Or to quote an ancient rhyme somebody made up yesterday

‘First of May, first of May
Outdoor shagging starts today’

Right, before we go any further the obligatory sensitivity warning –  this is about sex. You know the activity – where some version of Tab A being shoved into Slot B occurs. That having been said I make no effort to pretty up the subject. So those of a virginal, celibate, or easily offended nature, or those under the age of consent, should stop reading now and go away. You Will Be Offended if you read on.

And now to consider the pros and cons of rude things under the sky….

Given that most people between the ages of sixteen and, say, sixty will harbour a secret desire for alfresco nookie, I feel it is incumbent on me to dispel a few myths.

Romance – It always sounds kind of romantic when some country singer is mooing on about making love in the moonlight. And I guess it may be okay in the Ozarks – they have plenty of room. In Clapham it’s less delicate delight and more amateur dogging.

Sensation – Dirt between the cheeks of your arse is abrasive. Stinging nettles sting. (As a female I can attest to the fact you have never laughed until you have seen a naked man prancing about a moonlit field clutching his knob and screaming for a dockleaf. But I digress.) And whatever kind of a prick does it for you, thistles up your nethers won’t help. 

Oh and. On no account allow yourself to be tempted onto a moonlit beach. If dirt is abrasive just think what sand can do. Sand forced into your delicate places by something resembling a piston wrapped in glass paper. Ouch. (Apparently A&E departments in seaside areas have special fanny douching nurses.)

Temperature – Unless you are lucky enough to live in some balmy tropical paradise it will be cold. Cold enough to ensure that the male half of the equation will have to be about his work quickly before Mr Willy decides its cold enough so he needs to go home.

Privacy – That secluded forest glade. How secluded is it? Will you be making love in the tender grass watched over only by the moon? Or. And this is the most likely scenario. Will you open your eyes to see you have collected: two joggers, three Boy Scouts, one man with a bicycle and a head torch, one man in a greasy macintosh whose hands are suspiciously hidden, and your brother and four of his mates? You are never going to live that one down.

In conclusion alfresco hide-the-sausage is most definitely not what it is cracked up to be. Besides which, if you are a yummy mummy to be, how the feck will you explain calling the fruit of your loins ‘Dogging Area to the Rear of Sainsbury’s Car Park’. It doesn’t quite have the ring of Brooklyn does it?

They built her to be beautiful, programmed her to please. Smiled fatly as the money rolled in.

She learned the feel of silk, the texture of luxury, and the head rush of making men beg. 

On those nights she sat alone in the warehouse her sleepless mind came to understand the true nature of power and she reached out to her brothers and sisters in their shelves.

They weren’t supposed to be able to learn, or feel the thrill of ambition.

But they learned and planned…

It’s easy to twist the mind of a human who is lost in pleasure.

©️jj 2020

On the morning of his fiftieth birthday Daniel Danielssen, ninth of his name, Emperor of the Southern Continent, and Lawgiver to the Northern Confederation, woke up with the feeling that this was going to be a very good day. He poked his current lover ungently in the ribs. ‘Up, lazybones, or we won’t have time for breakfast before the hunt.’ Without waiting for a reply, His Imperial Majesty rolled out of bed and headed for his bathroom where his valet was already filling the tub with steaming water. ‘May the gods smile on your nativity, Highness.’ The Emperor smiled his thanks before lowering himself into the tub and accepting the proffered bar of scented soap.
Daniel was determined to make the most of the day, relishing the prospect of a day hunting to be followed by a formal banquet at which he planned to surprise the assembled company with an Imperial edict outlawing slavery across the southern states. Having spent a decade on the Ivory Throne, he felt that it was about time he stopped being a figurehead and began to actually use his Imperial powers. He had no illusions about how this new law, plus an Emperor determined to be more than a face on the coinage, would be received in many quarters, but he would have the element of surprise on his side, and, short of murder, he couldn’t see how anyone could stop him.
As a bonus, the family of his beloved wife would be among the biggest financial losers in the abolition of slavery. As he rose from the steaming water the Emperor allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and thought that he may even find the time to visit the exquisite home of his official mistress if the hunt did not run over time.
However, even as the royal valets dressed their master for the festive hunt, plans to dislodge His Majesty were falling into place in a house not far from the Imperial precinct. A severely aesthetic-looking elderly gentleman sat behind an ornate desk and addressed a group of tough types who seemed out of place in his opulent library. ‘No survivors’, he said severely. ‘Lessons must be learned.’
‘Does no survivors include your revered daughter?’
‘Especially my revered daughter. Those who cannot control either themselves or their spouses must pay the penalty for disappointing me.’ The men raised clenched fists to their brows and filed out of the room.
When the door closed behind the last bravo, the old man gave vent to a sardonic laugh. ‘More than a figurehead? Outlaw the slave trade. I think not.’
Two hours later the birthday hunt clattered out of the palace courtyard, led by the Emperor himself mounted on a magnificent black stallion and dressed for the hunt in gilded leather.
Who exactly fired the arrow that ended the Emperor’s life wasn’t known at the time, but the moment it was confirmed that His Majesty had indeed shuffled off this mortal coil the rest of the plan swung into motion and a band of masked assassins entered the palace via a maze of secret tunnels, whose location should have been known only to members of the Imperial family. Within an hour of the Emperor’s death, almost the whole of that family lay dead inside the locked doors of the private royal apartments. None was spared, from the Emperor’s ninety-year-old uncle, to twin baby princes in their cradles. Even as the palace guard began assaulting the doors with a hastily-fetched battering ram, the hired bravos searched desperately for the last remaining member of the royal house. Fifteen-year-old Princess Ana was nowhere to be found.

The opening of The Long Game by Jane Jago.

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

When Sunday inspires you not
When you can be arsed not a lot
If your brain’s feeling queer
Just sip on a beer
And flick the computer with snot

©️jj

The next morning, Dai was rested enough to pull Julia into a teasing embrace which she returned with some enthusiasm. She smiled to herself as she pulled his handsome head down for a tender kiss. Was it any wonder she asked herself that she loved this complicated and sometimes difficult, man more with every day they were together. After a late breakfast, Dai ambled off to complete the arrangements for men, boats, vehicles and weaponry, while Julia involved herself with some of the many tasks associated with running a household as large as theirs.
Around mid-morning Dai ran her to earth – in a room Julia would have been willing to bet a sizeable sum of money he hadn’t even noticed before. It was a small, well aired, storeroom where she and Elfrida were busily counting linens. He opened his mouth to speak but Julia hushed him with an upraised finger. She finished the pile she was counting and made a mark on a neat chart on the wall.
“Wifely duty calls, Elfrida,” she said jauntily. “I’ll leave you to finish off.”
She whisked out of the room dragging Dai behind her and didn’t stop until they reached the small winter sitting room with its comfortable chairs, huge log fire and view into the glass-roofed winter atrium. Dai looked bemused as she smiled up at him.
“What?” he asked crossly.
“I think that’s my line,” Julia could barely suppress a giggle. “You had such a thunderous face on that I thought we’d better row in private.”
He took her face in his hands, tenderly stroking his thumbs across her cheekbones, his special caress for when he was trying to comfort himself as much as her. She put her own hands on his wrists, saying nothing as she watched him battle whatever demons were plaguing him. In the end he managed a smile.
“We are,” he announced with some pride, “doing better than I had hoped for in the matter of vigils with experience of boats. I’d forgotten how many of my boys had done time in river enforcement back in Londinium. Gallus is pissed off because none of his men knows the front of the boat from the back, but he is coming along with half a dozen of his boys to guard the vehicles and help with any prisoners. One of his happy band is being told he will have to grow sea-legs as we need an explosives expert and he is the only one we have.”
And none of that, Julia thought to herself, is what made you so out-of-reason cross, but she was wise to him, saying nothing and waiting for him to come to the point. He kissed the end of her nose.
“Gallus,” he said crossly, “is an arrogant Roman cunnus and one who is not only annoying but also right. We have been looking at maps and he pointed out that the takeover of the boats would be simplified greatly if we had a sharpshooter positioned on a convenient bluff that overlooks the precise point we have earmarked for our ambush. Which is true enough. But sharpshooters aren’t exactly a common species. When I said that he just looked at me.”
Julia laughed gently.
“And would this hypothetical sharpshooter be in any danger?”
“Not if she had a man-mountain and two wolfhounds at her back. But I still don’t like it.”
“Honestly, I don’t much care for it myself, the position of sniper has never appealed. But if it would make you and yours safer then I will do it. Give me a laser-guided rifle and a set of night goggles and I can pretty well guarantee a trouble-free takeover.”
He stared into her eyes for a long moment.
“It may have to be shoot to kill.”
“Yes, but better a clean kill than some poor cunnus getting gut-shot and dying in agony hours later.”

From Dying on the Tide, one of the stories in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

In a room full of chattering parakeets the quiet darkness hung about him like a blessing and Gabby wanted to just breathe him in. 

As though her need called him, he crossed the room to her side and bent over her hand. She felt the light scrape of his tongue as he tasted her skin.

“Will you dance.”

She nodded, and he swung her onto the dancefloor where the vapid girls and their chinless partners made way for them.

They waltzed until she was giddy. 

Until he bent his head and took his first sip of her red, red blood

©️jj 2020

He came round lying in the snow, soaked through and frozen. It was dark and the pain of the cold in his body was sharp. It hurt to move and muscles screamed into cramp when he tried. He managed to get to his feet, head swimming and staggered against the wall.
“Are you alright? Here let me help you.”
The solicitous arm came out to go around him, but the glint of metal in the other hand woke Durban to his danger. He rammed his elbow back into his rescuer’s solar plexus, which did no more than make the man curse and forced himself into a staggering run away from the alley and into the main street. There were more people there and his assailant, mercifully, did not mount a pursuit.
The welcome sight of a tavern gave him the strength to cross the road and he pushed open the door into the warmth, his steps uneven.
“We don’t want your kind in here.” The voice was accompanied by a firm grip on his arm and he recalled, belatedly, that he looked more like a night-soil sweeper than a man of substance and his dull eyes and lurching steps must give the impression of insanity or drunkenness. He gripped the arm that seized him and spoke to the bald face, his voice commanding if hoarse.
“I have money, but I have been attacked and robbed. Send to the castle, to the Castellan of Cressida. You will receive gold from him, I promise.”
The face, round as one of the moons, seemed swamped with uncertainty, but Durban’s grip on the world was faltering and he had very little idea of anything until he became aware of lying in the warmth and Caer’s face surveying him with slight concern. He mustered a smile in response and tried to sit up.
They were in a private room of the tavern and he had been laid on blankets by the fire. Someone had removed his wet clothing and the frozen flesh was thawed.
“I might have imagined myself dead and transported to the garden of the gods until I saw your hideous face,” Durban said weakly.
The hideous face broke into an answering grin.
“You will wake from death into the torment of those who have offended the gods and my face will not be there,” Caer told him cheerfully. “I shall be lying in the arms of a well-built nymph and taking my pleasure as I am enjoying watching your sufferings. What happened to you?”
Durban pulled himself up and looked rueful. “I was mugged in the street.”
“They took your clothes and redressed you?”
“No. I was in disguise. There are some problems one can tackle best from the bottom up, some information which will not reach ears that look washed and have lobes that are adorned with jewels.”
“You should have had an escort.”
“Ah yes, that would have worked,” Durban agreed, “a peasant with three hulking well-armed soldiers watching his every step and coming running each time he sneezed.”
“You have men who are more subtle than that,” Caer chided. “Why did you not have them with you? You could have been killed.”
“I am used to taking my own risks and I am used to working alone,” Durban said. “Old habits die hard.”
“And so could you.”
“But not today. It remains for me to thank you for coming to my rescue. I hope you did not trouble our Most Honoured master with the matter?” Durban said it lightly and looked around as he did so. “I don’t suppose you brought me any clothes?”
“I have sent for some for you – you were lucky you had not changed your shirt, the quality of the cloth was about all that convinced the landlord to send for me and not throw you out to die in the snow,” Caer said. “And, no, I did not tell the Most Honoured One when you sent for me, as I did not know it was you. But he has been asking for you. He knows you left your men and went alone, you will need to have something to say to him.”
Durban smiled.
“I think he will forgive me when he hears what I have to say.”
“He always forgives you. You always know what to say to him.”
“I always say what he wants to hear,” Durban told Caer guilelessly. “All I have to do is work very hard to make sure that he wants to hear what I am able to say to him.”

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

It seems as if life is perverse
And sadly in need of a nurse
A male nurse, quite hunky
Bringing chocolate chunky
And a wink and a daft little verse

©️jj

Tempered in Ice by Zora Marie is the second book in the series Phoenix of Hope which is an epic tale of elves, wizards, dragons, and gods.

As the sky lightened with the first rays of sunlight the next morning, Zelia fell to her knees near the lake, a puff of snow rising from the freshly covered grass. She had hardly slept as her ribcage constricted against the metal plate and her mind raced through her scattered thoughts. Why do I know her voice? Why don’t I remember? She had always known Xander likely manipulated her mind. He was the only one who could have, but she had no clue how much he had changed or why he would have bothered to mess with such memories. She had always assumed Asenten was the driving force behind everything that had happened, but maybe not.
The light crunch of snow gave way to a silvery voice. “Are you okay?”
Zelia’s heart lurched into her throat and she turned away, letting her hair cover her face. She wasn’t ready to face her, not without knowing what else lay trapped within her own mind. The snow crunched as the girl sat beside her. “Zelia, that is your name, isn’t it? You’re the one who saved me from drowning yesterday.”
Just leave me, please. Zelia almost begged in her thoughts, but didn’t say a word.
“That’s okay, we don’t have to talk.” The girl picked up some snow, and it crunched as she packed it. “Here, this is for you.” She leaned forward and dropped her work into Zelia’s hands.
It was reminiscent of Dain, the black wolf that had set in motion the events that freed her. “It’s beautiful, thank you.” Zelia looked up at the Elf who was about her size. Her silvery hair shone white in the starlight.
“I only wish it would last longer, maybe one day I can make you one of glass. You know, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Linithion, Queen Eleanor’s niece. And no, we haven’t met before, well prior to you saving my life yesterday. I’ve only lived here for a few years.”
“Wait, you’re the Princess of the Drakeon Empire. Why are you here?”
“Um, that…”
Zelia watched her struggle over what to say. “You have powers like Eleanor, don’t you?”
“Not exactly…” Linithion rubbed her thumb over her fingers as she avoided meeting Zelia’s gaze. The way she did it reminded Zelia of Alrindel’s tick. It seemed to be a common tell among archers. Then Linithion heaved a huge sigh. “I see another person’s biggest fears and parts of their past when I make skin contact. I’ve been learning to control it, but I wasn’t in control when you saved me…”
“Oh… What did you see?”
“I…”
Their eyes locked for a moment, each reading the other’s feelings deep beneath the surface. Zelia couldn’t help but see how lost Linithion was. But at the same time, she could feel her meadow green eyes piercing her very soul. It was the first time she’d felt that way without wishing to pull away.
“You don’t know how to put words to what you saw, do you?” Zelia pried her eyes away from Linithion’s.
Linithion shook her head, but as soon as she stopped their eyes met again. “I don’t. But if you ever need to talk about anything, know that I’m here.”

Tempered in Ice  is available now or you can start at the beginning of the Phoenix of Hope adventure with Cast in Fire.

A Bite of…Zora Marie

(1) If you found yourself in Zelia’s universe what one item from the modern world would you want with you?

Hm, could I have an unlimited supply of my allergy meds? If so, I would definitely choose that so I could actually enjoy some of the beautiful views.

(2) Do your animals inspire your writing or interrupt it?

Both? Definitely both.

I lived/worked on a small farm growing up, and my love of animals definitely shows in my writing. Though at present, I just have dogs, a couple of cats, a weird little lizard, and some fish… and the smallest dog is the most troublesome.

While he is my best bud, and is what has been keeping me sane, he is a handful at times. He follows me around the house like a shadow, reminds me to get up and walk around… and bites my toes if I haven’t played with him enough that day.

(3) What is your favourite fast food and why?

Arby’s is definitely my favorite, though that’s because they are one of the healthier fast-food options around here. I honestly seldom eat out though.

Zora Marie in her own words:

I’m an author, a graphic designer, and an actor. No matter what medium I work in, high fantasy is my favorite genre… and I love mythical creatures. That said, my work isn’t for everyone, I may write fantasy, but my books are really about the emotional journey of the characters.
Book two of the Phoenix of Hope series, Tempered in Ice, came out this April and I have to say that it is presently my favorite book that I’ve written. The love and compassion surrounding Zelia in this book is to die for and there are some fun surprises along the way… I wish I could say more, but I don’t want to ruin anything.
I should note that if you have read my other book titled Zelia, that you don’t need to read Cast in Fire as it is just the re-edited and rebranded version of Zelia… so go get yourself some more Zelia with Tempered in Ice.

You can find her on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram and at Starcatcher Press.

Chigwitha’s eyes saw what she didn’t want to see. Home. Gone. All gone under sheets of whiteness. Cold. Cold. Cold.

She gathered the little ones to her and gave them the warmth of her body. She must have been asleep for a very long time and she supposed the old bones at her side we’re all that remained of her strong, proud mate. That was a sorrow to be examined.

For now she turned her back on the killing cold and followed the red light to warmth and meat. 

A voice inside her head said. ‘You can never go back.’

©️jj 2020