The Things In Jim’s Kitchen

“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Time is it?”
“3:00. How do I look?”
“Black. You always look black. I always look black. We look a lot alike, you and me.”
“Yeah, true that. So, how you been? What’d you do all day?”
“I was hidin’ all day, fool, same as you.”
“Yeah. I seen you.”
“You seen me?”
“Uh huh. Crouchin’ down behind the refrigerator. You never get yourself completely hid, you know.”
“Lucky HE didn’t see me, huh? So, if y’all could still see me, how come y’all ask where I been all day?”
“Just makin’ conversation, brother. But, there ain’t much ta talk about. It’s not like we got wives or kids or jobs or… shit, man, we never even leave this stupid kitchen.”
“Aw, shit, man. A cockroach just ran over me.”
“Well now, there’s something to talk about, brother! How big was it? What color was it?”
“Shhh. Jim’s comin’.”
“Shit. Hide.”
Jim turned his lights on and padded barefoot into his kitchen. Yawning he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plate of ham and a block of cheese. Stepping over to the counter, he built himself a sandwich with wheat bread. He checked the refrigerator and sighed when he saw he was out of mayonnaise and Dijon mustard. There was plenty of yellow mustard, though, the worst mustard in the world. He settled for it and scribbled a note to himself to get some mayo and Dijon. He padded back out of the kitchen, turning the lights back off.
“Yo. You okay, man?”
“Yeah. Damn that light hurts. But, I’m okay.”
“Did Jim see you?”
“Naw, man. Jim don’t see shit.”
“So, lemme ask you somethin’. Where do you see yourself in ten years.”
“‘Long as this house still standin’ I’ll be here, same as you. Ain’t you got it in your head, yet fool? We’re shadows. We’ll never be nothin’ but shadows!”
“Just tryin’ ta make conversation, brother.”

 

Dwayne Fry

They certainly got up to some hanky-panky in the good old days of the Roman Empire. Or should that be in the good new days of the Roman Empire? What if it the Ancient world hadn’t collapsed in the fifth century? What if Attila the Hun and his minions had failed to drive the Romans out of western Europe, allowing them to rule uninterrupted for two thousand years, their patrician sandal-clad foot placed firmly on the neck of the inferior Britons?

‘Dying to be Roman’ opens with someone, er, dying, and the body being discovered by our Celtic hero sleuth, named, er, Dai. ‘He looks pretty deceased to me,’ he mutters, observing the faceless corpse at the Augusta Arena, Londinium, Britannia Maxima. A quick DNA check with his wrist-worn identipad reveals the victim is Treno Bellicus, aka ‘Big Belly’, a star athlete in the upcoming Games.

The tone is set for this multi-layered, tongue-in-cheek, fast-paced detective romp through the cobbled alleyways and towering insulae of Londinium. In this city where togas meet hi-tech, and patrician matrons recline on couches or nip off in hovercabs to buy their designer stolas, an assassin is on the loose, despatching victims at the speed of light. What’s more, most of them have at least three names–Quintillas Publius Luca, Anna Belonia Flavia, Urbanus Hostilius Rufus– which makes the body count seem even higher.

Clearly what is needed to thwart this bloodthirsty villain is a clever detective, or, better still, two of them. Our sexy British Sherlock, he of the moody looks and bulging biceps, meets his match in the form of a miniature Roman Watson-ette in leather trousers with a nerve whip tucked into her belt.

The hunt is on, and the dynamic duo race from crime scene to crime scene, assisted by two giant wolf hounds and a handy contubernium of praetorians, trying to figure out who is murdering not just the lowly natives (who cares?) but also daring to knock off the crème de la crème of society, proper Romans from proper Rome.

The relationship between the two protagonists gradually develops from the instinctive mistrust between natives and colonisers to a mutual respect and growing attraction. Dai learns that Julia is not all she seems, and that her passion for justice applies to everyone, not just the ruling class. Julia learns that beneath his brooding exterior, Dai is intelligent and able to see beyond prejudices and stereotypes, a thinking woman’s Ross Poldark. But do they have a future together, this Romeo who has never seen Rome, and his Juliet, foster-sister to the mighty Tribune Decimus himself? Will Julia be able to put up with Dai’s passion for chip buttys with garam sauce, most of which ends up on his tunic? Will Dai be able to sit across the kitchen table without flinching as his beloved crunches on baby mice bones or nibbles a salad ‘with wafer thin curls of delicate roast peacock flesh served on a bed of rocket and watercress’?

But before they can sort out their romantic destiny, they have a killer to catch, and a lot of merda to shovel…

Readers looking for a cleverly-written, mash-up whodunnit with plenty to think about, laughs a minute, gore galore, two engaging lovers and a permanent sense of déjà vu all over again will adore this book. Bring on Dai and Julia Book 2!

Laurette Long

Discover who you would be out of the main characters in Dying to be Roman.

 

Did we but love,
Our love might ease this parting of the ways
Did we but hope,
Then hope might lift us through the darkening days
Could we believe,
Belief might make us fear the ending less
Could we but pray,
We might have just one prayer of some success
If we had care,
Then one bright light the tunnel’s end might show
If we had sight,
We might see in the dark a candle glow
Could we find faith,
Then in that faith we might discern a chance
Could we find calm,
Perhaps we would find healing in a glance
Did we have peace,
Perhaps our fear of death would fade and die
Did we but love,
Why then we’d have the strength to say goodbye

© Jane Jago 2017

 

 

Dragons. They’re as individual as their tastes in meat—and women.

Two dragons from very different worlds meet on a windy mountaintop, and the results are fiery.

Setting: A mountain plateau. A green-black dragon landed a few minutes ago, and a thirty-something woman slid down from his neck. She is wearing a black shirt with a dog collar–clearly a Christian minister. Another dragon is coming in to land. He is twice the size of the earlier dragon, and the scales on his back are so black as to seem to absorb light, while his underbelly gleams pearlescent white.

Penny: Hello both. I’m Penny White, and Raven asked me to come with him for today’s meeting. Perhaps you could both tell me, and each other, a bit more about yourselves?

A’a’shanto: My name is A’a’shanto. I am the master dragon. My function is to protect dragonkind at all costs. I am bonded to the very stones of Dragonheart itself and it is from those stones that I take my power.

My mate is T’i’asharath and together we uphold draconic law. We are shifters, having both human and dragon form and we are newly mated. Sometimes my mate finds the necessary betrayal of other species in the service of dragonkind hard to take, but every betrayal makes the next a little easier.

Until I was mated I was as much of a sexual predator as any other male dragon. Now I do not dare. T’i’asharath would kill me.

As Raven is a dragon, although not of my world, I will not lie to him. Unless I swear an oath, other species should not trust my words.

The smaller dragon snorts.

Raven: Well, that’s comfort. A dragon who won’t lie to another dragon. You wouldn’t think much of my family, though I don’t think much of them either.

My name is Hrafn Eydisson, I only call myself Raven for those who can’t cope with my name. I have the tendency to flame those who can’t pronounce Welsh properly, which leads to very short conversations.

I’m an out and out dragon. I have no desire to be a were, which is what we would call a shifter. I am also a search dragon, which means I can find, and find out, anything. Makes us search dragons rather unpopular with our families, which is why our mothers try to eat us upon birth. I managed to escape and joined a colony of other search dragons on a volcanic island.

I’ve had various dalliances during my life. Female dragons eat their mates after several clutches of eggs, which has rather put me off my own kind. Whereas human females, well, there’s something rather alluring about a powerful woman.

But she has to be able to defend herself. I will stand at her side, but I won’t fight her battles for her.

A’a’shanto laughs and bulks his muscles, showing off his much larger size.

A’a’shanto: Little dragon. You have courage at least. If you would not shift I can understand that. Though that ability brought me my mate, who is the other half of my soul. But if you have such contempt for us why the interest in the lady priest? Would you discuss theology with her? I myself have often wondered about the followers of the White Christ. Do they really believe they eat and drink the body and blood of their mashiach? Perhaps your lady love will explain.

Raven: Size has little to do with the ability to tear out your enemy’s heart. Grotesque dragon.

Penny: And we’re trying to keep things civil. Raven, please shut off your flame chamber. A’a’shanto, Raven and I are just friends.

Raven: And I have no interest in her Christ. Although I do respect a religion which has their followers eat their God. At least that gives a deity some purpose.

Penny: It’s symbolic, Raven, and you know that. A’a’shanto, do you follow any kind of spiritual practice? You mentioned something about ‘Dragonheart’?

A’a’shanto: Dragonheart is a place, and a symbol. In my world all dragons are bonded to Dragonheart but only the master dragon and his mate draw power from the stones. We commune daily with the stones in an attempt to understand the wisdom of being unchanging. The stones have seen and understood more that any mortal creature can comprehend. They saw the One God make all that lives and moves. They spoke with your maschiach and with the prophets of all the other faiths that rule your world. And they sent the dragon to the Mont of Olives to rescue Maryam and the child of Yesua.

Raven is laughing, and A’a’shanto snaps his jaws shut. Then the larger dragon turns to Penny.

A’a’shanto: But I would know more of the lady priest of the White Christ. How does it come that one so young and so charming is married to your church? Or is it that your priests are no longer celibate?

Penny: That’s all very interesting, A’a’shanto. Thank you for sharing that with us. Your belief that stones saw the creation of everything is fascinating. I don’t quite recognise your story about the Mount of Olives, but I also know there are many interpretations of stories about Jesus.

Raven: For one who so fears his wife, you do seem overly interested in another female.

Penny: It’s called flirting, Raven. Don’t worry about it.

Raven: It’s called something else in my family.

Penny: A’a’shanto, I’m in the Church of England. Our priests don’t have to be celibate. I happen to have a very nice boyfriend. A human boyfriend. Anyway, you said you uphold draconic law. What does that mean?

There is silence as A’a’shanto looks at Raven for a long moment. It is as if he is weighing something up in his mind.

A’a’shanto: Hrafn Eydisson I wish you would tell me more of being a search dragon. I think in my world we would call you a seeker, and you would be respected for your talent. I have sorrow when you say your mother would have eaten you. That is a great wrong. Draconic law is very clear that the protection of hatchlings is incumbent on all adult dragons.

A’a’shanto turns his attention back to Penny.

A’a’shanto: This is strange to me. It seems our society is more simple. I will tell you both our laws. The first law is that all dragons are subservient to Dragonheart and to the master dragon and his family. The second law is that golden queens and their hatchlings are sacred and all dragons must protect them. The third law is that no dragon may lie to another dragon. And that is the whole of the law.

Raven is laughing again.

Raven: Protection of all hatchlings? Even the weak? This from a dragon who enjoys looking down at me. Our clans have secrets, and we guard those closely, even from our own kind. We protect those secrets by lying, and sometimes even killing our own. Why should the unworthy be protected?

Penny: Different cultures, Raven. Their society obviously values individual draconic life. Your laws are interesting, A’a’shanto, as it seems these only apply to dragons? What about other beings?

A’a’shanto looks at Raven for a long moment.

A’a’shanto: Why do you say I look down at you? Is it because you are a bitter creature? I wonder why that is. Perhaps because your society does not value hatchlings as ours does. You should understand one thing. Protecting dragonets is not a matter of looking out for the unworthy. It is a matter of accepting that every dragon has the right to become what he or she is to become.

A’a’shanto smiles at Penny, but it’s the smile of a cat watching a mouse.

A’a’shanto: Our laws do indeed only apply to dragons. Other species, my dear, must look out for themselves. Dragons look after dragons. And that is something you need to remember.

Raven: Yes, indeed, all creatures must look out for themselves. I value Penny for her courage, but ultimately she must fight for herself. We dragons demand the same of our pufflings. If a young dragon cannot defend himself, why should he join our society? There is no right to a life which cannot be fully lived. Do you allow weaklings to survive? For what reason? Aren’t they a burden on your society?

A’a’shanto: It isn’t that simple, young dragon. When an egg hatches nobody knows what the hatchling has the potential to become. I, myself, was the smallest hatchling from the smallest egg in my clutch. But I grew to be the biggest and the strongest and the most ruthless. Besides which, Dragonets who have no potential fade and die anyway, that is the will of the stones. You speak of what you call pufflings as if there are too many of them to be sustainable in your world. If that is a truth, then Dragonheart dragons differ from you in that way as well, we do not have an unlimited supply of hatchlings. Only golden queens are fertile. And to fly a queen in her mating flight is both difficult and dangerous. Therefore, only the bravest and strongest males may fertilise the eggs. In my generation we have three adult queens. And thus far only one golden hatchling. Does that explain?

Raven: If a youngster with no potential is going to die anyway, much better than someone at least gets a meal out of him. And I have no idea how many dragons live in Lloegyr. Our clans live in longhouses and we keep separate from one another. What happens in another clan is no concern of ours. And it’s not safe to be chosen as a mate by a matriarch. When a matriarch tires of her consort, she hunts and eats him before choosing another. You don’t fear your queens in the same way? Are male dragons safe in your world?

A’a’shanto laughs and stretches.

A’a’shanto: No, Hrafn Eydisson, our queens are not necessarily safe, although actually eating another dragon is frowned on in our society.

But I grow weary of questions, and I hunger. I will hunt now, I think. Before I go there are two things I would have you ponder. Ask yourself if you only lust after the woman because she will not eat you. And you may also want to reconsider your contempt for shifters if you give some thought to just how many more possibilities for pleasure there are when mating in human form.

A’a’shanto leers at Penny for a moment and gives her a glimpse of his human form. Seven feet of sex on legs. Then he unfurls his wings, which are night black and wholly without the iridescence one thinks of as dragonish. As he is tensing the muscles of his huge hindquarters preparatory to leaping into the sky he turns his head to look into Raven’s eyes.

A’a’shanto: Would you hunt with me, Hrafn Eydisson? I know a place where the meat animals run free on the rich grasslands. and where there is warm sweet water in which to wash the blood from one’s snout and talons.

A’a’shanto leaps into the sky. Penny turns uncertainly towards the remaining dragon.

Penny: Raven?

Raven: A hunt with A’a’shanto. That, my dear Penny, is the first of his invitations I plan to consider.

Then Raven launches himself after the larger dragon. They spiral away into the dark blue sky, leaving the human woman to stand on her own.

To read further about A’a’shanto:

https://workingtitleblogspot.wordpress.com/

https://www.booksie.com/users/jane-jago-206621

 

To read further about Penny and Raven:

http://www.chryscymri.com

 

From ‘A Cold White Home’ by Guy Donovan

Cerys tried fishing while Talorc flew south to chew his smelly rocks that both relieved his recurring pains and provided his flame. Unfortunately, her braided grass fishing line and bone hook proved as complete a failure then as had her snares during the winter. Each time the line jerked, she found only an empty, wormless hook. Frustrated, she lay back on the stream bank to nap in the bright summer sun shining down from the uncharacteristically cloudless sky.

Dozing, she felt Talorc’s usual presence announce itself in the back of her mind.

Did your hook not work? he asked from wherever he was.

It did not, she responded, aware that he already knew it due to their shared thoughts. She understood that he was merely showing interest in her latest endeavor that he found so strange. Some great hunter, huh?

You hunt well, he thought before adding, with a stick.

She shrugged. Are you done eating your rocks?

I am.

The light breeze shifted, carrying her sweaty, dirty scent to herself.

“Yecchh,” she said, her hand going to her nose. “All right…that’s it. I need another bath.”

Swimming is fun, Talorc’s thought echoed in her mind.

The stream is too cold.

Would it please you if it was not?

Well, yes, she admitted. But—

Cerys’ eyes snapped open just in time to see Talorc’s huge, dark body blot out the sun before he landed heavily beside her with a quick flurry of leathery wings that dusted her with grass, twigs, and fuzzy bits of the marshy bank’s tall reeds.

Well, she thought. You’re showing off a bit today, aren’t you?

I do not know what you mean, he replied even as she heard his rumbling “laugh” deep in his throat.

Without warning, Talorc flashed the water to steam with a long blast of his fiery breath.

Throwing an arm up over her face, Cerys yelled, “What are you doing?”

Now the water is warm, he stated, his amber eyes peering at her through steam clouds.

“Huh,” she said, regarding the shallow, bubbling water. “It is, isn’t it?” She poked a finger into it. “It’s cooling already though.” Grinning, she asked him, “Would you mind doing that again a bit upstream?”

If you wish it.

Talorc waddled away while Cerys stepped off the bank, her filthy and torn, child’s nightdress still on. Regardless of their being different species, she had never felt comfortable being naked around him. Once she was waist deep, Talorc blasted the water again. As it heated up, she scrubbed away at herself and the thin gown. Just as she finished, she spotted a few fish floating by on the surface, partially cooked by her friend’s flame.

Thank you, she thought as she snatched two of them up before climbing back onto the bank.

You are welcome, he replied, his eyes gone darkly amber with pleasure. Now you are clean, and have your fish that you wanted.

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

Find out more about Guy Donovan and his The Dragon’s Treasure series.

 

Q1. Beans or fries?

I’m going with fries. A) I’m American, and we’ll typically choose fries over most any other option, including world peace and college tuition money for our children. B) Really? I have to explain what beans do to you? Friends don’t let friends eat beans. So yeah…fries.

Q2. Would you rather have a statue of yourself in your hometown or have a recipe named after you?

A recipe…unless it’s one that involves beans (see above). A recipe for something fry-related would be ideal. As to why, well, everything that flies will poop all over that statue, which strikes me as being sort of like a particularly cruel and overly personal sort of review on “the big A” except even more people will see it. I suppose the ground dwellers might even throw beans at it, which would just be adding insult to injury, in my opinion. Recipe all the way.

Q3. Which word should be banned from the English language?

I’ve been wracking my brain over this one. I know there’s one word above all others that I absolutely despise and would gleefully stomp out of not only existence, but also the world’s collective memory. Unfortunately, I hate this word so much that I’ve basically shunned it from my own memory at the moment, so I’ll have to go with one that’s a rung lower on the old “Oh God please get it out of my head” scale: beverage. Just say “drink,” please. On a related note, let’s ditch “imbibe” too. I think the idea of some character saying (with a straight face no less) “I imbibed a tasty beverage” would probably make my skull implode.

Find out more about Guy Donovan and his The Dragon’s Treasure series.

Frozen Hearted

This, Carla realised, was what was meant by ‘tea and sympathy’. Only, in this case, it was coffee and sympathy – well latte to be exact – and some comfort-eating chocolate cake.
“So it’s over this time?” Her cup, broad and deep, clicked back on its saucer. “Really? Truly?”
Emmy gave a sad smile. Over the last hour and the chocolate cake, she had burdened Carla’s soul with a gory, forensic dissection of the breakdown of her relationship. Cut by painful cut, from the first misconstrued comment to the final brutal insult.
“Oh it’s over. Dead. Buried. Jake knows it, I know it.”
“You’re sure? Last time – ”
“Last time I was still half in love.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“So what about Chris?”
Emmy’s blue eyes blinked once, stating clearly that the name was not relevant in her love life and never would be. “I heard from Miranda the other day. Sienna is starting school. Isn’t that incredible? It only seems like last week the three of us were sitting in these very chairs discussing baby names.”
“Emmy – you can’t pretend forever.”
The blue eyes clouded. Emmy grabbed her coffee cup from its brightly coloured saucer and hid behind it. The words ‘I Love Cappuccino’ danced around the rim in bold, red letters.
“Chris won’t just go away,” Carla spoke to the cup.
Emmy lowered the coffee, her face tightly resentful.
“Chris is not involved with this.” Then, suddenly appealing: “Let’s not go there today, Carla hun, please.”
Not for the first time, Carla felt herself being torn between loyalties. Emmy’s baby-blue eyes, pleading, and Chris – dependable Chris – bleeding from a dozen wounds he had never known were being inflicted. Carla shook her head slowly, as the waters of the Rubicon flowed away beneath her feet.
“He’s your husband, not a meal ticket. You have to – ”
Instantly Emmy was by the door, the cup still in her hand.
“I don’t ‘have to’ anything! Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
The coffee cup arced across the room heading for shattering impact and landed at the moment the door slammed. It bounced on the carpet, with a little spray of coffee and rolled, until it stopped on its handle by Carla’s feet, still safe and in one piece.
Carla bent to pick it up, the words facing her read: ‘I Love…’. For a moment she clutched it close, then she placed it with extra care on its own saucer, where it belonged.

E.M. Swift-Hook

From ‘Hunting Darkness’ – by Ian Bristow

The world went pitch black and in the same moment, Gael realized she couldn’t hear the gurgling water anymore. She rubbed her eyes but couldn’t feel her own hands touching her skin. Panic set in. Her brain sent out a distress signal, but her unreceptive body had no way of responding to it.

Terrified, she struggled, her need to breathe the only thing that told her she was alive. She slowly became aware that she could taste the air around her—a bitter blend of dirt, mold and moss coated her tongue, assuring her that she was still in the forest. No sooner than this realization struck her, she could smell the scents belonging to the flavors she was tasting. Other scents began filtering through her nostrils: remnants of the rain that had fallen that afternoon; different ages and types of wood; various woodland creatures.

A sense of depth and imagery began forming in her mind,  as if the two human senses she was currently experiencing were in such a heightened state that they compensated for the ones she was lacking.  Joy and awe began to gather inside her, driving out the panic and terror. Lost in growing wonderment she gave in to the alien experience, exploring the tendrils of taste and scent in a way she could never have imagined was possible.

Something brushed the skin on her face. The sensation was so unexpected she flinched away from it.

It happened again.

And again.

She became aware it was water; each individual drop felt like the prick of a cold needle.

The hair on her arms and neck stood on end as a chilly autumn breeze swept past her. She pictured the wind tracing an image of her surroundings as it wandered through the trees and bushes. The image grew in clarity and an unexpected giggle escaped her. Now the vision in her mind was clearer than any she’d ever experienced through her eyes. Every variation of color; every pattern of tree bark; every vein in every leaf—vivid and real.

Were these images a lucid replica of reality? Or were they nothing more than a hallucination conjured from the depths of her subconscious? Aware of her body once more,  she moved toward a low-hanging branch, reached out to touch it and felt a knobby stretch of wood against the palm of her hand.

“Very good.”

Aiden’s voice echoed in her ears, mingling with the faint sound of trickling water and rustling leaves. The vibrations were clear as crystal. Sharp as obsidian. Not only could she hear them, she could feel them cascading over her body. She shivered involuntarily as nature’s beautiful melodies filled her being.

Aiden spoke again. “What do you see?”

“Everything,” she replied. “I see everything.”

 

The artwork with this extract is ‘Aiden and Gael’ by Ian Bristow himself and you can find out more about his writing, his art and his music on his website or purchase his books from Amazon.