It is August, the month when the true cognoscenti abandon home to imbibe sun, culture and romance. My maternal parent has boarded a flight to Goa and I am lifted on finer wings to explore his native Greece with my dear Stavros. I leave you who are chained to your domestic soil with some whimsy from my poetic genius. À bientôt!

The Seagull

Once upon a picnic beery, whilst I guzzled, drunk and cheery,
Over the tartan blanket spurious, spoke words which could only bore –
While I waffled, sometimes rapping, suddenly there came a flapping
As of some bird quickly crapping, crapping on my fresh coleslaw.
“Tis a bloody gull!” I shouted. “Crapping in my fresh coleslaw.
“Shoot the bugger!” I did roar.

And the seagull, never flitting, still is shitting, STILL IS SHITTING!
All across the tartan blanket and the bowl of my coleslaw!
Soon his evil squawk brings streaming every seagull near, it’s seeming
And the flock of flockers teeming do devour my picnic more,
Thus, my cup of fine Prosecco now is spilt upon the floor.
I shall picnic – nevermore!

 

Sonnet IV

Within the inglenook of creeping night
I steal Calliope’s wings steeped with flame
And an homunculus enters my sight
Bearing aloft a banner with my name.
I stalk to rocky kloofs of distant height
To claim the fabled phoenix for my own
And by the wounding pens terrible might
I slay the fierce chimera all alone.
Those Labyrinthine paths conquered by right
So now upon my head Theseus crown
Marks my soliloquy of posey bright
As in Morpheus arms I softly drown.
From forth my dreams thus comes triumphs of rhyme
For of the Muses choice, I am the prime.

 

Hibiscus

Hibiscus bloom of palest pink
I have not words, I have not ink
To speak of love’s bepetalled face
Watch from afar who walks in grace
Who walks in beauty as the dawn
Who in my breast true love doth spawn
Who shines like effervescent gold
Who shall not wither, nor grow old
Hibiscus bloom thy petals ope
And face the sun and dash my hopes
Hibiscus bloom of palest hue
Who murders hope with lies untrue
Hibiscus bloom of stainless steel
Who stamps my love beneath her heel

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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An extract from The Long Game by Jane Jago.

‘… as it seems we have a while to wait I promised your wife I would tell you my story. But before I begin my part of the tale there are things I need to say about the thirteen houses, things that are secrets and must never leave these four walls.’ Her listeners nodded, so she carried on. ‘Many of the houses prize purity of line above anything. They marry cousin to cousin, and sometimes closer than that. This is, as anyone who breeds animals must know, not a good thing. The pure bloodlines of many of the families have been contaminated by inbreeding. There are idiots and deformed children who are quietly disposed of, but the inbreeding goes on. Consequently, the Neders are congenital idiots. The C’hin carry the falling sickness. Most of the Shaughnessy women are barren. The Frankish men are generally impotent. And the Schiapetti are just plain depraved. I could go on, but I’m sure you have the picture.’

‘My own story begins when I was fourteen years old. Until that time, I lived with my parents at Massimo Schiapetti senior’s quinta two days’ ride south of the city. Just after my birthday, some women came from the big house and examined me to make sure I was a virgin, and that I was physically ready to bear children. Then they took me away from my parents to the house. There were a dozen or so of us, all told, gathered from the Schiapetti holdings, and after we’d been at the house for a few days we were bathed and nicely dressed and then paraded in front of the master and three strange men. The master pointed out a redhead from the distrada, and the three men indicated an interest in two other girls, myself and a shepherd’s daughter. I later came to understand that the Schiapetti sold me that day. Sold both of us. My companion was about seventeen, and as blonde as a wheat field, with impressive breasts and a stoical temperament, I was tiny, white blonde and scared out of my wits. If I had not had that older girl with me I don’t honestly know how I would have managed. Her name was Breda, and as we were whisked across the country in a closed carriage, she explained exactly what was likely to happen to us. She made it seem bearable and told me it wouldn’t be forever. She knew of other girls who had been taken this way and were later returned to their families more or less unharmed, and with a gift of money.’
‘After what seemed to me to be an endless journey we were brought to a hunting lodge where there were about twenty girls ranging in age from seventeen to twelve years. We were there to serve the pleasure of Seamus Shaughnessy, and to bear him the children his well-born and well-connected wife could not. The housekeeper wasn’t unkind, but she did make it clear that there was no escape, and that we’d better please the master or else. We never asked what ‘or else’ was, we were too afraid. Seamus was by that time nearing seventy, and a life of dissipation had left its mark on him. I prayed that he wouldn’t want me, but he did. Myself, Breda, and the twelve-year-old were chosen. Then the young one disappeared. I learned many years later that she threw herself off the roof after her first night in the master’s bed. I guess I’m of a more pragmatic turn of mind as I managed to take Breda’s advice and concentrate on the prospect of a good breakfast while the old sot was fumbling about me. At the end of a fairly unpleasant fortnight he returned to the city and we waited. As it turned out we were both with child. Seamus was tickled pink and we were brought to the family’s estate by the great river to give birth. Lady Shaughnessy was also brought to the estate to await the delivery of ‘her’ children. She was, it turned out, a deeply maternal woman, who wanted babies to love and care for. She was even kind to us.’
‘I went into labour first, and a long difficult time I had of it. I was really much too young and too small to have a baby, but, fortunately for me, I come of tough stock and I survived. I only saw my daughter for a few moments before they took her away. My friend Breda’s son was born dead. The cord was around his throat, and the midwife they employed wasn’t skilled. Breda managed to creep into my room three days after my baby was born to tell me that she had plenty of good milk and was feeding my little girl, also that the family had decided to keep her on as wet nurse and then nursemaid. She told me that my baby had been named Anita, and promised to love her. With that I had to be satisfied. I never saw either one again.’
‘I was sent home after my body healed, with a large present of money. It was enough for my family to leave the quinta, and buy a small inn in a valley close to the Imperial highway. I went north to learn healing and midwifery, determined to protect women from the unskilled and ham-fisted ‘care’ that cost Breda her child and almost cost me my life. I spent the next twenty-plus years in hospitals and monasteries, biding my time until my youthful looks faded and I could return to the city and ply my trade.’
‘In the meantime, my daughter grew to be a real beauty, as famed for her gentle kindness as the loveliness of her face. She was, it is said, very much in love with a half cousin from a humble branch of her father’s family, but such a marriage for Seamus Shaughnessy’s only daughter was not to be countenanced. And when she was nineteen her father married her to the forty-year-old Massimo Schiapetti. It was, by all accounts a loveless match, although Massimo was kind enough to his wife, and pleased to find her fertile. A year after the wedding she presented him with a son, who they named Rodrigo: he died of influenza at the age of four. Two years after Rodrigo’s birth Anita fell pregnant again, this time she gave Massimo a daughter, but lost her own life in the process. I arrived back in the city in time to learn that I was a grandmother, and my daughter was dead.’ An paused for a moment and wiped her tears cheeks with her wrinkled old hands.
‘My granddaughter was name Anaya, and she inherited her mother’s beauty, but her father’s nature, growing more and more vicious and depraved as she grew older. She had a succession of lovers and was notorious for her treatment of her servants. When she was twenty-five her father negotiated a marriage with the Emperor’s only son. It was a politically splendid move, but on a personal level it could scarcely have been worse. She loathed him because he either couldn’t or wouldn’t satisfy her sexually, and he despised her because she was stupid and vicious. Even so, they remained married, and I oversaw five accouchements in which she presented her lord with six children. Five sons and Princess Ana.’
‘So there you have it. My daughter, conceived by rape, and married for politics. My granddaughter, conceived for politics, married for politics, and murdered for politics. And my great-granddaughter, also conceived for politics, but with half a chance of making a life of her own…’

Jane Jago.

.... or 'How To Speak Typo' by Jane Jago

Agugust (noun) sometime between July and September when it is stinking hot and the world seems to be populated by toddlers with snotty noses and attitude

Beer mind (noun) the sudden increase in attractiveness of persons of the opposite gender often felt after pint seventeen

Craspid (adverb) of perambulation slightly sideways and with a halting gait. Often caused by one’s chums tying one’s shoelaces together as a jolly jape

Doign (noun) the sound a mattress makes during athletic sexual congress

Ehalth (noun) the persistent notion that your computer hates you

Ekkyskweek (noun) a dead mouse left in your wellington boot by next door’s cat 

Froup (noun) Facebook group populated by people with no friends in the real world

Glaffes (noun) magnifying devices used to spot giraffes and wildebeest in the local park

Humout (verb) the act of running in front of a speeding train with one’s genitalia on display

Interet (noun) stuff on the internet that bores the tits off people

Jubble (noun) possessions found stuffed behind the sofa cushions. Inevitably includes one button battery and a half sucked boiled sweet (hairy)

Lgung (noun) breathing apparatus to be used when one’s other half breaks wind in bed

Migged (verb, past participle) having had one’s possessions stolen in a drive-by conducted by pensioners in powered wheelchairs 

Purcess (verb) of cats – to use feline wiles in order to be fed treats by the gullible 

Shouold (adjective) of an elderly person – shuffling and indecisive, aware of what ought to be happening but wholly unable to force the issue

Tredberr (adjective) of training shoes – having holes in the soles but still looking cool enough to be worn by the young and stupid

Wonter (noun) the season between effing cold and not very cold

Workign (adverb) of mechanical devices, being almost fit for purpose

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

The rapturous applause ringing in her ears, Zhang Xiu Ying stepped off the podium and returned to her seat. Although it was wonderful to have the sense of support and approval for her unpublished and un-peer-reviewed paper at this symposium, her thoughts were already on the submissions process to the few scientific journals respected in her field.

In the audience, Krish Anand thought the Chinese girl who had been speaking looked cute and he posted a picture of her to his social media. As an afterthought, since he did not want anyone assuming he was sexist, he added a few words about what she had been saying.

Her news blog needed livening up, so Florencia Quezada put the picture of the pretty Chinese academic on her page, read the words Krish had put with it and – as she didn’t really understand it – added some thoughts and ideas of her own to make it into something a bit more substantial.

It was a quiet day on RadioNews247 and Bjorn Olafsson had been searching the internet desperately for something to feed the ravenous maw of twenty-four-hour news coverage. There had been no terrorist attacks – or at least none in any place the 247 audience would have ever heard of or cared about; the politicians’ tweets had been banal to dull and lacking in controversy and he was at his wit’s end. Then he saw it. Grinning with triumph he wrote a few lines to go in the next ‘On The Hour’ bulletin and started phoning a couple of people he knew would be free and willing to comment on air.

Zac Wade had the radio on as he was driving home. He didn’t like TV as that meant you might get noticed somewhere by someone. No cell phone for the same reason and no computer neither. Life off-grid was safest. You could keep out the government and defend your own land. The news bulletin made him put his foot to the floor of his battered old Dodge cab-over pickup. Them aliens was invading – said so on the news.

Waiting to board her plane home, Zhang Xiu Ying glanced at her newsfeed ‘Chinese Scientist Proves Aliens Are Invading’. There was a picture of a narrow, hairless face with black olive-shaped eyes. Clickbait crap. She scrolled on without really thinking more about it. She was just happy her article speculating on tiny anomalous ferric inclusions in a layer of Pleistocene clay as being extra-terrestrial from a meteor shower was being considered for a quality geological journal.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Tales from the Seaside is a humorous collection of short stories reflecting on life by the seaside, attempts to successfully wrangle two small children and the result of being inspired by the sun, the sand and the sea. The perfect beach read, it will have you chuckling in your deckchair.

The Holiday

A man, DEREK, and a woman, SANDRA, are sitting in their front room. DEREK is watching the TV while SANDRA flicks through a magazine.

SANDRA: Where shall we go on holiday this year, love?

DEREK: Caravan ain’t we?

SANDRA: Yeah, but… we could try something different this year – if you want to.

DEREK: What, like go North instead of South or something?

SANDRA: I was thinking something a bit more adventurous than that, dear. We could go anywhere in the world, you know. There’s nothing stopping us. Be nice to explore a bit, see what’s out there. Make a change for us to be the ones with the travel stories. Bring back some souvenirs for the kids and that. Where do you think we should go?

DEREK: Mm?

SANDRA: Holiday. Where shall we go?

DEREK: (not really paying attention) Oh I dunno, love. Where do you fancy?

SANDRA: Somewhere hot would be nice. Do you fancy somewhere hot?

DEREK: U huh.

SANDRA: Maybe we could go to Tenerife or El Dorado or something. They got nice beaches there, seen ’em on the telly. That could be nice.

DEREK: Yeah, could be, love.

SANDRA: Oh I’m so pleased you think this is a good idea because I know how you don’t like the heat and that.

DEREK: What heat?

SANDRA: In Tenerife.

DEREK: I ain’t going to bloomin’ Tenerife! Too hot, too many bloomin’ tourists. It’s like going on holiday with all your neighbours. Bloomin English people all over the place. Then you have to look out for them Germans.

SANDRA: Germans? What are you on about?

DEREK: They’re up at sparrows fart getting their towels down on the sun loungers afore anyone else, stopping everyone from having a good spot. It shouldn’t be allowed.

SANDRA: How do you know that?

DEREK taps the side of his nose.

SANDRA: So where do you want to go then?

DEREK: What about one of them city breaks or something? Get a bit of culture. Only not Germany or France – I can’t be doing with the frogs.

SANDRA: Spain?

DEREK: Yeah, Spain’s nice. Get a bit of ‘ole’ going on over there.

SANDRA: Mm – you don’t think it’s a bit samey though do you?

DEREK: How do you mean?

SANDRA: Well, everyone goes Spain, don’t they? Especially all the old folks. It’ll be like grab-a-granny on a hot day. And anyway, isn’t Spain a bit hot for you – if you’re not doing hot this year.

DEREK: It’s not my fault, it’s a different sun out there. Burns you right through.

SANDRA: It wouldn’t if you wore sun cream.

DEREK: Pft, who has time for messing about with sun cream. At least in the UK you know where you are with the weather.

SANDRA: Yes, dear.

They lapse into silence.

A Bite of... Claire Buss

Q1: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

If I can’t mix the two and have a mocha cake then I’ll plump for a coffee cake because it won’t be as sickly so I can eat twice as much. Plus coffee cake often comes with nuts and you’ve got to get a bit nutty from time to time.

Q2: What time of day do you write best?

I write when I can squeeze it in and that’s not me trying to sound all blasé about it – it’s the truth. I can’t join the holier than thou 5am writers club because my kids get me up at 5am and they want juice and breakfast and attention and then before you know it, it’s the school run and we’re late. Writing with a seven-month-old should, in theory, be a breeze, however, if you move without permission she will whinge and cry and whinge and cry and whinge and cry until you return to sitting next to her and doing nothing.  I would write when she naps but as she usually naps on the school run that doesn’t work either. Plus there’s that pesky thing called housework and children require cooked meals then there’s food shopping etc etc etc. So just write in the evening, when the kids have gone to bed and all your jobs are jobbed and you’re not tired in the slightest! Actually, when I think about it – I have no idea how I fit in the writing time but somehow it happens! 

Q3: Are you ticklish? If so where?

Bottom of my feet but touch them at your peril. You’ll get a wicked kick in the face – it’s not my fault, a reflex reaction.

Claire Buss is a multi-genre writer and poet based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake. Tales from the Seaside is her latest book.  

You can catch up with Claire on Goodreads,  Twitter and all over the place, but especially at her blog, But I Don't Like Salad - bring cake if you drop by!

By the time Sam had arranged coffee and raided Anna’s biscuit tin, the file was on her computer.
“Okay. Open it up and let me read.”
After about a minute his face went flinty, then he started to swear. Anna let him get it out before touching him lightly on the arm.
“How bad is it, Sam?”
“About as bad as it can get. And multi stranded. Do you want to call Jim and put it on speaker? I don’t think I want to say this more than once.”
Anna nodded. Twenty seconds later Jim was answering his phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s bad, Jim.” Sam grated. “Fucking evil. I haven’t read more than a tiny bit but I have identified several illegal revenue streams. Just a couple of examples. Unlicensed slimming drugs: possibly killers and almost certainly addictive. Old people dying once they have been persuaded to leave a nice lump of money to their doctors. Cosmetic surgery offered at knockdown prices because the practitioners have been struck off. I could go on…” His voice ran down.
“No need. I get the picture. Sounds as if this lot make Harold Shipman look like a fucking philanthropist. Question is how we stop them. It won’t be easy. Let me think.”
It went quiet for a minute, then Anna spoke.
“We need a excuse to get into the computer system in the private wing of the hospital, don’t we?”
“We do. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Dali?”
“Oh yes. But from where?”
“That’s where I come in. A man in Russia owes me a favour. Do half a dozen private hospitals? Just another anti-capitalist protest. And who will get called in to sort it? Good old Jim Cracksman.”
“And once I’m in there’s no telling what I might find.”
“Precisely. We agreed then?”
“Oh yeah. And I’ll have a pint with mister plod tonight and give him a heads up. When can you get the virus started?”
“I’ll text you.”
“Be careful.”
And Jim was gone.
“Budge over, Sam. I need to send an email.”
Bewildered but trusting, Sam budged, and Anna sent a very brief message. She sat back.
“And now we wait. I’ll explain soon. I promise.”
Sam shook his head and grinned.
“I don’t suppose I’ll understand when you do. But that’s OK. I trust you. Implicitly.”
They didn’t actually wait very long, as Anna’s computer gave a strange little bleep almost before Sam had finished speaking. A message flashed up on the screen very briefly. It said 3 sent, 4 within eight hours and was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“That wasn’t an email. Was it?”
“Sort of. But it won’t have left a trace. And it ain’t sitting in my inbox somewhere in hyperspace waiting to be seen by unfriendly eyes. Lemme just text Jim.”
Her fingers flew.
“Right then. Explanation. We need an excuse to get into the computer system at the hospital. We just got one. The private wing at Cheltenham, and six other private medical facilities in the west of England, are about to catch the Dali virus. Oh. Don’t look so shocked Sam. It’s actually harmless but a complete bastard to eradicate. They will try all they know to get rid, but by the middle of the week they’ll be in such a mucking fuddle they’ll call in Cracksman Security. Once Jim is in he’ll find all the naughty stuff, and hand it to an acquaintance of ours in the police. Job done.”
“Good. But. Two questions. Why is your pet virus called Dali? And why are you so sure Jim knows how to eradicate it?”
“It’s called Dali because it makes everything on screen look like those melted clocks he painted. And Jim knows exactly how to deal with it because he wrote the thing – with a bit of help from yours truly.”
Suddenly Sam found himself laughing.
“For barefaced effrontery that just about takes the biscuit. You two buggers write a virus, then arrange for it to be delivered, then Jim gets paid for eradicating it. It’s fucking perfect.”
Anna grinned.
“Is,” she announced in a voice full of false modesty. “However, we do only use it to flush out bad guys.”
“Yeah. I guess you do. But doesn’t that take some of the fun out of it?”
“Some. But catching bad guys has its own satisfaction. Now I have something much more interesting to show you.”
She got up and left the room.

Sam pulled himself together with an effort. He took a sip of his coffee, to find it stone cold. Picking up both mugs he crossed to the sink where he disposed of the cold coffee and rinsed the mugs before filling a metal jug with cold milk and putting it under the steam nozzle of the coffee machine. When Anna returned, he was just pouring two mugs of cappuccino, she grinned.
“Who is a very clever orthopaedic surgeon then?”
“Me,” Sam agreed happily. He carried the mugs over to the table and snaffled a chocolate chip cookie from the untouched plate. “So. What you got behind your back?”
Anna turned a delicate shade of pink.
“Just a little thing I made…”
“Well show me then. Don’t be shy love.”
“Thing is. I dunno if you’ll like it.”
“And you won’t know if you don’t show me.”
“I guess I won’t.”
She put a card on the table in front of Sam. On the front was a picture of Sam playing ball with Bonnie. The camera had caught Sam mid throw, and Bonnie mid jump. It was full of movement and joy. Underneath the picture it said. Life Laughs at Numbers. Sam opened the card to find it contained a wittily-worded invitation to his fortieth birthday party. He stood up and  pulled Anna into a fierce embrace.
“You,” he said, “are not only beautiful, clever and sexy. You are also exactly right. If I’d spent a year trying to figure out a perfect party invitation I still wouldn’t have managed to come up with anything this brilliant.”
She managed a tremulous smile.
“I’m so happy you like it. There are two versions. One to print. One to email. We can get them sorted this minute, now I know you approve.”
Sam’s own grin grew wider.
“Not precisely right now” he said as he nipped at the side of her neck with his strong, white teeth. “I have a sudden, urgent need.”
Anna would herself around him like a vine. “What a simply excellent idea.”
He picked her up and turned towards the door, but she stopped him with a half growl.
“You said urgent didn’t you? So. No time to go anywhere. Here. Now.”
He perched her bottom on the edge of the table, obviously deeply excited by the idea of sex in the kitchen.
“I’m glad you are wearing a skirt,” he growled “jeans might take too long.”
“Stop talking and do something,” Anna demanded.
And that was another cup of coffee gone cold…

Jane Jago

Where the beer flows, there go I
In the pub snug bar I lie
Drinking beer until the cry:
‘Last orders, please’ when I sigh.
Until summer merrily.
Verily, merrily
Shall I go then
Into the beer garden, to drink with friends!

E.M. Swift-Hook

From 'Dying on the Tide' one of the bonus short stories included in 'The First Dai and Julia Omnibus'

It was a two-hour drive to Virconium, given a speedy vehicle and a reliable driver. Having both, they arrived without incident. The city was gearing up for next month’s Saturnalia with bright lights and sparkly tinsel in every shop window to lure in gift-buyers. Julia felt an odd pang of nostalgia as she caught sight of a display of sigillaria in one. There were candles moulded or carved into fantastic and beautiful wax sculptures, beside a shelf of grotesque and amusing ones. She wondered how it would be to spend her first Saturnalia away from Rome.
The navi system took them straight to the dance studio, where Julia followed Dai and Bryn as they made their way to the reception desk in a cool quiet portico. The elaborately coiffed young man behind the white and gold edifice recoiled visibly.
“Members only,” he snapped.
Bryn stepped forward.
“The Submagistratus wants a word with Bont.”
The receptionist opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound emerged.
“Sometime this week, sonny”
“Not possible. Ulysses is busy right now.”
“Well un-busy him.”
“I don’t think I can…”
Bryn smiled and leaned over the desk, cracking his knuckles. The receptionist swallowed audibly, then he thumbed a button.
“Ulysses Bont to reception. Immediately please.”
Bryn rewarded him with a wolfish grin.“Now you’re being sensible. Got somewhere we can talk uninterrupted?”

They were soon ensconced in a pleasant room, which Julia was delighted to find came complete with beverages and cake. It wasn’t long before they were joined by a lean man wearing a sardonic expression.
“You wanted me, dominus?” he said a waspish bite to his tone.
Dai looked him up and down slowly.
“I think wanted is an exaggeration.”
Bont coloured, but Julia could see he wasn’t brave enough to argue with a man whose blue eyes were as bleak as a winter morning. Bont shut his mouth and cast down his gaze.
“Better. Now. Talk to me about Tales from the Mabinogion.”
“What?” Bont looked up in surprise. “The dance troupe?”
“Yes.”
“We were contracted for a three-month school tour. Then disbanded.”
He met Dai’s stare defiantly for a moment, then looked at Julia. She schooled her expression to stone. Something in her face seemed to get to him, though and he sighed. “Okay, it was more than a bit odd. We were paid well over the going rate and our paymasters were a bit creepy. Too interested in kids. Always girls and always the petite ones. Not that I ever saw them actually do anything, I’d have reported them if they had.” he broke off for a moment as if thinking about what had happened. “You have to understand, they really weren’t the sort of people you question. But…”
“But indeed. Do you have any names?”
“There were two of them, a couple of men, called themselves Smith. Can I ask what you think they have done?”
“Eleven of those girls have gone missing.”
“Oh no. Please, no.” Bont looked truly sick. “Look. I don’t know much that could help you, I really wish I did. That’s – just horrible.” He broke off shaking his head as if trying to deny it. Then he looked up directly at Dai. “Except that there’s this female dancer, I never liked her. Her name is Katya Czesny, she was right in with the Smiths. And she is still working In Viriconium.”
“Where?”
“A nightspot. The Scarlet Letter. She’s cage dancing now. Calls herself Lubricia.”
Julia spoke for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said softly.

The Dai and Julia Mysteries are written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Underneath the lamplight
Just outside the gate
The teenage girl from next door
Is snogging with her date 
I know as they cuddle tenderly
That any minute there will be
A sharp slap in the lamplight
As Dad drags her indoors

©️jj 2018

Jane Jago’s naughty story is being presented by Tall Tale TV

He showed me a lot of very white, very even teeth.
“You American?” I asked.
“I am, but how did you know? I don’t think I have an accent.”
“You don’t, it’s the dentistry. In my business you tend to look at teeth carefully.”
It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, but when they did I was rewarded with his pleasingly masculine laughter. “And that”, he remarked with a broad grin, “is the first line of your book…”
We soon settled into a rhythm. George arrived promptly at eight-thirty every morning. He cooked my breakfast and we worked until three when he bowed his head, clicked his heels and left.
Inside a month, we had volume one of my memoirs nailed. It was racy, funny, human, and silly, and not a bit how anybody envisaged a whore’s memoirs. It was also an instant bestseller. 

Want to know more? Listen in at Tall Tale TV