Jane Jago's Blog, page 481

Friday Friends

From ‘Moristoun’ by Kevin McAllion

The journey from Buchan’s desk to the toilet at the far corner of his office was only about 10 metres but it felt far further as he dragged McSorely’s body across the floor. The frame of his apprentice was deceptive as McSorely’s suit did a good job of concealing the spare tyre he had been cultivating with comfort food and Cliftonhill pies since Sarah’s departure from the kitchen had freed him from the constraints of healthy eating. Over 13 stone was packed...

A Bite of – Kevin McAllion

We caught up with Kevin McAllion, author of ‘Moristoun’ and asked him a few probing questions.

Q1. Haggis or porridge and why?

The idea of eating haggis pretty much terrified me when I was younger. When it comes to a disturbing list of ingredients, haggis can only be matched by the rider for Black Sabbath’s infamous 1983 tour. But haggis has won me over as I’ve grown older and the prospect of eating offal cooked inside the lining of a sheep’s stomach now fills me with excitement rather than d...

Today’s coffee break read

The swimming lesson

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 h...

Clouded Dreams

Above,
On wings,
A flight achieved

Beyond
The reach
Of human scope,

Clouded
Skies embrace
The solitary spirit.

Dreams
That lift
The humbled mind

Endure,
And ride
The silent wind

Forever,
Through clouds
Imbued with gentle grey.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Today’s Coffee Break Read

A HOME TO DIE FOR

I’d like to show you my humble home.

I’m sure you notice the gorgeous redwood floors, Those are actually 80 year old oak floors that I stained with human blood. The wood was dry enough to soak up the blood nicely and then I just had to varnish them.

I can see from your expression that you are amazed, and I do admit it was a lot of work but well worth it.

I also made the couch myself, I had to learn to make my own leather. Human flesh is tough to work with but after a few bot...

5 Star Review!

Dying to be Roman is an alternate history novella that is both fun to read and a poignant reflection of our own world. Swifthook and Jago deliver on what alternate history does best in a fun and flirty murder mystery set in a Rome that never collapsed.

Dai and Julia are investigators. Dai is a Briton and a second-class citizen of a Roman-controlled Europe. When the murders involve the son of a Senator, Julia is brought in to oversee the case.

Now, I confess that Roman history is not my streng...

Your coffee time read

From the pen of the lovely Lyra Shanti

Zin didn’t seem to hear; he was busy staring at something in a shop window. Ayn tried to see what his friend was so enthralled with, but he couldn’t be sure since there were so many different objects in the store.
“Ayn…” whispered Zin, “look at it. Isn’t it the most lovely thing you’ve ever seen?”
Ayn looked again through the shop’s window, trying his best to see what was catching Zin’s eye.
“Um,” said Ayn, “what do you see?”
As Ayn looked at his Zin’s f...

A Bite of… Lyra Shanti, renaissance woman

Lyra has kindly allowed us to talk briefly with Ayn, the hero of her Shiva XIV books

Question one:

In a relationship what is of the most importance: love, lust or loyalty?

I believe it is a combination of all three that sustains a balanced and good relationship… of a romantic nature, that is. If I had to choose one choice for any form of relationship, I would choose loyalty. Without trust, there is nowhere to stand.

Question two:

If you could be anyone but yourself, who would you be?

I would...

Monday Meme

She let the slave girl brush out her hair so it lay like a shimmering black veil down her back and blinked as the over strong perfumed oils caught in her nostrils. The king was ageing and his sense of smell fading. Alas, little else of his senses did so.

She took the walk from her cloistered seraglio to his bed chamber with the same heavy sense of foreboding that she carried with her every night. She did not need the sly, pitying looks from the other women – each waiting her turn for the same...

On growing old