From ‘The Unkillable Mr. Whiskers’ one of the stories in Pussycats Galore by Stephanie Barr. 

The cat, black as he was told, but with a white chest and feet and white whiskers and eyebrow hairs, lifted his head as he approached, his wide amber eyes unafraid. Instead, he sat primly on his cushion, regarding him with curiosity but not a speck of animosity. As Tony approached, telling himself one cat wasn’t worth two or three of the kids on his list, the cat twitched his whiskers, regarding him with the same intent calm. Then, with a volume that seemed inconsistent with this smallish creature, a buzz filled the room, a purr several sizes too big for this cat. 
There was something about the white whiskers and the black fur, the golden eyes, the white feet. Tony couldn’t help thinking this was, perhaps, the most adorable cat he had ever seen. The most adorable anything he had ever seen. 
But a job was a job. He was a pro. He reached out his hand to grab the cat by the neck. The cat turned his face into his gloved hand and rubbed his cheek against his fingers, his purr growing impossibly louder. Holy shit, what kind of monster wanted to kill a cat like this?
He couldn’t stop himself. He rubbed the cat’s ear, stroking his palm along the cat’s cheek and down its sleek body. The cat’s body rose to take his hand along his body and then moved closer, placing his front paws on his knee and batting at him for more attention. 
Damn, damn, damn. 
He couldn’t do it. No way he could kill this adorable, affectionate kitty in cold blood. Which left him with a serious problem. He took the job, which means he would be in bad favor with his previous benefactor. He’d lose the money. He’d lose reputation. He might even get a contract out on himself. He couldn’t afford to not do the job, which was the only reason he was here now. 
“Braow,” the cat said, injecting some of his mighty purr into his voice. Holy shit, that was cute. 
Only one thing to do, he decided, feeling various clocks ticking. He had to fake this cat’s death and sneak it out of there, far more challenging than just killing it. He scooped it up and gave it a quick cuddle. The cat responded without complaint. Then, he moved some tools around to make room for the cat in his bag. Fortunately, the cat wasn’t that large. But would he stay quiet. Had he brought any chloroform? No. He’d have to chance it. 
There was a standing lamp next to the table beside the window. It took more than one blow, but he managed to smash through the window—some of these older buildings didn’t have the tough glass. He knocked some of the other items on the table over, making a mess and leaving a cat-sized hole in the window. He reached in, petted the cat, and closed his fingers to tug some fur free, then wedge it into a broken corner of the glass. Only thing missing was a body. 
Well, it was New York. No telling what would happen to it.

Pussycats Galore is a book of short stories with cats as a central theme. Cats are already running rampant through my books. All of my novels has at least one cat and often it’s in a pivotal role. (or they are) so a cover I made as a joke took hold of my brain and I challenged to myself to write a book of stories all about cats. Naturally I love cats, not just because they’re soft and cuddlesome and purr, but because they’re also deadly creatures. That duality fascinates and intrigues me. And I use it in my books. Especially this one.

A Bite of… Stephanie Barr

Q1: Okay. Cats and dragons and rocket science. That’s a fascinating combo. Cats are understandable, but just how did a scientist come to be so invested in dragons?

Probably better to ask how a dragon-crazed kid, who collected Asian and European dragons, read mythology, every kind she could find, and loved fairy tales ended up in the practical side of space stuff.
Of course, I still wouldn’t know the answer. I always loved dragons and they were never antagonists to me, but mighty and ancient, so potentially wise. And, of course, there’s the flying thing. Plus, Anne McCaffery was one of my formative writers. 
I love intelligent creatures. I love creatures that are dangerous and intelligence. Cats and dragons both fit.
The rocket science thing, that was the fluke.

Q2: Given that you chose to parody soft porn in the title of this book, how much of a role does trope bashing have in your writing?

The cover started as a joke. There was a contretemps in the indie writing world with someone wanting to copyright the word “Cocky” in a title. Much angst went on, none of which directly affected me, but I drew up the cover as a joke, noting that Cocky wasn’t really my problem. Many laughed at the title (which has since become more family friendly) but at least two people told me the cover was too cheesy. No one would buy it. And that just set my back up.
To go to you question, however, I love it. I love challenging preconceived notions. The first short story I ever sold was a sword and sorcerer type fantasy story where my gal was coming into rescue her husband. In a novel based on the same characters, I gave that manly swordsman a flock of telepathic snarky kittens and made him learn magic. 
I love to make people think. There are many things in history that seem unbelievably horrific, but, if you give them context, you can understand how they happened, Sometimes that means violating a comfort zone. Sometimes, it’s as simple as showing an unusual perspective. 

Q3: What’s next for Stephanie Barr, writer? Give us a flavour of what you have in store for your readers.

So next is a paranormal romance set in close to the present day, something completely different for me. Which doesn’t mean much. I’m very eclectic anyway. I’ve found it cathartic, with all the ugliness going in the world, to write this story where someone ordinary-ish suddenly finds out she has the power to change the world. 
Only it’s not that simple. She accidentally unleashes a world-changing spell and starts a process that will, eventually, bring the magic world and the mundane world she lives in back into alignment. Dragons and other mythical beasties sneak over first. It’s a chosen one trope, something that I would nominally avoid, but then she’s no pawn driven by fate. She makes her own choices and isn’t what anyone expected. And that’s all to the good in my view. It will be called Catalyst and I’m hoping to have it out by November.  

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part time novelist and full-time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next! You can find Stephanie on her website, on Facebook, her FB fan group and her blog, subscribe to her newsletter or follow her on Twitter.

Mother named the four sons of her womb North, South, East and West. And the winds took life.

But what of the fifth cherub? Mother’s only daughter was pink and fat with cheeks full of wind and tossing curls. This mischievous imp flittered from quarter to quarter bringing gales and whirlwind as she flew.

“What can we do?” her brothers cried.

Eventually, Father rose from the sea and called his errant daughter to him, his touch making her beauty so transcendent that even the waters followed her.

Selene took wing, and the crescent moon appeared to light the night sky.

©jane jago

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. You can listen to this on YouTube.

“What new information did you have for me?” Julia asked. “You mentioned something when I arrived.”
Decimus frowned.
“I did?” Then his frown cleared. “Oh yes, I did, we have tracked down where Quintillas Publius Luca and his wife have been staying. They were under assumed names, of course. As he was the one banished, not her, there is no grounds to arrest her. But someone will have to go and break the news to that grieving widow too.”
“She can wait, this needs to be sorted first.”
It wasn’t too long before the sound of hurrying feet announced the return of the guard.
“Yes?” Decimus barked.
“The domina is not in the house. The rear door guard reports that she went out about two hours ago. A hovercab was waiting for her.”
“Thank you.”
The guard made a smart about turn and left the room. Julia poked around inside her head for something to say. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the guard came back.
“One Llewelyn asking for Domina Julia,” he said woodenly.
“Let him in, man. Let him in.”
Dai came in, looking, Julia thought, distinctly uncomfortable. She noticed there was a new garum stain on his tunic. Didero gave him a wry grin.
“It appears,” he said heavily, “that my lady wife, who may well be connected to your investigation, has chosen to leave home. I have no idea where she has gone, though I fully intend to find out.” He cracked his knuckles, which sounded as loud as a pistol shot in the quiet room. “So just spit out whatever it is you are worrying about phrasing tactfully. I promise not to bite your head off.”
“I can help with the whereabouts of the domina,” Dai’s voice was flat. “I’ve just left her. Considering what she promised would happen to me and Bryn if we didn’t keep our mouths shut, I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. But. I left Domina Lydia comforting the widow of Urbanus Hostilius Rufus.”
Didero leapt into action and before Julia had chance to think about what to do next, half a dozen grim-faced Praetorians were dispatched to the upmarket apartment building with orders to arrest anyone they found in the Rufus home.
Julia shared a grimace with Dai.
“Why do I have the distinct impression they won’t find anybody?”
Dai shrugged elaborately.
“There’s something else. I could be wrong, but I don’t think Rufus’ death came as news to the domina.”
Decimus looked at him soberly.
“You could be wrong, but you don’t think you are, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“So we wait.”
We do,” Julia agreed, then she had a thought. “There is something else we can do. The wife of Quintillas Publius Luca. I think she might be part of whatever is going on. You wouldn’t consider having her picked up, would you?”
“Why not? It smells to me like she could be up to her patrician titties in whatever is going on… apart from anything else she made no attempt to report her husband missing.”
He bashed his bell again and dispatched more Praetorians.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I did not know
When I kissed him all those years ago
In the snow 
He would take my life in his keeping
And never let me go
I did not know 
In that moment I had found the life of my life
I did not know 
That with that kiss I promised to be his wife
And now I’m old
And we kiss each night
Goodnight my love, we say
And we both remember a snowy kiss
That begun our love. That day

©️jj 2018

Dying to Find Proof is the tenth Dai and Julia Mystery from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

The all-wheel drew up at the back gate, the front gate being perpetually manned by a guard who would be very likely to inform Bestia of their visit even if he could not refuse access to the lady of the house. Vassenia ignored the speaker-phone and stuck out an arm to input some numbers into the digital pad on the gatepost. The gates swung open, squeaking horribly as they did so. Gerel winced, and Edbert hunched his shoulders in disapproval at such evidence of poor maintenance. The back gate being for staff was surprisingly close to the residence. Surprisingly because the main one, with which Julia was more familiar, stood at the far end of a long meandering driveway in order to show off the sumptuous grounds to visitors of status. 
Edbert parked the all-wheel on the raked gravel and handed the three women out. “Col, Bran. Please stay with the vehicle.”
The brothers bulked their muscles and Col went so far as to wink.
Vassenia smiled grimly. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
A uniformed steward stood at the front door. He looked deeply unhappy.
“Dominus Sextus says you are to be denied entry Domina.”
Vassenia looked coldly at the embarrassed servant.
“Whose house is this?”
“Yours, domina.”
“And whose money pays your wages?”
“Yours, domina.”
“So, just get out of my way.”
For a moment it was a toss-up who the unfortunate man was most afraid of, but in the end Vassenia was in front of him and Bestia was nowhere to be seen. He stepped back and the three women walked into the gloomy splendour of the over-decorated entrance. The steward tried to step in front of Edbert and the hounds, but found himself gently put aside by the blond giant.
Julia gave him her best flashing smile. “Don’t annoy my bodyguard. It’s not sensible.”
If it was possible for a person of such immense dignity to be said to run away then that was what the steward did, through the echoing corridors of leprous marble to escape from the frighteningly grim-faced quartet and their devil dogs.
Vassenia led the way through the comfortless modernity and the conspicuous displays of wealth to a surprisingly cozy sitting room.
“This is my boudoir. You can wait here while I find my stuff. And Sextus’ little secrets. No one is allowed in here but me – and that means no one.” 
Julia found the decor, which was rather disorderly in a comfortable way, somehow preferable to the much more formal look of the cenaculum where Vassenia had held her prandia before she had been compelled to withdraw from that social circle. Gerel sat in the window seat looking out over the strange topiary formations and spindly exotic plants of the villa’s formal garden.
“I did not know,” Gerel said quietly, “that it was possible for a garden to be ugly.”
“Anything can be ugly if it’s made without love and is all for show.” 
Edbert, who lounged in the doorway, grunted his agreement. “This whole place is a showpiece of wealth and ugly tastelessness. Except maybe this room.”
Vassenia padded back into the sitting room with two small leather cases in her hands.
“Now for Sextus’ books. They are in his suite. Through here.” She tapped what seemed at first glance to be the wall beside her. “Can somebody come with me and watch my back?”
Gerel followed her through a cleverly hidden doorway painted with trompe l’oeil panelling. They left the door open and Julia could see Vassenia pull out a cunningly fashioned set of steps and mount them with care. She seemed to be certain in her movements and Julia heard her give a small grunt of satisfaction just before Edbert’s wristphone bleeped.
“Faex. Bestia’s home.”
“Right. You grab the cases and get through that door. Shut it behind you and get the girls and the stuff out to the all-wheel. Beep me when you are out.”
“But. Julia.”
Julia set her teeth and showed Edbert the business end of her professional-quality nerve whip. “Me and the dogs can deal with that spado. And no, before you ask, I won’t have any hesitation in hurting him badly if he gets too close.”
Edbert looked as if he would like to argue but he must have recognised Julia’s determination. He picked up the bags in one huge hand and slipped through the door shutting it quietly behind him. Julia snapped her fingers and Canis and Lupo came to her side. Once the dogs were at her knees she turned her eyes back to the ugly garden.

You can pre-order your copy here. Leave us a message with proof of pre-order purchase and get a copy of Dying to be Accepted free!

Today we walked the early path 
The cloud was thick and low
A greyish mist sat in the grass
And muffled water’s flow
As we strolled I tuned my ear
To noisy drinking sounds
Where the dog lapped water clear
That bubbled from the ground
And when the murk rose from the beck
A drizzle took its place
That silvered the mane about dog’s neck
And gently bathed my face

©jj 2019

You can listen to this on YouTube.

It is not often one is granted insight into the mind of one’s parent through the medium of literature. But so it was that I came to understand Mumsie’s tendencies to overindulge in aspects of culture most regard as less desirable – sex and booze.

It was last summer and I had gone into her ‘retiring room’ to see if she had, yet again, absconded with my iPad as I had a hankering to take it and compose bucolic pastoral poetry whilst sitting in the garden. I needed something to provide the quintessential inspirational imagery so lacking in our squalid backyard, whilst I committed the consequential flow of rhyming commentary, contemporaneously to paper with pen.

Instead, I wound up reclining in the garden reading with interest a volume I had found poking out from under her favourite chair. It even reminded me of Mummy in appearance being much handled, rather fat and dog-eared. Surprisingly it had a Biblical quotation for its title, not something I would normally associate with my mater. There were also many self-revelatory notes in my mother’s long-lost youthful hand, highlighting passages or underlining phrases.

I later learned it is also a science-fiction classic.

The Review

There is much written nowadays about supernatural beings like vampires and angels and this book falls neatly in that category.

In this book, the angel called Michael Smith comes to earth from Mars. He is fabulously wealthy and naturally has magical powers. He lives in a commune where everyone runs around naked and has sex with everyone else and they eat dead people. He is eventually killed and comes back as a ghost to explain that he is going to take over the world with a new super-race, by evolving his followers. In the end, it turns out he was really an archangel.

I found the story by turns cloying, disgusting, strangely sensual, often all three together and always puzzling.

Three stars for the intriguing footnotes and marginal commentary from my maternal parent.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The waiter brought me soup. And a folded note. I picked up my spoon and ignored the paper. The boy grinned. I motioned him away.

He went. And I picked up the paper.

There were three words scrawled in a familiar hand. In spite of myself, I laughed.

I walked into my house and followed the line of discarded clothes to my big white bed. He sprawled there, on the duvet, dark, hairy and dangerous.

“Should’ve made you leave the stupid key.”

And that was all I had breath for. 

I guess divorce is on the back burner. For now…

©jane jago

Excerpt from Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

‘Enough’ the hulking Gregorius howled. ‘I have seen enough.’
The Sharing stopped and I became aware of the vampire before me trying to bring his will to bear on my mind. I kept my voice level and even.
‘Do you accept that I did not kill your brother?’
‘I do’ he said. I could feel the lie but said nothing.
The voice from the platform spoke again. ‘We find this female innocent of any wrongdoing. She did not kill your brother. Although she would have been within her rights so to do.’
The vampire howled again.
I pitched my voice with care. ‘He doesn’t believe. And he never will. I will never know a moment of peace while he is convinced I killed his twin.’
‘Perchance not’ the voice was measured. ‘What will you, Huntress?’
‘I will fight him.’
‘Fight him?’
‘Yes Great One. Fight him. To the death.’
‘Is this truly your will?’
‘It is.’
The vampire was delighted, and I could feel him beginning to gloat. Be over confident, I thought, therein lies your downfall my friend.
‘And does your Mate permit that you meet this vampire in single combat?’ Lucifer was polite.
Aascko spoke from behind my left shoulder. ‘It is not for me to permit or forbid. My Mate is free and equal. All I will say is that she has my love and support.’
‘Very well’ Gabriel’s discordant tones reverberated in my head. ‘It is agreed. You will begin on my count. Ready yourselves.’
Even as he spoke, the vampire brought the full weight of his mind to bear on me and leapt forward with his fangs exposed. I stood still for a second, as if pinned by his glamour. Then I made my move jumping towards the foul creature and butting his perfect nose with the bony ridge under my crest. Done properly, and believe me this was done extremely properly, such a move drives the bone in the nose right up into the opponent’s brain. As Gregorius fell like a huge rotten tree I reached into my weapon belt for a yew wood stake. I drove the stake into his heart and he crumbled into dust. There came a wind from behind me and the pile of dust was blown out of the vaulted space into eternity.
The disembodied voice from the platform spoke with deep contempt. ‘The vampire deserved to die. Probably more slowly than he did. He attacked foully, and was killed in fairness. Who is his Master?’
‘Raziel’ Lucifer bowed.
‘Summon him then.’
There came a sound like clashing cymbals and rattling drums, and a Dark Archangel walked carefully into the place. He bowed to the throne.
‘Almighty. What would you of me?’
‘Two vampires. One killed hell-hounds and almost killed a Helper. Then one Gregorius accused this female of killing his child. She agreed to fight him and he attacked before time. However the Huntress triumphed. I will have your word that this is where it ends.’
The Archangel bowed. ‘May I speak to the Huntress?’
‘You may. Politely.’

Jane Jago

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

Come on gran, Carpe Diem they said
But the pillow is soft to my head
I have doughnuts and milk
And my jammies are silk
So, f**k it, I’m staying in bed

© jane jago