From Times of Change the second part of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The expression of compassion on her companion’s face made her realise that she was not dissembling with her usual skill and that her thoughts must be plain on her face. Fortunately, he was her friend as well as the most senior member of her council. Her hand was still clenched tightly on the letter he had given her, its heavy seals broken, neatly splitting the arrogant emblem of Qabal Vyazin – a fist in a plate-metal gauntlet, holding aloft a sword on which had been speared a crown. Harkera’s crown, she had thought, when reading the domineering demands within.
“I am sorry, Morvyn,” she said sincerely. “There has been so much happening over these last few days and now this.”
The man nodded with understanding.
“It has been a testing time for us all and so much more for you as Regent,” he agreed. “In eight generations nothing like this has been received by any Harkeran ruler. And yet now it is you, a widow, someone who has no blood-claim to the crown in your own right, who is being called upon to deal with a declaration of war.”
She knew he said it to show he felt it was unfair, not to suggest he had no faith in her ability and looked away from him, her eyes dropping demurely as if in agreement. He could not know that she had been trained from birth to deal with this day. She unfolded the vellum in her hands and read the text again.
His most excellent and puissant Highness, the Most Honoured Qabal Vyazin, Overlord of the Western Continent and protector of all the Free Cities of Temsevar, demanded the submission of his loyal vassal, the Lady Karlynne Roussal, Princess of the Realm of Harkera and all her family, together with all the Castellans and Vavasors of Harkera. She was required to present herself within one moon at the Overlord’s loyal city of Tabruth, together with all the nobles of Harkera, to make due submission to the Overlord and to affirm their loyalty and vassalage to him by blood-oath. In addition, she was required to bring with her in chains, the rebellious traitor Jariq Zarengor, who was known to be sheltering in Harkera under false pretences. She was also required to bring an appropriate bridal train and the Harkeran regalia of office and prepare herself for the honour of marriage with the Most Honoured Nariz Vyazin, Castellan of Telpus, the only son and sole heir of the Most Honoured Overlord…
“How old is Nariz?” she asked quietly.
“Four or five summers I believe – and is reportedly a sickly child. For all his potency as a warrior, Qabal has not proved so capable of fathering offspring – there are even rumours that the child is not his but was sired by one of his commanders.” Morvyn tactfully refrained from mentioning which one, but Jaelya had heard the same stories.
“A child of five and Karlynne more than twice his age.” With an angry gesture, she flung the vile letter down. In a matter of days her whole world had changed. Lynaz was taken and Tabruth, for all the Castellan had spoken fine words of resistance and alliance, had surrendered without a fight as soon as Vyazin’s army appeared on the horizon, whilst Kharzabad had accommodated before it was even threatened. Their reward was being allowed to keep power with client status to Qabal. The cities of the Tanist alliance were fighting amongst themselves and now Harkera stood alone.
For a moment Jaelya felt the weight of the burden upon her shoulders as something physical. What hope was there for Harkera against such power? But the image in her mind was of Karlynne, gently reared into the free-thinking, liberal Harkeran high-culture, alone and at the mercy of the harsh, barbaric court of Qabal Vyazin.
Morvyn might have read her thoughts.
“The wedding won’t happen. The Dewan will support you in refusing to allow it. I promise you that.” His voice dropped a little. “It will mean war of course, but we have expected that all along.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung mournfully and with feeling to the tune of ‘Silent Night‘)

Saturday night, ends in a fight
Nobody cares who’s in the right
Round the corner outside of the bar
Somebody’s over the boot of a car
Getting a jolly good smaaaack
Getting a jolly good smack

Saturday night, rarely polite
Bill takes out his teeth to bite
We hear sirens as they split the air
All of a sudden there’s nobody there
And the car park’s forloooorn
All of the fighters have gorn

Saturday night, ends in a fight
Nobody cares who’s in the right
In the gutter beneath the street light
When it’s over we don’t give a shite
We’ll go home when we’re doooone
Fighting is bloody good fun

The Christmas Cake

Conventional wisdom will tell you that you should have baked a fruit cake of the size and consistency of a breeze block sometime last January and that you should have been feeding it brandy weekly ever since. That you should have handcrafted marzipan from ground almonds and other ingredients too numerous to mention. That you should have spent many hours making Holly Leaves and Christmas Roses from sugar paste. And that your icing should be as smooth and hard as a frozen pond.

Pfft, I say. And again pfft.

Number one. Nobody eats Christmas Cake.

Number two. If they did it’s fattening.

Number three. Whatever…

But:

If you must make a cake, just chuck together whatever is your usual fruit cake recipe and shove a quarter bottle of rum in the mix. Buy a slab of ready rolled marzipan, ditto icing. Shove on cake. Sprinkle Maltesers, chocolate raisins, and dark chocolate buttons. Job done. If you can be arsed.

More sensibly, pop along to Waitrose and buy a (insert name of famous chef here)  thing. It will taste like shite but the neighbours will be impressed….

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung with bravado to the tune of ‘The Holly and The Ivy‘)

The blogger and the model
Are dancing on TV
And one will be the champion
But which one will it be?

The doing of the tango
The jiving double time
The spray tan dripping off your nose
Plus stuff that doesn’t rhyme

The pros are full of muscle
With thighs like iron bars
The blogger drowns her sorrows down
With booze and chocolate bars

The doing of the tango
The jiving double time
The spray tan dripping off your nose
Plus stuff that doesn’t rhyme

As the day grows closer
There’s many cease to play
While costumes show a bit more skin
As the inches drop away

The dancing very closely
Starts the rumours of whose next
While winning pretty glitterballs
Comes second to the sex

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

Mary shrugged and looked sternly at Jack, who was thinking so hard there was a small cloud over his head.
“Now what?”
Jack give her a fierce smile. “Now many things. First I gotta get the girl to safety. After that? Well, that’s the bit I got to figure out.”
Mary looked at him in dawning comprehension, and with growing respect. “You ain’t a bit scared are you?”
“No. I guess not. That’s probably the dwarf in me. Them buggers are afraid of nothing.”
“Seems like you’re the same. Makes you the first man I’ve met who wasn’t a coward at the roots.”
Jack snorted. “Surely not. What about Gobshite?”
“Gobshite ain’t a man.”
“Neither am I.”
“Maybe not, but you’re a fuck of a lot closer.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And. Jack. I owe you too. So me and the girls are in. Mates rates.”
“You sure? People could end up dead.”
“Better dead than bored.”
Some while later, Jack and Mary were walking along the quayside towards where their ships were anchored alongside the mole that reached out into the deep blue water of the bay.
Jack looked up at his companion. “Sven made you an offer? And it’s still open? Mind if I ask what sort of an offer?”
“What makes it any of your business?”
He frowned. “Nothing. Except if it wasn’t an honourable offer I have to kill him.”
Mary stared for a moment then smiled her nice smile. The one than showed a furtive dimple in her left cheek. “You’d get into a fight with that great dollop for my sake?”
Jack nodded.
Mary swallowed as if there was suddenly a lump in her throat before speaking very quietly. “You’re okay my friend. He offered marriage.”
“But you refused him.”
“Yeah. I don’t fancy him. And anyway he’s a berserker. One of them in any family is more than enough.”
Jack thought that through for a moment. “You ain’t a berserker, Mary. You’re just a bit excitable. But I’m glad you never accepted him. He ain’t good enough for you.”
Before Mary had chance to formulate an appropriate response, there came the sound of wings and the parrot who had been Sam’s companion through life landed on Jack’s shoulder.
“Drink and the devil they did for the rest…” If a bird could sound plaintive Gravel managed it. Jack put up a hand and scratched the yellow feathers on the back of its head.
Mary laughed. “Now you look like a proper pirate.”
Jack made a very rude noise.

Mary’s ship, The Pink Pig, set sail at sunup – with a young woman to extract from harm’s way and a cargo of saltwater grog to pay for the voyage.

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

Most all of my furniture it comes from China
It’s far better travelled than I’ll ever be
My clothing, my laptop, my fixtures and fittings
Have all come from China across the wide sea.

And when I go shopping the label of origin
That does declare where the journey began
Almost invariably it does say ‘China’
Their goods they are good and I am a fan.

Perhaps there are products made to be finer
That come from South Africa or from Belize
But value for money it seems ‘made in China’
Is the only brand label that a product needs

I want to say thanks to the people of China
Who give to the world a bounty undreamed
More items well priced than we can imagine
I only ask that you please make them green…

E.M. Swift-Hook

From Iconoclast: Not To Be by E.M. Swift-Hook, the eighth Fortune’s Fools book and the second in Iconoclast, the final trilogy. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A slight buzz told her someone was at the door of her apartment and she pulled up a screen to see who was there. It was one of her neighbours, Nilis par-Yorken. Not much older than her own body made her appear, mid-twenties perhaps, scruffy cut hair which seemed to be the fashion and a face that looked like it would smile a lot.
She had run a check on him the second time he tried to get her to stop and chat. A local. Newly qualified as a pilot and working relief for the planetary run freight company, ATG, which was the only organisation running regular shipping to Arca. Another attraction of the place for Avilon was that in order to protect its own merchant fleet, none of the big corporations were allowed on Arca and any freetraders had to purchase a license to operate there.
So she knew Nilis would have been trained locally, but the fact he’d been offworld left him open to having been recruited by the CSF or the Legacy. She let out a breath in a sigh. That was the kind of paranoia that could cripple her if she let it run unchecked. 
It was late and she could use that as an excuse for not responding, if he bumped into her again and asked why, but through some sense of wanting to dismiss a phantom, she opened the door and moved to grab another drink from the synth. 
“What are you drinking?” she asked as her visitor walked in. He stopped a couple of paces from the door, his way barred by the couch.
“Uhh… Mys jist jooze, plars. Narms Nylees.”
Avilon grimaced internally and began to filter out his accent. It was one of the worst aspects of living on Arca, the isolationism had led to the development of a very heavy dialect.
“Maris,” she told him, turning back to persuade the synth to produce something that approximated fruit juice. “Maris par-Kenten.”
“Really?” he seemed surprised. “You sound like you’re from Central.”
She picked up the freshly created chilled drink and handed it to him, aware his eyes were not restricting themselves to her face. She returned the compliment. He had a good body. One he clearly looked after.
“No. But I spent the last five years there studying.”
“Studying what?”
“My masters thesis was in Co-Regional Internexus Sub-Quantum Linkcast Technology.”
Nilis blinked.
“Uhh…?”
Avilon shook her head and chuckled.
“Mostly about how to optimise links from here to the main Coalition hubs.”
He smiled, slowly. “So, what do you do for a day job?” Avilon sipped her own drink and said nothing until Nilis looked uncomfortable. “Uhh yes, that’s a bit rude of me.”
“Not really, I just wanted to know why you were calling at my door this time of night before we got into the pleasantries too much.”
He hesitated so long she thought he’d not reply. Then he gave an embarrassed smile.
“Well, since you turned up here last cycle, I’ve been meaning to come round and ask if you needed anything, like a good neighbour should. I seen you in and out a lot so thought this time of day would work best.”
It was hard not to laugh. She put her drink down, feeling even older than her fifty-two years.
“You wanted to ask me out? Or were you just after a quick fuck?”
The sudden flood of colour into his face was comical.
“Uhh – I… Well, I mean-”
She put up both her hands in a gesture of contrition.
“Sorry. Central teaches you to cut to the chase in such things. I’m going to have to retune my sensibilities now I’m home.”
To his credit he didn’t retreat.
“I’m up for either. But I came round to ask if you’d like to come over to my place tomorrow. I got a few friends coming round, you might like to meet. Get to know some people.”
“That must be cosy,” she observed, gesturing with one hand to indicate the size of the room.
“Uhh, we won’t stay in, just meet up there and head out. Say yes? They’re all good people, most from this block. You’ll like them.”
She hesitated a moment then nodded. Better to accept one or two occasional invitations out with one young adult social group than wind up fending them all off with excuses. That would only make her stand out. This way she might be able to be accepted on the fringes of a group without needing to commit.
“Why not? I’m not busy far as I know.”
Nilis made a fist and hammered the air with it. 
“Yes! Kiss that! So can I ask where you work now?” 
Avilon had to laugh.
“Sure – it’s no secret. I’m doing some private consultancy work for the government.” No secret. Just a straight up lie, but one he’d find it very hard to check out. “What about you?”
“I work for the ATG – that’s the -”
“Arca Trading Group – what you do with them?”
She was regretting her earlier flippancy now, Nilis seemed to have taken it as an open invitation to hang around, he was lounging back in the seat as if taking root there.
“I’m flying shunts to some of the nearby Coalition places. Uhh, I mean, freighter runs. Works out well. I get a few days on then a few off.”
Avilon faked the start of a yawn and brought her hand up to her mouth. Then moved it away with a slight smile. “Sorry. Not you. Just been a long day.”
Nilis didn’t seem to take the hint.
“I can tell. So how did you get to Central? I mean I know a few who tried, but only one who succeeded and he got accepted on a virtual course. I mean just getting the visas and at that…”
“I got a scholarship to Central Main,” she told him, suddenly wondering if he was indeed the random neighbour being sociable or if her initial paranoia was merited.
“You did? Well kiss that! Impressive. Not just a gorgeous body, but an incredible mind.” Nilis smiled.
Avilon grimaced and turned it into another yawn
“Yeah. Well if you don’t mind, it is kind of late and I do have work tomorrow even if you’re on a break.”
She stood as she spoke and saw the reluctance in Nilis’ expression and posture, but under her insistent gaze he sighed, drained his drink and put the cup down before standing as well. 
“Of course. I shouldn’t keep you up. But don’t forget – we have a date tomorrow evening.”
 Avilon managed a smile and opened the door. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I could do with making a few more friends.”
After he had gone she disposed of the cups and headed for bed, shaking her head at her previous doubts. Nilis par-Yorken’s motives were very easy to read.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Can you smell the rain?
Lifting the dust from the street
Damping the parched pavements
And bouncing over your feet
Can you hear the rain?
Dancing a tango on the roof
Drops so fat they bounce and split
Tapping like tap-dancing hoofs
Can you feel the rain?
Blessing the thirsty earth
Flowers lift their wan little faces
Drinking their own rebirth
Can you smell the rain?
Thick and soft and sweet
The autumn rain that washed the land
And polished the shining streets

© jane jago

You can listen to this on YouTube.

It is not often one is granted insight into the mind of one’s parent through the medium of literature. But so it was that I came to understand Mumsie’s tendencies to overindulge in aspects of culture most regard as less desirable – sex and booze.

It was last summer and I had gone into her ‘retiring room’ to see if she had, yet again, absconded with my iPad as I had a hankering to take it and compose bucolic pastoral poetry whilst sitting in the garden. I needed something to provide the quintessential inspirational imagery so lacking in our squalid backyard, whilst I committed the consequential flow of rhyming commentary, contemporaneously to paper with pen.

Instead, I wound up reclining in the garden reading with interest a volume I had found poking out from under her favourite chair. It even reminded me of Mummy in appearance being much handled, rather fat and dog-eared. Surprisingly it had a Biblical quotation for its title, not something I would normally associate with my mater. There were also many self-revelatory notes in my mother’s long-lost youthful hand, highlighting passages or underlining phrases.

I later learned it is also a science-fiction classic.

The Review

There is much written nowadays about supernatural beings like vampires and angels and this book falls neatly in that category.

In this book, the angel called Michael Smith comes to earth from Mars. He is fabulously wealthy and naturally has magical powers. He lives in a commune where everyone runs around naked and has sex with everyone else and they eat dead people. He is eventually killed and comes back as a ghost to explain that he is going to take over the world with a new super-race, by evolving his followers. In the end, it turns out he was really an archangel.

I found the story by turns cloying, disgusting, strangely sensual, often all three together and always puzzling.

Three stars for the intriguing footnotes and marginal commentary from my maternal parent.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung with great gusto to the tune of ‘Here We Come A Wassailing‘)

We’ve been out a bevvying all down the Fox and Goose,
Then we had a curry so me bowels are kind of loose
Love you mate, but it’s late
And the wife is at the gate
And she’s yelling she’s going to her mum’s until New Year
So it’s Christmas alone again this year.

We’ve been out for Christmas drinks with all them folk from work
I had to karaoke now I feel such a berk
Told the boss, don’t give a toss
Bout the last financial loss
And she told me I’d need to find a new job this New Year
So it’s unemployed I am again next year.