When people ask are you a poet
I mostly say not as you know it
I rhyme to poke fun
And use verse like a gun
And if I find a belt, hit below it

© jane jago 2018

Ty’s link had reached him, dinging insistently on his screens as soon as the resupply hopper had dropped from FTL into the planetoid’s traffic stream. He got back to her right away.

What are you playing at, Grim? I already gave you a three-day extension and you take that and ask me for two more. I know you have to live up to your maverick rep, but you are not helping us to build any trust doing the lone bounty hunter thing.”

He tried to sound penitent.

“I just need two more days Ty – then I’ll be in and have something to make up for it. I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time. What is this, Grim? Seeing how far you can push me? I don’t take kindly to being pushed. You keep it up and I’ll push back. And I can push harder than you, maybe so hard you’ll find yourself off the case and back on basic duties for the next five years.”

“I’m not trying to push you,” Grim heard the slight edge of hostility in his own voice. Then he boxed it all off and swung himself into Ty’s corner for a moment – putting himself behind her eyes, feeling the intense pressure from Jecks, the weight of knowledge – greater than his own – about the possible consequences of failure in this investigation, and the frustration and concern that the man she was supposed to be working with was apparently running amok and not telling her anything even before they had hit the ground running. He took a breath to regain his own composure. Ty was not the enemy, she was his best and greatest ally. He spoke again, his tone much more conciliatory:

“I am working on something I got from a personal contact – I can’t take this down any official road, if you want it logged and signed up, it can’t happen at all. Right now, I‘m on leave and I’m my own master – trust me for two more days, please Ty, and I’ll be able to bring you something really worthwhile. Call me in now, and I can’t get that for you.”

He was guessing that part of the reason he had been chosen for this case was this very tendency of his to blaze off-trail and get things done. That and the fact he had a proven record which showed he really could bring down the big beasts of the criminal jungle when he was allowed to do so.

He could see Ty considering his appeal. She had to be a risk taker too – no one was going to assign a stolid jobsworth to this kind of investigation. But, she would also be grappling with the concern that she needed to assert her authority over him and it was very possible letting him get away with this might be one step beyond her comfort zone on that particular score. Grim hoped she’d realise he wasn’t seeing this as any kind of power struggle. He had no wish to challenge Ty’s authority – just a burning desire to get done what he needed to get done.

“At least tell me where you’re going to be for those two days,” she said, after a moment. Grim felt a tight satisfaction, knowing he had got his two days. Hopefully, that would be enough.

“A place in the middle of nowhere called Hell’s Breath,” he told her.

Mistrust and Treason is the first volume in the upcoming Fortune's Fools Iconoclast Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook and will be out in the spring.

I still remember those days,
The sun disappeared,
The stars stopped glimmering
And the moon, it was turning darker.

Witnessing such a dreadful moment was depressing, terrifying
I could only hear the sound of my voice – but the words were inaudible

I became imprisoned in the room of nothingness,
I was yearning for one glimpse of the light of hope
Then you knocked on the door of my darkness.

Kshitij Yadav manages Human Writes.

In Hyde's Lament, out now, Catherine Hyde, who we first met in Only The Few by L.N. Denison, has begun changing into the very kind of monster she has been fighting in a post-apocalyptic England.

Two men, armed with semi-automatic rifles, entered the dingy makeshift medical wing of the bomb shelter. One held a straitjacket, and the other, a syringe. Looming over Hyde, the man with the syringe slowly motioned toward her thigh. Hyde had been watching them through her eyelashes, feigning sleep. Without warning, she opened her eyes, and widened them as the needle’s point headed towards her left leg.

“What’s that?” Hyde’s voice shook. “Get that thing away from me.”

Pulling violently on the tightening restraints, she could do nothing to resist the needle as it slid in.

“Just a little Diazepam to calm you for the short journey to the training facility, that’s all.” The man regarded her with indifference as he slowly pumped the drug into her system.

Hyde became weak as the drug took effect, relaxing her muscles as though she had no bones holding her together. Her eyes grew heavy as she struggled to keep them open. The men released her restraints but by then, she was too feeble to take advantage of it and had no way to resist as they lifted her off the bed. They threaded her limp arms through the sleeves of the straitjacket, fastening the buckles tight and forcing Hyde to exhale sharply. Each pull stole her breath away. The sleeves were wrapped across her chest and the ties secured behind her back. As well as being so relaxed she could hardly walk, she had now lost the use of her arms.

With a man stabilising her either side, Hyde was led out of the cold room into the corridor devoid of any life or feeling. The bad lighting seemed to be the norm in the bomb shelter. Whilst being pulled along, she took in the starkness of her surroundings as they passed her by. She tried to marshal her thoughts against the creeping effects of the drug that flowed through her system, and to resist being pulled..

“Don’t be getting any ideas in that pretty little head of yours,” One of the men said in Hyde’s ear. “I can see what you’re doing; I’m not stupid.” He stopped and pulled the thin, green cloth scarf from around his neck. Swaying unsteadily, Hyde could not stop him using the cloth to cover her eyes, depriving her of vision and winced as it was pulled tight around her head.

“If you can’t see where you’re going, you can’t think about escaping.”

Not that I could escape even if I wanted to, not in this thing…. fuckin’ idiot!

Now, completely in the dark, Hyde’s legs were made to walk faster than her body and mind would allow, but no amount of pulling back was going to stop the speed in which she was being carried along between the two soldiers.

She stumbled once and was hauled back upright.

“Don’t give me an excuse to hurt you, caver.”

And this is where it would begin: the name-calling and prejudice. She knew she had been changing, felt it happen, but they had not let her see the changes for herself. The thought left her heart heavy with sadness and dread. Am I really changing? I haven’t looked on my face in weeks. What have they done to me? I need to know.

A tug on the straitjacket sent Hyde to her knees, but with the momentum of the fall the two men could lift her straight back up and keep her moving. A sudden, jarring halt made her wary.

“You’ve reached the end of the line,” the man to her right said as he pushed her forward. There was the sound of a door being opened just in front of where she stood and then she was being pushed through it. Not being able to see, Hyde wasn’t sure what this room might be, but like everywhere else, it was a cold, and smelt damp… and unwelcoming.

“Bring her to me,” a man’s voice said from some distance away. “Take that blindfold off, and leave us.” They forced her forward, and removed the cloth from her eyes, then turned and left. The room she was in was as depressing as the one she had been dragged from, and to add to the anxiety that grew in her mind, she spotted a steel six by six cage in the corner, which she guessed was for her.

The only other occupant of the room was someone very familiar to her, and one that frightened her. It was Judd. But how? I was told that he was scheduled for execution. He should be dead by now. Hyde’s knees buckled, but there was no one to catch her this time. Judd watched as she fell, but did nothing to help her.

“Do you intend to stay there all day, Hyde?” Judd asked, his voice stern and angry. “Get to your feet, soldier. I won’t ask again.”

Hyde felt her gorge rise with anxiety, and the blood in her veins begun to run cold, as she tried, but failed several times to obey the captain’s order. With a sense of purpose, the man stalked towards her letting her see how displeased he was by the lack of response.

“Get to your feet,” he bawled as he bent over her. “You look disgusting, Hyde. Have you seen yourself lately?”

She answered with a single shake of her head and he stepped back, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Just get up!”

With no hands to push herself up, Hyde tried again to stand. It hurt to do so, as her muscles were still in such a state of relaxation from the Diazepam, that her whole body was uncooperative. It took every ounce of energy to keep her from falling again.

Grabbing at the straitjacket, Judd led her over to the cage and pushed her inside. He kept her trapped in her canvas prison as he closed the door and locked it.

“This will be your new home for next few months, get used to it,” he seethed. “Don’t think for one minute that I won’t pick up from where I left off.”

Hyde's Lament is available now!

Meet Catherine Hyde, star of Only The Few and Hyde's Lament.

Q1: What would you have done with your life if there had not been an apocalypse?

Ummm! There were a lot of things that I wanted to do: finish out my time in the army, spend more time with my family. But after recent events, I’m not sure what is real or not anymore. Did I ever have a family? My memory seems to be missing certain aspects of my life after my time in the bunker. In all seriousness though, I would’ve just wanted to have an easy life with no worries.

Q2: Who is your greatest friend and worst enemy and why?

I have no friends. I have acquaintances nowadays. The only friend I had was Charlie, and he was killed by scavengers. There is Marcus, Jas and the other survivors I picked up on my mission, but it was Charlie that I really connected with. I felt the need to protect him. We were like sister and brother…I miss him.

My worst enemy? Goes without saying…Malcolm Judd. He blighted every move I made in my attempt to bring the survivors’ back to London and was instrumental in my so-called ‘training’ at the bunker.

Q3: What do you fear most and why?

My biggest fear was death, but after recent events, I feel fearless, rather than fearful. Losing everything would’ve been the next fear, but that has all but happened. I think losing the new life I have now would be my worst fear. After all I’ve been through, I deserve something in return.

Catherine Hyde is the creation of L.N. Denison who was born in Portsmouth to an English mother and Iraqi father, she spent the first 4 years of her life in Iraq, but once her brother was born, her mother fled Iraq and divorced her father once she arrived back in England. The rest of L.N's childhood was spent in Essex, mainly in Basildon and Wickford. By the age of 20, she had made the move to Kent, where she met her husband of nearly 20 years. She has been writing on and off, for the past 15 years, but only published her first novel 3 years ago.

Sunday, and Anna shopped before making her way to the Crown Inn, which turned out to be a long, low-slung thatched building with a busy bustling air about it. She had timed her arrival for after any lunch rush, and made her way somewhat shyly to the bar.
“My name is Anna Marshall” she said to the blocky red-haired bartender, “I think you have a camping pitch booked for me.”
“We do,” he grinned. “I’m Ben. Landlord. Me and Sam go back a ways. Any friend of his is a friend of mine, and more than welcome. I’ll show you where stuff is.” He beckoned to a younger man who was busily clearing tables before stepping out from behind the bar.
“Camping field gate is just along the road. I’ll go open it for you if you want to get your camper.”

Anna nodded, and by the time she had driven out of the car park Ben had a big five-bar gate open and was floridly bowing her in. She drove slowly through and waited for him to shut the gate behind her. He trotted past the camper, and beckoned her to follow him as he jogged off along a well-made track. Anna was amused by his ebullience, and delighted when he motioned her to pull onto a shady pitch with hard tracks for the camper’s wheels. She stopped the engine and got out of the cab. Immediately she could hear the sound of running water, and see a tiny stream just at the bottom of the field.
“Okay to let the dog out?”
“Sure.”
Bonnie jumped out and having sniffed Ben carefully, allowed herself to be patted.
“What a beautiful dog. Right. You have this little field to yourself. There are another dozen pitches, but they are through that gate over there. There’s a loo and shower block through there too. Here’s the key. Water point just here. Electric hook-up behind this tree. Toilet emptying behind the loo block. Holiday cottages through the other gate, the occupants will walk past you to get to the pub. If that’s a bother I can find you a different pitch. You get to the pub through the kissing gate there. Leads into the beer garden. Anything I’ve forgotten?”
Anna grinned.
“I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he headed off at the trot that Anna guessed was his usual gait then stopped and turned back to her. “Your dog is welcome in the bar, lounge or beer garden. Can’t allow her in the restaurant, the health and safety johnnies would have multiple babies.”
He threw her a salute, and was gone.

Anna pitched up, while Bonnie went for a paddle. A clang from the kissing gate alerted Anna to company, and she whistled Bonnie to heel. A group of about a dozen people ambled across the field.
“Afternoon. What a lovely dog. Is she friendly?”
“Yes. Though not annoyingly so.”
“We’re in the cottages. Won’t disturb you except on the way to and from the pub.”
“You were here first,” Anna smiled, “and there’s plenty of room for everybody.”
“There is, and isn’t it a lovely spot.”

And then they were gone through another gate into the gardens of the holiday cottages, leaving Anna alone with her dog and a delightful sense of anticipation. Smiling inwardly, she cooked lasagne, spread French bread with garlic butter and wrapped it in foil ready to warm, made ready the ingredients for salad, and took some chocolate brownies out of the freezer to defrost. With that done, she and Bonnie took themselves for a good walk which they both enjoyed.  Then Anna availed herself of a small, but well-appointed shower block, and came back to the camper feeling as fresh as a daisy. She made liberal use of a bottle of scented body lotion before sitting in the sun to dry her hair.
“And that should do,” she said to Bonnie, who gave her a straight look. “Do you think I should dress up, then?”
The dog waved an encouraging tail.
“Oh. If you say so. But what should I wear?”

While she was deciding, the phone rang.
“Hi Sam.”
“Just finished. I’ll go home and grab a shower. Be with you by about seven o’clock.”
“Okay. I’ll have a glass of wine ready for you.”
“Yum. If I drive fast, I could be earlier…”
“No need to drive fast, just drive safe. We’ll be here when you arrive.”
“See you soon”
“Bye.”

Jane Jago

Though I’m old, I can still dance the dance
I can still feel the thrill of romance
And I yet know the bliss
Of a cuddle and kiss
And of nookie, when I get the chance

© jane jago 2018

Out now The Last City - a new science fiction anthology from Dust Publishing with stories all set in an asteroid city where the last known vestiges of humanity live in massive towers. One of the stories is 'Star Dust' by E.M. Swift- Hook and another is 'Sam Nero - PI' by Jane Jago...

Excerpt from the notebooks of Anastasia Throbb, ace reporter, and presenter of the prime-time magazine show The Throbbing City.

Sam Nero didn’t want to meet with me. It took six months of poking and prodding, and outright bribery before I found a man who was both willing and able to lean on this most archetypal of private investigators and make him talk to me. In the end, a friend of a friend introduced me to a man who goes by the name of O’Halleran, who promised me an hour of Sam’s time. Rather to my surprise, it even seemed as if he was going to deliver.

He sent two huge mutes to my office and they escorted me to a back-street diner where a sullen-faced waitress stuck me in a booth and stopped chewing gum for long enough to mouth “sit”. I sat and waited, concealing my growing impatience as best as possible. I was just about to make as dignified an exit as I could when a shadow fell across the table.
“Miss Throbb, I presume.” The voice was lazily amused.
I turned and got my first look at Sam Nero in the flesh. He was about six three, maybe six four, wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, and his face looked as if it had been designed to meet the expectations of every pre-pubescent female in the city. It was hard, and sculpted, and sported what I could only assume was a permanent five o’clock shadow. I turned my attention to his companion, a lush-bodied bottle blonde who looked at me as if she could discern my innermost secrets. I think I hated her on sight.

They slipped into the booth opposite me, and something about the pair of them set the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. For a moment I was floundering, then I realised what had spooked me. There were two of them, but only one shadow. While my flesh was still crawling, the waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and two tall mugs. She put a mug in front of Nero and one in front of me before favouring me with a sneer and sloping off.
“Doesn’t your lady friend get coffee?”
The voice that responded was feminine and breathy and sounded to me as if it had been honed over a lot of years of practice.
“I never touch the stuff. Ruins the complexion.”
Then Nero laughed. It was a deep sound that sent little shivers running around all sorts of inappropriate parts of my anatomy.
“Be nice.”
“I was being nice, Sam. You should know that.”
She laid a red-nailed and possessive paw on his forearm and he smiled.
“Sure you were being nice, Sugar. I’d just like to keep it that way.”
“Sugar?” I think my voice went up an octave, I mean what sort of a prehistoric monster calls his woman sugar?
“It’s my name. Sugar Kane. That’s Miss Kane to you.”
Mentally cursing my luck I turned my most winsome smile on Mister Nero.
“Sam,” I said. “May I call you Sam?”
He raised a lazy eyebrow and looked me up and down for a moment before laughing that damnably sexy laugh again.
“I guess so. It’s what Ma Nero named her little boy.”
“Is it really? I mean I can find no record of a family called Nero, let alone a male child called. Samuel?”
“Nah. Just Sam. And where I was born nobody keeps records.”
“And Miss Kane. Where and when was your sidekick born?”
“That ain’t the sort of question a gentleman asks a lady. Not if he wants to keep wearing his face. You can ask if you are that stupid.”
I looked into his companion’s icy eyes and quickly framed another question.
“The first record I can find of a Sam Nero is about four decades ago when a licence to operate as a private detective was granted. Would that be you?”
“Maybe.”
“The age of the applicant is stated as being forty-two.”
“Sounds a responsible sort of age to me. What say you Sugar?”
They exchanged a look of such naked trust that for a second even I felt de trop. But I pressed on.
“But that can’t be you, Mister Nero. If it was you would be in your eighties by now. And you don’t look like an eighty-year-old man to me.”
“Neither he does.” The blonde seemed to be laughing at me, and I didn’t like the sensation one little bit.
I made my voice hard and assertive.

“In my book, Mister Nero, that makes you an impostor. I’m sure the authorities would love to look at my findings and throw you into jail for a good long time.” I leaned forward and slapped the palms of my hands on the table hard enough to sting.
Nero laughed.
“Think again, sweetheart. The authorities as you so sweetly call them know precisely who I am. Next question.”
He took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up.
I coughed.
“I do not care for tobacco smoke,” I said icily.
Nero sneered at me.
“Door’s over there. Make sure it doesn’t hit your ass on the way out.”
I was incensed, but some vestige of intelligence stopped me leaving. This was my only chance to persuade an icon of old-school cops and robbers violence onto my show so I swallowed my bile and tried for a forgiving smile. The obnoxious Sugar shrugged her shoulders and her rather overblown assets jiggled.
“I think the lady has decided to forgive you.”
He grinned lazily, and twitched a mobile eyebrow, sending my hormone count soaring yet again. This man was hot, hot and dangerous. I needed him to boost my flagging ratings, and maybe for the odd other job or two.

I set myself to charm him, sipping my coffee and running my tongue along my lower lip. He watched with what I can only describe as detached amusement, and I felt my anger begin to rise up once more.

“What’s with you Nero?” I snapped. “You come here sneering, and looking down your nose at me…”
He leaned back and crossed his long long legs.
“Wasn’t me asked for this meet. Suck it up.”
I drew in a breath and tried for calm.
“Fair point Mister Nero. I asked to meet you.”
The blonde bombshell laughed huskily.
“I think the lady is after your body, Sam.”
“Why’d that be Sugar?”
“As if you didn’t know, big boy.”
“And as if you didn’t know old Sam’s heart is yours alone.”

It seemed to me as if they had completely forgotten my existence and I rapped my nails against the crazed china of my mug.
“I’m still here,” I grated.
“Why so you are.” Nero looked me up and down a bit more, and the silent insult in his stare had the blood rushing to my face and I blushed for possibly the first time in two decades.
“Why are you being like this? You have been chauvinistic, unpleasant and downright rude. Why? What have I ever done to you?”
He got up from his seat and looked down at me with a most peculiar expression on his face.
“It’s not always about you. I am what I am. How I was made…”
Then he was gone, and the woman went with him. Two entities with one shadow…

Check out the book to see Sam Nero in action and meet the other strange and dangerous denizens of The Last City.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

Before one does anything else one feels it imperative to apologise profusely to one’s faithful readership for last weeks entry under this illustrious imprint of the Thinking Quill.

I. Cannot. Believe. What. My. Parent. Wrote.

One can only assume the woman was under the influence of her favourite cocktail – a tasteful mixture of advocaat, ruby port and rubbing alcohol, which she refers to as a ‘Dog’s Bollock’.

As I lay on my sickbed, near to death, the dreadful female managed to insult all I hold dear, ridicule my literary genius, and reduce these profound seminars to objects of derision. Were it not for the fact she is bigger than one, and packs a mean left hook….

But enough of my sorrows. To our work.

At the risk of pushing against an open door, I shall take a little moment to remind my beloved students of my credentials, and my reasons for preparing this series of little tutorials. I am, of course, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and acclaimed author of the millionth bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and my writing these little posts to my adoring students is solely motivated by the desire to assist your writing endeavours.

And now to business.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 22: The Write Wromance

The romantic novel is the graveyard of so much literary endeavour, being a crowded marketplace in which the average flounders and sinks itself beneath contempt and only the superlative can possibly hope to achieve success. Of course the paramount example of this pulchritudinous delight is the queen of pinkness and prettiness at whose slippered feet we are unworthy to worship. We cannot hope to even approach her superlative talent but we may use her incandescently shimmering writings as a blueprint for our own feeble scribbles.

The Rules

1. The heroine. A beautiful, shy, virgin whom life has treated unkindly. She must be intelligent, compassionate, and as pink and pretty as a rosebud.
2. The hero. An older man, handsome, cynical, wealthy, damaged.
3. The bitch. Beautiful, hard, not a virgin. Wants the hero
4. The antihero. Has designs on the heroine’s virtue
5. The plot. Antihero does a bad thing to heroine. Hero saves her. Hero wants her but bitch steps in. Much confusion arises. Hero and heroine come together in the end. Close with a chaste kiss.

And that mes estudas are the wrules of the write way to write a wromance.

Ecrit Bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Fear is like a looking glass....

“What I’ve found so far about the rugby lottery is the chains are being redirected, there’s code recycling and the murder or murderers are getting harder to track, making the bets harder to track to the actual bettors. I convinced the tech team at the police department to track the I.P. addresses of every user found on Walter Ashford’s computer. I tracked several of them myself. Some linked to genuine fans of the game who were betting through the fantasy rugby lottery website, but after background checks and extensive interviews were found to be unwitting participates in the rugby murders or not involved at all, since their bets were less than £10 (15.56 USD).” Eva walked behind her desk and handed Mr. Kane a file folder from her portfolio.

Mr. Kane looked at the information inside. “But a few pounds could be a ruse to divert the police from finding out who exactly are the partners in crime. Because maybe they know we’re onto them.”

“Yes, true. The police are still monitoring around the clock those who’ve been ruled out and the rest of those participating fans betting in the rugby lottery.”

“People are still betting through this website?” Mr. Kane said raising a furrowed brow.

“Yes, there are extreme fanatics of the game and the players. The police can’t risk shutting the site down. They risk not being able to catch the real criminal or criminals.”

“What’s this world coming to?” Mr. Kane shook his head. “There’s no way they could be doing the shootings themselves. There’s a risk of getting caught. They must’ve hired mercenaries. No, not mercenaries, they wouldn’t have left any additional casualties like in Johannesburg. The first two matches a hired gun had to have been used. There were no added casualties just the impending targets. The other two matches the shootings were sloppy, the one in Johannesburg and Australia versus New Zealand match where both players had been shot alone outside of the stadium. Those were possibly random.” Mr. Kane swallowed hard, rubbing his forehead.

“This is getting to be scarier and scarier by the second,” Eva sighed, her hand on Othor’s shoulder. He nodded, both of them staring out of the sixteenth-century oriel window of Othor’s home office, overlooking the Bristol Channel.

“In a sea of rugby fanatics, how do we find the one or ones, who are deranged and brilliant enough to kill through the internet without getting their hands dirty? Whoever they are their influence is absolutely staggering and frustrating. We’ve been at this for over three years and every step forward seems like a major setback.” He rubbed his forefinger along his chin. “Instead of looking at who’s betting we should look at those registering, selecting and joining the leagues and creating their own teams through the fantasy rugby lottery website. Those making draft picks and those with salary caps that are too unusual to ignore. Yes, we need to check those salary caps again. Nothing will be left sacred.”

“I guess we’ll both be burning the midnight oil tonight on this one.”

Weeping Well is written by Angel Chadwick.