“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. Vane glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else. “Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?” The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir.”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice. “Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal. Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it made the responsibility he now held a heavy one, weighing up all the factors to consider if Revid should be discharged. Revid might have a legal right to be considered for release, but that was not the same as having the right to be released. That decision ultimately lay with Vane and it was one he was not finding at all straight forward.
“Well, you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger.
A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities.
The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.
Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.
Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.

If you want to keep reading, Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook is FREE to download until 10 May and you can pick up the other two books in the Haruspex Trilogy, Edge of Doom and A Walking Shadow for 0.99 each or snag the Entire Haruspex Boxed Set for just 1.95!

It was late, but the girl waited in the circle of lamplight, hoping for just one more customer. She shivered in her thin coat, and was about to give up when a dark voice addressed her from just outside the ring of orange light.

“How much?”

“Depends what you want.”

“Oh. I want it all,” the glee was barely suppressed.

“Fifty.”

“Done.”

The hand that grabbed her was strong, with hard yellow nails. As he pulled her out of the lamplight she caught the gleam of moonlight on a blade.

The oil he used to burn her body smelled sweet…

©️jj 2020

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

Scented Toilet Roll

Coming from the kind of family that was not arsed about what to wipe it’s collective arses on, I was blissfully unaware this even existed.  Until I was invited to a “soirée” – and don’t get me started on people who use posh words for everyday things – by a cousin who’s no better than she should be and really should know better.

To be honest, I only knew it was supposed to be scented bog roll because it said so on the packet.

When I needed the loo, the holder was empty except for wispy scraps of tissue clinging to the cardboard tube. No other rolls were in evidence and I had to search around until I found it hiding in plain sight beneath a cloth cover with a tassel.

The packet declared it was floral scented so I gave it a whiff and at close quarters it did pong a tiny bit of cheap rose perfume with overtones of soap and talc.

But the thing is, why? Who’s going to sniff it? Your bum won’t care and you’re hardly likely to have a sniff at it during or after use. And unless you know it’s supposed to be scented you won’t stick your nose near it before either…

So what is the point?

The Guardian’s Nightmare by Yvette Bostic is one of the books that will be first published in the Soul’s Day Boxset: Horror and Paranormal Halloween Theme.

An uncontrolled evil is sweeping across the land. Every night mysterious warriors fight against the demons. Every day more replace the ones they’ve killed. 
When Cortan Hawkins, leader of the strange humans, demands my help it’s impossible to say no. I’m the Guardian – Protector of my world – I must fight against this evil. But is Cortan the savior he claims to be or the reason the demonic army is here?

Chapter 1

I perched on the highest limb of a dying oak, my talons scarring the bare wood in their grasp. The leaves around me rustled in the wind, muting the sounds of battle below. Fifty men and women fought against the same number of horned demons. The humans, such as they were, wielded magically enhanced swords and shields, while the demons raged through their defenses with razor sharp claws and brute strength.
An arrow twanged, followed by a dozen more, sinking into the monsters’ rear guard. Another volley soared through the air, doing nothing to slow the tide of evil threatening to overwhelm the warriors battling at the front line.
A flutter of wings drew my attention to the small, brown owl landing on the branch next to me. He turned his head a quarter turn, the way owls do just before they ask a question.
“Why do you not help them, sister?”
“Because they don’t need it, Sasha.” I’d watched these humans fight before. They didn’t need my help then or now.
Sasha’s head rotated another turn as he changed his focus to the battle below. “Really? Their little arrows are ineffective, and the demons are stronger than they.”
“Yes, but the humans have yet to use their magic.” I turned my own feathered face towards my companion. “I’m not certain why they wait, but I have to assume their leader has a reason.”
Sasha clicked his beak at me and continued to watch the combat beneath us. Several warriors in the center fell to their deaths, and a haunting cry floated into the treetops, threatening to pull my heart along with them. It was the only part of the battle that evoked emotion from me. Hearing a soul mourn the death of its body was never pleasant. 
“Which one is their leader?” Sasha asked, shifting on the branch as another gust of wind ruffled our feathers.
“See the one at the very center?” I asked. “The largest one, with spikes on his shoulders and enchanted eyes on his helm.”
The human leader brought his sword around from the right and sliced into the muscled arm of the nearest demon. As the demon turned its attention to the new threat, another sword sliced through its opposite arm. The monster howled, raising a clawed hand at the large human. Rather than back away, the man lunged, a sword in each hand, impaling the demon’s wide chest. The creature wrapped its fingers around the man’s neck, and I realized I held my breath. The warrior twisted his blades into the creature’s dark hide, black blood pouring from its wounds. Man and beast tumbled to the ground, lost in the melee around them. Another haunting cry escaped the battlefield, and my heart stuttered.
“Did their leader just perish?” the little owl asked.
“I don’t believe so,” I responded, barely keeping my emotions hidden. “His spirit’s anguish would be much greater, I think.”
“How do you stand by and do nothing? You are the Guardian of the Forest, yet you allow these men and women to die.” 
The disgust in his voice threatened my composure. I chose to remain a bird of prey, so I could witness the leader of the group without detection. Allowing this little bird to stir my ire would force one of my more aggressive spirits to emerge, something I wanted to avoid. I drew in several deep breaths, calming the rage building in my chest. He should not have aggravated me so easily. My friend meant well.
“These are the same men and women who hunt and kill us, Sasha,” I hissed. “Or have you forgotten what they did to the last of my kind?”

You can pre-order your copy here: Soul’s Day Boxset: Horror and Paranormal Halloween Theme

A Bite of… Yvette Bostic

1) What would be the best thing about living in the world you describe in this book?

The best thing about the world I created would be escaping today’s politics. Kalle’s world is rather primitive. While she is responsible for the safety of her clan – mostly from humans – she doesn’t have to deal with human politics.

2) If you could have one character from the book to dinner with you, who would it be, why would you choose them and what would you most want to talk about? 

I would choose Philip and Red because they have perfectly harmonized voices and would provide fantastic entertainment. Not only from the songs they’d sing, but the stories they could tell of previous performances.

3) Are you a cat person or a dog person and why?

I have three dogs and no cats, but only because my big dogs would probably eat the cat. I love cats for their independence, but I prefer dogs for their unconditional love – anytime I need it.

Yvette Bostic  lives in the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. For those who don’t know, West Virginia is its own state-not just the western side of Virginia. She enjoys the company of her children who are successfully moving into adulthood; her ever patient husband who believes she’s lost in her computer; and three dogs who are the only ones who can drag her away from writing-mostly because she has no desire to clean up their mess.
She has been a passionate reader for decades, but her writing interests didn’t surface until her youngest son left home to join the adult world. The Empty-Nest Syndrome assaulted her with relentless fury and she fought back with a surprising determination of her own. She’s now deeply entrenched in the lives of her characters and strives to bring their hopes, dreams, pain, loss and success to her readers.
You can find her on Twitter, Goodreads or her own website.

Two old men sat playing pinochle, while the barroom ebbed and flowed around their table as if it was an island in the ever-moving stream of humanity.

The harsh growl of motorcycle engines emptied the place, save for the card players and a raddled barmaid.

These bikers were spoiling for a fight as they streamed in from the unforgiving streets.

One strutted over to where the old men sat, but as they looked up at him he turned away.

“Who the fuck?”

The barmaid smiled. “That’s the future boys, Death and his brother Taxes.”

The bikers cut and ran…

©️jj 2020

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

“Okay. So we need a plan.”
Em was thinking at her usual pace, and when Agnes opened her mouth she silenced her with an upraised hand.
“Very well. This is what we do…”
Ginny looked as if she might have been about to argue, but Agnes elbowed her sharply and hissed.
“When the Queen tells us what to do we at least listen before we argue.”
“Ginny. You accept the parish council gig, and if you could remember to appear wispy and ineffectual it would be helpful. Agnes. You set your family mafia on planning applications. Once we find out what they are after we can spike their guns. In the meantime I’m about to sink my principles and make friends with the television bloke who left me his card after the vicar went batshit about the bats. Any questions?”
“Hundreds,” Agnes said cheerfully, “but until we find out what the heck is toward nobody can answer any of them. Ginny, you better come home with me now, and I’ll give you some reading material. Normally you’d be living in my house for a month or so while you learn. But I don’t think we want old Harmless-Peashooter to know you are one of us just yet.”
Em frowned. “Agnes. Less of the Harmless-Peashooter if you please. With money behind him the gormless bastard could be dangerous.”
Agnes sighed. “I know. It just helps to think of him by his nickname. Otherwise he’s….”
She stopped in the middle of what she was saying and stared into the middle distance.
Em looked at Ginny and mouthed ‘thinking’.
Agnes showed her teeth in a feral grimace. “Now perhaps we can begin to understand why the housing association is bullying its tenants.”
“Explain yourself Agnes.”
“Well. If you think back twenty years. When Harmsley-Gunn sold the building land to the council we all thought he rather shot himself in the foot.”
“Of course we did. And now he needs to sort it. Yes. I cede you that point Agnes.”
Ginny made a noise like a confused sheep. “Can someone please explain.”
“Yes. Sorry. Harmsley-Gunn owns a rather large tract of land running from the middle of the village down to the river. It’s no use agriculturally, and there is supposed to be some sort of a covenant preventing it from being built on.”
Agnes took over. “And even if the rotten little chiseller thinks he has found a way around the covenant there’s no practicable access. Except through the little housing estate.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes and Em thought how un-sheeplike she was when aroused to anger.
“We’re saying, then, that the housing association is trying to get rid of its tenants and make a killing selling its land?”
“Looks mighty like. Either that or they are being pressured to do so by an irresistible force and an offer they literally can’t refuse.”
“And I assume we are not going to let them get away with it?”
“No. Not if we can stop it and we can try very hard to do that. I will have a high-powered solicitor here tomorrow. The tenants association just gots itself a fighting fund.”
“Tenants association? Since when has there been one of them?”
“Since about a couple of hour’s time, when Jamelia rounds up a couple of the residents to form one.”
Agnes snorted. “I do wonder if HG realises he has a tiger by the tail.”
Em shrugged. “I doubt he will notice until I bite his face off.” She noticed Ginny’s horrified expression. “Metaphorically, sister.”

Part 23 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

If I ruled the world,
Though I’d never wish to,
With banners unfurled
I’d gift it to you-
To you who are poor,
Who are lowly and weak,
To you who have nothing
And never dare speak
To you who have knowledge
Who’ve seen what’s been done
Who study this world
And know how it’s run
To you who ask little
And suffer so deep
Who’d care for this world
and it safely keep
Then maybe I’d sit back
And know that these lands
Were shared and protected
And in very good hands
But for now is this world
Torn by folly and greed
And lusting for power
Trumps all our need.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dai watched the familiar countryside roll by and tried to forget, rather than obsess about, the fact that he was lying to his bride of less than a month – and on two issues. Well, lying by omission. He had promised himself he was not going to keep anything from her about his working life. She had lived it herself and her security clearance had been higher than his until his sudden promotion.
Even his friend, and newly appointed Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had warned him. Slapping him on the back the day before Dai’s wedding as they were taking a final drink in the Londinium taberna that had seen so much of their custom over the previous eight years.
“Two bits of advice from a long-married man to one about to take the plunge. One is never forget she is always right, even when you think you are and two – never – and I mean never – keep secrets from her.” Bryn burped loudly and adopted a fatherly look. “You see, if you get to the day you think you’re always right and she’s wrong or start finding there are things you can’t tell her – well, that’s the day your marriage hits the rocks.”
“You can’t tell your wife everything,” Dai protested. “I mean half the stuff from work is -”
“Everything she wants to know,” Bryn cut over his protest, then dropped a heavy wink. “But then my Gwen she’d know if I was keeping things from her. She’s descended from a long line of Druids on her mother’s side.”
The trouble was Bryn was right and these were things Julia would want to know – things Dai wanted to tell her. But it was not in his hands. These were secrets he had been ordered to keep from her.

The first had arisen in a conversation with the Tribune in charge of the praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero, foster-brother to Julia. He had summoned Dai on the pretext of a meeting about some legality around the marriage and had not been at all repentant about his duplicity.
“This is serious, Llewellyn and is a big part of how I swung this post your way. Our intelligence people are saying that a lot of dangerous contraband is getting in through the coast there and Viriconium is the hub of it. We need someone who is accepted by the British community and who we can trust. You fit the bill.”
“And here I was thinking I got the job on my merits as an Investigator alone.” Dai made no attempt to keep the cynicism from his tone. He had been wondering why this had come his way and was not too surprised to find it had been for reasons other than those put out for public consumption.
Decimus grinned at him.
“Well my sister falling for your baby-blue eyes helped as well,” he admitted, then he switched back to the clipped tones of before. “As if the smuggling isn’t enough we are talking a major anti-Roman group somewhere in the area and they have their fingers deep in our pies. We need to know who they are and how they are being financed and supplied before they start out on a major terrorist campaign. I’m sending you out with twenty of my lads under their own decanus, a good man Brutus Gaius Gallus. You may need them. We have no idea how high or deep this thing goes – even the Magistratus is not in the clear. So trust no one there and I mean no one.”
Dai took a moment to digest the implications. He had known it was going to be hard enough taking on a post he had been over-promoted to fill. But he had been looking forward to learning his way in and doing so with Julia’s sharp insight and wisdom to help. But Decimus had just taken that fond daydream of a bucolic honeymoon easing into things and blown it away. He realised now why, when he had asked for permission to relocate with some of his old team he had not met with more resistance.
“Julia will need…”
“Julia will not be told anything about it, Llewellyn.” Decimus sounded almost ferocious. Then he drew a breath and sighed. “She has been through too much, I am not having her dragged into this. She needs a chance to have some simple happiness with no more to worry about than what colour she wants to paint the guest bedroom.”
Which, Dai reflected rather grimly, probably showed more of wishful thinking on Decimus’ part than any true understanding of what Julia would want or need.
“I think she might notice Brutus Gaius Gallus and his men hanging around,” Dai said pointedly. “My wife is many things, but she is neither unintelligent nor unobservant.” And you of all people should know that, he added in the privacy of his own mind.
“Relax, Llewellyn. They have an official reason for being there and wandering around wherever. Amongst his other talents, Gallus once served as a bandmaster and all the men with him can play instruments. They are going to be there to learn some traditional British music as part of a ‘Hearts and Minds’ Arts initiative – a real one, believe it or not, from those effete, money-wasting idiots in Rome. But it gives them the cover we need for this, so some good comes out of it.”
It was sounding more and more complex and Dai’s heart plummeted.
“So you are pitching me in against smugglers, terrorists, corrupt Roman administrators, and whoever is behind them?”
Decimus pulled a face.
“You about have the size of it. But you are not exactly going in alone. You’ll have my praetorians and your own people and as soon as you have anything solid we can act on I’ll bring half a legion in to clean up if need be. But we can’t pounce until we have a target.”
“Don’t you have undercover people doing that kind of stuff? I don’t see how I’m going to succeed where they have failed.”
“This is deep Britannia, Llewellyn,” the Tribune reminded him. “The arse end of the Empire, hanging over the edge half the time. Hell man, you should know you grew up there. These are people who only trust someone they have known from birth and who has a British pedigree you could unroll from there to Londinium. We don’t have that many such people just lying around – in fact we have one. You.”

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

I am not looking
For a new home
I’m in the place
I call my own
I am not seeking
A younger spouse
To make a mess
About the house
I am not hunting
Enlightenment
I’m old enough now
To be content
I am not looking
To change my lot
I’m rather pleased with
What I’ve got
I have no interest
In improving me
Just fuck off now
And let me be

©️jj 2020

An extract from  How To Start Writing A Book brought to you courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

To whoever is deluded enough to read this crap.

This is Jacintha Farquhar, woman of a certain age, and distaff parent of the delusional and currently incapacitated Moons. I never thought I’d feel sorry for the poor self-centred little twat. But I do. I actually hurt for him. He’s so bruised and battered that I have sent him away to lick his wounds in the fleshpots of Mykonos. I packed him off with a bag of clothes, a few smutty novels, and an introduction to a couple of gay friends who run a very popular bar there. As to what precisely happened to the sad little bugger, that’s his business. I’m not about to discuss it with a bunch of prurient wannabes. If he wants to tell you when he gets back into the saddle that’s his affair. But for now, mind your own…
If it was up to me, I’d stop this crap too. However, it means a lot to my battered son, so I have promised to keep it going until he returns from his sabbatical.
I have decided to write about life lessons, because if you lot really want to write anything decent you’ve got to live it first.

Life Lessons for Writers – One: Alcohol.

In almost every piece of adult literature you will find booze, and as a general rule boozing falls into one of half a dozen categories:

Polite drinking.
Social drinking.
Party drinking.
Getting pissed drinking.
Drowning the sorrows drinking.
Alcoholism.

So then, where are you on the scale? A sherry on the third Thursday of every month? Prosecco hangovers on Sunday mornings? A bottle of vodka in every cupboard in the house?

Whatever your own consumption, consider that as the strongest use of alcohol you should ever write about. Of course, many of you will be timid shits like my poor little bastard of a son, and will consider a glass of Fernet Branca on a sunny afternoon to be the height of decadence. But on the other side of your shiny little threepenny bit you will be wanting to write about drinking and roistering. Well. You bloody can’t….
If you want to write about a drunken orgy, bloody well find one (effing Google it) and go and get completely off your face.
In the same vein, if you really want to write about the miseries of a hangover, or the utter awfulness of drinking so much you vomit what feels like your toenails into the gutter, then at least have the frigging courage to try it out and see what it really feels like. My recipe for the first: a bottle of good red wine with your dinner, followed by at least a dozen cocktails, and four large brandies. To achieve the second, take recipe one and add a kebab and half a bottle of Bucky at the end.
When you’ve done that. And taken a week to recover. Then you can write something that will be at least recognisable as real.

Now piss off and get on with it, because, to be brutally honest, you lot are getting on my tits right now and I’ve a hot date with a half-bottle of calvados.

Next week: Hair pulling and brawls.

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV