The village bus used to run twice daily. Most days the bus was half-full. Then, to save money, it was made twice weekly – in one direction on Monday morning and back again on Thursday morning. Which was no good for anyone.

A year later they stopped it.

The Councillor gave me his vague political smile.

“We would reopen the bus service, but there is no demand. No one used it. If people wanted a bus service they’d have used it.” 

Irrefutable logic.

Then he got in his Mercedes and drove off.

Marie Antionette would have been so proud of him.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

“I’m tired of trying to see the good in people.” Clarence stalked around the pen with his wattles waving distractedly. You get fond of people and they just go away and leave you. Last week there were five thousand turkeys in the barns. Yesterday there were five hundred. Today there is just me.”
The only other occupants of the fifteen-acre field eyed him in something like contempt. “Didn’t the same happen last year?” Gloria asked waspishly.
Clarence stopped and looked down at the fat little chicken and her sister.
“Did it?”
“Yes, Clarence, it did.” In contrast to Gloria’s waspishness, Florence just sounded tired. “And the year before.”
He looked puzzled.
“I don’t remember.”
“No you never remember. But it’s always the same. From now until the winters end it will be just the three of us. Then there will be baby turkeys. Then they will grow up. Then they will go away.”
“But why. Where do they go.”
Gloria came as close to a shrug as a chicken can.
“We should know…”

The two humans who sat on the fence looked at the trio with some amusement.
“Have you never wondered what they think?” the man was feeling whimsical.
“Does poultry think,” his companion leaned on his shoulder.
“Presumably. On some level they must. Ergo, do they wonder where the rest of the turkeys go?”
“You may as well ask if that turkey cock wonders why he is still alive.”
“He might not wonder, but I do.”
“He was a mistake. We only sell hen birds. And the hatcheries aren’t supposed to send anything else. But three years ago he arrived with the girls. Dad thought it would be interesting to keep him and see just how big a turkey can get. But he pined on his own, so we got him the chickens for company.”
“How compassionate.”
“It’s no good you looking at me like that, and at least our birds have a decent life.”
“What there is of it.”
The woman lifted a pettish shoulder and they fell silent.

No more was said until the turkey cock stalked across the field to where they sat.
“Poor old boy,” the man said. “I wouldn’t like it if somebody took you away and replaced you with a chimpanze.”
His companion laughed and moved into his embrace.

Clarence peered shortsightedly up at them.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “Can you tell me where my chums have gone? The chickens are very nice, but a chap wants his own kind, doncha know.”
But they all they heard was gobble gobble, and the women threw him a handful of grain from her pocket.
He ignored the corn. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I did ask you an important question.”
Of course they didn’t answer, and in the end he gave a doleful sniff and went to back to where Gloria and Florence were scratching in the dirt and squabbling over earthworms.

©️jane jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

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 

© jane jago

The cathedral bell tolled from its tower, beckoning weary travellers to rest. It had been the landmark guiding Rob’s course for some hours and he knew that somewhere in its shadow a young woman was waiting. Thoughts of Anne had kept him going, urging his mount to keep up a ground eating pace over the frozen ground. He had to see her even though the news he carried burdened his soul.

As he let the exhausted animal walk over the bridge, he could see the failing sunlight catching on the River Wear so it gleamed like a dark satin ribbon looping around the high ground dominated by castle and cathedral. Snow-burdened rain began falling in heavy drops. Some found their way past the collar of his cassaque and down his neck, the rest were oiling the cobbles to a dull gleam beneath the hooves of his horse.

A strong smell of good Newcastle coal filled the dusk as behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of the houses lining the narrow street, wise folk kept to their hearths. But Rob was feeling far from wise as he pushed his tired mount the last hundred yards up the hill and into the Market Square where the welcome warmth of an inn awaited them both. Tonight he needed rest, his wounds were sore and aching in the cold, but tomorrow he must find Anne and tell her what had happened to her brother.

That there had been a battle and he wouldn’t be coming home.

E.M. Swift-Hook

She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook is a Fortune’s Fools short story. Tegwyth used to receive gifts at Midwinter, until she became one herself. Alone in the snow, she will do anything to survive because of the one thing that matters most to her…

The loaf was within reach now. But so was the coat and it was that Tegwyth slid carefully from the stool first, looping it around her and under her cloak out of sight. Then she reached out again for the bread.

“I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

It was the bearded man. He had moved away from the fire, perhaps so the other two could get to know each other – or perhaps, feeling simply not wanted there anymore. Either way, he now stood on the far side of the table. His face hard, although his voice sounded more as if he were offering her friendly advice than any threat. But she had just become a thief – she had stolen his coat, its warmth so good around her, the warmth of life in the bitter cold of winter. And the price of theft, even if she had been free and not hunted as an escaped slave, was death.

For a moment she thought to run. To flee. Break away. Rush for the door and out into the snow. But as if he could read her thoughts, the bearded man had taken a step to the side so she would have to pass him to be able to leave. His hand curled on a strange looking item clipped onto his belt. But as he moved and light fell on her face, his expression changed. It seemed to soften, as the warmth of the sun softens the hard packed ice. His hand moved away from his belt and he shook his head.

“Sweet truth and dare, you’re only a bloody child,” he said. And reaching past her he picked up the loaf. Tegwyth wondered when he would notice she had taken his coat, maybe he would see the flash of brilliant colour through one of the holes in her cloak, maybe he –

“Here, you hungry? Eat this and I’ll get you some hot soup to go with it.”

Her hands closed over the bread. It felt soft and smelled of yeast and grain – and life.

E.M. Swift-Hook 

A Midwinter Miracle is available on Audible,  as an ebook and paperback and can be purchased from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Googleplay. This special edition has typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

When a gal from the WI
Was asked why the glint in her eye
She replied with a grin
That it isn’t a sin
To put plenty of gin in your pies

© jane jago

The Sparkly Badgers’ Christmas Anthology is a wonderful selection of festive tales to cheer your Yule and benefit a very worthy charity for the disabled as well!

From ‘A Badger Christmas Carol’ by C.H. Clepitt and Claire Buss

It was said that it was the death of his wife that made Michael McAllister hate the badgers. Her passing, complications from emphysema, cast a bleak cloud over Greenwood Farm. She was the one who used to care for the animals, not just the farm animals, but the wildlife and in particular the family of badgers who lived in the thicket at the bottom of their fields. Michael resented the fact that the disease ridden badgers were still alive when his beloved wife was dead. And without her kindness to temper his mean streak, Michael gained a reputation in the village as a miserable skinflint who would do anything for a quick payout. These days the people, and the wildlife, stay well away from Greenwood Farm, which was fine with Michael. They were not welcome anyway.
It was bitterly cold Christmas Eve morning, made colder by McAllister’s refusal to warm the farm house for the estate meeting. Electricity wasn’t cheap, and he could wear more clothes if he needed to. Roberts, the gamekeeper, pulled his sheepskin jacket up around his ears and blew on his hands, waiting to be given the list of tasks to complete today.
“I saw fox prints last night, Roberts,” McAllister snapped without so much as a good morning. “A whole family of the blighters. If I lose any more chickens, you’ll be out on your ear!”
“Sir.” Roberts was noncommittal but made a mental note to leave some food out for the vixen. She’d recently had cubs and these were lean times. He’d also check the chicken wire on the coops. It wouldn’t do to lose any of the hens.
“I want the rat traps re-filled and the rabbit snares doubled. And stop putting out seeds for the blasted pheasants. They’ll get too fat to fly and there’ll be nothing to shoot next Spring.” McAllister glared at Roberts. “What? Why are you looking at me in that pathetic way?”
“Sorry, Sir, it’s just… It’s Christmas Eve,” Roberts began
“And?”
“Tis the season?” Roberts replied weakly. If Catherine had still been alive, the farm house would’ve been full of light and laughter as they planned what treats they would leave for the animals on Christmas Eve. She had been delighted when he reported the appearance of a badger sett. She would’ve loved seeing the cubs being born.
“Poppycock!” McAllister banged his hand on the table top. “I suppose you’ll be wanting time off tomorrow.”
“If at all convenient, Sir,” Roberts shifted awkwardly on the spot.
“It’s not convenient! It’s not at all convenient!” McAllister’s voice became high pitched with incredulity.  “But I suppose you must or you’ll have all the social media morons after me.  Trial by website, load of nonsense…” He turned his glare onto Roberts. “But you will finish these jobs before leaving today.” And he flung a barely legible list onto the table.
Roberts’ heart sank as he saw at the top of the list the words ‘lay badger traps’.

A Festive Bite of… Claire Buss

Q1:What are the essential ingredients for a festive story in your opinion?
Me personally I like snow on Christmas Eve, a bit of Santa magic, mince pies and tinsel, fairy lights and presents, love and warmth and forgiveness and of course, a Christmas miracle.

Q2:What do you most want to find under your Christmas tree this year?
I want a piano but considering I live in a teeny tiny flat I don’t think I’m going to get one this year. I hope for books, I always hope for books but don’t always get them. Anything else is icing.

Q3:Christmas pudding or Christmas cake and why?
Both I’m afraid. Christmas pudding has to be lit with brandy after Christmas dinner and eaten boiling hot with cream and then, and this is the important part, the rest must be put in the fridge to go solid and then eaten on Boxing Day and thereafter with natural yoghurt. Christmas cake is started in November on stir-up Sunday and then fed until marzipan and icing time. I then cut it into pieces, half goes to hubby’s work, rest gets frozen in bits and I end up eating Christmas cake until at least Easter but I don’t mind. It has to have nuts and cherries in it and I stick my marzipan on with marmalade because I don’t care for apricots. And it has to be royal icing and not fondant.

The perfect gift this festive season, The Sparkly Badgers’ Christmas Anthology is sold in aid of The Avon Riding Centre.

The face smiled, belying the words it spoke.

“We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath.

“Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.”

A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it.

“You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

VI

There were two other men in the hot bath, lazily reclined and talking in low voices. They were both, Dai could not fail to notice, wearing heavy Patrician rings so even when naked they were still marked out as superior beings, paunches and all.
“It is incredible who they allow in here nowadays,” one said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Dai. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I didn’t think natives were allowed in these baths – never seen one before, anyway,” his companion agreed. “I’ll have a word with the curator, we can get it removed.”
Dai was grateful the heat had already made his skin very flushed or hIS reactIon to their words might have been visible, as it was he decided it was not worth creating an issue that might fall back on Julia to deal with as she was the one who had signed him in as her guest. That was the only way any non-Roman would be allowed in a public premises deemed ‘sub aquila’ – where you had to walk under the eagle on the portico to get inside, and it meant she was personally responsible for his behaviour. So, instead, he curtailed his bathing and pulled himself out of the pool on the far side to from where the Romans lounged.
He had to walk past them to leave the pool room and as he did so, one made a crude gesture with one finger, his patrician’s ring glinting gold. Dai froze mid stride and turned back, fists balling as he did so.
“At least,” he said tightly, “I have a real dick and not just a picture of one on a ring.”
The water beside him erupted and he decided not to wait whilst the two heaved themselves from the water like bull seals onto a rock. Forgoing Roman tradition, Dai bypassed the cold bath and dressed quickly, vaguely aware of one of the two praetorians explaining to his irate fellow bathers that if anyone was going to be ejected from the baths it would be them and not the esteemed guest of their Tribune’s foster-sister.
He was still red-faced and not feeling happy when he stepped out of the lift an
d into the rooftop restaurant where he was meeting Julia. It was the sort of place that on his own meagre salary he would have struggled to pay for a starter. There were waving fronds of palm trees and wall sized tanks of tropical fish, a central water feature and tables both sheltered in the gigantic greenhouse or available on an open terrace overlooking the Tamesis.
Dai found mention of Julia’s name had him led by a silent servitor to one of the more secluded tables, made almost completely private by the positioning of various flowering shrubs. He ordered a jug of the house Falernian and hoped it would appeal to Julia’s palate. The menu made him feel a strong nostalgia for his usual favourite eating- out option. But he somehow doubted they would run to a garum and chip butty in this establishment.
He read through the ‘Prandium’ menu and wondered if he should settle for dove, or thrush, or splash out on a peacock salad. He usually preferred to avoid larger fowl when eating anything Roman as you never knew what it might be stuffed with, but this promised ‘Wafer thin curls of delicate roast peacock flesh, braised with honey and served on a bed of rocket and watercress.’
It seemed the best of an unattractive range of options. He wondered if Julia would want something more traditional and pondered the idea of watching her crunching baby mouse bones. It occurred to him, then, with a slight shock of surprise, that he could forgive her even that. He glanced at his wristphone and realised more time had passed than he had thought since they had parted; and she should be joining him any moment. The thought tripped up his heartbeat and he poured a glass of the Falernian, sipping at it to try and distract himself.
He was reaching to fill up the glass for a second time, then stopped and checked the time again. Unless she had decided to go for a full- on makeover, surely she should have been finished by now? Then he remembered something so stunningly simple his blood ran cold.
Marcella Tullia Junius was a woman.
He left the restaurant at a run, almost throwing the distraught servitor demanding payment out of his path. Using his wristphone he first contacted Edbert, who barely let him finish before swearing loudly and breaking off the call. Guessing that meant the burly Saxon had not seen her either, he quickly informed the praetorians so they could hopefully prevent Edbert bursting into a room full of naked Roman matrons. The screams told him he was too late.
They were all too late.
Julia had vanished.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook