Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

A tall praetorian came into the room and stood kicking his feet like a schoolboy. Decimus sat abruptly upright.
“All right man, what don’t you want to say?”
The hard-bitten guard looked into his commander’s eyes.
“We obtained entry to the Rufus apartment and there we discovered two females. Identified as Lydia Augusta Severius and Octavia Tullia Scaevia. Both females were deceased. Preliminary examination suggests poison. I’m sorry sir.”
Decimus stood up and clapped the man on his hard, muscular shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said simply and the soldier left, walking quietly.
“Oh. My dear friend,” Julia felt incapable and suddenly very small and useless.
Fortunately Boudicca was well able for the situation. She went and put her plump, motherly arms around Decimus and he laid his head on her shoulder. Julia walked over to them and patted them both.
“We’ll just leave you then…”
“No lass,” Decimus’ voice was thick with tears, but he spoke with authority. “You two should at least hang about until we find out if my lads caught up with Marcella. Though I doubt it.”
“I do too,” Julia said moodily. “I think the futatrix will be long gone.”
Dai looked on, and his face clearly expressed complete puzzlement.
“Tell him, lass. I can’t speak about it right now and he needs to know.”
“When Decimus was offered the job as Tribune in charge of the Praetorian Cohort of Britannia, which was a huge promotion, there were strings. Or rather there was one string. The Praetor had a problem daughter who he wanted married and off his hands. Decimus was single, and with the reputation of being a tough man to cross. The Praetor thought him the perfect man to take his daughter off his hands. Decimus wasn’t given the option of refusal. He married the girl. And she never forgave him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yes, but…,” Dai was groping for words.
“But why am I shedding tears for her?” Decimus provided, stepping away from Boudicca and gently gripping her arm in gratitude.
“Sorry, dominus. But yes…”
Because the poor silly futatrix got as little out of the marriage as me. Maybe even less. She wanted some little wastrel, who was the only son of a senator. But his father didn’t agree. Even when it was proved the girl was spoilt goods. Spoilt by his spoilt son. And that’s why I was weeping. I was weeping at the waste of it all – and because no one should die unmourned. Even simple piety demands tears be shed for her.”
“Oh. I see…”
Julia gave him a little punch on the biceps.
“You probably don’t, and neither do I. But that’s the way they do it in the first families. Lydia was supposed to be grateful to Decimus for marrying her and he was supposed to be grateful for a patrician bride. Sadly, neither felt gratitude. He felt pity. She felt loathing.”
She watched Dai’s face carefully as she spoke, willing him to at least try and understand. Try to see that Romans could be as trapped in their lives as he was in his. When she wound down, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze as if to reassure her, before speaking directly to Decimus.
“I’m sorry dominus. Sorry for what you are going through and sorry for my own crassness. I think I just always assumed that being a Roman Citizen meant you had at least half of the world at your feet. I never thought that might carry its own set of problems.”
Decimus looked at the tall Celt and dredged up a wry grin.
“Just keep it in mind when you are dealing with Julia will you? She’s had it a lot harder than me.”
“Shut up, Decimus,” Julia said, feeling the heat in her face.
“Why should I? Am I not speaking truth?”
“You are. But…” her voice was tense, willing him to leave it alone. This was not the time.
Boudicca gave Decimus a little shake.  “Not yours to tell.”
He subsided, still grumbling under his breath, while Julia tried to deal with the twin demons of memory and loneliness.

Part XVIII will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

D is for: Dogs as Fashion Accessories

The incandescent rage this provokes can only be contained with copious amounts of Guinness and Tia Maria, loud swearing, and much kicking of rubbish bins. But confront it we must.
Each of us has a dog who is dear to our heart. They are: one Jack Russell terrier notable mostly for the frequence and aroma of his farts; one teacup poodle (rescued from a person not fit to ever own a dog) who will fight any other quadruped (up to and including a cow who was once unwise enough to wander into his garden), and a farm collie with mismatched eyes and a sweet, gentle temperament. The only thing these animals have in common is utter disdain for any dog who is treated as if they are an accessory.
Not, you must understand, in the criminal sense of the word as at leat two of our pets would be only too happy to take a leading role in any nefarious goings on. No. We’re talking about crimes against canine companions. Crimes such as dying dogs pink, carrying them in handbags, and dressing them in inappropriate versions of bad-taste human clothing.
Scrapper the teacup poodle is sort of white. ‘Sort of’ being a way of making allowance for the fact the earth he loves digging in is reddish brown so he is never pristine, no matter how often he is stood in the scullery sink for a wash. Even with this utter disregard for his mistress’ preferences, and her soft furnishings, it would be a crime to dye the poor little sod to match her predominantly purple wardrobe.
Gyp, the aforementioned windy terrier, would never forgive anyone who was to put him in a handbag and carry him like a trophy. In fact, the stubborn little sod won’t even get a lift in the basket of his ‘owner’s’ bicycle no matter how tired his stumpy little legs may be. The moral? Let your dog have his pride and don’t pretend he’s a plastic doll.
And finally. Clothing.
Macintosh coats are acceptable, as are warm winter fleeces. Bow ties and bandanas are sort of okay if the dog doesn’t mind. What is not acceptable is a much longer list: tutus, pyjamas, strange onesies to make your dog look like a unicorn/dragon/lion/why, hats, party dresses, tuxedos…
One could go on for a very long time. However. The exigencies of a 26-letter dissertation, and the collective blood pressure suggests we draw this letter to a close.
Thus. In conclusion it is necessary to understand that a dog is a friend, a protector and a partner in crime. Let them have their dignity or we’ll send Gyp to fart on you.

It was Halloween, and the toys had built a bonfire next to Eeyore’s tent. They had ginger beer and marshmallows to share, and they took it in turns to tell spooky stories and scare each other spitless.
They were having so much fun that the only person who went home to bed was Kanga, because she thought that if baby Roo ate any more he was going to be sick in her marsupium.
It was past eight o’clock before everyone conked out, and Piglet was lulled into sleep by the comforting sounds of Eeyore’s snores and Pooh’s tummy rumbling like a passing goods train.
Who knew how much longer it was when he awoke. The fire had died down to a pile of reddish embers and there was a breeze whispering in the tops of the aspen trees.
“Piglet, Piglet,” it called, “come and play.”
Piglet knuckled his eyes, and when he looked up there was a big, pink lady pig sitting on a log regarding him soulfully.
“Aren’t you coming to play? I’m so lonely.”
A tear lingered on her pale, bristly eyelashes and Piglet felt pity so he stood up and dusted down his onesie.
“Where shall we play?” He asked politely.
The lady pig beamed. “We shall play everywhere.”
Before Piglet had a chance to think that one through, she grasped his trotter in hers and he felt himself rising into the sky.
Not being the bravest and most stoical of toys, Piglet screamed loud and shrill but his friends around the dying fire slept on undisturbed.
“They can’t hear you. This is your adventure.”
Piglet looked down on his sleeping friends and wondered if he would ever see them again. But he was of a sanguine nature and this was, as the lady pig said, quite an adventure. He ventured a look at his companion thinking her a fine figure of a sow and wondering if that would be an appropriate thing to say.
She must have caught his glance because she frowned.
“Is there something wrong with my face, small pig?”
Piglet essayed his most charming smile. “No demoiselle. Piglet was just thinking how be-you-ti-full you is.”
The she-pig blushed and simpered. “That is very kind of you small pig. What is your name?”
“I is Piglet.”
“Yes, I know you are a piglet, but what is your name?”
“I doesn’t has a name. I is just Piglet.”
The she-pig shrugged her shoulders and Piglet was shaken to the roots of his teeth.
“Ouch!”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
But it came to Piglet that she didn’t sound a bit sorry. He was about to say so, but something warned him and his mind’s eye saw Tigger with a paw to his lips.
“Where is your mummy, little pig?”
“Piglet doesn’t know.”
“Your daddy?”
“Piglet doesn’t know.”
“There appears to be a lot you don’t know, small and ignorant pig.”
Piglet rather resented being called ignorant, but didn’t see what he could profitably say so he kept his mouth shut.
She-pig gave him a sideways glance. “Nearly there,” she said and her voice was as cold as the sky they were flying through.
“Where is there?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Piglet felt her trotter tighten about his own small foot and he understood that she wasn’t going to let him go.
They were quickly losing altitude and before Piglet had time to formulate a thought about where they might be they landed in a clearing beside a cottage that seemed to be constructed of cake. The door flew open and a bent old woman leapt out.
“What have you brought me?”
“Bacon mother.”
The she-pig let go of Piglet and he started to run, only to be stopped by a bony hand. He turned his head and sunk his sharp little teeth into the thumb that was pressing into his arm.
The old woman screamed, and dropped his arm. Her scream of pain was just as piercing as Piglet’s scream of fear and he ran as fast as he could. He thought he had made good his escape, but the old beldame muttered a word of power and his feet could no longer move.
The moon came out from behind a cloud and his captor saw what she had got. She turned on the she-pig in fury.
“This isn’t bacon,” she accused, “this is wool and felt and stuffing and boot button eyes.”
She leapt towards the she-pig with her hands hooked like claws and they fell to the forest floor biting and scratching and squealing.
A soft voice behind Piglet bade him come away, and he felt himself being drawn gently back to the campfire where his chums snored.
He dropped back into his body and for a second he thought he felt loving arms surrounding him. A prickly snout brushed his forehead.
“Bacon? Not my piglet.”
Then the presence was gone and he tumbled into a dreamless sleep.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Here I set my heart within your hands
Here I swore my soul unto your lands
Here I took my first breath as a fae
Here I lived until your dying day
Here I bore the child you’ll never see
Here I lit the flame to set you free
Here I kneel and weep my final tear
Here I lay a rose for you…
Here…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

“But this is beautiful!” Love’s goddess was enchanted by the blue and green planet, abundant with life.

The God of Evil smirked. “I know.”

“I don’t see anything evil,” she said, admiring the humans, something he’d invented for this new world. They could love, feel and create, almost like gods themselves.

“No?”

A shriek came of agony and fear. The goddess, horrified, watched one beautiful animal killing another.

“No!”

“Yes!” Evil’s deity gloated. “I designed this world so living things must kill and eat others to live themselves.”

The goddess paled as she realised the true horror he had wrought.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jacintha Farquhar, maternal parent of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV offers important life lessons to those who like to think they’ve got what it takes to write a damn book…

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar. 

In case you are wondering, Moons (my benighted son) is now lost on a Greek expedition, so the two mad women who run this thing asked if I would consider filling in and offering advice for those aspiring writers daft enough to read it.

It’s worth noting that Moon’s latest attempt at writing is now in some fifteenth draft of what he laughingly calls ‘literary fiction’ but which is thinly-disguised and very badly written gay erotica. He now declares his science-fiction attempt ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ to have been his ‘juvenalia’ and the pompous little prick sincerely believes he has a chance at the Booker Prize with his new heap of steaming crap. Sadly, from what I’ve seen of the competition, he might even be right.

Anyway, enough of that, I need to start earning the fat fee they are paying me for this guest appearance and having given the matter some thought I’ve decided to start with one of the big moments in every writer’s career.

Reality Check

There comes a point in every writer’s life – well maybe not every writer but most by far of you lot reading this – when they realise they are not going to make it to the ranks of a second Shakspeare in terms of literary acclaim – or even that of a J.K. Rowling.

No. Shit. Sherlock.

I am always amazed how long it takes the dewy-eyed enthusiast to figure this very simple fact. It’s as if when someone starts writing, their logical and discriminatory brain dribbles out of their ears to be replaced by some pink fluffy clouds and unicorns wearing garlands dangling the Amazon logo and woven with ribbons which spell out ‘Fifty Reviews’ or some such shite.

Seriously people, grow up! 

If your teenage daughter told you she was going to be the next Ariana Grande, you might praise her aspiration but be pretty sharp in making sure she was still studying for her exams. Just because you have a few more years under your belt doesn’t mean you are immune to the starry-eyed syndrome. The fact you idolise becoming a fat, wheezing weirdy-beardy like GRR Martin rather than a svelt sexy singer doesn’t shift the needle on the ‘likely to happen’ dial by so much as a smidgen.

What gets me though is how writers respond to this moment of grim epiphany. 

1. They ignore it and continue to imagine themselves as God’s gift to the literary world, refuse to take any criticism from anyone, spewing ever more dreadful ‘pen babies’ into a recoiling ether until even their own mother refuses to read anything more they write. This is my son Moons for you – pretentious twonk that he is.
2. They realise how true it is, and conclude that they will always suck and never make their fortune at this writing lark so they should throw down the pen for good and go off to put all their focus into something easier and more profitable like becoming a lawyer, a banker or CEO of a nasdaq-100 company.
3. They take it on board proportionately, review what is a realistic expectation of what they can accrue from their writing and based on that make a clear decision about where writing can and should fit into their life. The answer to this being different for each writer as some have more ability to work on production and marketing than others.

Unfortunately (1) and (2) – doubling down or utter abandonment – seem to be the most common reactions resulting in both an over-spill of writers of dreadful books who will brook no remedy and the loss of some who might have penned some decent stories. I’m here to advocate for number (3) and to suggest you flush both the marshmallow and dollar signs out of your brain and take a clear hard look at what you do. 

Just because you will never be an author who people hold conventions about and dress up as your characters, like Tolkien, doesn’t mean you can’t write stuff people like reading. Whatever you write and pretty much however good or bad it is, there will be some corner of the internet full of geekish sub-genre fanatics eager to read it. You can, and should, be working on improving your writing, listening to criticism (not slavishly but with a genuine interest in learning and polishing your craft) and making your best fist of it all.

So have your reality check, work out if this is really a beautiful career or a pretty cool hobby, then get on with what you writers like to do most – Writing. Your. Books.

Jacintha Farquar, mother of that ungrateful toad Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

You can find more of my son’s ramblings in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago, but you’d need to be half-cut to think it any good!

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!
Tormented, scraped and cut,
Your entrails ripped out from within,
To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!
Thy glorious grinning face,
Carved from the orange of your skull,
Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!
Upon the doorstep set
Your eldritch light and feral look
Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!
When brightly lit your grin
Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts
And keep us safe within.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

Dai looked down at Julia.
“You think they are in the wind, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. I really, really do. And maybe we’ll never catch up with them.”
“Do you think it is just those three?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t see how it can be. I just wish I could get a handle on what they are up to. Is it betting? Or what?”
Decimus looked at them and snapped his teeth together.
“I think you two are missing something here. Four women from patrician families. Three with unsatisfactory husbands, one with an unsatisfactory job.”
Dai scratched his head.
“Domina Lydia, Octavia Tullia Scaevia, Annia Bellona Flavia, and…”
“Marcella Tullia Junius,” Julia supplied.
“Yes, her. I don’t know about her, but I don’t see the other three masterminding any sort of a plot.” He looked embarrassed.
Decimus actually gave a bark of laughter.
“The boy has a point, Julia. Lydia is as stupid as she is arrogant. Octavia isn’t as pathetic as she chooses to appear but she’s no genius. And the Flavian woman was almost criminally incompetent. That just leaves Marcella Junius. I don’t really know her, but she has the reputation of being both intelligent and as cold as ice. So maybe. Just maybe.”
Julia kicked his desk with one small booted foot.
“Just those four? I wonder. Whatever. If they have poofed we are in trouble. We know they are part of something;, what we have to do now is prove it, and that could be the sticking point.” She fulminated a bit more. “Do you know what really strokes my fur backwards? The Britons. Three athletes in their prime and one half-stupid beastmaster, all killed for no better reason than to hide whatever that lot were part of.”
Dai and the stolid Boudicca exchanged a glance of surprised appreciation. Julia caught that look and stamped her foot in sheer frustration.
“And you two are pissing me off as well. Just because I’m Roman I’m not capable of caring about the lives of Britons? Well I do care. I really bloody care. I joined up to protect everybody, be they Citizens or not. And you can believe me or disbelieve me. About that, I’m beyond caring.”
Dai had the grace to look ashamed, and Boudicca smiled albeit grimly.
“Fair enough, domina. I should have known that a friend of the Tribune’s would be made of good stuff.” Then she subsided, as if aware that she had probably said far too much for an ex-slave.
“Sit down, woman,” Decimus growled. “I’ll get us something to drink while we wait.”
Another bad- tempered clang on his bell brought a young guard running.
“Don’t look scared, lad. I won’t eat you. Just get that idle spado of a house steward to rustle up a drink and a snack for four.”
The guard saluted smartly and went about his business.

In a remarkably short space of time there was a scratch on the door and a procession of servitors brought in a flagon of mead and one of small beer, a tray of the finest glasses from Venezia, and a selection of snacks ranging from olives and salty Hellenic cheese to tiny fried dough balls filled with apple and cream.
Eating and drinking eased a lot of the tension. So much so that Julia was emboldened to put a hand on Dai’s forearm.
“Sorry Dai. I was well out of order there.”
He actually patted her hand.
“No. Truly, you weren’t. I need reminding sometimes that Romans are human.”
For the first time since they met, Julia sensed a genuine thaw in Dai’s attitude to her. She was grateful. By telling herself that such a shift would help their working relationship no end, she could consciously choose to ignore the fact that the tall Celt with his snapping blue eyes was stirring feelings she had no wish to think about.
Before such impure thoughts could sour her improving mood, there was a respectful tap in the door.
“Come.”

Part XVII will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

C is for: Conspiracy Theorists

Taking the lid off this can of worms exposes a seething mass of hysteria, stupidity, and downright fibbing. Of course these folks have been around forever, but they used to be confined to Speakers Corner and writing madly illegible screeds to whatever newspaper was unfortunate enough to receive their patronage.

Now, however, they have an easily accessible platform from which to spew their fantasies. The internet’s ever-growing crop of ‘experts’ is only too willing to pass on the results of its extensive ‘research’ for the benefit of the vulnerable and the hard of thinking.

As Brenda (all too frequently) remarks, the inhabitants of the home for the bewildered in which her mother-in-law resides are uniformly terrified by the latest pronouncements one of their number reads them from the ‘pages’ of a prominent social media site. Currently they are shitting themselves about: clouds and vaccination.

Clouds? Really? Chemtrails? Ye gods. Have these people only just noticed the sky? Between us we have been alive for more than two centuries during which time there have always been clouds and jet aeroplanes have always left vapour trails.
And still we are alive.

The much-repeated mantra of the anti-vaccination lobby is that vaccines either kill people, make people zombies, make people infertile, or are, in fact, tracking devices enabling Bill Gates to know where everyone is all the time.
So:
If vaccination was killing people at the claimed rate there would be nobody left alive now, except a couple of corrupt politicians, a fat bloke called Cousin Cletus, three bull terriers, and some locusts.
One of our number lives in a quaint little cottage alongside the graveyard. She reports no zombie activity and the only people she sees without their brains are the zombie theorists
Infertility is less easy to debunk as the birth rate is declining worldwide. However the power of better birth control and women having actual choices cannot be discounted. Nor can the long arm of coincidence. Us? We have our money on there being no connection except in the minds of the sad (and probably self-described alpha).
Does anybody think Bill Gates could give a flying **** where you are and what you’re doing? If you’re dumb enough to believe he might you’re too stupid to even be worth tracking.

We rest our case. Conspiracy Theories are bunk and those who peddle them are…. (expletive deleted)

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago