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.

“This is an intrusion into my dear friend Octavia’s privacy,” the woman said imperiously. “It is intolerable.”
Dai lifted his head to see her eyes flash with anger and felt the sudden insignificance of a being a mere non-citizen, provincial Briton in the presence of over a hundred generations of pure Roman patrician breeding.
“I – I apologise, domina,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.
“I should think so. And if you wish to keep your job you will be certain this does not make it into any official report – or unofficial one. If a single word gets out, I promise you that I will ensure you have no job and no licence to live in Londinium ever again either. Do you understand?”
Dai felt his throat dry up. She more than had the power to do precisely that if she chose.
“I understand you, Domina Lydia.”
There was a slight flush of colour then in her face and for a moment Dai wondered at it, then he realised that she had not thought he recognised her.
“I am glad you do,” she said quietly. “You can leave now. I will look after poor Octavia. But remember what I said.” 
Dai bowed again and moved towards the front door, as Octavia detached herself from Bryn and was scooped up into the arms of Domina Lydia who made soothing noises and stroked her hair whilst glaring over her head with cold command at Dai and Bryn.

They left the apartment block in stunned silence and it was only once they were walking back to their vehicle Bryn broke it.
“You handled that well, Bard, your poet’s charm worked a treat.”
Dai shook his head.
“I’m out of practice, is all.”
Bryn stopped by a street stall.
“Two portions of garum and chips, not wrapped.”
They stood waiting as the chips were thrust into paper cones and the pungent sauce poured all over them. Bryn paid with his wrist phone and they continued walking, eating the chips as they went.
“Did you notice something odd?”
“I noticed a lot. Like the way you buried your head in her tits for example.”
“More like she did the burying bit.”
“You weren’t exactly fighting her off. Can’t say I blame you though. Not every day you get to put your face in the perfumed cleavage of a Roman matron. Or not without having your balls sliced off for it. Must have made it almost worth the threats from that pompous bitch at the end. Like we give a cracked cack whether some Roman lives in the lap of luxury or not.”
“It wasn’t that,” Dai said quietly.
Bryn looked at him.
“Oh?”
“No. She was just terrified we’d seen her there. She didn’t ask what had happened to Rufus or even who we were, which means she must have known us. And I don’t know if you have a celebrity job on the side, Bryn, but I’m really not that famous.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Brave Launcelot would kill the beast
He vowed to douse its flame
To triumph at the very least
And earn his knightly name 
The maiden fair a lovely sight 
Her hair a flaming red
Thought she’d like to lick the knight
And take him to her bed
Down from the sky the dragon fell
Full aeronautic grace
Inside the knight he rang a bell 
That shined within his face
Ignored they both the maiden’s plight
Together flew away
‘Twas her tough luck her parfait knight
Discovered he was gay

©jj 2019

The opening of The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

I am breeder number thirteen. In the last ten years I have given birth to seven children. I have never been permitted to see any of them, although I was lucky enough to hear each one cry as it was carried away to the nurseries. I know my babies must be healthy, because I am still here. Those who cannot bear viable infants do not stay. We do not know where they go.

Of the original twenty breeders brought to this place, only I and number eight remain. There have been many others. Some have stayed. Some have gone. Some have died. We currently number eleven. I am the only one who can read and write fluently. Those who raised me until I was brought here had me taught. At that time it was not forbidden.

I count myself lucky. I was raised by foster carers outside this place, and, although I have never been loved, I was raised carefully. Some others are not so fortunate. They have been wrenched from their families because they are fertile. They have had names. They have had mothers and fathers. They have known what it is to be loved. I pity them.

The keepers are not unkind, but we are little more than vessels to them. They consider our physical health carefully; as our only function is to provide the children the rich and powerful cannot make for themselves. Our mental health is less of a consideration, but as long as we perform regularly, and without complaining, they have no reason to make us miserable. Indeed, when it was discovered that I am literate, I was given books, and writing supplies, on condition that I made no attempt to teach anyone else these skills. I am too thankful for the solace to be found in reading to defy this prohibition. I also have my herb garden from whose produce I make simple remedies for female ailments. This is encouraged by our keepers.

For as long as I have conscious memory I have presented the world with a face of mild compliance. It is the hardest thing of all to do, especially when you burn inside. But it has kept me alive. Most of the other women in this place think me odd in the extreme, as I keep myself busy all day; they prefer to spend their days eating sweetmeats and their nights pleasuring each other. All the time, they speculate about the men who come to leave their seed in this place. This speculation is as bad for the mind as sexualised idleness and too much sweet food are for the body. If girls grow fat, keepers will restrict their access to foods, and drive them to the gymnasium for exercise, but if the minds of the same girls are clouded with foolish dreams about the fathers of their babies who is to care?

I have one friend; she is breeder number eight, the other survivor of the original intake of twenty girls. Mostly, number eight and I keep to our own company, although of late we have been joined by number sixty-two, a small, pale girl who had a hard time birthing twins, and seems to find our company a solace.

In order to retain our sanity, we decided long ago never to think about the men whose seed we incubate. We also try not to think about the babies.  Putting men out of our minds is easy, as we never see one. The seed is brought to us by the midwives, who implant it in our wombs with painful devices. And if there should be a difficult birth requiring the aid of a doctor, the doctor’s face is hidden. I have my babes easily, as does number eight, so I have never been even that close to a male person. The truth of the matter is that as far as memory serves me, I have never actually seen a man. The only time I can even remember having heard male voices is when we are gathered together and forced witness extreme punishment being meted out by the masked minions of the Enforcer.

Not thinking about the babies you have borne is more difficult, and I think all breeders have many wakeful nights wondering where our children are, and hoping they are loved. My friend and I never speak of it.

Eight and I take as much healthful exercise as we are allowed. We like best to run in the gardens, although this is not always possible. When we must stay inside, we run on the mechanical roads, and practice the hand-to-hand combat we learned from our friend, number two. She was an exquisite oriental girl who taught us the beautiful dance that is called Tai Kwon Do. She also taught us to balance our minds, and tricks to enable us to always present a calm exterior. When she went away, we were sad, but hid it in the ways she had taught us.

In the evenings, or when we are heavy with child, I read out loud and number eight makes exquisite embroideries. It is not such a bad life; at least we have companionship.

Jane Jago

MacAlistair’s a messy dog, with always muddy paws
For he’s a mucky puppy dog who trails the mud indoors
He’s the scourge of us his owners, and we often do despair
For when we see those pawprints, MacAlistair’s right there.

“MacAlistair! MacAlistair!” we call his name, “MacAlistair!”
He’s running through the flowerbeds and getting muddy paws
We have to yell his name so loud as he runs in the park
But the bold MacAlistair just thinks it’s all a lark.

MacAlistair’s a brindle dog, he’s very tall and lean
You’d know him if you see him as his paws are never clean
His eyes they are so dark and his legs so very long
By the time you see his pawprints, you’ll find that he’s long gone.

MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He’s a wolf who stalks the sitting room and leaves mud on the chairs
Then when you try to send him out, he thunders up the stairs
And all you see is trailing muddy pawprints everywhere!

He’s outwardly a cutie pie who children love to pet
Unless, of course, you need to get him out to see the vet
Then he becomes a racehorse and runs right down the street
And when you get to find him he’ll have smelly muddied feet.

Even when those pawprints are marking your new furniture
You just get out the Vax again and follow round their curvature.
MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He always looks so innocent you can’t keep up the glares.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You can listen to this on YouTube.

One will openly admit that one much prefers to read literature that has stood the test of time over that which is, so to say, fly-by-night literature from origins suspect and with no listed publisher willing to put their name on the colophon. One speaks, of course, of that dubious fraternity the ‘indie authorhood’.

But, one hears a baffled disciple murmur in perplexed tones, did not you, dear mentor, belong to that brave band of scribes who carve their own initials in the hall of publishing fame?

Ah, yes, indeed that is so. But one needs to be clear about the difference between one’s own sterling achievements and those who simply upload whatever dross they may have vomited over their keyboards in grunge ridden attics, whilst no doubt intoxicated by substances which one would struggle to pronounce as chemical formulae. The average ‘indie author’, dear reader who writes, is not worth the time of day. It is only the elite, the creme-de-la-best, such as your beloved pedagogue oneself, who shine brightly out from the pallid throng and thus are worthy of consideration as serious producers of literature.

So you may imagine one’s consternation when Mumsie returned from a holiday in some distant corner of darkest America, clutching a tome she had signed by some random author having purchased it at a garage sale or some such from all one could fathom. She seemed keener to discuss the beer she had been offered (Widmer Brothers drop top amber ale) and which she vowed went well with the Pernod and advocaat she always carries in her hip flask, than the author who proffered both beer and book.

“Read this,” she snapped and thrust the volume in ones face so one was confronted by a pair of glowing eyes. Not hers, these were on the cover of the book.”It puts the tosh you write in real perspective.”

Of course, one could not refuse such a challenge and so I did read.

My Review of Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

A police officer has a mental breakdown which explains why he sees things and believes the deluded young lady he encounters can work magic. A lot of people die and the policeman takes ever further leave of his senses. If one had been his superior one would have definitely fired him!

The best part is a brief glimpse inside the British Museum.

Three stars. One for the book and two for the cover with those dangerous-looking glowing eyes which was perfect for terrorising Mumsie, when lit from below and left on a table as she came in drunk. One can still hear the shriek in fond memory.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

(Contrary to the opinion expressed by that moronic son of mine Moons here, Hunting Darkness is a tense, supernatural thriller by Ian Bristow and that beer was very good. Cheers, Ian! – Ed. Jacintha Farquhar)

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.

Gosh, he thought, she’s pretty. They never said she would be pretty. That made it more difficult.

It’s not hard to deal with a man, or one of the creatures that crawl out of the abyss. But the execution of a young and pretty woman wasn’t what he signed up for.

He watched her through the sight of his laser rifle, entranced by both her prettiness and her attitude as she sneered at the city. Too proud to allow himself to choke, he slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

Pffft…

It was a comfort that she still looked pretty.

©jane jago

From ‘When Julia Met Edbert’ in Dying to be Friends by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Julia went into the hut and unloaded her food bag, before setting up the hut’s unreliably shielded coms link, thus making sure the place looked inhabited to a casual eye. She carried the rest of her belongings to a broad-trucked oak tree where she dropped the bag on the ground. Several trips, and a good deal of climbing, later she was satisfied with her arboreal nest. She sat in an accommodating fork right at the centre of the crown of the tree. She was barefoot, with two gel mattresses under her and a carefully woven twiggy roof over her head. She opened a self-heating food pouch with a momentary longing for the thick, tasty stew she had abandoned below. But, then again, stew laced with sleeping drugs…
Thanking her lucky stars that it was Augustus not December, she leaned against the rough tree trunk and closed her eyes. She must have drifted off to sleep because she was startled into wakefulness by the sound of coarse masculine voices speaking in a language that was definitely not Latin.
“Well, here’s the hut. Where’s the woman?”
“She can’t be far. Her stuff’s here.”
“It is indeed. So we wait. Khulan. You and the boy tether the northman and the hounds.”
At the sound of the coarse male voice speaking the Mongol tongue, Julia felt herself regressing to a twelve-year-old girl. A girl taken prisoner by Mongols and beaten half to death for disobedience before they tied her to a wooden bar and took turns raping her. She had been sure they were going to kill her, and they may well have done so had not a half a century of Legionaries arrived in the nick of time. She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but she still had nightmares – particularly about one Chingis, who had been amusing himself with a ligature about her throat in the moments before he met his demise.
She dragged her mind back to the here and now, peering cautiously around a branch. Right below her, a small man was tying a blond giant to the very tree on which she sat. The blond had his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck by which he was being secured to the huge trunk. Additionally, another man was tying two thin grey dogs to another tree, cruelly tightly. When they had done that, they picketed half a dozen sturdy, short-legged ponies, carefully choosing the less rich grass at the forest edge.
Julia held her breath, not moving a muscle, until a loud voice called from inside the hut.
“There’s a big pot of bantan here, and the woman won’t have any use for it. I’ve heated it. We may as well eat.”
The two braided Mongols cantered back towards the hut and Julia let out a careful breath. It seemed like she might be about to have a stroke of luck.
She dropped an acorn on the head of the man tied beneath her. He looked up incuriously, but his eyes widened when he realised there was a woman in the tree. Julia put a finger to her lips and smiled down. The big man nodded then allowed his head to drop back onto his chest.

E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

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

You are old, let me just make it clear
That even your knitting is queer
You should knit baby clothes
To warm tiny toes
Not merkins in purple cashmere

© jane jago

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

abotu (noun) – tribe of directionally challenged nomads

amind (noun) – the inability to think

beign (noun) – colour between beige and green often seen in the cardigans of off-duty geography teachers

bif (adjective) – descriptive of overweight men on gymnasium equipment

cotrive (verb) – cooperative toe sucking

doign (noun) – in architecture a big fat lump of stone serving no apparent purpose

ealier (comparative adjective) – of fish, longer

ewere (noun) – computer savvy half wolf

godness (noun) – pagan deity known for shortness of temper and thick ankles

irrlevent (adjective) – of authors motivated by angst and poverty

migth (noun) – biting insect similar to the Scottish midge, but native to the underwear of skinny women

myslef (noun) – small supernatural being with chronic anxiety

ne4ed (adjective) – being in possession of four knees

otu (noun) – Zimbabwean marsupial subsisting on beer and rich tea biscuits

presetner (noun) – woman on daytime TV who sits on the sofa next to an oily creep without cringing

pruruent (adjective) – of porridge being flavoured with prunes

shulk (verb) – to remove the calloused skin from the feet by means of a handy cheese grater

someoen (adjective) – of dogs or women, fond of an afternoon nap and liable to bite if rudely awoken

terhe (noun) – language spoken by the inhabitants of a small island in the North Sea whose attempts to enlarge the gene pool have led to some unfortunate encounters with irritated marsupials

zomie (noun) – a zed list homie

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

She awoke in a strange body. Hurting and being carried by a being that smelled unpleasantly of mammal flesh and its own exertions.

“Do you reckon her a virgin?”

“I dunno. But her won’t be.”

The coarse sounds were what she was beginning to be aware of as laughter. 

Not too much later she was dropped onto something yielding.

“Now us waits for her to wake up.”

She opened her eyes. Two hairy creatures looked down at her. One held her throat and the other lifted her single garment. It was to be their last action under earth’s pitiless sun…
©jane jago