where a blighted tree dominated the skyline like a rotten tooth. When she was within twenty paces of the tree a tall figure moved out of the deep blue shadow. He pushed the black Stetson back from his forehead and scratched his head.
“Miriam,” he said, “they never told me it would be you.”
“Ditto, Cuchilo. Somebody has a strange sense of humour.”
When he smiled his teeth showed very white in the moonlight.
“Somebody does indeed, although that’s for later.”
“Aye. Now we need to move.”
They jogged away, quietly and in perfect step. Cuchilo took the lead, and Mir kept station two feet back and on his right. The sky clouded over above them, and the moonlight became fitful, but Cuchilo didn’t allow a little thing like a dark sky to slow him down. After about thirty minutes of steady jogging he gestured for a stop and whistled briefly on two notes. A figure detached itself from the shadow of a clump of mesquite and came forward leading two horses. One was Cuchilo’s cream-coloured stallion, Hombre, and the other a bay gelding of unremarkable appearance. Both horses whickered a soft welcome and the boy leading them looked surprised.
Cuchilo grinned. “Hush boys.”
The horses quieted but the human boy still showed the whites of his eyes.
“It’s okay amigo. The horses know my companion quite well. This is my wife.”

You can keep reading The Redhead, The Rogue & The Railroad by Jane Jago as it is out today!

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

Fireworks 

What is the effing point of effing fireworks?

At any time. 

But on Bonfire Night? You stand in someone’s muddy effing garden and a drunk man in shorts  sets fire to some stuff. In November. In the cold. Drinking iced strong lager. And then somebody offers you a jacket potato that’s raw in the middle, ditto a sausage…

The sheer waste of money and effort beggars belief – not to mention  frightened pets all across the country.

So. If you must set fire to your money please at least confine your efforts to one day.

Or granny will shove a riprap up your arse

Turning out for a dawn raid was one of the aspects of his old job as a vigiles investigator in Londinium that Dai Llewellyn had imagined would not be featuring in the elevated role he now held as Submagistratus for Demetae and Cornovii based in Viriconium. He would have been quite happy to leave it in the capable hands of his Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel and the small group of grim faced Praetorians on temporary secondment, under their decanus, Brutus Gaius Gallus. But orders were orders and these came from Rome.
The Magistratus had been regretful about it.
“I know you don’t want to go careering over the countryside at the moment, but this is something a bit more important than just a theft. It’s part of an Empire wide operation against a major criminal organisation and I need you there as my eyes and ears.”
It didn’t help that the Magistratus, Lucius Ambrosius Caudinus, was also Dai’s brother-in-law, thus making any excuses to get out of the duty pretty much impossible. Normally he would not have minded, but then normally he was not distracted by worry about his wife.
Notwithstanding his reluctance, after a few days of preparation he was sitting in an all-wheel somewhere along a dirt track that led to an isolated villa halfway up a mountain, sipping thermos-tea from a paper cup, whilst out in the dark and the cold his vigiles and the praetorians surrounded the building. Dai knew he was going to miss the extra security that Gallus and his men provided on operations like this. They were well armed, elite troops. His vigiles were non-citizens to a woman and man which meant they were forbidden by law to bear arms and when the praetorian detachment returned to Londinium after its six-month secondment at the end of the month, Dai would be faced with having to request armed support of a much less reliable nature.
The door opened, letting in an icy blast and Bryn stood by the vehicle, greying hair tied back and half-hidden under a knitted hat, breath condensing in the dim light. He held a satphone in one hand.
“Everyone’s in place. Just need your word to go in, Bard.”
Dai reached over and tipped the remains of his tea out of the door, onto the frozen gravel.
“Then let’s go wake Vibius up.”

From Dying for a Vacation, one of the Dai and Julia Mysteries by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Life had been pretty bad for Charlie and her flock before they arrived in the big garden where they could spread their wings and find worms in the soft ground. 

The years were happy, but slowly the flock decreased until only Freya and Charlie remained. Then just Charlie. She missed the others but still enjoyed life. Then there came a day she felt too unwell to go out. A couple of days later she woke to brilliant sunshine and flapped out of the coop.

“Where’ve you been?” Freya clucked and together the flock made their way over the rainbow bridge.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Bargain Carnival was always on the final day of the Fair and was a time when, in theory, traders would sell off their remaining goods for a song. Many people kept back their cheapest lines especially for Carnival day, but there were always some excellent genuine bargains to be had and it was an essential place to be if you were a discerning buyer.
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.
He had plenty of time to select what he wanted from the choice wares on offer. Most of his purchases were special commissions from those who knew that he would be the first into the plaza. At noon the bells rang out across Alfor and the human tide descended, sweeping away all in its path. But by that time Durban Chola was settled comfortably in a wagon being served wine by the slave girl Shemille. With him was the Caravansi Alexa’s recently appointed Zoukai captain, Shevek.
“Ah. The liquid gemstone of Alfor wine,” Durban declaimed reverently, sniffing at the dark red beverage before he sipped. “I will miss it sorely, I always do – the tragedy is it travels so badly. The world needs to come to Alfor, for the wine cannot go to the world.”
Shevek looked unimpressed.
“Oh it travels well enough – unless you tell the vintner that you intend to sell it elsewhere, then it sours.”
“Is that so?” Durban asked with interest. “Then perhaps the barrels have ears and the wine becomes homesick at the thought of leaving Alfor.”
“And perhaps the vintners prefer to keep their monopoly intact.”
Durban let it pass. Zoukai were an unimaginative breed by nature.
“Whatever, this wine is good and the wine I shall drink on the road tomorrow will be poor by comparison.”

From The Fated Sky, part one of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Random Indignation 

We live in an imperfect world, peopled by imperfect humans. 

Except the shining ones. The social media illuminati whose antennae are so exquisitely tuned and whose sensibilities are so perfectly nuanced that they take it on themselves to police the rest of offensive humanity.

They will have gained some notoriety, which they propose to use to bludgeon the rest of the world into their way of thinking.

They would be better occupied discovering whether or not there is offence being caused before exercising their opinions.

Do not rant on anyone’s behalf before asking, politely, if such is necessary, or acceptable.

The Fifth Horseman (Horseman’s Harem Saga Book 1) by Frieda Kilmari.

The only thing worse than suddenly waking up in a magical house with the insanely gorgeous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Being the Fifth.With no memory of who I am, where I came from, or what I’m doing here, I’m thrust into a new life with four people who I might want more from than just friendship. But with no past, how can I possibly plan for a future?
The only clue as to who I am? Four different species’ magic resides within me—Vampire, Fae, Shifter, and Witch—and between them, I might be the most powerful creature on the planet.

I know I should be freaking out, throwing some kind of tantrum or having a meltdown, but something about this place just feels like home. I belong here. A relationship, even just a friendly one, with all the Horsemen scares me, and the suddenly large expanse of my future makes me apprehensive about everything I’ll see and lose along the way, but despite the insecurity, I have the potential to really exist here. I can’t remember my past, and I know I’ve left people behind on Earth, and maybe one day I’ll go back to see what my life once was, but right here and now, this is my present, and it’s time to learn what that really means.

The Fifth Horseman (Horseman’s Harem Saga Book 1) is out now!

A Bite of… Frieda Kilmari. 

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

I’d definitely rather be a villain. You know, in a fictional way. I’d get to do that evil villain laugh, eat as much cake as I want, not have any moral obligations, and crush anyone who annoys me. Oh, oh, oh. Can I wear a cape? Like, a dark purple cape with swooping eyeliner and grungy eyeshadow? That would be awesome! Heroes are okay, but they’re forced to be good, morally obligated, and can be kind of stiff. Villains are free to be whoever they want to be. And they don’t HAVE to do anything. If I were a villain, I’d just lounge around the house all day eating hot chocolate and cake, and then go out in my hot, sizzling villain outfit whenever I need a pick-me-up. 

Q2: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Did someone say cake? Chocolate cake? Ohhhhhhh, chocolate cake with white chocolate frosting . . . Oh, or maybe a chocolate cake with strawberries and strawberry frosting. Oh, or maybe a chocolate muffin tower with gooey brownie centers . . .  Oh, or a giant salted caramel chocolate cake . . . Mmmmm. 

Q3: You can have four guests at a dinner party. Name the four people living, dead or fictional you would most like to entertain.

Dinner date with four fictional characters? Hmmm . . . Sounds like a fun night for someone who reads as much romance as me. I’d definitely pick Loki; he’s hot, he has awesome powers that would be hilarious as a dinner party, and did I mention he’s hot? Evil Regina from Once Upon A time. Could you imagine the showdown between her and Loki? That’s a show I’d pay to see. From a safe distance. Add in some hot, rugged Aragorn from LoTR and Jack Sparrow, and we have ourselves an orgy–I mean, dinner party. 😉 

Frieda Kilmari is an author, writer, and editor residing in south-west England, who loves all things fiction. She has a passion for fantasy, romance, science-fiction, and poetry that runs her life, from her career to her passions. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and her own website.

The chair was just as she left it when she got up to make that last cup of tea, her broad red shawl left spilling over the cushions, a magazine discarded, open to the page she had been reading – was going to read when she returned.

But something happened as she stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.

A footstep, then a familiar presence, close beside her.

“Hello love, I came back for you like I said I would. Sorry it took me so many years.”

Her neighbour found the side door open and the house empty.

E.M. Swift-Hook