Something went wrong at splashdown and the capsule sank like a boulder. Tender ‘hands’ pulled her from the wreckage, and when they understood she could not breathe they lifted her to the surface, making noises of pity.
She found an inflated life raft and crawled aboard. The communicator was squawking like a demented parrot, but she ignored it looking instead at the pale sea and the faces of the kindly ones that watched her.
The rapacity of her own species became repugnant. Setting the dials to read unbreathable air, she dived overboard. Her new friends mourned her as she drowned.

©Jane Jago

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. He glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else.
“Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?”
The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice.
“Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal.
Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it also made the responsibility heavier, weighing up all the factors to consider if he should be discharged. Vane prided himself on his thorough professionalism and had no intention of giving in to any pressure over a decision of such significance.
That thought made him glance across to where a holofacade wall concealed a watcher from the other two men in the room. The reclined chair, slouched body and movement of the head suggested listening to music, or watching a show on a VR screen, rather than focusing on the interview. But perhaps not, for fingers lifted in a brief acknowledgement.
The Commodore ignored the wave and looked back to study his own screens, checking the notes he had been given on Revid.
“Well you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger. A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities. The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

Brother and sister.
Supposed to be there for each other. Family. Closer than friends.
But Adam and I missed the memo.
We fought even as toddlers. Sibling rivalry on steroids.
He trashed my farm set so I trashed his comic collection. He mocked me at school so I spread rumours about him.
Until dad died in a crash. Somehow we grew up overnight. Mum needed us both and that brought us together.
Before, we’d turned our backs on each other. But dad’s death taught us what really mattered – who really mattered.
Now we stand back to back against the world.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Out today, Beneath a Stone Sky by A.E. Lowan is the third instalment in the dark urban fantasy series, The Books of Binding. It follows the lives of Winter Mulcahy, Seahaven’s potion addicted wizard physician, Etienne Knight and Cian the Glorious Dawn, the sidhe lords who share her home and her son, and Alerich Ashimar, Seahaven’s newest wizard with the soul of a poet and the heart of a demon…

Politics was a deadly business.
Winter set a careful foot out on the ledge and leaned into the braced spear, letting it carry her weight into the next step, glittering death hissing below her. Tap, step, step. Tap, step, step. Lactic acid burned in her limbs the further she went, and she remembered that she had nearly died from potion abuse in October. She was still recovering. She was pregnant, and that took even more resources. She took in a breath and pushed herself harder.
Keep focused on the faerie light. On Brian. She could do this.
Her arms began to shake.
The tip of the spear slipped a hair’s breadth.
Her heart lunged into her throat.
Brian leaned out further and offered his hand. “You can do this. I’ve got you.” He turned his head and said something to Aodhán that she couldn’t hear.
She was going to die.
Tap, step, ste— Her foot slipped and abruptly she was falling.
The sudden pain of a bruising grip on her arm took her breath away, and she was yanked forward so fast her sight dimmed. She felt rapid taps against the sole of her shoe and braced for agony, but it didn’t come. And then she was secure in Brian’s arms.
How had he reached her? She looked over Brian’s broad shoulder and saw Aodhán holding Brian by his belt, arm stretched to its furthest possible extension. With a soft grunt that was more for balance than effort, the Unseelie prince reeled them in to the safety of the far ledge.
Winter sat where Brian put her, her limbs shaking so hard she couldn’t get up. Her foot tingled along her sole as if still panicked about imminent pain, and she breathed in little, trembling gasps.
Brian laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”
Winter gave him a shaky smile that was worlds away from what she was actually feeling. She opened her mouth to reassure him, but what came out was, “I should have died.”
Brian gave her a single nod. “Yeah. But you didn’t. You’re a survivor, like I am.” He glanced at Aodhán as he watched them. “So’s he. And we’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
Aodhán made a small sound of agreement and tossed the spear back to the other side of the pit. “It’s just scorpions. We can handle scorpions.”
Brian flashed a grin in the dark. “We can handle pretty much anything.”
Aodhán chuckled. “Well, maybe you.”
Winter felt a smile find her mouth, and she was glad that if she had to be in this Stygian tenebrosity, that she was here with these people.

A Bite of… A.E. Lowan

Q1:Hero or villain? Which is the more interesting to write?

KV: Villain because villains define their own limitations. They don’t allow societal expectations to limit their choices. I saw a discussion some time ago about the difference in being in a love story with a villain or a hero. With a hero, their lover must always come second because everything must come after the hero’s duty. In a love story with a villain, the villain can absolutely let the world burn for one last kiss. I love writing that passion and lack of constraints.

JS: It honestly depends on the story, and my mood going into it. To spare you a long “if X, then Y” type of explanation, let’s just go with I love variety.

JV: My favorite characters are what we call monkeys-in-the-middle. Sometimes these characters are protagonists and other times antagonists. You never know quite what side of the fence they will come down on in any particular story. Monkeys-in-the-middle allow us to explore the idea that sometimes we do the wrong thing for the right reason or the right thing for the wrong reason. People are complicated and I love that complication.

Q2: Having created a fictional world for your novels, is there any moment in the process where you actually find your brain inhabiting that place?

KV: Moment? I thought I lived there.

JS: Quite often, actually. While you can’t quite method act when it comes to the settings with science fiction and fantasy, picturing the impact of the environment on the individual does go a long way towards shaping the story. This pseudo-method route usually ends up producing some side-stories for the same setting for me, too.

JV: We consider ourselves method writers. Like method actors, when we are working on development, plotting, or outlining, we slip into the skin of our characters and act out scenes through role play before we finalize what the action and dialogue should be. Sometimes that is done through text exchanges and sometimes that means staging swordfights in the living room to get the choreography right. It is a process that looks a little strange from the outside but allows us to really get into the heads of the denizens of Seahaven.

Q3: Can you pin down the time when you decided to be a writer? Or have you always written?

KV: I’ve always written. My mother was a writer before me, and I was seen as the heir apparent. There has never been any point in my life where writing didn’t feature.

JS: I’ve always written, but when I found Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series at the age of eight, I decided I wanted it to be a career and not just a hobby.

JV: I came to fiction writing a little later than KV and JS. Growing up in a family of musicians, I started writing songs and poems as soon as I could hold a pen. It wasn’t until a teacher gave me a copy of Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonsong that I started writing stories more often than songs. McCaffrey’s Pern taught me that I could hold entire worlds in my head and that I could tell much larger and more complex stories in prose. I was eleven and have been writing series stories ever since.

A.E. Lowan is the pseudonym of three authors who collectively create the dark urban fantasy series, The Books of Binding. Born in Texas, Jessica Smith brings a passion for science to tame the physics of Seahaven. Hailing from Missouri, Jennifer Vinck is a former bookseller who brings a love of theatre and linguistics to breathe life into the characters. A Navy brat, raised in Washington, California, and Missouri, Kristin Vinck is a recovering medievalist who brings an obsession with history and folklore to paint a detailed cultural canvas for The Books of Binding. You can follow their collective consciousness on Facebook, Twitter or A. E. Lowan’s website.

When He moved his mistress in he threw his wife into the gutter with a broken wrist and the clothes on her back.
But He miscalculated, and she used her secret savings account to hire herself a lawyer. Who skinned His ass.
He retaliated with the oldest lie of all.
‘Heiress sleeping with lawyer’ – the headlines screamed.
She didn’t care. Truthfully, if it had been a possibility, the chiselled beauty of her barrister troubled her dreams now and then.
But. It was an impossibility – him being constructed of plasteel and wire with a computer inside his head. And no penis.

©Jane Jago

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

Milla watched the fight, wondering what to do. She couldn’t let Glory kill String or String kill Glory and if she didn’t do something one of the two was going to go down. Pew was still shouting at them both to just stop fighting, but neither was listening. Neither was paying her any attention either.
Without giving it much thought she grabbed at String from behind, hoping to trip him up so he could be subdued before Glory did him any real damage. But he ducked as she grabbed and instead of catching at his clothing she was gripping the tiara. As String sidestepped she pulled it away and the dwarf let out a horrible scream, dropping the axe and falling to his knees sobbing.
“No! No! No! You’ve made it all end. I want to stay here…. Nooooo!”
The kneeling figure shimmered briefly then seemed to suck in to a single point of light and disappear.
There was a sudden and terrible silence. Then Pew spoke, his voice shaky.
“Are there any volcanoes around here? I think we need to find one to throw that… that thing you’re holding in.”
Milla looked down at the tiara and let go instantly. It had changed from being a golden crown into a writhing black band of…? Milla really didn’t care to know and certainly wasn’t going to study it closely enough to see. Glory reached down and scooped it up in her armoured fist.
“I think I know just the crack of doom for this, leave it to me.”
Milla wanted to say she wasn’t sure that was a very good idea, but Pew was there and hugging her.
“Did we save String?” she asked.
“I think we did. You did.”
“Well thanks for the group,” Glory said, still holding the black crown. “It was certainly different. I’m out. Running late for raid. They’re already forming up, so using my home-stone.”
“I don’t think…” Milla began, but before she could finish Glory had vanished.
“Let’s get back to WBS,” Pew said. “I’ll use my ring of recall. Just hold on tight and…”
The world flashed out of existence and back again. From being a weirdly glowing blue the light was bright and sunny. A palm tree waved overhead and there, right in front of them was her house.
She was home.
They were home.
Milla was suddenly very certain she never wanted to go on a venture ever again.

Two days later, sitting on the beach with Pew throwing sticks for Ruffkin, she was already not so sure about that. There was something about ventures. Perhaps they were addictive.
“String is fine. Seems he thinks he just got very drunk and hallucinated. Sent me a load of in game messages describing this dream he had about you and me rescuing him. I didn’t bother to say anything different.”
“And Glory? Did she get rid of that..that thing?”
Pew shrugged.
“Well that’s the odd thing. She’s not been in game since. I’ve asked around but no one seems to know what’s happened to her.”
Despite the warmth of the day Milla shivered and moved closer to Pew who put an arm around her.
“I’m just glad we’ve got each other,” he said and kissed her gently.

And that is the story so far in Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook. Next Sunday there will be a new serial. We are off on the high seas with the never before published fantasy adventure The Pirate and the Don by Jane Jago.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

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.

E.M. Swift-Hook

If you are looking for a good spooky read with other short stories and poems to get you in the Halloween mood today you should pick up Haunted: The Sparkly Badgers’ Anthology which is free to download. 

The voice outside changed tack, instead of screaming insults it became smooth and insinuating. “Jenny, Jenny. You know you can’t hide from me. And you know you have to be punished.”
Jenny felt herself wilting as the promise of a life back in his hands, pressed down on her like a pair of clammy claws and pulled every inch of resistance out of her soul. She lay her head on the table and all she could understand was the slow burn of tears leaking from her eyes. Mike bent over her.
“That isn’t happening, Jenny love. My word on it. You just stay there and I’ll send him on his way with a flea in his ear.”
Even in extremis she needed to warn Mike so she forced her voice to work. “Be careful. He’s dangerous.”
“When it comes to your safety, so am I.”
He went out, walking purposefully, and Jenny heard him open the door. She listened
“Yes?”
For a moment there was no response.
“I’m looking for my wife.”
“Your what?”
“My…. My ex-wife.”
“Ex isn’t the same as yours.”
Jenny could all but see Graham puffing himself up for attack, and she was rather surprised when he said nothing. She was beginning to hope he would just go away when he spoke again.
“Look. I don’t know who you are but you shouldn’t be taken in by Miss Innocent Jenny. She isn’t what she seems at all…”
Mike broke in and his voice was full of cold contempt.
“If I was you, I’d leave right now. While you can. You are contemptible and I am finding it very hard not to beat you to a pulp.”
The sound of a siren announced the imminent arrival of the police and Jenny rather thought Graham would make a run for it. He didn’t, though, and she could hear the hideously familiar sound of his heavy breathing as he worked himself up into a rage.
“You just tell her from me that she shouldn’t ever sleep soundly, because I will get her. And this time it’ll be her face. I’ll gladly do the time to ruin her like she ruined me. See how you like her when I mark her face…”
He stopped abruptly, making a peculiar whinnying noise instead of further spreading his poison.
“Shut up, you bastard. You might not be afraid of prison, but you should be afraid of me.”
There was silence save for the sound of heavy breathing and then a car stopping in the road. The clump clump of deliberate footsteps sounded on the path and an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“Ah. We’ve been looking for this gentleman. He’s already broken his parole conditions, and now this. He’s just booked himself a taxi straight back to prison. Thanks for finding him.”
“You’re entirely welcome.”
There was the sound of a scuffle.
“Keep still, will you…. Okay. Drop him.”
The high keening noise that was Graham’s reaction to not getting his own way went on for quite a while. Eventually, Jenny could only assume he had been subdued as the noise subsided.
“Okay. On your feet.”
Just as Jenny thought she might be able to breathe again, Graham fired his Parthian shot.
“Just remember if you do get my dear wife into bed, she likes a bit of pain with her pleasure. Comes really hard if you throttle her.”
The sounds from outside became confused then, but Jenny couldn’t compute them anyway. All she could think was that Graham was going to win again with his lies that everyone believed. A few words had poisoned her life and plunged her back into the grey fog of hopelessness. That bright chimera of hope she had been allowing herself to feel at last had been extinguished by the same lie that had driven her from her home. She could barely draw breath for the lancing pain in her chest, and somehow it didn’t seem to matter anyway.
She wasn’t aware of crawling into the corner of the kitchen, but she mush have done so, because when she came to herself there was a pair of denim-clad legs in her eyeline. Mike bent down and put out a hand. At first she cringed away, expecting a blow, or a gesture of repudiation. He did neither thing. Instead he laid that gentle hand on her cheek.
“Oh. Jenny love. Don’t cry so.”
It was only then that Jenny realised she was shaking like a wet kitten, while her whole body was racked by shattering sobs. Looking into his face she saw nothing but caring concern and when he held out his arms she crawled into his embrace like a child in search of comfort.
He stood up with her still in his arms and carried her over to where he could sit down on the floor in a patch of sunshine. Jenny hadn’t known she had so many tears left in her, but it felt like some sort of release to let it all out so she laid her face against the softness of his t-shirt and just cried. He said nothing, and nor did he move except to gently stroke her back.
When the worst of the storm had passed she lifted her face and tried for a smile.
“Sorry Mike.”
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s that piece of ordure should be sorry, but I don’t think he is.”
“No. He’s not wired to feel remorse. Even if he gets caught out in wrongdoing, in his mind it’s always somebody else’s fault.”
She moved to get off Mike’s lap and he let her go. When she stood up he uncurled himself from the floor and stood beside her, although he was obviously being careful not to intrude on her personal space. Somehow Jenny didn’t want that, so she walked back into his arms.
Tilting her head, she looked into his worried eyes.
“Thank you. I think I must have been needing that meltdown for a long time, because I actually feel stronger for it.” Then she said the thing that had to be said. “I’ll understand if it’s all too much and you need to step away from me.”
He just wrapped his arms tighter around her. “Not happening, Jenny love. I’m here. And here I’ll stick.” He rubbed his face in her hair. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I want to try. How about coffee in the sitting room, where we can sit on the sofa and talk? I think if you cuddle me I can be brave enough to tell you all the things you need to know.”
So it was that they sat cuddled together on Jenny’s big sofa and she said a lot of things she he had never said before.

Jenny is the latest book from Jane Jago

Why do you send your babies out
Crying trick or treat?
Do you truly think it safe
For children on the street?
When all around the air is full
Of things not kind or sweet
As from the earth the dead things rise
A gibbous moon to greet
Things that touch their chubby hands
And trip their little feet
Things that want to suck their souls
And eat their brains like meat
This is the night of the living dead
Who only wish to cheat
And steal away the children
Left to wander in the street

©️JaneJago

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Now I have your attention, let’s think about Halloween.
The night when, according to superstition, the veil between here and wherever is at its thinnest. So what do people do? They dress little Testosterone and Menopause in ‘supernatural’ costumes and they send them out to knock on the front doors of total strangers crying ‘twick or tweet’.
In what alternative universe is that a good idea?
Has nobody read Hansel and Gretel?
The opportunity for deeply disturbing adult behaviour is there for all to see. But no. What does the great British public do? It opens its fricking door and dispenses sweeties willy nilly.
Then, just as you are fifty quid lighter for the night, and at last even the most persistent of winkie has been put to bed, the door knocking becomes rougher in character and the local teenage males come out to do a bit of extortion – with menaces.
These bastards don’t bother to even pretend they are in costume, and they really won’t be satisfied with a mini Mars bar. Mostly they want ciggies or beer, although one or two will expect a fiver in their greasy palms in order that they won’t throw eggs and flour at your front door, or accidentally key your car, or tie a firework to your cat’s tail.
From the depths of my armchair this seems too close to blackmail to be acceptable, and I determined to put an end to such behaviour once and for all.
I am in the fortunate position of: one – being wholly nerveless; two – having more hefty grandsons and nephews than you could shake a shitty stick at,
Conceive of the scene, my friends, local thugs beat a tattoo on elderly lady’s front door. It opens with an eerie creak and a huge figure with a gimp mask stands in a sulphurously lit hallway.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” it says in a voice like a winter hailstorm. “Do come in…”
Exit thugs stage left. Pursued by creatures whose faces gleam green in the streetlights.
We don’t see trick or treaters after dark these days…