A flash fiction by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Dermot and his brothers had been diggers all their lives. They earned their living digging, but they also dug for fun. Thus it was that the summer solstice saw them underground on The Plain setting to rights some tunnelling that was in more than the usual disrepair. 
They were making good time so they stopped for a supper of doorstep sandwiches and ochre coloured tea with condensed milk from Erkie’s thermos. When they finished, Dermot, who was a being of few words, belched and cocked a thumb at the workings. 
It was a goodish while later when their pickaxes hit rock. Or, to be more accurate, they hit one rock that stood smack in their way. It was a big one and seemed to have been driven right through the workings. Erkie give it an experimental shove and it rocked slightly.
“It’s as loose as a rotten tooth,” he grunted. “Do us take ‘n out?”
They looked to Dermot who licked the rock and sniffed carefully around the soil at its base. For a minute he frowned, as if trying to call something to mind, then he shrugged his meaty shoulders and gave Erkie and the lads an upward pointing thumb.
They set to work, scrabbling and scrooging in the dirt. To the uninitiated their approach would have looked shambolic, but there must have been some science involved, as the stone slowly began to list to one side. 
“Aisy do it boys,” Erkie recommended, “us don’t want ‘n down here in the tunnel with we.”
The wisdom of this was generally acknowledged and the work slowed to a snail’s pace.
Above ground in the predawn darkness the men in white robes danced around the stones. The Henge had been there since before the ancestors of their ancestors, but the Druids still came there on certain nights to enact their rituals and pray for the souls of those who had already gone to the God. As the sun began to rise the dancers felt movement beneath their feet. This was not something they had ever known before and one by one they grew still and a little afraid. As the light reached the standing stones they watched, with a sense of horror that reached deep into their souls as the giant that was the king stone rocked on his foundations and began to tilt drunkenly. The High Druid would have rushed forward but his acolytes held him back by main force.
It was as well they did, because there came a sort of a sucking sound from the bowels of the earth and the stone that had stood proud for millennia fell to one side with an earth-shattering crash. As it hit one of the sarsen stones it cracked along its mighty length and dropped to the greensward in two sharp-edged pieces.
In the absolute silence that followed this disaster a brown face poked its way out of the earth beside where the stone had stood and a pair of bright, brown eyes blinked in the dawn light.
Dermot took in the scene of devastation, the broken stone, the weeping druids, and the rising sun that no longer lit the king stone in glory. He was so moved that he used up two days’ worth of words in one go.
“Oh bugger,” he said, before disappearing into the tunnel and signalling his crew to get back to work.

©️jane jago

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

You are young so you shouldn’t be that
All pasty, complaisant and fat
With your mouth-ends turned down
And a grumpy-arse frown
From under your middle-aged hat

© jane jago

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

“Come forward and face your destiny.”
The voice from beneath the stag’s head mask that addressed the two warriors was, surprisingly, female.
Tiach and Kungrun obeyed, both having to bow their heads to pass under the lintel of the door. They stepped together into the booth their friends had woven from strips of willow and yew, the day before, then decorated with ribbons of brightly coloured cloth.
The unfamiliar weight of the ceremonial amber beads newly around his wrist, Tiach faced the unblinking gaze of the obsidian-eyed stag. Was he was making the right choice? All the doubts he had suppressed before rose up like taunting demons. He knew he was not supposed to look, but from the corner of his eye he could see the bearded profile of Kungrun’s face and caught the determined set of his expression.
Yes.
It was too late now for doubts.
They were committed and had to see this through. Not for themselves alone, but for those who would follow. They were the first in the clan to claim this right, but he knew they would not be the last.
The shamen was chanting and her voice rose with the smoke from the small fire of scented woods that she had lit. Both filling the booth. Then she grasped each man by the wrist with startling strength, pulling them around to face each other at last.
Feeling the smoothness of ancient bone thrust between his fingers, Tiach held his hand very still.
This was the moment.
The fragile bone that came from the breast of a long dead bird. How many had stood here before them, resolve tested by this symbolism? Who knew? But for sure it had never been two men who did so.
Taich found himself profoundly grateful that the smoke gave him every excuse for the tears in his eyes as the shamen spoke the words that bound him to his soulmate in marriage.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Picture by L. Steinworth

She was so pissed off. It was Friday night and he was ‘working late’. Again.

He had texted an apology, but this was the third time in a week. 

She put away the groceries and fed the cat, who came to sit on her lap in a show of silent solidarity.

An hour later he burst through the door, bringing the smell of snow and the enticing aroma of pizza.

He dropped the boxes on the table and swooped her in his arms.

“I’m sorry sweetheart.”

She kissed him ironically. “Trying to buy forgiveness?”

“No.” He grinned. “Feeding my love…”

©jj 2019

From Times of Change the second part of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The expression of compassion on her companion’s face made her realise that she was not dissembling with her usual skill and that her thoughts must be plain on her face. Fortunately, he was her friend as well as the most senior member of her council. Her hand was still clenched tightly on the letter he had given her, its heavy seals broken, neatly splitting the arrogant emblem of Qabal Vyazin – a fist in a plate-metal gauntlet, holding aloft a sword on which had been speared a crown. Harkera’s crown, she had thought, when reading the domineering demands within.
“I am sorry, Morvyn,” she said sincerely. “There has been so much happening over these last few days and now this.”
The man nodded with understanding.
“It has been a testing time for us all and so much more for you as Regent,” he agreed. “In eight generations nothing like this has been received by any Harkeran ruler. And yet now it is you, a widow, someone who has no blood-claim to the crown in your own right, who is being called upon to deal with a declaration of war.”
She knew he said it to show he felt it was unfair, not to suggest he had no faith in her ability and looked away from him, her eyes dropping demurely as if in agreement. He could not know that she had been trained from birth to deal with this day. She unfolded the vellum in her hands and read the text again.
His most excellent and puissant Highness, the Most Honoured Qabal Vyazin, Overlord of the Western Continent and protector of all the Free Cities of Temsevar, demanded the submission of his loyal vassal, the Lady Karlynne Roussal, Princess of the Realm of Harkera and all her family, together with all the Castellans and Vavasors of Harkera. She was required to present herself within one moon at the Overlord’s loyal city of Tabruth, together with all the nobles of Harkera, to make due submission to the Overlord and to affirm their loyalty and vassalage to him by blood-oath. In addition, she was required to bring with her in chains, the rebellious traitor Jariq Zarengor, who was known to be sheltering in Harkera under false pretences. She was also required to bring an appropriate bridal train and the Harkeran regalia of office and prepare herself for the honour of marriage with the Most Honoured Nariz Vyazin, Castellan of Telpus, the only son and sole heir of the Most Honoured Overlord…
“How old is Nariz?” she asked quietly.
“Four or five summers I believe – and is reportedly a sickly child. For all his potency as a warrior, Qabal has not proved so capable of fathering offspring – there are even rumours that the child is not his but was sired by one of his commanders.” Morvyn tactfully refrained from mentioning which one, but Jaelya had heard the same stories.
“A child of five and Karlynne more than twice his age.” With an angry gesture, she flung the vile letter down. In a matter of days her whole world had changed. Lynaz was taken and Tabruth, for all the Castellan had spoken fine words of resistance and alliance, had surrendered without a fight as soon as Vyazin’s army appeared on the horizon, whilst Kharzabad had accommodated before it was even threatened. Their reward was being allowed to keep power with client status to Qabal. The cities of the Tanist alliance were fighting amongst themselves and now Harkera stood alone.
For a moment Jaelya felt the weight of the burden upon her shoulders as something physical. What hope was there for Harkera against such power? But the image in her mind was of Karlynne, gently reared into the free-thinking, liberal Harkeran high-culture, alone and at the mercy of the harsh, barbaric court of Qabal Vyazin.
Morvyn might have read her thoughts.
“The wedding won’t happen. The Dewan will support you in refusing to allow it. I promise you that.” His voice dropped a little. “It will mean war of course, but we have expected that all along.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

You are old. Let me give you a tip
Your body’s too saggy to strip
It shouldn’t be you
Showing off your tattoo
At the head of a mass skinny dip

© jane jago

An extract from a new urban fantasy Austin Wyrd Book One of Valhalla AWOL and the first novel from Steve Curry.

 “Ok that’s pretty plain. Honestly I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything like it. Not that I doubt you Doc, but are you sure it was a straight line spelling my name? That hardly seems likely.”
“I tell you lad” Surprisingly he’d stayed away from a lecturing tone so far. “I was as skeptical and shocked as you. Spit a currant clear across the room. I dare say boy; let that be a lesson to you about reading of the runes while breaking your fast. There were oats and red currants all over the table. Of course, I couldn’t leave it at that and did a second casting. That’s the one that came up with death and waves of red.”
With the coffee brewing, we sat and discussed the exact orientation and location of each of the runes in his spread. That discussion was interrupted once when I realized that Grimmrr was dozing on the bed again. I swear it’s his bed more than mine. And a second realization was that the damned fox was gone. “Doc where’d the damned fox go? He’s not in there trying to eat my bird again?”
I was already at the doorway peering in to see Rafe stalking one of the grasshoppers when the professor answered. “What fox?” 
That’s one of his games I hate. I’ve seen that fox dozens of times, always with the professor, and he has never once admitted that it exists. 
“Besides he only grabbed one flight feather. Rafe is already flying again. No harm done.” Consistency was never part of conversations about the fox. I had no doubt that if I tried to follow up the inconsistency of a nonexistent fox only taking one feather, Eachan would once more reply with “what fox?”
Enough is enough. I shook my head and grabbed a couple of thick stone mugs. Filling each with the rich aromatic coffee, I placed one in front of the professor and sat down with my own. Brown sugar and a smaller pitcher of heavy cream were already on the table along with some scones the prof had brought along. That occasioned a lengthy and pleasant lull in conversation as the scones and red-brown coffee with cream required a certain level of commitment and concentration. It left me just enough free will to divert my thoughts to the runic revelations as well as Eachan’s restraint in questioning me.
Eachan knows I have a strange and shadowed history. He’s always had the courtesy not to press me too much about it though. Perhaps his old-world manners come from being a modern pagan and educator. The curiosity probably ate at him on a minute by minute basis. Would it have surprised me to find out he’d been delving into my past with his runes? Not particularly. Would it have upset me? Again, not particularly. However, it might have surprised me if he’d uncovered anything too deeply hidden.
I’m no slouch with those same runes. That’s possibly what had drawn us into our odd little friendship. We’d bumped into each other at a coffee shop and he had noticed and remarked on a bit of runic work in one of my earrings. Normally I’m better about concealing runes, tattoos, symbols and identifying marks you know? I guess Verdandi or one of the other two Norns had given me a little nudge. I mean, I doubt I’m completely hidden from those three. All seeing goddesses of destiny are hellaciously hard to hide from. Norns have an unfair advantage just like ancestral watchers called Disir or a couple of Ravens I don’t even want to think about much less name and a similar pair of wolves. The only reason I don’t worry about the Big Eye-patch in the sky is I’m probably not really worth his time.

A Bite of… Steve Curry

Q1: If you could take your main character out for a drink where would you go and what would you most want to talk about? 

That is a very good question indeed. I had to stop and actively consider. You would think it would be easy. Magnus is top “Security” guy and assistant manager at a heavy metal and Goth themed bar in Austin Texas. Helstyxx would seem to be the instant choice. However the bar seems to be a magnet for trouble so we’ll skip that for a conversation. I considered a few cups of coffee and the mega-breakfast deal at Waffle-shack, (a chain comprising of perhaps three locations thus far and all of them are somewhere in my head.) But finally, Magnus, in my current WIP, is in the “Big Easy”. Perhaps, if he extricates himself and everyone important from whatever havok is about to occur we can go to a zydeco dive and enjoy the obligatory buy-one-get-three buckets of beer, Abita Amber would be the logical choice. Once there we’d have to talk about Runes, and what it might take to get Freja or maybe Asa Thor to intervene and get a skaldorly inclined fellow into one of their domains rather than the primal machismo of Valhalla or the plain boredom of Hel.

Q2: What were the high and low points of writing your first book? 

We’ll start with the low point. I never had any confidence in writing. My wife pushed me at it for a couple of decades after various RPG games and sessions but I was highly resistant. Once I started writing during downtime at a regular job, well it took me two years to knock this book out. Another year of dithering about it, and perhaps most of a fourth year to finally pull the trigger on this puppy. The high point? Pulling that trigger and sending messages to a bunch of friends and family with the Zon page and pre-order status. Not for sales, but more of a “Hey! Look what I finally did!”

Q3: If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

Right now my hometown in Lubbock, TX is top of the list. My mother is ageing, my kids are grown and starting their own families, and my first granddaughter is about to start kindergarten. I wouldn’t miss these years for the world. After that though? I’ve travelled a ton and my wife still thinks about it. A nomad life would fit either of us, if it weren’t for a mongol sized horde of cats and a couple of oversized and worthless hounds. To settle someplace else? We both loved the energy in Sedona AZ, or Taos New Mexico and I personally fell in love with the people, the geography and  much more in Utah. 

Steve Curry is a fledgeling author just beginning to use a spread of experiences and careers. His current forays into writing are Urban Fantasy infused with Culinary tidbits from a decade as a Le Cordon Bleu chef. Military weapons and protocols plus realistic medical and physical descriptions abound from his work with Uncle Sam’s Army NBC branch and time as a Licensed Respiratory Therapist in ICUs across the nation. Toss in lots of mythology, new age religion, supernatural goodness and real world history along with a soupcon of Jim Butcher’s humor, and a few pinches of Robert Parker’s character building traits to see how he’ll entertain you.
He currently resides in West Texas under the management of a yellow hound dog with claims on most of a large bed. Others in the hierarchy are an imperial princess and rainbow unicorn riding granddaughter, his wife, the imperial queen and mistress of eyerolls, and an uncountable horde of invading mongrel cats. You can find him on Facebook and his own website.

The child was born dead, and it was as if the ice of that winter settled into her heart. 

Her husband watched her slipping away with hopeless eyes and a heart that feared she would never make the spring.

But she did, barely, walking through the new growth like a wraith. 

The garden drew her, and as the flowers put up their shoots and the trees began to wear a haze of green she forced herself to face the hurtful truth. 

The tender violets were lifting their faces to the sky on the first day she allowed herself to cry.

©jj 2019

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.

It had got dark and by the time Dai had picked up Bryn it was well past time for the evening meal.
“Don’t worry, Bard, we’ll grab some chips and garum when we’ve done this,” Bryn said cheerfully. “So this woman is a real patrician and she was married to one of the sleaziest of sleazebag bad-boy Romans you could ever come across? You have to wonder how that could happen. I thought them families had all kinds of laws that said unless the entire gens agreed, three augurs all peed purple piss on the kalends and the lares farted ‘Salve Oh Divine Augustus’ in harmony, the marriage wasn’t valid?”
Dai grinned. After the day he had just been through it was good to have Bryn’s caustic humour.
“Something like that,” he agreed. “But maybe our friend Rufus just bribed, conned or blackmailed them all.”
“Poor bloody bitch, if so. Would mean she’d been sold off to a wrong ‘un, a real bad boy.”
This apartment block was almost the twin of the one Dai had visited with Julia earlier that day. The same placid exterior, the same mosaic floors with the same designs. It was like having a bad repeating dream. Except this time there was no corpse to welcome them at the door.  Instead, there was a slightly sleepy looking, extremely beautiful girl. She had light brown hair piled up in a very fashionable style, and the most exquisite blue eyes which were set off by the lapis jewellery she was wearing. Dai regretted that so far they could only see her face on the screen by the door.
“Vigiles?” She barely glanced at the ID Dai offered and did not even ask their names. Dai had the feeling this was something of a routine event in her life. “What’s Roo-Roo done now?”
“Can we come in please, domina?” Dai asked politely. “This is something we need to talk about in person.”
“Well, you could,” she said smiling and then put a ripe strawberry in her mouth and licked the juice off her fingers.
“Uh, thank you,” Dai said, a little uncertain when the door remained closed. The face on the small screen smiled at him.
“You could,” she repeated, “but Roo-Roo would kill me if I had any men in the house when he was away.” She looked very serious.
“This is a very important matter concerning Roo-Roo – concerning your husband, domina. Please let me in, or if you insist I can send for a female vigiles to speak with you?”
Her expression changed and she screwed up her nose as if the very idea disgusted her. It seemed an extreme reaction.
“I’d better hope Roo-Roo doesn’t come home whilst you are here then.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook 

My face in the cold light of morning looks
Creased and deeply bemused
Like the crumpled leaves of a very old book
A novel that’s been harshly used
Like a discarded paper bag
Or an unwanted Christmas gift
The years have caused the skin to sag
But the fear of the needle precludes a lift
My chins in the morning number
Three and sometimes four
As into the bathroom I lumber
And lean against the hard door
Refusing to look at my reflection 
I step into the shower
Where the comfort of steam and recollection 
Gets me through this hour
I know how my face in the morning appears
But not for the rest of the day 
I have been practising all of these years
Just keeping my eyes turned away

©️jj 2019