They say cycling’s a good thing to do,
It helps with your fitness. That’s true
But the thing they don’t say
Is the very next day
Your bum will be red, black and blue

©️ Jane Jago

 

The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook in ebook format, is on sale this week. Only £1.99 until June 26th then £2.99 June 27th-29th. 

 

A teaser…

Some half an hour later they emerged, with the decanus ruefully rubbing his stubble obviously caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“Right you lot,” he bellowed, “Domina Julia is here to witness band practice.”

Half of the Praetorians collected instruments and ‘tuned up’. When he judged them ready, Gallus pulled a baton out of his boot and counted them in. Julia winced as soon as they started playing. They were abysmal. Even those  who managed to start together soon lost each other in the maelstrom of bum notes and desperation. 

Julia lasted less than five minutes. She waved a hand for silence and slowly, slowly the dreadful cacophony stopped.

“Oh merda,” she muttered, “I expected bad but this is in a whole new dimension.” Catching sight of Edbert leaning against the door jamb she quirked an imperious finger. “There’s a brown leather folder on the desk in the librarium, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

The blond giant snapped a salute.

Gallus looked truly apologetic.

“We’ve not had too much time for practicing, what with the work your man has kept us doing.”

She gave him her nicest smile.

“Not your fault, decanus. Let’s just see what we can salvage shall we?” She gave the band a scathing look. “Okay. We’ve seen what you can’t do. Let’s try and ascertain what you can…”

There was quite a lot of foot shuffling and she laughed, not unkindly.

“Right. Will anybody who can actually read music move over here please.” Three men stepped forward and she smiled at them. “Now.  Do we have any singers?”

Nobody moved, but Gallus grunted.

“Marcus, Aurelius, Crestor, and Alexios, front and centre please!” Gallus put his hand up by his mouth as if hiding his words from the men and said in a stage whisper: “They used to be a barber’s shop quartet.”

Four men came forwards expressions apprehensive and more than a bit embarrassed. Julia couldn’t help laughing internally at the look on their faces, but she said nothing to them.

“Finally, is there anybody who plays an instrument outside of the band?”

The same men who had admitted to the ability to read music, reluctantly lifted their hands. Julia looked a question.

“Penny whistle, domina.”

“Pipes of Bacchus, domina.”

“Standing harp, domina.”

Julia beamed at them. Edbert had been hanging back, but now he came forward with the folder Julia had requested. She thanked him with a smile. 

“Okay, have a look at this.”

She handed out sheets and the men looked in some trepidation. After a few minutes study they looked a lot happier. 

“It’s pretty and it’s simple,” Gallus said, “what is it?”

Julia showed him her teeth.

“It’s one of the Celtic folk airs you lot are supposed to be here learning. This folder is full of them. Most written by my husband’s ancestor who was a famous bard.”

After handing over the sheet music, Edbert had disappeared. He returned now with a large standing harp held tenderly in his big hands. He put it down in front of the confessed harpist.

“Domina Julia’s own harp. Treat it with care.” 

The youngster looked petrified, and Julia took pity on him.

“I can’t play the thing.”

Then he touched the strings tenderly and a waterfall of gentle notes leapt from his fingertips. He bent his head, suddenly oblivious to everything but the music. Julia smiled, and began to sing a simple little tune. He picked it up quickly and was soon playing along with her. The other two ‘unauthorised’ players, having collected their own instruments, joined in. 

For a while, the singers just looked bashful, then one fine tenor voice joined in. He stumbled over pronunciation but soon lost his fear, and then his friends joined in, pitching their harmonies around his lead. Julia smiled as the whole piece lifted and swelled, musicians and singers together. It was actually bloody good.

Even the non-musical Praetorians clapped enthusiastically when the song ran down and Gallus gave a satisfied nod.

“We need to practice. A lot. But…”

Get your copy now!

Today our amble took us to the tops
Where yellow gorse like honey spikes the air
Below, the grumbling tractors tend their crops
Up here the land is quiet, wide and bare
And no one walks this pitted granite street
Except we two beneath a hazy sky
It almost seems that ours are the first feet
And, looking outwards, ours are the first eyes
The turf, now coarse and springy, bears no sound
Until a calling kestrel silence splinters
A sudden breeze comes spinning round and round
An echo of the killing wind of winter 

©️JJ 2018

If you tuned in expecting advice from Moons, you are out of luck this week. Instead, you’ve got me again, Jacintha Farquhar, hag of this parish.

All right you load of miserable excuses for human beings who fancy yourself the next Stephen King, pin back your lugholes and be prepared to learn. You are all very keen on writing epic battles and knights in shining armour and all that crap, but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a one of you has ever actually even seen a fight leave alone dirtied your precious pinkies by being involved in that most working class of pastimes that is a bloody good bundle.

 

Life Lessons for Writers – Two: Fisticuffs

Okay then. Here’s the deal. This week’s lesson is entitled fisticuffs and is intended to give you at least the vestige of an idea about what happens when adult human beings set out to beat the crap out of each other.

First things first. If you want to really understand your knights in shining and their trusty steeds, join a re-enactment society. Get your feet stomped on by something that feels like Mummy’s best le Creuset Marmite, crawl around in mud and snot and tears for a while, watch as the bloke on the horse breaks every bone in his body when he hits the ground from a height of seventeen hands. Then go rewrite your crappy medieval fight. Similarly, should you be romanticising the English Civil War, go join the Sealed Knot and enjoy the delights of a pre-dawn melee on a frozen moor. I’m sure those of you living in the colonies have something similar recreating your own local battles. Want an idea of modern or futuristic combat? Try laser-tag or go paintballing.

The more mundane sort of present-day scuffling is a little more problematic to become personally involved in. For two reasons.

One: there is the potential to get hurt quite badly (and should some middle-class twat turn up and randomly start throwing punches, everybody will forget their grievances with each other and unite to beat the living crap out of him or her).

Two: the real possibility of getting arrested exists.

For the above reasons I have chosen not to suggest you seek personal involvement. Instead, I’ll let you learn from my experience and debunk some of the popular and misguided myths that pepper the writing of the fight virgin.

1. It is extremely difficult to knock somebody out with one punch. And should you manage to do so the chances of having inflicted serious and life-threatening injury are very high.
2. It is almost impossible to punch someone and cause sufficient pain so that your opponent will admit defeat. This is because most people in fights are seriously impaired by drink or drugs and have had their pain threshold raised to somewhere in the stratosphere
3. If you knock somebody down, don’t be thinking that makes them not dangerous. Nine times out of ten they will get up. Fucking furious. If you should ever manage to put an opponent on the floor the only sensible action is to leg it.
4. Please do not ever think that any sense of chivalry can be found in a Saturday Night Special. When they are in the moment, men will hit, men, women, OAPs, cats, dogs, toddlers, their own mothers. You have been warned.
5. Nobody. But nobody walks out of a mass punch-up with their hair/make-up immaculate and their clothes in apple pie order. It. Does. Not. Happen. Participants (even those accounted victorious) will be dirty, bruised, smeared with blood and mucus, and, in the case of the female of the species, inevitably missing one shoe (almost always the left).

 

So, there we have it Jacintha’s guide to the grim realities of physical combat. Read, learn, inwardly digest and get your fucking act together. Now you have no excuse to get it wrong so go and rewrite that last fight scene and leave me to my prosecco.

Next week: Moons will be back so you can get more of his drivel on how to write a book.

 

Jacintha Farquar, reluctant mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join his Facebook Group but please don’t because if you do he’ll be gloating for weeks!

Puma, meanwhile, sat on my lap and regarded the steaming pool doubtfully.
‘Is it nice in there?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why not you in there then?’
‘Because I’m talking to you.’
She thought about this for a moment.
‘Mother can swim?’
‘I can.’
‘Is it a hard learn?’
‘No. It’s easy. Even easier when you are an imp with no wings to get in the way.’
She thought about that for a moment.
‘You hold my hand?’
‘Better than that, you can ride on my back if you like.’
She beamed and clasped her hands in delight.
‘Please Mother.’
I put a jacket on her and shucked off my garment and sandals. Sitting on the edge of the pool I beckoned her to climb on my back. When she was securely wedged between my folded wings I stood up and dived into the pool. Puma shrieked with delight as we hit the water, and when she found I was a much better swimmer than Aascko she was almost unbelievably smug. After a few laps she leaned forwards and spoke in my ear.
‘Puma try now?’
‘You can. Just slip off my back into the water and see how it feels.’
She slid into the warm silky water and rolled onto her back.
‘Feels nice.’
‘It does. Now roll over and see if you can swim to Owlet and Tiger.’
She eyed me apprehensively but rolled over obediently and kicked her legs. Of course the jacket kept her afloat, and she moved slowly towards her brothers.
‘I swimming’ she shouted exultantly ‘Puma swimming.’
Tiger and Owlet very kindly gave her a round of applause, and Silver joined in the general hilarity by smacking her tiny hands against the water and yakking in happy baby talk.

Excerpt from Aaspa's Eyes by Jane Jago.

 

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is free from 20 - 23 June in the first of our Dai and Julia Midsummer Mystery offers.

Action replay.
Same arena.
Twenty-four hours later.
This time, though, there were two bodies.

One was another British contestant, Tam Docca ‘Fly Boy’, from the Valentia Game team, but it was the second corpse lying as if awaiting funeral rites that had Dai’s fullest attention. Quintillas Publius Luca – son of a Roman Senator and a proper one at that, from proper Rome – not one of those who sat in Augusta Treverorum, giving themselves airs.
Trev, as Dai and most Britons thought of it, was the capital of Prefecture Galliae, home to the man who ruled Britannia and much of the Northern and Western parts of the continent as well. It was one of the four original Prefectures, each governed by its own Caesar, established by the Divine Diocletian under his sole rule as God-Emperor of a new Roman Empire.
According to the information Dai was getting, Luca was not supposed to even be in the province. There were media images which showed him in some small provincial town, identified as Lutetia in Gallia Lugdunensis, sipping cocktails on a terrace overlooking a river, with his gorgeous patrician bride of a year, one Marcella Tullia Junius. The same article claimed Luca was away from Rome on a long-term project to regenerate and oversee the family’s estates in Gallia.
“You would think,” Bryn observed dryly, “that after last night they would have kept a watch. Security cameras all down still and I bet no one saw a thing, just like before. That’ll put a sour look on the face of that jobsworth Flavia.”
Dai shot his decanus a look.
“Shut up, Bryn, you spado. I’m thinking.”
The decanus chuckled.
“It ain’t often I can get the Bard to swear,” he remarked happily. “Let’s see if I can shake a few more curses out of those pure Celtic lips. You know they’ll sic a Roman on us? This is too big for us local yokels.”
“Yeah. Just as long as it isn’t Titillicus…”
“Oh, course you won’t have heard. Titillicus is no longer a factor. He got in a ruck with the Tribune, who sent him home to his mammy.”
“In disgrace?”
“Nah. In a body bag. Seems he pulled a knife.”
“Moron. But what was the row about?”
“As if you couldn’t guess.”
“He didn’t?”
“Yep. The Tribune’s wife under the very eyes of the family lares.”
Dai grinned viciously. He had never liked working with Titillicus, the kind of Roman who assumed he ruled the Province and owned every provincial he encountered. Surely whoever they sent from Trev HQ would have to be better than that?

Snag whilst the snagging is FREE!

I sit in the remains of the house as the winds howl by. It is shelter, but the calm days are few now so there is little chance to find food. All that grows is usually flattened before it fruits by giant hail or these cursed winds.

There was a time I laughed at those who spoke of ‘man-made climate change’. I mean, who would believe that anything we did could really impact something as huge as this planet? Besides, God gave us this world to use so nothing wrong with doing so.
Them scientists with their fancy words, no one really listened – and even those who believed never did anything much about it that I ever saw.

I still remember that big TV debate when they were saying that all the energy in the atmosphere was what was making the high winds and the warming that melted the ice off the poles. All them poor people having their homes just flooded away, that were so sad. But I didn’t blame them other countries for shooting all those millions of refugees. I mean, you couldn’t take in that many people could you?

And here in the UK, when I were a kid, we never had winds like this. ‘Extreme’ weather meant we got a few feet of snow some winters. We used to talk about the weather and complain at a bit of rain.

I miss those days.

Still, I don’t think them scientists were right though – I just think God hates us all.

E.M. Swift-Hook

 

Breakers of the Dawn is the first book in the Dawn Saga by Zachariah Wahrer.

Humanity has fallen from its once majestic place amongst the stars. Desperate for more resources and colonizable planets, humans wage xenocidal war on the peaceful Enthos.

Dispatched by the Founder to subdue an uprising, Crasor Tah Ahn unearths an alien relic. It somehow knows everything about him, even his darkest secrets. The device promises unimaginable power. Crasor knows it’s the opportunity of a lifetime, but can he trust the strange artefact?

Pulling out her side arm, Felar checked the weapon to make sure it was ready. The small, tungsten alloy rail rounds were powerful enough to take down the creatures, but she wouldn’t have to discharge the weapon if her plan was successful. Stealth was her best tactic. Will they continue to hunt as a pack or will they split up to search? Felar didn’t know which was worse.

She manually slid the door open and poked her head out. A few small emergency lights showed an ominous hallway. Felar couldn’t make out any targets or threats. Low light optics would greatly increase her effectiveness, but neither she nor her squad had deployed with it, not anticipating the need. If they had told us where we were going sooner, she thought, inwardly cursing Ashamine Forces Command.

Felar slipped out into the hall, careful to be silent. The floor was hard and her boots soft, making the task easier. The main obstacle was to avoid kicking or stepping on fallen debris. Fortunately, there was little in this area. The darkness made every task harder, forcing Felar to stay focused.

Nearing a hallway junction, she slowed. Rushing will get me killed, but being overly cautious means more exposure to danger. 

Easing her head around the corner, Felar dry heaved at what she saw. A large hulking form stood over what was once a human body. It’s matte black skin was barely visible in the darkness. Felar had to squint to make out the creature’s stout arms and narrow legs. The low light obscured the monstrosity’s actions, but from the sounds—wet slapping accompanied by tearing and grunting noises—she knew what was happening.

Felar felt repulsed and disgusted by the creature and what it was doing. Why are these things here? They had to be some sort of genetically modified organism, something manufactured to kill. Or maybe they were an unknown alien species. Whatever the case, she didn’t want to get closer to find out.

Why was the mission briefing so flawed? It said nothing of these fiendish creatures and their powerful killing ability. They effortlessly took out an entire squad of soldiers, Felar thought, fear beginning to creep back in. She would tell the blighthearted buggers about their shoddy intel when she got back to AF Command.

Felar quickly transitioned across the intersection and continued on, hoping to find a map of the facility. The creature didn’t pursue. I need to orient myself. Getting lost in the earlier chaos had left her with no idea where she was in relation to the exit. Another stupid mistake, she chided herself.

Finding a terminal in one of the hallways, Felar began to hash it, attempting to break through the security lockout. “Access denied,” kept popping up no matter what she tried. Finally, an anti-hashing protocol locked the terminal off the network, and she was forced to move on. Time for a new tactic.”

A Bite of... Zachariah Wahrer

 

Question 1: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

Interesting question! I consider a lot of my writing as therapy, but maybe not in a “normal” way. I love speculating how humanity might make good (and bad) decisions in the future and how our choices now might come back to bite us in the ass. This gives me the opportunity to cope, reflect, and digest the negative things that are currently happening on Earth. It does feel good!

Question 2: Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?

Not directly. None of my characters are literal translations from reality. I’ve definitely incorporated aspects of people I dislike, but not out of spite. For me, it is more about crafting authentic personalities. I do the same thing with friends and family for the positive aspects of my characters (and some of the negatives too). 🙂

Question three: Why do you write? Money is an acceptable answer.

It’s complicated. With my current writing income, it’s hard to say money, but that is definitely a long-term goal / factor. The biggest reason why I write is my readers. Without them, I wouldn’t be a full-time author. The writer / reader symbiosis brings me immense joy, and is my biggest motivator!

 

Zachariah Wahrer spent the first twelve years of his adult life doing various jobs around the United States, such as eBay salesman, punk rock musician, horse halter craftsman, and rock climbing gym route-setter.

Near the end of 2014, Zachariah moved into a Honda Odyssey with his wife, Sarah, and began traveling the United States and Canada, seeking inspiration and adventure while writing and rock climbing full-time. His first novel, Breakers of the Dawn: Book 1 of the Dawn Saga, was electronically published in December of 2014.

When not deeply immersed in imaginary worlds, Zachariah loves to experience the outdoors as well as read about science, futurology, and trans-humanism. He also enjoys home-brewing and creating digital art to accompany his writing.

Currently, Zachariah lives in Bozeman, Montana.

You can find Zachariah's books on Amazon, Smashwords, Google, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBooks. If you want you can follow him on Twitter or haunt him on Goodreads.

Anna just sat down plump at the table and grinned a big,  soppy, stupid grin. She was still grinning when Danny and Paul wandered into the room.
“Hello you pair. What you doing on the twenty-ninth and thirtieth of next month?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I’d kind of like Danny to be a witness at my wedding on the twenty-ninth. It’ll be just us and Bonnie and our witnesses with their partners. Then we’re having a big celebration party here on the thirtieth. You up for it?”
Danny grabbed her in a bear hug and mussed her hair lovingly.
“I should just about reckon we are. Ain’t we love?”
Paul pushed him aside and gave Anna a smacking kiss. “Can I be your bridesmaid?”
“Yeah. You and Bonnie. And Colin if he wants.”
“Who Colin?”
“Sam’s best mate’s partner. He’s even camper than you…’
“Oh well. Does that mean Sam will be the only straight man at the wedding?”
“Yeah. Probably. But I reckon he can cope. Now. Drinks? Wine? Red?”
“Yes, yes and yes.”

Sam came in from the utility with a bottle of red wine under each arm. He opened both and poured liberally.
“I take it you two are up for this wedding business.”
“Course they are,” Anna giggled. “What about Ben and Colin?”
“Yeah. Though I had to do some fast talking to get Colin along. He had some trouble with Christina. She wouldn’t have him in the house. And if we did meet anywhere she always managed to insert the word faggot into the conversation. I explained that you couldn’t give a flying fuck about sexual orientation, but Colin was still suspicious. Then I hit on a plan. Told him Paul was going to be a bridesmaid, and was prettier than him. That fetched him!”
“Oh Sam,” Anna laughed, “that was a bit underhand.”
“True though! Did I notice some nibbles out back?”
“You did. Fetch!”
“Woof.”
Bonnie got out of her basket and gave Sam and Anna a very old fashioned look, before retiring to the garden.
“Oops,” Danny grinned, “you’ve pissed off Bon Bon”.
“She’ll forgive us,” Anna said. “She adores Sam, but realises he’s a bit mental.”
“Thanks for the character reference, love,” Sam’s voice was amused as he returned to the room carrying a tray of olives and air-dried ham and other delicious nibbly things.
“Join the club,” Paul said smilingly. “She once told a group of our friends that I’m only pretending to be limp-wristed to get out of physical labour.”
“Yeah,” Danny agreed, “although that’s very probably true. But apart from an unaccountable attachment for my little sister, I haven’t seen any signs of mental illness in Sam.”
“Touché,” Anna howled with laughter. “I’ve missed you, you bloody old pervert. Now listen up, we’re telling everybody that the party is to celebrate Sam’s fortieth. Which is actually our wedding day. He’s mad enough to consider marrying me to be an ideal birthday gift.”
Danny smote his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Yup. He is insane. Fancy wanting to marry a homely spinster like you.”
Anna’s voice was ineffably sad.
“Yeah. I know. I can’t believe it.”
Danny scooped her off her feet.
“Silly cow. I’m just teasing. It’s obvious that you two are head over heels. And I reckon you have a bloody good shot at a solid marriage.”
Anna wriggled until he put her down.
“I think so too. I never expected to find this. I have to keep pinching myself.”
“Don’t do that love,” Paul said gently, “you’ll bruise your happiness.”
He raised his glass.
“A toast to marriage.”

When they were seated at the kitchen table munching antipasto and drinking, Anna looked at Danny and Paul.
“Any plans between now and the wedding?”
“No.”
“Would you like to borrow the camper?”
“Can we? Won’t you two be wanting it?”
Anna looked at Sam who shook his head regretfully.
“If we want a honeymoon I won’t be taking any time off between now and then, so I’m fine with it. In fact, I’ll be lucky to manage more than ten days after. It’s a bit short notice…”
Danny wobbled his eyebrows at Paul who nodded and grinned.
“We already talked about offering to Bonnie sit so you two could slip off for a few days. Get some sun on your backs. So what say we bugger off in the camper and come back for the wedding? Then we can stay with Bon Bon while you two have a honeymoon.”
Sam risked a glance at Anna’s face, which was shining with happiness.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” he grinned. “Where’d you like to go fiancée?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well why don’t I surprise you then? Is your passport up to date?”
“Yeah.”
“Right then. Leave it to me.”
Anna smiled mistily.
“I think I’d like that.”
“Good. That’s a done deal. Now I think you’d better feed me before I start stealing from Bonnie’s bowl.”
She laughed.
“Lay the table then. And I’ll see what I can root out.”
Sam went to the utility for place mats, cutlery, condiments, salad, and a basket of bread, while Anna opened the oven door. First to be rooted out were big jacket potatoes. Anna cut crosses in their fluffy tops before popping a pat of butter into each. Then she opened the oven again and retrieved a cast iron casserole dish, which, when she lifted the lid, filled the room with a delicious aroma.
“Oh. Boeuf bourgignon,” Paul said happily. “Anna cooked that for us the first time Danny took me home. It made me feel welcome.”
“And you are still welcome,” Anna smiled, “prickles and all.”

Jane Jago

My child, you will never know
How much I cried inside over your tears
How I always tried to soothe your fears
How much each day I lived my life for you
How all you were, I see in all you do.

But now your fears are fears I cannot see
And all your tears cannot be soothed by me
Alone you face the trials that life has wrought
Alone, I watch you bear what it has brought.

The path you take is now far from your home
You walk through places I can never roam
But still I cry inside at what has come
And still I wish so much could be undone
My child, you will never know…

E.M. Swift-Hook