The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

A Drabble by Jane Jago inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow.

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.

V

Some ten days had passed and although Marcella had yet to be apprehended, more than a few minor players were already facing the judgement of whatever gods they subscribed to – courtesy of the pre-Game ‘entertainments’ at the Augusta Arena. None of this made Julia feel any better. Frankly she was going stir crazy.
Decimus had kept her back after dismissing Dai once the hilarity over Bryn had faded.
“And you get to stay indoors too.”
She had lifted a shoulder.
“I mean it. You know Lydia always hated you and I wouldn’t put it past her to have had more than some rather sorry toughs lined up to cause you trouble. So I’ll have your word.”
She had not liked it at all, but she had promised.

They made an odd sort of household. Decimus had granted Dai guest status, giving the Vigiles a room in his own extensive apartments instead of in the barracks. This was something Dai clearly struggled with at times, not being used to the semi-formality of a Roman family setting. But he rose to the occasion in a way that made Julia feel a strange pride.
Decimus was often too preoccupied with events, including organising his wife’s appropriately lavish funeral, to keep her fully updated. But Dai, whose own freedom of movement was restricted to only being out with the protection of his men and an attached praetorian, actively sought her advice. This was a surprising turn of events and Julia found herself looking forward to her conversations with the prickly Celt.
To her secret pleasure, her womanly intuition told her that she wasn’t alone in finding a great deal of pleasure in their conversations. She began to have a sneaking impression that Dai was finding extra reasons to spend time in her company above and beyond the mere sharing of intelligence. She even wondered sometimes if he might not have started looking at her in a way that suggested he was far from oblivious to her as a woman. And that was a thought to ponder with more than a little pleasure.
But…
It was a beautiful morning, and the thought of another day inside four walls was scraping her nerves raw. Dai must have sensed her frustration because he looked up from his bread and honey and made a suggestion.
“Would a visit to the baths help?”
“It should be safe enough,” Decimus agreed, “and you do stink.”
Julia threw her bread at his head with unerring accuracy.
“Spado,” she said, entirely without heat. “But I would like to get out for a couple of hours.”
“Okay then,” Decimus waved a thick finger, “but you take Edbert and a couple of my boys along as muscle.”

Thus it was that a couple of hours later two Praetorian guards were idling in the atrium of the very expensive bathhouse favoured by the Roman elite of Londinium society, trying to pretend they were nothing to do with the uncouth Saxon who leaned on a wall cleaning his nails with a dagger, while Julia and Dai shared a private steam room, having both made good use of the gym equipment in the exercise rooms. 
In a nod to public morality, he wore a loincloth and she a short backless garment that just about covered her modesty. She couldn’t help a covert look under her lashes to discover that although his skin was as white as milk, his muscular torso was liberally sprinkled with springy-looking black hairs. For some reason, she found her very fingertips wondering how it would feel to touch the hairs on his chest and the thin line that marched down his flat belly towards his loincloth. She sat on her hands, and looked up into his face. There were laughing devils in his eyes that she had never seen there before.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

You primp your hair and paint your lips 
Put powder on your nose
But in the darkness of your eyes
Your inhibition shows
A girlhood stolen by the years
A heart remembering only tears 
An ear that tunes itself to fears
A mind convinced that dying nears
Your mirror shows a wrinkled face
Not some young smooth-faced maid
And all that life has taught to you
Is how to be afraid
I see the sorrow in your glance
The pain of having lost romance
Yet still I wish you’d take a chance
And, just once, lift your feet and dance 

©️JJ 2019

Our Weekend Wind Down today is the opening of Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow. When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival…

It was too late to make a difference, too late to save the mother they had abused.
Guthrie had known since he took the Director of Resources position at the Federation in 2166, ten years ago, that his efforts to slow humanity’s ravenous desires would most likely fail. They were too attached to the conveniences of the modern world. He glanced around his office, noting that he was no different with his antique cherrywood desk and livestream hologram projector and AI secretary.
Sighing, he took a sip of whiskey. How had humanity spiraled so far down this path? He had at least been hopeful of slowing the inevitable. But even that seemed impossible at this point. One man, no matter the title, was no match for such a united and opposing mindset—especially when so many in power sought only to reinforce ideas that coaxed people into a false sense of reality, one where mining materials in space would make all the problems go away. Nothing to fear. Business as usual. It was progress.
Progress.
The magic word that turned the public’s attention away from the wake of devastation they so wanted to ignore.
“Sir, you have an incoming stream from General Hawkins.”
The cool voice of his AI broke his thoughts.
“Accept the stream.” He sat up and adjusted his uniform as the holographic bust of a grey-haired man projected over his desk.
“Good afternoon, Director.”
“Afternoon, General. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no point beating around the bush on this…”
“Sir?”
“It’s finally happened,” Hawkins said. “We’ve found a host.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
Guthrie sat forward. “You mean to tell me you’ve found a suitable host and have taken the time to study it in enough detail to be absolutely sure? How am I just now hearing of this?”
“I wasn’t about to tell you before we had made, as you put it ‘absolutely sure’, was I? We’ve had several failed potentials over the last two years, so you can imagine my reservations. And beyond that, this is highly classified. Only a handful even know about it, and we intend to keep it that way. Up until now, you didn’t need to know.”
“You’ve always had a way with words.”
“It’s not my job to charm.”
“Point taken.” Guthrie took a sip of his whiskey to let Hawkins know he had no further comment.
“As I’m sure you will already know, the necessary steps going forward will need to be handled very carefully. If this gets leaked…”
“Indeed. Who has made the discovery?”
“A man named Mathew Hodgson. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Guthrie nodded. “I have. Brilliant man.”
“That he is.”
“But surely he doesn’t know where our intentions for his discovery truly lie?”
“Of course not. He’s under the impression we are only interested in data. Which, of course, we are—we are just more concerned with the practical applications of that data.”
“Can you link me a report on this ASAP?”
“Already have. Your secretary should be forwarding it to your handheld as we speak.”
“Excellent. I won’t lie, this news is hard to digest. I knew we were expending a lot of resources in our search, but a part of me thought it was wasted effort.”
“You and me both,” Hawkins said. “But this is nothing new for humanity, is it? We have always found a way. And I suspect we always will. I suppose that is the prize you earn for reaching the pinnacle of evolutionary success.”
Such arrogance made Guthrie shudder internally. He didn’t quite know how to respond without giving away the anger Hawkins’ last words had generated within him. That spark of anger led his thoughts back through their conversation. Words like ‘host’ and the deception of a brilliant man, whose agenda was purely academic, made him ashamed of his position and his peers. The way power manipulated the mind was truly frightening. But maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe he was just an idealist. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t understand where General Hawkins was coming from. This really was humanity’s last hope.
He just wished there was another way.

You can keep reading Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow which is available now.

Pawprints in the kitchen
Pawprints on the floor
Pawprints on the furniture
Pawprints on the door
Pawprints on the patio
Pawprints from the shed
Pawprints running up the stairs
Pawprints on the bed
Pawprints on the landing
Pawprints in the hall
Pawprints by the front door
Pawprints on the wall
Pawprints running everywhere
I don’t know where to start
I’d curse the mangy mutt but he’s
Run pawprints through my heart.

E.M. Swift-Hook

One encountered this book back in one’s tender teens when it was a set text for some examination or another. One’s peer group was set the task of reading this dull tome and writing about its dystopian view of nuclear holocaust.

Being a child of extreme sensitivity one approached the story of the end of the world with some trepidation. But one need not have worried, sailing through this pages affected one with no more than brain-crippling boredom…

Review

This is a book in which nothing happens. Repeatedly. Nobody does anything much. Basically they all stooge around waiting to die. There is no romance, no sex, no adventure, nothing to stir the soul. Some people are in Australia waiting to die. In the end they do so.

Our teachers attempted to inculcate in us the belief that this was a case of masterly understatement. They failed. Even one’s contemporaries, whose hard-handed masculinity sent shivers of excitement and fear down one’s spine to one little pink toeses, apostrophed this as dull and uninteresting. Although one clearly remembers that it was not they who were bent over the headmaster’s skinny thighs and beaten for their opinions.

This book would be an excellent cure for insomnia.

Stars: Zero (one can still feel the cane across one’s tender flesh).

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.

It was her birthday, and she dressed with care, wearing the dress he said suited her above all other and painting her face with subtle skill.

The meal was exquisitely prepared and faultlessly served. He smiled at her and she felt herself glow with joy. Maybe tonight, for her birthday he might just stay at home.

But he left, and the light went out of the celebration.

“You knew what he was when you married him,” her mother hissed.

She nodded, mute in her misery.

Even then she was managing until she found the discarded feminine underwear. 

In her bed…

©jj 2019

From Aaspa’s Eyes  an unusual fantasy by Jane Jago.

The whole family was breaking its fast when the gate guards bugled to announce visitors. Aascko and I wiped our mouths and went to investigate. It was my Father and his escort of doughty fighters. He jumped down from the back of his riding animal and came to hug me tightly. There was something at the back of his eyes that told me all was far from well and I put a hand up to his face.
‘What is it Papa?’
He smiled gently. ‘I think it would be best if we went inside your compound before I tell you.’
I knew he would have good reasons for his suggestion so I acquiesced.
We signalled to the gate guard and they permitted my Papa’s caravan to enter the grounds of our nest. Once the gate was closed, Papa went to a closed wagon and offered his arm to whomever was inside. A small, but upright, female figure dressed in an ill-fitting garment climbed carefully to the ground. Aascko ran to her side.
‘Mother?’ He put his arm around her and she winced. ‘What is it? Who hurt you?’
She couldn’t speak, just buried her face in her son’s burly chest and burst into tears.
‘Take her inside’ I said firmly. ‘We will do better with Food in front of us.’
Aascko smiled at me and escorted his Mother into the eating place. Sensing trouble, I called the three big imps to me and sent them off with Branwen. Owlet looked over his shoulder and I dropped him a quick wink before returning to the adults. I popped the sleeping Silver into her basket then ensured that everyone had hot java and fresh bread and honey in front of them. I sat down.
‘Okay Papa. Tell us.’
He looked to Aascko’s Mother for permission. She nodded and he spoke very quietly.
‘We left Home yesterday as soon as I got your message confirming that the imps wanted me to come. Just as it was getting towards dark, and we were thinking about pitching camp, we saw a lone female figure trudging along a little-used side road. This didn’t seem right to me, even less so when I recognised Moonflower. At first, she wouldn’t speak to me, but when she realised we meant her no harm she broke down completely. The leader of my guard has some skill with medicine and he treated her hurts, then we fed her and made her a bed in the wagon. It seems’ he said heavily ‘that her Mate has decided to repudiate her. He had her whipped naked from his nest.’
Aascko leapt to his feet.
‘I will kill him with my bare hands’ he whispered.
I considered that idea carefully. ‘You could, love. And I’d willingly serve the five years exile for patricide with you. But it wouldn’t be fair on the imps.’
He looked at me very hard, and for a moment his reaction hung in the balance, then he came around to where I was sitting and hid his face in my crest. I put up my hand, and he grasped it tightly.

Jane Jago.

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

When considering physical pleasure
There are very few things you can measure
Neither length, sir, nor girth
Is the measure of worth
It’s the way that you use them, my treasure

© jane jago

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

almsot (noun) – drunkard reliant on charitable donations to survive

bocan (noun) – pork-based sandwich filling

kund (noun) – well intentioned goat

mascarpine (noun) – soft cheese flavoured with disinfectant 

masocpic (noun) – a selfie taken whilst trying to pluck nostril hairs

na dback (adverb) – of marching, being persistently out of step 

parilment (noun) – collection of geezers getting fat on the sweat of others’ brows

prseit (noun) – confused clergy person with a magnificent moustache

pupit (noun) – a small mammal with sharp, yellow teeth and galloping halitosis

sopt (adjective) – of festival goers, soaked, normally with urine

stoy (noun) – text speak for dildo

tracjetory (noun) – path taken by drunk person when forcefully ejected from public house

understaoof (adjective) – of cardigans and woolly jumpers being covered in greyish beige bobbly bits irrespective of the original colour of the garment

wikkid (adjective) – of sheep having unusually aggressive attitude 

yar (noun) – mispronunciation of the word year promulgated by your TV Royal Correspondent

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