The little man with the beaky nose started the chant, and all the cross-legged celebrants joined in. As the smoke from the incense burners filled the air with heavy sweetness, the people began to sway from side to side – moving in disturbing unison.

The cat, Bast, stalked into the centre of the circle, and all around her the foreheads touched the ground in profound respect.

“Lighten our darkness.”

The yellow eyes studied her disciples. One fell face down. Speaking in tongues.

“The way of Enlightenment is a stony road.” 

As a mark of favour, the cat pissed on him.

©️jj 2018

Do you have a short story about a disabled person that is set in the future or near future?

If you like short stories and understand the importance of inclusion in your idea of the future, I might just have an anthology for you. It’s a charity anthology (this means there is no payment being offered for any submission) with all profits from sales benefiting the Special Olympics .

Every MC must be disabled and yet resolve the crisis. The key element is to show a physically or mentally disabled character has no bar to being a great protagonist.

Age level: should be no racier than PG 13

For more information, to support the venture or if you need help with your submission, please ask to join our Facebook Group.

Although the peacock feather fan was old it was as glorious as the day it left Constantinopolis in the baggage of a queen.

Beauty cared not that fans were thought unfashionable. She set fashion, and the swishing feathers perfectly expressed her moods. A jealous hand came over her shoulder and snatched the pretty thing, throwing it pettishly towards the roaring log fire. 

But somehow it fell short and a handsome gentleman returned it with a bow and a smile.

She whose hand sought destruction felt as though she had grasped both fire and ice. Her palm bore the cicatrise forever…

©️jj 2018

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

He came round lying in the snow, soaked through and frozen. It was dark and the pain of the cold in his body was sharp. It hurt to move and muscles screamed into cramp when he tried. He managed to get to his feet, head swimming and staggered against the wall.
“Are you alright? Here let me help you.”
The solicitous arm came out to go around him, but the glint of metal in the other hand woke Durban to his danger. He rammed his elbow back into his rescuer’s solar plexus, which did no more than make the man curse and forced himself into a staggering run away from the alley and into the main street. There were more people there and his assailant, mercifully, did not mount a pursuit.
The welcome sight of a tavern gave him the strength to cross the road and he pushed open the door into the warmth, his steps uneven.
“We don’t want your kind in here.” The voice was accompanied by a firm grip on his arm and he recalled, belatedly, that he looked more like a night-soil sweeper than a man of substance and his dull eyes and lurching steps must give the impression of insanity or drunkenness. He gripped the arm that seized him and spoke to the bald face, his voice commanding if hoarse.
“I have money, but I have been attacked and robbed. Send to the castle, to the Castellan of Cressida. You will receive gold from him, I promise.”
The face, round as one of the moons, seemed swamped with uncertainty, but Durban’s grip on the world was faltering and he had very little idea of anything until he became aware of lying in the warmth and Caer’s face surveying him with slight concern. He mustered a smile in response and tried to sit up.
They were in a private room of the tavern and he had been laid on blankets by the fire. Someone had removed his wet clothing and the frozen flesh was thawed.
“I might have imagined myself dead and transported to the garden of the gods until I saw your hideous face,” Durban said weakly.
The hideous face broke into an answering grin.
“You will wake from death into the torment of those who have offended the gods and my face will not be there,” Caer told him cheerfully. “I shall be lying in the arms of a well-built nymph and taking my pleasure as I am enjoying watching your sufferings. What happened to you?”
Durban pulled himself up and looked rueful. “I was mugged in the street.”
“They took your clothes and redressed you?”
“No. I was in disguise. There are some problems one can tackle best from the bottom up, some information which will not reach ears that look washed and have lobes that are adorned with jewels.”
“You should have had an escort.”
“Ah yes, that would have worked,” Durban agreed, “a peasant with three hulking well-armed soldiers watching his every step and coming running each time he sneezed.”
“You have men who are more subtle than that,” Caer chided. “Why did you not have them with you? You could have been killed.”
“I am used to taking my own risks and I am used to working alone,” Durban said. “Old habits die hard.”
“And so could you.”
“But not today. It remains for me to thank you for coming to my rescue. I hope you did not trouble our Most Honoured master with the matter?” Durban said it lightly and looked around as he did so. “I don’t suppose you brought me any clothes?”
“I have sent for some for you – you were lucky you had not changed your shirt, the quality of the cloth was about all that convinced the landlord to send for me and not throw you out to die in the snow,” Caer said. “And, no, I did not tell the Most Honoured One when you sent for me, as I did not know it was you. But he has been asking for you. He knows you left your men and went alone, you will need to have something to say to him.”
Durban smiled.
“I think he will forgive me when he hears what I have to say.”
“He always forgives you. You always know what to say to him.”
“I always say what he wants to hear,” Durban told him guilelessly. “All I have to do is work very hard to make sure that he wants to hear what I am able to say to him.”

E.M. Swift-Hook.

It was an arcane weapon small enough to fit a woman’s delicate hand, given to a lady of the night for her protection.

When the stranger came, she knew him for what he was and refused his advances. His reaction was swiftly vicious, with the body of her little sleeve dog delivered as notice of his intent.

She dried her tears and went to his office, where she was admitted to his presence without question. He looked up. Into the twin barrels of the derringer. 

She shot him in the testicles first. And, when he screamed, through his open mouth.

©️jj 2018

An extract from Self Love by TL Clark

Meet Molly; a 30-something florist with issues. 
With her health, and perhaps sanity hanging in the balance, she must face her personal demons, which sound uncannily like her mother. 
This is her personal-growth-whilst-shrinking story. Sprinkled with toils of weight loss, dredging dates, flowering friendship.
Will she blossom or wither?

The bride looks resplendent as she wafts down the aisle like a drifting cloud, but a stone plummets into the deep well of my stomach.
No, I’m not the bride, I’m over here. Cooee! See me waving my hand? No, back further, in the…1, 2, 3…17th row on the bride’s side.
I’m sandwiched between two very fat people. Really, I’m big myself, but I expect other fatties to have respect for one another’s parameters. Too many parts of our bodies are touching, and I’m really not comfortable with that. 
Yes, here I am. Hello, my name’s Molly. Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances. 
‘But you’re at a wedding,’ I hear you cry, ‘Surely this is a time of merriment and celebration?’ Well, not this one. Before I launch into vitriol, I’d like to point out that I’m not normally this bitter. But today’s one massive ordeal, and we’ve not even got to the vows yet. 
This bridezilla really takes the biscuit. She, who also answers to the name Amelia, contacted me a mere two weeks ago to call in a favour, as her florist let her down. Those were her words. But having worked on this wedding, I think the woman in white stamped her foot once too often and the florist quite rightly decided it simply wasn’t worth it.
I’m not even sure which favour Amelia thought I owed her. It’s not like she’s ever done anything for me. We worked together when I had an office job. She thought she ruled the roost even then, despite the fact we were on the same pay grade. 
Anyway, stupid gullible me felt some sort of obligation to help out an old…acquaintance. God, I can’t even bring myself to call her a friend. Why did I do this? 
I’m a florist. My business is still being built up, but it’s doing OK. I suppose I hoped a big wedding like this might help promote me a bit more. Oh, that sounds horrible, doesn’t it? But really, if she was as great a friend as she insinuated, wouldn’t she have hired me from the outset?
But no, she walked into my little house, armed with her mother. Yes, my business is run from home at the moment. Amelia oozed charm and implored me to come to her aid. What was I to do? I couldn’t say no. Maybe I should’ve, but I couldn’t.
Amelia, who had at best, disregarded my presence before, managed to enlist my services at mates’ rates. Her mother glared icy daggers at me the whole time, daring me to say no. I firmly believe she was disappointed that I didn’t give her an excuse to launch into a torrent of verbal abuse. 
Looking around the church I can see just how conned I was. I’m getting virtually nothing for all this work, and yet they don’t seem short of a bob or two. Nothing has been spared anywhere else. That dress alone must have a price tag in the thousands. 
That’s not even the worst thing. Do you want to know the most deplorable part of this whole sorry saga? Gyp! She demanded bloody gypsophila in her bouquet. You may know it as baby’s breath. The tiny white fluffy, ridiculous flowers are nothing but fillers used by lazy florists, or ones stuck in the eighties. It’s hideous and smells like cat pee.
I had tried to keep it to a minimum in the bouquet, and hid it as much as possible, but Amelia has only gone and bloody teased it out, so it’s sticking in all directions now. This is my professional reputation here. I’m spitting feathers.
The bridal bouquet contains as many peonies as my limited budget would allow, along with some hydrangeas, sweet peas, and roses; all in white. All designed to disguise the appearance and smell of the gyp. 

Catch the video on YouTube

A Bite of... TL Clark

Q1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?

With Molly, she’s as close as I may ever get to an autobiography tbh. Her story was inspired by (but not based on) my own Slimming World journey. I have been my own worst enemy, and called myself horrible names, and been my severest critic. I sometimes still am, but I’m a work in progress. And I’m getting better at being kind to myself. 

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I’m exploring different kinds of love, so yes, this includes different sexual orientations. There’s a gay boy who features heavily in my CSA survivor romance, Broken & Damaged Love. 
Love Bites uses my own pagan and witch learning to create a magickal world for my own witches. This paranormal romance has now won a bronze medal in the Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards. Not that I’m bragging. OK, I’m totally bragging; it’s awesome! 
Incidentally, there’s sexual fluidity in that duology too. 

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

Chocolate cake. I adore chocolate and exist on coffee, but can’t bear the two things mixed together. Does that make me weird? 

About TL Clark

TL Clark is a British author of heart-racing, tear-inducing tales of love.
Her mission is to explore different kinds of love, with the hope of uncovering some of its mysteries.
So far, she has discovered that coffee may be the source of life.

You can find TL Clark on Goodreads, Facebook, D2D, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, Bookbub and her own blog. You can also sign up for her newsletter.

Elder Beaumont got hisself killed, leaving behind a plain-faced, but wealthy, wife. When Brother Abram offered her the honour of becoming one of his wives, she refused him.

The shockwaves had barely settled when she took a husband of her own choosing, and there wasn’t a blamed thing to be done.

They could’ve shunned her, I guess. But wealth brings its own privilege.

Then she also married her husband’s brother.

The elders searched the holy book to no avail.

‘Each person may take such helpmeets as their soul deems correct, and their purse can afford.’

God knows no gender…

©️jj 2018

After sausages, bacon and hash browns, four men and one dog set off for a tramp along the river leaving Anna and Colin to finish their preparations and grin happily at each other.
“Thanks Colin.”
“No. Thank you. It’s been a pleasure working with you, plus you made me feel welcome and part of the family. Most folks try too hard, you know. Either to hide their homophobia or to feed their middle-class smugness at being so PC.”
“Yeah. I know. Danny and Paul. Plus forty-year-old spinsters get it too.”
“I guess. But you ain’t one of them any more. I’ll always be Ben’s gay little friend.”
“No. You’re Ben’s lover. And you and he are getting married.”
“I’m not sure we should.”
“Why. Don’t you love him?”
“It’s not that. I’m just not sure I should tie him down. Will he regret it?”
“How long have you been together?”
“Must be nearly twenty years. Though we were in the closet for quite some time.”
“Well then, you tosser. You’re tied down already. Marry the poor sod. He really, really wants to.”
Colin thought for a minute then grinned.
“Yes. I will. And we can squabble and fight and make love together for the rest of our lives.”
“You do that. And let’s have no more silly qualms.”
“No ma’am. Coffee then a shower?”
“Lovely.”

When Sam and the others returned, it was well past eleven o’clock so they headed for their rooms to tidy themselves. Sam found Anna in her underclothes staring with uncharacteristic indecision into her wardrobe.
“Sam. Help me. What do I wear?”
He grinned and went to look. Poking around among the hangers he found a pair of bright red jeans and a navy blue  French-looking thin cotton jumper with a fine red stripe.
“This,” he said firmly. “Bright, yet chic, and happy looking.”
Anna beamed at him.
“Spot on. You are a clever boy. Now what are you wearing?”
“I thought grey chinos and that cashmere sweater some woman bought me only last week. Do?”
“Yes. Smart, casual, and you look truly yummy in that sweater.”

They dressed quickly and Anna put her hair in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She gave herself a quick spritz of perfume and slid her rings onto her finger.
“We ready?”
“We are. And you look good enough to eat.”
He bent his head and took a quick nip of her bottom lip. “Yup. You taste edible too.”

And so it was that they went downstairs laughing. Just in time for a knock at the front door. Sam opened the door to find Jim and Patsy standing outside looking sheepish, with their two smallest sons behind them.
“I know we’re early, but Patsy couldn’t wait to see Anna.’
“Come in then,” Sam said.
They did, and Bill barrelled straight into his legs.
“Sam. Sam. Long time no see!”
Sam bent and picked him up.
“Yo Bill. You good?”
‘I am. You?”
“Excellent.”
Then he held out a hand to Charlie.
“You good my man?”
Charlie’s round eyes crinkled at the corners.
“I’m well. Happy birthday Sam.”
“Oh yes. I forgot,” Bill’s voice was conscience stricken, “happy birthday Sam.”
“Thanks guys.”

Meanwhile Anna put her arms around Patsy.
“Hello Pats,” she said simply.
They hugged for a long minute, then Patsy held Anna at arms’ length and studied her shrewdly.
“You dirty girl,” she said “you’ve been having sex!”
And they collapsed into giggles.

Hearing familiar voices, Bonnie poked her elegant head out of the kitchen.
“Hello Bon Bon. Have you got a kiss for your auntie?”
Bonnie obliged enthusiastically, giving Sam a chance to study the vision that was Patsy Cracksman en fête. She had obviously embraced big hair with enthusiasm, and paid considerable attention to her make-up, while her ample curves were emphasised by skintight black Lycra trousers and a silver leather coat with matching ankle boots sporting needle-sharp four-inch heels. He mentally winced at the thought of those heels on his beloved wooden floors.

Even as he told himself not to be so fucking middle class, Patsy sat down plump on the floor.
“Shoes Jim.”
Her husband produced a pair of embroidered ballet slippers from his pocket and proceeded to remove the boots and replace them with something more parquet friendly.
“Don’t want to fuck up this beautiful floor,” Pats said as she stroked both it and Bonnie with gentle hands.
“No,” Jim agreed. “Bet it cost you a packet.”
“Not really. It was here, under about ten lots of lino. But I hand finished it myself so there was some backache involved.”
“I’ll bet. The builders were about to varnish our staircase, but  Pats would have had a cow. So I hand finished that, and it about crocked me. But she loves wood. So I done it for her.”
“Soft bastard,” his wife commented, uncurling and springing to her feet with the neat athleticism Sam had noticed before, and which seemed so at variance with her ample curves and seeming indolence. She shrugged out of her coat revealing the promised leopard skin in the form of a softly-draped tunic which Sam recognised as cashmere and mentally priced at several hundred pounds. He relieved Jim of two coats and hung them on two of the many pegs that graced the panelling alongside the door.
“Only two junior Cracksmen?” Anna quirked a mobile eyebrow.
Jim smoke his forehead with a meaty hand.
“Jamie is coming with Rod. Shouldn’t be far behind us. The gruesome twosome begged to be excused. Some American cousins are visiting Ireland to buy some horses. My Dad is going over to help them choose…”
“Nuff said,” Anna couldn’t help grinning. “Horses versus me. No contest. And they barely know Sam.”
“Iggerant buggers,” Charlie murmured.

He got away with his cheek because Patsy’s eye fell on the picture of Bonnie in her flower garland.
“What a lovely picture, but why is Bonnie dressed up as a bridesmaid?”
Anna didn’t answer, just pushed aside the pocket doors to the dining room and gestured to the picture of her and Sam. It had been placed where it was the first thing anyone saw on entering the room and beneath it there was a table on which Colin had put Anna’s bouquet and a white leather book for people to write their good wishes in. For a moment there was silence, then Patsy grabbed Anna’s left hand. She stared at the rings on her friend’s finger and winked away a tear.
“You crafty cow. When? Where? How?”
“Yesterday. Register office. Just me, Sam, two witnesses and three bridesmaids. Bonnie was the prettiest. This is our wedding party.”
She got no further before Jim picked her up and swung her around as if she was a child. Then Patsy hugged her and kissed her fondly.
“Be happy Mrs Henderson.”
“I will, Mrs Cracksman.”
Bill and Charlie caught on fast and danced around like dervishes singing a happy invented song.
Patsy turned a mock scowl on Sam.
“You better be good to her, or I’ll skelp your backside for you.”
Then she smiled at him.
“But I can see you are. She looks so happy, I’d snivel if it wasn’t for all the slap on my face.”
Sam grinned back. Then a voice from the hallway shouted.
“Not got a kiss for an old friend?”

Jane Jago

“WTF is this?”

“You’re a Warrior Princess.”

“I’m more like a twelve-year-old’s wet dream.”

He blushed.

“Design the costume ourself, did we?”

She chose a plainly workmanlike broadsword and swung it experimentally.

“This is more like it…”

Looking at the telltale bulge in the front of his tights she folded her lips to contain her mirth.

He opted for a fencer’s foil from another era altogether.

“En garde.”

“Don’t be stupid. I could cut you in half with this thing.”

But he lunged.

She looked down at the two halves of his body. 

“At least you died happy.”

©️jj 2018

Folly comes in many forms
Usually with big horns
Sometimes has a name like…
Someone you would like to thump
Folly has so many faces
And it hides in many places
Best avoid it thou and I
Or one may swear and one may cry