Beneath the feathers 
Beats a heart
Behind the eyes
Where thinking starts
He watches us
Our little lives
Brothers, fathers 
Sons and wives
And as we burn
The rubber miles
A mother cries
And Satan smiles

©️janejago 2020

Me and my rat terrier, Gyp, have opinions on a lot of things – like beef, cheese, beer, television. And designer dogs.

Do. Not. Buy. A designer dog. 

They are mongrels – and often not as healthy as proper accidental scruffs. When I wanted a dog I found a farmer whose terrier bitch had got out and mated with a dog or dogs unknown. I gave him a tenner for Gyp who is an excellent companion – if a bit inclined to fart under the dinner table and bite visitors.

He’s an ugly little sod and his hair is the bane of my life, but there again he wasn’t specially bred for his face or not to shed hair on the Aubusson.

However, I do like all dogs, though, even the poor designer chaps. So why am I so against idiots paying a couple of grand for an ‘oodle’?

I’ll tell you why…

When me and Gyp amble along to the pub we meet a great many ‘oodles’ with their shiny collars and special fleece coats and often ridiculous haircuts. They are never let off their shiny red leashes and their walk buddies ignore their pleading eyes as they fiddle with their smart phones or count their steps on their twitbits. Meanwhile Argus, or Tweedledum, or whatever the poor animal is called, has been demoted to a mere accessory and is expected to look beautiful but not to need fun or affection.

We see the poor animals watching Gyp with envious eyes as he scuttles about in the undergrowth. We watch the yummies treat their dogs like status symbols and our contempt for them knows no bounds.

So. Unless you want a grumpy old lady and a bad-tempered terrier to creep up behind you one day and liberate the dog you don’t bloody deserve, here are a lost of things You Do Not Do.

Don’t buy a designer dog. Go to a shelter and adopt a dog.

Don’t get your dog a stupid haircut

Don’t put stupid clothes on your dog

Don’t drag your dog along behind you and ignore it

Basically if you have a dog it should be your best mate. 

If you don’t understand that you better just bugger off now, before Gyp pisses on your shoes.

It’s been cold in the house since Karina left. There’s an emptiness. A Karina-shaped hole through my heart, just as the cushions on her favourite chair still show the marks of where she sat.

I never stop regretting the argument. What did it matter she’d bought herself a new shawl? 

If I could take it back…

I still light the lantern each night, I’d not want to think she might pass this way and miss the house.

Footsteps outside.

A knock.

I rush with hope to open the door.

No one’s there.

Just a basket – and a smiling infant within.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I was tired, my ankle was aching, and I had an incipient headache of the monster variety, and then I got a message from Salt Lake City. My employer, Daniel Smith, variously known as The Boss and His Nibs, wanted to talk privately, which meant me remaining at work and sending everybody else home. I wasn’t happy, but I owed the man, so I put the best face on it I could.
Promptly at five, my phone bleeped and his face came up on the monitor in my skinny office. He looked at me in some concern.
“Alysson, you look like hell.”
“Thanks, boss.”
He grinned, showing two fine rows of perfect American dentistry, then shook his head.
“Have you been burning the candle at both ends, young lady?”
“No. Just the one. But we’ve been snowed under.”
He frowned.
“I wasn’t told that. My information is that your workload is currently light.”
“Somebody is telling you porkies. And it ain’t me.”
“I don’t for one moment think it is.”
This time his smile reminded me of an alligator I saw one time in a swamp in Louisiana. I was very glad I had a clear conscience.
“Okay,” he said biting off his words very precisely. “I shall have that little discrepancy looked into. In the meantime, I need your very particular expertise.”
“In which area?”
“Computers. Or to be more specific virtual reality. There would seem to be a problem which may or may not have something to do with some of the new generation VR headsets.”
“What sort of a problem.”
“People are getting sick.”
“What sort of sick?”
“Headaches, uncontrollable twitches, unexplained rages, gaps in memory. Just unimportant stuff like that.”
It was my turn to frown.
“If people are getting sick and you know it’s the VR making them sick, why’d you need me?” “We need you for two reasons. The first being that VR is only one of the common factors between the people who are ill. And not all the VR headsets come from the same company. The second, and even more important, thing is that if VR is the cause of the problems we need to know why and how to fix it.”
I could see the logic to that although it didn’t make me particularly happy. I nodded.
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get on an airplane and make your way here. We can decide our next move when you arrive.”
I couldn’t think of a valid reason not to go, so I nodded.
“What about the office here?”
My nice Mormon billionaire boss showed his teeth again.
“Oh, I think the kids could do with a vacation, don’t you? Full pay of course.”
We shared a grin.

From ‘Vicious Reality’ by Jane Jago, one of the stories in Challenge Accepted an anthology of speculative fiction, featuring people with disabilities who rise to the challenge. 

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

You need some new glasses they said
Choose frames that look nice on your head
But I can’t see my face
Without glasses in place
So I’ll just keep the old ones instead 

©️jj

The Prefect had an office at the top of the Vigiles building with a panoramic view over Londinium. The Augusta Arena, Constantius Column, the Temple of the Divine Diocletian set in beautiful parkland running down to the river, the sub aquila housing, the Forum and the new baths. Dai presumed the Prefect’s view would be even better than the one he had from the small waiting area outside the office. He was on his fourth cup of water from the cooler and wondering if he should risk a quick trip to the snack dispenser he had seen by the lifts to curtail his stomach’s noisy ambition to digest itself, when the door opened and he was shown in to the Prefect’s sanctum.
The Prefect was a stiff-backed old-school Vigiles, clearly not too many years from his – presumably – well-earned retirement back to the warmth and civilisation of Rome. He was standing, not sitting when Dai walked in and responded to his salute with little more than an upwards nod of his head. Dai, standing in his best parade-ground stance, said nothing.
“Llewellyn,” the Prefect was behind his desk and reached down to tap a folder on it – old-school – with the photo of Dai pinned to the front they had taken when he signed up for the course. “Good things. It says very good things.”
There was a pause and the prefect stared at him as if expecting some response.
“Thank you, dominus, I am glad I have been meeting expectations.”
“Meeting. Exceeding. Top of the class, Llewellyn. Highest score we’ve had in years.”
This time Dai said nothing in the silence. They were not told their mark on the Investigator’s exam, only that they had passed it.
“Yes,” the Prefect went on as if answering a question, “Impressive for a Briton. Direct graduate too. Master’s degree. What was that in again?”
“British History,” Dai provided, painfully aware how that sounded every time he said it. “I did do sub-units on the Early Empire and the reign of the Divine Diocletian as well,” he added hurriedly. But for all the reaction he got, he could have said it was Celebrity Studies or Creative Cartwheeling. Dai felt the usual sensation of being invisible, even though on this occasion at least, he was the supposed focus of a Roman’s attention.
“Vacancy here,” the Prefect was saying. “Lost the last man. Tragedy. He was promising too. Very bright. Shame. But have to have someone and you’ll do. Be wasted in the sticks anyway.”
Dai blinked and tried to make sense of what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to ask if he could ask something, but the prefect was speaking again.
“Accommodation provided for the first month, after that on your own – but you’ll be paid by then and can find something in one of the estates.” Then the Prefect stepped away from the desk and glowered at Dai. “I don’t like appointing one of you people, but this role needs it. You will be dealing more with your sort than with Citizens.”
Your sort. The sting of made Dai’s guts tighten.
“I’m not sure I understand, dominus. I am going home tom-”
The Prefect made that odd upward nod, like a wild animal scenting blood.
“No. Not happening. We need you here. Starting now.”

From Dying to be Friends by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

A family picnic in the orchard with parasols, white dresses and a tartan rug. Jean-Paul proposed over caviar and champagne, she’d accepted. He said he’d have the ring resized, but by ill-fortune it’d fallen from her finger as they packed away.

The ring was lost for so long, Elise forgot about it.

Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren with their children, came for her hundredth birthday – a picnic in the orchard with parasols and champagne.

Through serendipity, her favourite great-grandson found the ring and Elise wept tears of joy. Then and there, with Elise’s delighted blessing, he proposed to his true love.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The banquet finished at last and the Castellan’s wife and daughters withdrew, together with her ladies, the young Bride and her family, leaving the wealthy elite of Alfor to make merry in riotous freedom. As those who wished to depart rose to go, the Vavasor touched Alexa lightly on the arm.
“Do you wish to escape now? I can escort you back to your caravan.”
Alexa shook her head and smiled.
“My sensibilities are far from delicate. I think I would rather stay and be entertained.”
The Vavasor looked a little doubtful and then shrugged, returning her smile.
“Your will, Lady – but you have been warned. Perhaps you will excuse me for one moment before things get too hectic.”
“Of course. If there is any trouble you will find me hiding under the table.”
“Lady,” the Vavasor assured her, his eyes mock-serious, “if there is any trouble I shall look to find you at the heart of it.”
He got up and Alexa followed his progress across the Hall. He was easy to see being nearly a head taller than any other man present. Her brow wore into the slightest of frowns as she saw the direction he was taking. On one of the lower tables, a brightly dressed figure with an unruly shock of golden hair could be seen dancing a jig between the plates and mugs to the cheers and applause of onlookers. His face wore the serene and beatific expression of one who had long since ceased to be sober.
As she watched, the flamboyant figure caught sight of the Vavasor working his way between the tables and the milling serving slaves and a broad grin plastered itself across the idiotically happy face. The blond man gave a whoop of glee and launched himself from his own table to the next, sending a shower of plates and mugs, food and wine indiscriminately over the floor and the people nearby, to the accompaniment of cries of protest from the victims and shrieks of laughter from the onlookers. Another bound took him from the end of the second table over the heads of the diners to land in front of the Vavasor, whom he embraced liberally as he might a long-lost brother.
It seemed the Vavasor had some difficulty in extricating the excitable blond man from his companions, who tried to detain him and called for more songs. But with a strong hand under one elbow, the Vavasor eventually steered the golden haired man towards a side door. Alexa’s eyes moved to the high table curious to see what reaction the Castellan was showing to such irreverent behaviour. But he had not even noticed, being too busy trying to press a sweetmeat between the breasts of an amply endowed young lady sitting on his lap, who was giggling her delight.
But someone had noticed. Qabal Vyazin was looking at the departing duo with a dark intensity that Alexa found deeply disturbing. His eyes had become half-hooded above the jutting line of his nose. As she watched, Qabal turned his head towards Caer and nodded slightly. In response to this silent command, Caer left his station by the wall and, gesturing four of his men to join him, walked quickly towards the door that had just closed behind Chola and the Vavasor.
Alexa felt inexplicably cold, as if a sudden draft had reached her from the night air outside.

From The Fated Sky part one of  Transgressor Trilogy a Fortune’s Fools book 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…

In a space station on Gallifrey
They contacted humans today 
They heard what we said
And looked into our heads
And decided to just walk away

©️jj

PERVERSE by Tim Walker, is an eclectic collection of short, snatched memories and random ideas that tumbled out of a monthly spoken word event called The Innerverse. ‘Perversity’, is an obstinate urge or contrary behaviour; a wilful desire to not conform. Life can sometimes be perverse – full of contradictions, disappointments, grief and sheer bloody-mindedness. But despite this, our sense of what is right and our collective willingness to submit to the rule of law, provides a counterbalance that somehow gets us through.

This collection of verse and prose is a pastiche of life, a nod to history and current affairs, a wistful look back, a hope for better days, and a celebration of life and all its riches…

The hoot of a barn owl was met by the stony glare of a gargoyle, fashioned by medieval masons to guard the holy building from evil. But tonight, they have failed.

A wraith-like figure danced down the aisle, glowing in the cavernous darkness, revenge on her mind.

Orange and yellow flames licked the inside of the monstrous granite cathedral, feeding off rows of wooden pews, torching tapestries and melting lead in stained glass windows that popped colourful shards.

Esmerelda smiled as she skipped barefoot through the barred oak doors, out into the silent square, past the scene of her murder.

‘Mort de Notre Dame’ one of the drabbles in Perverse which is also available in paperback.

A Bite of… Tim Walker

Q1. Why do you write?

I started creative writing in 2013 as a consequence of a long, drawn-out battle with skin cancer. I did an online creative writing course and started writing short stories. Bu 2015 I had enough stories for a book, and put together my first book, Thames Valley Tales, learning to self-publish using the Amazon platform. I write as a celebration of a new lease of life, after fearing my demise.

Q2. Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

I love coffee cake, because my mum used to make delicious coffee cake, a perfect accompaniment to a mug of tea.

Q3. What time of day do you write best?

If I have a book on the go, I often have ideas in the night and wake up with ideas in my head. I find I’m at my creative best in the first three hours of the day. It’s morning for me!

Tim Walker is an independent author living near Windsor in the UK. He grew up in Liverpool where he began his working life as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper, The Woolton Mercury. A media career ensued, including a stint overseas in Zambia.

He started an historical fiction series, A Light in the Dark Ages, in 2015, following a visit to the near-by site of a former Roman town. The aim of the series is to connect the end of Roman Britain to elements of the Arthurian legend, presenting an imagined history of Britain in the early Dark Ages.

His latest book is Arthur, Dux Bellorum, a re-imagining of the story of King Arthur, published in March 2019. Book four in the A Light in the Dark Ages series, it won two book awards in April 2019 – One Stop Fiction Book of the Month and the Coffee Pot Book Club Book Award. The final book in the series, Arthur Rex Brittonum, is due out in June 2020.

The series starts with Abandoned (second edition 2018); followed by Ambrosius: Last of the Romans (2017); and book three, Uther’s Destiny (2018). Series book covers are designed by Canadian graphic artist, Cathy Walker. Tim is self-published under his brand name, timwalkerwrites.

Tim has also written two books of short stories, Thames Valley Tales (2015), and Postcards from London (2017); a dystopian thriller, Devil Gate Dawn (2016); and two children’s books, co-authored with his daughter, Cathy – The Adventures of Charly Holmes (2017) and Charly & The Superheroes (2018) with a third in the pipeline – Charly in Space.

You can find him on Facebook, Twitter and his own website.