It was a breathlessly hot day, and the feral dogs were mostly gathered in the shade of an olive grove. Big Denzil watched his mate pick her way between the sleeping forms. He greeted her.

“Do you walk well, mother of my pups?”

“I do,” then she flattened her ears to indicate amusement. “One’s eldest male pup is feeling less well though.”

“Tell on, my beloved.”

“He and Three-Toes found a dead fish down by the cistern. A long dead fish. Three-Toes’ dam warned them.”

“But they knew better?”

“They did. And they were as sick as humans…”

©️jj 2018

Tall Tale TV presents Ricochet, a story of misunderstanding, by Jane Jago.

Listen here

An extract from Hunting Darkness, a supernatural thriller by Ian Bristow

“I always came here with Williams,” Davis said, holding the pub door open for Sergeant Maddix. “It’s where we talked about our cases and—”
“—Drank?” Maddix suggested.
“Well—yeah, that as well,” Davis said, motioning to a nearby table that was uninhabited. “Nothing wrong with the odd pint or two to get the old grey cells squirming.”
“No, I reckon there isn’t,” Maddix said as she took the seat opposite Davis. “As long as it’s actually ‘a pint or two’ and not enough to get pissed.”
“Of course.”
“And allow me to reiterate my earlier statement—because men seem to have this way of not hearing when women set ground rules—this is not a date. It is merely the location we have chosen to conduct some of the conversational aspects of our work.”
Davis chuckled and said, “Look, Maddix, just because you’re an attractive woman doesn’t mean I am inevitably going to hit on you. You’re my sergeant—not a potential lover. Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t know what kind of men you’ve worked with in the past, but I’m not them, alright. I’m a professional, and I’m dedicated to my work. You’re here to learn from me and help me. Our job is among the most important there are, so don’t patronize me, as if I would see you as an opportunity to get laid, rather than as an understudy and part of the future of police work in this country.”
“Did you write that, or are you just that good at bullshitting your way through tough situations?”
Davis gaped at her for a moment until the amusement in her expression became clear. “Well played,” he said with a small grin. “No, I didn’t write that, but I reckon I am about as well-versed in bullshitting my way through tough situations as the best of them.”
“I thought you looked like a bullshitter.” She said, turning to a passing waitress. “Two pints of Broadside”
“Ah, you’ve got good taste. But how did you know to order one for me? What if I fancied the mild ales?”
“I might only just be promoted to sergeant, but I’m still a good detective. I read people. And you are quite obviously not a drinker of mild ales. You’ve got bitter drinker stamped right across your forehead.”
“Oh yeah?” Davis laughed. “How do you figure? Illuminate me.”
Maddix leaned forward on her chair, her eyes flickering over all aspects of Davis’ appearance. “Well, for starters—you’ve got short, easily manageable hair. That tells me you don’t like to fuss with things that aren’t necessary because it’s a waste of time—”
“And?”
“And people who drink mild ales tend to enjoy every sip because the beer is savory and sweet. Whereas bitters are punchy and to the point; perfect for a man who just wants to get on with it.”
By the time she was through, his dress sense, posture, inflection of words and mannerisms had all been attributed to his obvious preference towards bitter. He waited until it was clear she had finished, then chimed in.
“Okay, that was quite impressive. But there is a fundamental flaw in all of it.”
“Oh?” Maddix queried, her eyebrows raising. “And what is that, Inspector?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes you. Everything about you. You are very well put together. Your clothes are professional, yet just provocative enough to send an ideal message to those you feel might have relationship potential, which tells me you’re extremely thoughtful. You take your time with things. You want to savor moments. So by your earlier explanation, you should fancy mild ales. Because, like you so effectively stated, ‘people who drink mild ales tend to savor every sip.’ And that, Sergeant Maddix, is the flaw. If we are so different in exterior traits, why do we both drink bitter?”

A Bite of... Ian Bristow

Question One: As an American author, what made you decide to write a police procedural novel with a twist that is set in the United Kingdom? 

Well, my dad moved to the states from England in his twenties after meeting my mom on holiday. And his dad came to live with us when I was six, so basically all my life I’ve been exposed to a lot more English culture than an average American. However, that wasn’t the only reason I chose to write a novel set in the UK. I also love the English use of the language versus American use and think it opens the door for richly developed characters (not that the American use doesn’t, I’m just not as drawn to it). And lastly, I wanted an urban fantasy element in my story, one that hasn’t been used to death, such as vampires, werewolves, witches, etc. So I needed a location that could house an authentic fantasy element with real world ties (or potential ties). Druids were rumored to have shape-shifting capabilities, and there have been numerous big cat sightings in the UK over the years. To me, it was too good to miss.

Question Two: Although this feature is about Hunting Darkness, it doesn’t seem right not to ask a true Renaissance Man in which area of artistic endeavour he feels most challenged. So what is the hardest work for you? Music? Art? Literature? 

I would have to say that on the day, none of them feel like work at all. But more often I struggle to find the creative juices to write than paint or play music. I think that is largely because writing is the newest of the three art forms to be explored, so I have less experience with it. I’ve been making art since I was very young and started playing music seriously when I was thirteen. Didn’t write my first novel until I was twenty-eight.

Question Three: What is your weakness? Doughnuts? Cheese? Alcohol? Fast cars? Or something completely different?

 Am I only allowed one? I mean, you actually named two of them here; cheese and alcohol. I love both far more than they love me. Another weakness that is not named here is doubt. I think all who create doubt themselves to some capacity, and while a little doubt is just what’s needed to get one to understand the very real need to have their work critiqued, it can also be debilitating to the point of not allowing one to accomplish what one is capable of. So I say to any who read this; yes, doubt your work, but don’t doubt yourself.

About Ian Bristow:

Ian C. Bristow is the author of Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on another title and plans to release that in 2019. When he isn’t writing, he works as a freelance artist and enjoys composing and playing music. (Good food and a few beers with friends are always welcome as well).
As well as writing Ian runs a cover designing service, Bristow Design . You can find him on his Website, check out his awesome timelapse art videos with his own original music on YouTube or follow him on Twitter.

Revenge porn. Amal had heard the term, but it never had much relevance. Until…

Her sister was just of age when she went to a nightclub and met two guys who came close to  ruining her life, and gleefully posted a video of them doing it.

That wasn’t to be tolerated. Amal soon identified the ringleader’s habits. 

Then she dressed in her slinkiest and prowled the night. He beckoned her to his table. He didn’t see her slip the powder in his drink.  

However.

The pictures of him naked, bound and enjoying the attentions of two brawny stevedores went viral.

©️jj 2018

It isn’t given to everybody to be able to identify the precise moment when they fall for the love of their life…

It was Saturday night and the drifter drove his beat-up truck into just one more trail-end town. Truth to tell he would have preferred somewhere livelier as he had money in his pocket, but he was tired and hungry. He parked the Dodge outside a tiny diner only to see the closed sign go up on the door as he swung to the ground. An old timer and his equally ancient dog stopped and looked at him.
“Food at Belle’s Bar over the street’s better than the slop they serve here. Can even get decent coffee if’n you don’t want beer with your meal.”
The drifter tipped his hat in a grateful salute and made his way to Belle’s.

The old timer hadn’t lied about the food or the coffee. By the time the stranger had got outside of a huge plate of savoury stew, a generous helping of peach pie, and three large mugs of steaming hot coffee he was feeling almost human. He decided he might as well stay for a beer while he chewed over his options.

His usual Saturday night agenda involved picking up some lonely woman in a bar and getting invited back to her place for the night. He got bed and breakfast and his lady hostess got what he reckoned to be some pretty hot sex. Something for everybody, and no offence taken if his advances were spurned. However, he had worked for the better part of two months helping a group of dirt farmers plough and weed and build fences, so he was bone weary and he had money enough to get his own room. He’d have that beer and think. He bellied up to the bar and the woman tender stopped polishing glasses.
“I get you, bro?”
“Bro?” the drifter was amused and that made him look closer at the woman. She was maybe thirty years old, and plain of face, but with an infectious grin and the light of intelligence in a pair of strange bi-coloured eyes. She chuckled.
“Yup. Bro. Saves me trying to learn the names of all the damned fools that come in here looking for beer and sympathy.”
He found himself laughing too, and for some reason that felt good.
“I’ll take a beer please, and one for yourself.”

Somehow or other, he was still by the bar when it was closing time. He watched the bartender take off her apron and hang it on the beer pumps before he spoke.
“Anywhere I can get a room in these parts?”
She looked at him for a long moment then seemed to come to a decision.
“I got a bed too big for one woman.”
The drifter felt his smile flow across his cheeks. This one, he thought, would be a real pleasure. He held out a hand and the woman came around the bar and put her own hand in his.
“Hi, pretty lady,” he said, “my name’s…”
She put the fingers of her free hand across his mouth.
“Let’s just keep it to bro, shall we? This time tomorrow you’ll be gone and your name’ll be no manner of good to me.”
He nodded his understanding and they walked out of the bar shoulder to shoulder.

It wasn’t early when she slid from his embrace and padded out to the kitchen. He watched her go, marvelling at how comfortable she was in her own nakedness and how much he had enjoyed that nakedness. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He was still deep in thought when a voice floated in from the next room.
“I’m sorta making breakfast. What do you want on your toast?”
“A couple eggs would be good,” he responded without thinking.
Almost instantaneously a laughing face appeared in the doorway.
“Eggs bro? Sheesh. The sex wasn’t that good.”

And he knew at that moment that his fate lay in a one-horse trail-end town with this woman by his side.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

It was his last day driving the school bus, and he had it all worked out. He usually liked them younger, but… 

The logging track came up almost before he was ready but he pulled  the bus onto it. He grasped the straps and ropes and walked towards her.

She surprised him by opening the emergency door, but he was sure it was too high for her to jump out. However, it wasn’t too high for the wolves to jump in…

The searchers found him the next day. The expression of horror on his dead face told its own tale.

 ©️jj 2018

You can check it out here!

This, for some obscure reason beyond one’s not inconsiderable intellect, is one of Mummy’s all-time favourites. She starts reading it on the first of December each year, carefully husbanding it so that she reads the last few pages on Christmas Eve – inevitably drunk and crying snottily. I have been a party to this inexplicable ritual for most of my life, and, until I reached adulthood, Mumsie was in the habit of sitting on the side of my bed and reading this to me in instalments. In retrospect, this may perhaps have coloured my perception of Mr Dickens’ slight little thing. However, we shall persevere – because discipline is good for the soul.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

A Christmas classic.

Let us examine why.

In one’s estimation , his book taps into all the overused and overexposed ideas of Christmas sensibility. A major character called Scrooge. A major character notable for his meanness and lack of empathy…. Tell me how that is not jumping on the bandwagon of that name denoting meanness and lack of empathy. Yuletide ghosts. The deserving poor. A crippled child that is so sickeningly cute one almost wishes it would meet with an accident. The lack of originality in this thing almost beggars belief. And the story. The story is the apotheosis of predictability, it is the absolute nemesis of creative thought. Does it not glorify the mundane and deify that which is unbeautiful? Is it not the histoire of a plain old man with little to recommend him beyond his wealth? And by the end of this horrible little book is he not giving his wealth away? One. Does. Not. Comprehend.

In synopsis:

An unpleasant old man meets some ghosts and becomes somewhat less unpleasant as a consequence. A story peopled with every overused Christmas stereotype the author could find.

Conclusion:

Not for one of one’s exquisite sensibilities. However one must acknowledge its appeal to the undereducated, the maudlinly sentimental, the intoxicated, and those with an oleaginous attachment to an unrealistic ideal of Christmas.

Star rating:

No stars for originality. No stars for narrative arc. No stars for one’s own literary tastes. However one must award this author many shiny bright celestial beings for his ability to grasp the populace by its collective scrotum and insert his scribbling into the conscious of a whole nation. One must bow one’s head in the face of such financial acumen.

Read it and weep tears of frustration.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy's profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book, the worst ever 'how to write' book. Read IVy's advice with editorial comments on each blog piece by his mother, Jacintha. All courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

She was okay until that bloody song came on the radio. The one where he used to take her in his arms and slow dance her around the old scrubbed kitchen table, while whispering how he would love her forever.

Then one day he just never came home. Got hisself shot in a drive-by.

She did her best for the kids. Every day. And mostly she managed.

But that one song… 

She couldn’t believe it when she felt his beloved hands, and turned her face to his broad chest. 

Dancing with a ghost solves nothing, but it beats crying…

©️jj 2018

'Dying to be Fleeced' is one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus which is now available for pre-order

“Sheep.”
Dai pointed to the tussock pocked hillside that veered up sharply from the bottom of the valley. These sheep were a hardy local breed with grey-white fleeces and small curling horns. They moved with agility over the rocky slope, their flock spread out into groups, pairs and singletons.
It was early morning and the report of a new theft had them driving through the wild country that formed the hinterland between Viriconium and the coast.
“The first question I have,” Bryn said, his own gaze firmly on the narrow road ahead as it wound along beside a stream at the bottom of the valley, “is how do you take sheep from a hillside like that? I mean it’s not like they are in a field and you can just wave your arms at them and back up a trailer to the gate. You couldn’t bring something big enough to carry all those along a road like this anyway.”
They were heading out to the small crofting farm which had been the victim of the last sheep rustling incident, in the hope of gaining some insight into who might have known where the flock was when it was stolen.
“Dogs,” Dai said, wondering if he was right. “Or maybe people on quads?”
“At night?” Bryn sounded doubtful. “And over this terrain?” He gestured with one hand to the high-lifting hills on either side.
“Drones, then maybe? Though no one seems to have seen any around that shouldn’t be there, I did the checks. It does make you wonder.”
They reached the main farm buildings after a bumpy journey over a potholed mud and gravel track that led up from the road. Two skinny herding dogs with lolling tongues and high lifted tails followed the woman who owned the croft out of the door of the small cottage, built from local stone. She stayed by the house as Dai and Bryn parked up and got out, the dogs now sitting beside her. For a moment Dai was reminded of Canis and Lupo sitting beside Julia. These dogs had an owner not much taller than Julia was, but maybe a decade older. She stood, back held stiffly straight and chin lifted with an almost defensive pride, brown eyes fierce, her dark blonde hair half hidden under a woolly hat.
Bryn gave her a friendly nod as she looked between them. “You’ll be Hyla Edris, I’m SI Bryn Cartivel. We’re here…”
“About last night?” The woman’s voice sounded taut.
“That’s right. I was hoping you could help me understand a few things about what happened and then we might be able to get your sheep back more easily.”
Hyla Edris shook her head, and Dai was sure he could see an extra brightness of moisture in her eyes.
“No. You won’t be bringing my girls home. They’ll all be dead by now. But the fools that took them have no idea what they did.”
“What they..?”
“My girls weren’t bred for eating They were all bred for their wool. Five different rare breeds I had in my flock, from three different provinces. They were worth a lot, lot more than just meat on the hoof.”
“You’ll have insurance for them?”
“Oh, for sure, there is a man due out tomorrow to talk to me about it. Seems there was some problem with my paperwork. But that won’t bring my girls back, will it? And even though the money will help, my business is ruined.”
“You can get more sheep,” Dai said. “Surely even rare ones?”
The woman shook her head as if he was missing the point. Then she gestured towards a recently re-roofed outbuilding. “My business is spinning and weaving. I keep the sheep because I can’t buy in the wool I need. It’s not so simple as you think. But then you lot from Viriconium, you know next to nothing of what life is like for us here in the hill farms. We’re not all inbred yokels chasing round a few sheep, there’s some of us with a bit more going on.”
Dai spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I promise we will do our best to bring those who took your sheep to justice.”
Which was when she saw the silver band of Citizenship on his finger and her face changed. A quickly hidden mix of fear and anger.
“Roman justice. Killing people for entertainment. That’s not going to help me… dominus.” She made the honorific sound more like an insult.
Bryn cleared his throat.
“I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. Where were the sheep last night?”
The woman drew a tight breath as if to get herself back under control.
“I had them in the low field because I was supposed to have them microchipped today.”
“So it would have been relatively straightforward for someone to steal them? No need to go all over the hills for them?”
“Very.”
“Who would have known they were in that particular field?” Dai asked and almost winced at the ferocity of the look the question earned him.
“Most everyone in the area.”
“Local gossip is that good?”
This time there was more of contempt than anger in her face. She put a hand into the pocket of the long coat she was wearing and pulled out a much folded sheet of paper which she thrust into Dai’s hand. He opened it out noting the Demetae and Cornovii administrative area official logo at the top. It was a notice of compulsory microchipping of all sheep in the district. It included a list of names and dates for all the farms in the locality.
Dai passed the letter to Bryn who read it quickly.
“At least one other farm on this list has had their flock stolen,” he said.
“Now isn’t that just the coincidence.” Hyla Edris sounded bitter.

The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus

is available for pre-order now.