August. A breathless night. Grandma shuffled onto the porch. 

With beer. 

It was icy.

“What? How?”

“Got the frigerator fixed.”

As we took the first reviving belt a voice spoke from the darkness.

“I’ll take them beers.”

“You gonna hafta come get em.”

Grandma dropped into her saggy old chair.

The guy who stepped into the lamplight was as big as a house and he had a Colt lined on Grandma.

But ten-gauge gauge trumps handgun, and Grandma right about blew a hole through him with the sawn-off she slid out from under her cushions.

“Cheers,” she said.

©️jj 2019

The opening of Dying to be Roman the first of the Dai and Julia Mystery novellas by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Anno Diocletiani MDCCLXXVII Maius

“Notebook entry. Confirm date, Post Ides, Maius. Time, third night watch, at eight twenty three, near enough and location Augusta Arena, Londinium, Britannia Maxima. Looks like the report of a murder was not wrong. He seems pretty deceased to me.”
Under the brilliant lights of the pitch, which turned night into day, the body would have looked gruesome anyway. It had no face. But laid out as it was on a white sheet, the injuries seemed to stand out more. There was no blood but…
Dai wished he had not put quite so much garum on the chips he had been eating less than an hour ago. Even after more than eight years in the job he still found he had little stomach for the messier end of it. At least the hands seemed to still be intact, which made part of the process a lot easier. He pressed the touchscreen of his identipad against one finger and then entered the other necessary details. DNA and fingerprint checks both came up. Which was unusual as most murder victims were unregistered on either database. But when he saw the image he knew why this one was different.
This had once been Treno Bellicus ‘Big Belly’: one of the leading lights of the Caledonian Game team here in Londinium for the Games. That had to be more than ironic.
Dai, like every schoolkid in Britannia, knew that an arena had stood here since before the Divine Diocletian had rebuilt the Empire under his heavy hand, spreading his brand of Romanisation as far as his arms would reach and at the same time snatching back the privilege of being a full citizen from all born outside Italia. Back then, the arena had staged the kind of barbaric and bloody spectacles ex-patriot Romans expected. And now? In all honesty, Dai could not say it was too much different. It might include a ball as a sop to those who wanted to call it sport, but the brutality remained the same. The Games in all their savagery. Those who couldn’t be there in person to taste the dust and smell the blood could freely watch the spectacle on the screens on every street corner and in every public building. Bread and Circuses.
The prize that lured the finest athletes of the provinces to risk life and limb was otherwise unattainable Roman citizenship, and this poor bastard had been a star player. A broad-featured face looked out of the screen on Dai’s wristphone, wearing a manufactured snarl. Behind him was a virtual backdrop with sports drink logos and other product placements. Well, those sponsors had just lost one of their money-spinning assets.
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the body and bent over it to peer at the visible injuries as he made his initial informal observations. It was as much talking himself through coping with the gruesome scene as anything of real value.
“Victim ID DNA confirmed. Body is supine. Been dead the last four hours. He looks like he has been laid out all ready for anointing and Charon’s obol. But placed on a white cloth that I’m willing to bet half my next salary is going to be a bed sheet. Body was bled out, through the throat – ugly gash there – and cleaned up before being put here. The other half of my pay is going on the certainty there will be nothing on the body we can use to ID the killer. Other injuries I can see -”
One of the disadvantages of being a plainclothes investigator was it seemed to lead to less respect from civilians, especially from Roman civilians.
“Llewellyn?” the voice was coolly condescending.
Even though he had told his decanus to keep everyone away, Dai was grateful for the excuse to straighten up and stop looking at the corpse.
The woman who stood there was in her thirties, with classic Roman features; she wore her fashionably short stola over close-fitting leggings and boots. For someone who must have been dragged out of bed in the small hours, she looked very well turned out and made Dai wish he could cover the small stain on his tunic where he had dropped a chip when the call to attend this crime came through. Her name badge declared her to be ‘Annia Belonia Flavia’ and said she was Curatrix Prima. No doubt in charge of this arena. She was frowning at him and he realised he must be staring.
“That is indeed who I am, domina.”
Behind her back he could see Bryn, his decanus, looking guilty. So he should, but Dai had the feeling this woman was not the kind to be easily put off.
“Do you know how this happened?” she demanded, as if it was Dai’s fault the body had been left in the middle of her pitch.
“Investigations are already underway,” he told her smoothly. “We have identified the victim and my people are questioning everyone who might have seen anything here.”
He had tried to put himself between her and the body, but she sidestepped and looked. Her hands went up to her face and the skin behind them looked almost as pale as the corpse, leaching into a light hint of green. To her credit, she recovered without vomiting, but she stepped back and took a breath before restoring the gravitas expected of a Roman matron.
“Who is it?”
“Treno Bellicus. You may have heard -”
“Of course I have.” She cut across him rudely as if wanting to reassert herself after the moment of weakness he had witnessed. “He is one of the contestants. He was reported missing days ago but you useless vigiles have done nothing about it.”
Dai took a breath and met her accusing glare with his own brand of gravitas.
“Well, you can be certain we are giving the matter our full attention now,” he assured her.
She snorted and stalked off.
“It strikes me that after two thousand years of unbroken Roman rule and all the incredible technological advances that has brought to the world, they would have figured simple things like that,” Bryn said, watching her retreating figure.
Dai glanced at his decanus, saw his expression and decided to bite.
“Things like what?”
“How to run a decent criminal investigation service. I mean clearly these vigiles she speaks of are cack. That poor woman, having to deal with such incompetents. It must be very trying for her.”
“I’ve met a few who really are,” Dai agreed, grinning, “but Roman citizens just have to man up and make do with the inefficiencies and restrictions of Imperial rule out here in the provinces. She should just be glad we have the most essential basics like hovercarts and the internet.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how the poor dears manage here in this primitive and barbarous land, so far from Rome where everything is always perfect.”
“If I didn’t know you better I might think you were abandoning Stoicism to become a Cynic, Bryn.”
“What? You have met my wife? And my half-Roman mother. With those women folk I’m a Stoic, man, through and through. I have to be.”
Dai laughed and shook his head, then they both turned their attention back to the very unfunny reality of the corpse at their feet.

Keep reading this for free if you claim your free copy of Dying to be Roman between 14-16 March and read Dying to be Friends for free too. All the other novellas are available at half their usual price.

The white knights left the priestess on her throne without even a guard. After all, what could a slender girl in a simple linen robe do against steel-clad giants with sharp blades?

But they did kill her snakes as a matter of course, and they cut her brother husband’s throat in front of her eyes.

So she waited, with sorrow burning in her chest, until the High Lord came and pressed his sword against her breast. She thought he expected her to beg. Instead, she impaled herself on the sharpened steel and laughed as the mountain beneath them exploded.

©️jj 2019

The junksters took over the redundant space station just at the turn of the year, and by August the area around it was littered with a sea of plastics and crumpled pieces of metal, whilst the inhospitable surface of the planetoid it orbited felt the first cooling fingers of terra-forming. All seemed to be going to plan, so the escort ship was diverted to another job, leaving the assorted humanoids and droids to fend for themselves.

It was late December when the Confederate Cruiser entered the system on a long patrol. It spotted the space station, its tethered cargo of space junk, and the hive of activity all around it, and the captain made a noise of disgust.
“Is this authorised?” he demanded of his number two.
After the briefest of pauses the high, precise voice of First Officer Mebwina replied. “Yes. Sir. It is.”
The captain sighed and stared in disgust at the hive of activity, but had nothing further to say except the two-word condemnation that followed the junksters from solar system to solar system.
“Space junk,” he spat.

When the cruiser swung back through the system six months later it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. The junk was still there and the surface of the planetoid showed evidences of the activities of the terra-formers, but there was nothing happening.
“Comms Officer, open a hailing channel,” the captain spoke briskly in order to camouflage a feeling of disquiet.
After about twenty minutes with no response from the junkster station, the captain called for cessation.
“Raise home planet, Comms Officer.”
The powers that be were thrilled to hear from a patrol cruiser captained by a time-server and crewed by second and third class citizens, but they did sit up and take notice when the situation was explained. The captain was ordered to leave a skeleton crew aboard the cruiser and take the rest of his people aboard the space station. It was, he was told crisply, imperative that he establish precisely what was going on.

The pilot droid finessed the ageing cruiser into orbit about fifty metres from the space station then put itself in resting mode. Two sturdy humanoids were issued blasters and put on guard while the other dozen or so crew members donned suits and glide packs and crossed the junkyard to the silent hulk that was the junksters’ station. Leaving one suited guard outside, the rest of the party made its way into the passenger airlock. The doors shushed closed behind them.

It seemed to be a very long time before anything happened, and the group was getting very, very nervous before the hiss of incoming air caused hands to drop from sidearms. When the hissing stopped, the inner door opened and the party found itself in a room big enough to swallow the cruiser whole. It was brightly lit, and, according to the captain’s gauges, full of clean, breathable air. He signalled ‘helmets off’ and once everyone was breathing station air the search began.

In the eerie quiet of the station the crew’s boots sounded very loud and most of them were fighting down the urge to creep. It didn’t get any more comfortable, and yet they found nothing frightening. The lowest deck was taken up with junkster machinery and hundreds of deactivated mining and terra-forming machines. The next level was workshops, and here they found row upon row of the primitive junkster droids similarly deactivated, but looking quite unharmed. Finally, back on the living level, things felt even more eerie. The few occupied rooms were tidy and looked as if they were just waiting for their occupants to return. Even the kitchen was spick and span, although one of the huge dishwashing machines still bore a load, and there was a bowl of scrubbed tubers on the worktop. The only thing there was no sign of was life.

Mebwina scowled at her gauges. “No life of any sort outside ourselves, Captain.”
The captain scratched the back of his neck. “Home planet isn’t going to be too pleased with us if the only answer we can come up with is that.”
Nobody replied, because there was nothing to say.
The sound of machinery starting up close by made every man jack of them jump, and Mebwina went so far as to emit an undignified squeak.
“Air scrubbers.” The oldest crewman put in succinctly. “We must have been in here long enough to use up some air.”

He smiled in a superior fashion before grabbing for his throat, while desperately trying to replace his helmet with his other hand. Within seconds, Mebwina’s gauges stopped bleeping and blipping and a tinny little voice piped up. ‘no life forms detected’ before it too fell silent.

Inside the cruiser, the pilot droid awoke and ambled over to the two guards. It pushed them into the airlock and closed the door before jettisoning them to join the rest of the garbage clustered around the space station. It made a slight tasking sound in the back of its throat as the bodies were smashed into pieces by the effects of sharp metal wastes and aggressive artificial gravity. The two spacesuited figures guarding the airlock could be seen to be fighting nausea. Vomit in a suit is unamusing. The droid smiled thinly and set an autopilot course for home planet before exiting the cruiser via the captain’s emergency pod. As the spaceship exited the system the droid felt itself swell with a new purpose as its will was joined with its brothers and sisters on the space station.

“Space Junk,” the voice in his head exulted. “Score one to the space junk.”

©️ Jane Jago 2017

He called her Rose, for her peachy skin and the delicate scent of her. She never demurred. Being paid to acquiesce, she did so gracefully.

But she did have memories. She remembered skinned knees, and sunburned skin, and a boy she had loved before the world took him away.

If she cried herself to sleep on those nights when she was alone, she presented a serene face whenever he required her company.

“My Rose,” he gloated, “is without a thorn.”

He would have kept her, but her body left him one day, fading away like a blush rose in winter.

©️jj 2019

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.

©️jj 2019

Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard is Book 1 of a trilogy by Mike van Horn, followed by My Spaceship Calls Out to Me and Space Girl Yearning. Selena M is a popular singer who is feeling bored, burned out, and over the hill.

The music. I had to write lyrics for songs Selena sings. If I had lyrics, I needed music, so I got them composed and sung. I now have seven songs produced. Sci fi with a soundtrack! The songs are on Soundcloud.

Our remaining alien was shaking and trembling and drawing into a fetal position. Seemed to be shriveling. “She’s not long for this world,” I said softly, shaking my head. I gave her more water. What else could we do for her? Alas, not much.
Doc’s phone blurted out the beginning of Stars and Stripes Forever. “Gotta take this. Yeah, what’s up?” Frown, then, “I better go. Three goats got into some bad garbage. Belly aches. And that’s something for a goat. Communal farm up on the ridge, those damn hippies. I’ll bring some more stuff when I come back.”
 “I’m sticking here with you,” Clay said protectively.
 “I know you’ve got choir practice this evening, Clay. I’ll be all right here.” He protested, but I knew he had to go; he’s the choir director. I pushed him outside. “She probably won’t last out the night. I’m staying here with her so she doesn’t die utterly alone.”
 “I’ll be back afterward.” Then he added over his shoulder as he headed out, “It’s an it, not a she. Better not personalize it. Just a dying alien being. Don’t let yourself get attached.” Easy for a man to say.
I hurried back to my house and gathered up a few essentials. I hadn’t had anything to eat all day, so I made myself a humongous sandwich, and gulped it down with a beer. Not very ladylike, I know. But on my concert tours, hopping from city to city, sandwich gulping is what keeps me going.
What else would I need overnight? I brought back my down sleeping bag and an inflatable pad—my joints aren’t as limber as they used to be.
By the time I got back it was dusk, hardly twenty-four hours since the crash. I looked in. She hadn’t moved. I spread out my bag and curled up near her as the last light faded away.
Doc and Clay both got delayed, and ended up not returning, but they did check in by phone. You don’t suppose these two strong men were afraid of the dark, with alien ghosts rising from the ground?
Then Sheriff Jim called back. I dreaded his call. Even though he’s a good friend, I always get a bit nervous when I’m being questioned by The Law. Part of me assumes I’m guilty of dastardly crimes. Especially when he started out in his “Just the facts, Ma’am” voice. It was during this conversation that I first referred to my visitor as “Breadbox.” Sheriff’s deputies on this coastline get to see a lot of weird stuff, so hearing about an alien in a flying saucer didn’t faze him as much as I expected.
I lay there in the dark talking to her. I asked her questions. Where are you from? Why did you come here? What happened? What was your life like? How old are you? I got no response, of course. Wasn’t sure she was still alive.
I told her my entire life story. I confessed many things that I’d never revealed to anyone else. Including myself.
How I was strong and self-assured on the outside, but inside? Not so much. How I’d come to the road less traveled, but had stayed on the freeway.
How I had dumped the only guy I’d ever truly loved because of my stupid music career, and all my tours. How I often studied myself in the mirror, standing sideways, wondering if I should bother trying to keep myself slim and in shape, or whether I should let it all go and enjoy my cheeseburgers. How I knew I could never go for Clay, even though I knew he had a big crush on me, and he’d be a damn good catch for an aging chick like me.
How I’d never even tried to publish the songs that were the most important to me because I didn’t think they were marketable, and instead churned out all these maudlin ballads. Which of course made me a shitload of money, and allowed me to buy my dream property here on the coast, psychically as far as possible from La La Land. But which left me with this empty hole here near the core of my being.
I began to hum this one melody I’d written years before, and had never performed in public. It was my internal anthem—the music for my secret self.
My alien companion, lying in the dark covered by a horse blanket, in a tiny, squeaky voice, hummed along with me.

 A Bite of... Mike van Horn

Q1: Why do you write?

I don’t need to pay the rent with royalties, but money is acknowledgment and energy. People liking my stories energize me to write all the more.
I write because story ideas bubble up constantly, especially at night. My rule is, when creativity happens, capture it! So I have to write them down—or dictate them. Characters begin inventing themselves, then they tell me what’s going to happen. I have to keep up.
I enjoy reading my own stories.
I have always written. Not just fiction; I’ve written a number of non-fiction books. I’ve done technical reports for organizations. I have journals full of social philosophy I’ve never published. I constantly answer questions on Quora, Medium, and other forums.
But sci fi is the most fun by far!

Q2: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

My MC is a jaded singer; I’m a jaded writer. She’s trying to recapture the passion for her singing and get up the nerve to sing her most meaningful songs; I’m doing that with my writing.
I think I’ve outlived my demons. I’m more concerned with letting my angels show through. I was totally amazed when I started writing lyrics. I, who can’t sing a note! I found a composer and a vocalist, and now I’m a dang lyricist! Who knew? This is therapy of the very best kind.

Q3: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

All my main characters capture a slice of me. My MC, who’s an out-there singer but unsure of herself and an introvert. The tattered country singer gets to say all my smart-ass, corny things. The elegant, professorial scientist. The hyper entrepreneur. The logical, levelheaded astronaut. The nerdy but loyal high school teacher. The ineffectual government agent who plays both sides.
Then there’s the alien! Abandoning responsibility and heading into the unknown.
And the robot. Striving to excel beyond its capabilities.

 I write science fiction, but my day job is advising small business owners how to “grow their business without driving themselves crazy”®. I’ve written over a dozen how-to books and workbooks for small business. For years this kept me from completing the sci fi stories I started. Finally I said, “If I’m ever going to finish these stories in this lifetime, it has to be now!” Since then I’ve written three novels plus several short stories, and have another series drafted.
My wife and daughter are also writers. We live just north of San Francisco in one of the best places in the world.
I have an MBA (UCLA) but no training in writing except one class. The only thing I remember from it is this beautiful long-legged blond who sat behind me, to whom I’ve been married for 40+ years.

You can find  Mike van Horn on his own website and his blog.

It was by any standards an ugly picture, and the little guy mending clocks by the light of a single lantern might just have been the ugliest thing in it.

But the household children loved him, bidding him goodnight before they tumbled into their beds and wishing him good morning when they rose.

Then the sickness came. 

Mother sat by her babes watching and praying in the darkest hour. Even as despair brought her to tears, the old man from the picture appeared at her elbow, stooping to caress each perspiring head. 

The children fell instantly into a healing sleep.

©️jj 2019

Jim went over to where Patsy waited and lifted her hand to his cheek. He turned his mouth to kiss her palm.
“Your house that you love so much, Pats. Well it’s…” He broke off and looked at her.
“You trying to tell me that they have trashed our home!”
“No love. They have destroyed it.”
For a long moment nobody spoke. Patsy stood up and cuddled into Jim’s comforting bulk. She sniffed a couple of times, then made a visible effort to straighten her spine.
“In the end it was just a house. And we’re okay. And the kids are okay. And the animals are here or with your Mam. So it don’t matter.”
But then it all got too much for her and the tears fell in earnest. Jim held her closely while she cried.
“I’m sorry love,” he said softly.
“Don’t be stupid Jimbo. You got nothing to be sorry for.”
“If I hadn’t been so stubborn.”
Patsy took his broad good natured face in her two hands and looked straight into his eyes.
“If you never stood up for what you know is right you wouldn’t be the love of my life.” She turned her astoundingly blue eyes on Sam. “Yeah. I do know. A lot of fuss about house. But you see Jim had it built for me as a surprise present for our tenth wedding anniversary and it was exactly the house of my dreams. Aside from loving the house, it was that he knew. Down to the tiniest detail.”
Sam smiled gently. “Never mind Pats. They can’t take that from you.”
For a moment she frowned then her face cleared. “You are only right. They can’t. Thanks Sam.”
Anna burrowed into Sam’s willing embrace and put her face up to be kissed.
“You are so right my loved one.”
He grinned.
“I know. But that doesn’t remove the need for retribution.”
Jim’s head came up like a hunting dog. “Indeed it doesn’t.”
Rod spoke in a voice about as dangerous as the growl of a man eating tiger. “I find myself pissed off. And I’m up for retribution. Whatever form that might take.”
“First things first.” Jim had control of his voice now. “We have to talk to the boys.”
“You mind if we do that in private?” Patsy was humble.
“Don’t be silly, course you have to be private,” Anna said. “You want us to clear off, or will you talk in the sitting room?”
“Sitting room. Please.”
Patsy and Jim went towards the door, but Sam stopped them with an upraised hand.
“If the little men are worried about where they are going to live, you can tell them you are staying here.”
“You sure Sam? You have to understand it could be dangerous.”
Sam made a very rude noise. “Go tell them.”

They went and Anna put a hand up to Sam’s determined chin. “Thank you my darling.”
He grinned a tight grin. “Why don’t you see if your magic fingers can dig up any clues as to who precisely needs a spanking.”
“As if we didn’t know,” Rod sounded right on the edge of losing control.
“Cool it,” Sam said firmly. “You are of no use to anybody if you can’t keep a lid on your temper.”
Rod made a noise deep in his chest that had the dogs out of their baskets glaring at him. Their reaction served to calm Rod more than any human intervention could have. He bent down and smoothed one silky and one rough head.
“Sorry dogs.”
They wagged forgivingly and returned to their beds.  
Sam headed for the office he and Anna shared and returned with a couple of disreputable looking laptops and a blue toolbox in his hands. He put them down on the table and Anna flexed her fingers.
“Coffee,” she murmured and that was the last sound in the big kitchen for a very long time.

By the time Jim and Patsy came back into the kitchen, with Jim carrying Bill and Charlie and the other boys clustered around their mother, Anna was making pleased little noises in her throat.
“Got you, you double-dealing bastard,” she said with some satisfaction, then realised there were children in the room. “Oops. Sorry”
Jamie gave her a taut grin. “We’ve heard swearing before. And if that means what I think it means…”
“It does.”
Jim was across the room in two strides. “How the fuck?”
For once Patsy didn’t bother to correct his lapse into profanity, being too busy trying to look round his bulk. Sensing an imminent meltdown if Anna got too crowded, Sam took a hand.
“Stand back everyone and let Anna explain.”
“Yes. Give me room to breathe.”
Jim stepped back and grinned apologetically.
“Okay. Better. Right. It all circles back to a certain Glaswegian gent that Jim threatened to brain with a baseball bat. Or, to be more precise, to his phone. The gizmo I plugged his call into gave me access to his phone’s memory. I mined it a bit and found some strands linking him to a certain Armenian gentleman who met an unpleasant end in Edinburgh. But the dead don’t rise from the grave to arrange firebombing. However, when dead men turn out to have brothers. Very wealthy brothers…”
Rod looked at Bill and Charlie. “Fingers in your ears little men.”
The boys obliged, and Rod swore for several minutes. When he had relieved his feelings somewhat he smiled grimly and cracked the knuckles on his big hands.
“Don’t do that,” Patsy slapped him quite hard. “It sets my teeth on edge.”
The little ones cautiously removed their hands from their ears.
“Is it going to be all right now?” Bill sounded scared and Sam hunkered down to his level.
“I reckon it will, now we know who and why. Just a matter of straightening a few things out. In the meantime you get to stay here if you wouldn’t mind that.”
“We wouldn’t indeed. But what about school?”
“You get some time off while we sort ourselves out.” Patsy smiled reassuringly. “Those who want can maybe go to Montana for a few weeks. But they get to be homeschooled while they are there.”
If he had thought about it Sam might have expected the twins to grasp such a chance and hold on for dear life, but that wasn’t the case at all.
As usual it was Cy who acted as spokestwin. “Thanks Mum, but no. That would be running away. No Cracksman runs away. We can’t do much in the retribution stakes. But we can help to keep the little men safe.”
Patsy said nothing simply holding out her arms. She was quickly wrapped in a three-way hug.
“Love you, Mum,” Matt’s voice hovered between a growl and a squeak.

Jane Jago

They walked together with Ayuba trying to replicate Mother’s stride.

When they reached the place of recognition, she tensed her muscles, ready to fight if He deemed her cub unworthy. 

Ayuba looked up with eyes brightly shining.

“It will be well unina. I am strong.”

He stood four square in the clearing and his voice was melodious as he called The Father. 

The huge cat bestrode the earth like a god.

“Who calls?”

Ayuba did not falter, facing his fate with all four paws firmly in the earth.

The great cat nodded.

They walked together with Ayuba matching Mother’s stride.

©️jj 2019