It was the divorce of the decade. Two A-listers, whose marriage had been ecstatically happy, were on the rocks. Mainstream and social media were in feeding frenzy. Fans scanned the words in his books and her songs, finding subtle knives aimed at each other.
They met for the last time before the divorce became final on a publicised mediation weekend in a secret location.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said, as she lay in his arms.
“Me too. Just think of the sales so far and how much free advertising we’ll have when we get back together next year.”
The junksters took over the redundant space station just at the turn of the year, and by August the area around it was littered with a sea of plastics and crumpled pieces of metal, whilst the inhospitable surface of the planetoid it orbited felt the first cooling fingers of terra-forming. All seemed to be going to plan, so the escort ship was diverted to another job, leaving the assorted humanoids and droids to fend for themselves. It was late December when the Confederate Cruiser entered the system on a long patrol. It spotted the space station, its tethered cargo of space junk, and the hive of activity all around it, and the captain made a noise of disgust. “Is this authorised?” he demanded of his number two. After the briefest of pauses the high, precise voice of First Officer Mebwina replied. “Yes. Sir. It is.” The captain sighed and stared in disgust at the hive of activity, but had nothing further to say except the two-word condemnation that followed the junksters from solar system to solar system. “Space junk,” he spat. When the cruiser swung back through the system six months later it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. The junk was still there and the surface of the planetoid showed evidences of the activities of the terra-formers, but there was nothing happening. “Comms Officer, open a hailing channel,” the captain spoke briskly in order to camouflage a feeling of disquiet. After about twenty minutes with no response from the junkster station, the captain called for cessation. “Raise home planet, Comms Officer.” The powers that be were thrilled to hear from a patrol cruiser captained by a time-server and crewed by second and third class citizens, but they did sit up and take notice when the situation was explained. The captain was ordered to leave a skeleton crew aboard the cruiser and take the rest of his people aboard the space station. It was, he was told crisply, imperative that he establish precisely what was going on. The pilot droid finessed the ageing cruiser into orbit about fifty metres from the space station then put itself in resting mode. Two sturdy humanoids were issued blasters and put on guard while the other dozen or so crew members donned suits and glide packs and crossed the junkyard to the silent hulk that was the junksters’ station. Leaving one suited guard outside, the rest of the party made its way into the passenger airlock. The doors shushed closed behind them. It seemed to be a very long time before anything happened, and the group was getting very, very nervous before the hiss of incoming air caused hands to drop from sidearms. When the hissing stopped, the inner door opened and the party found itself in a room big enough to swallow the cruiser whole. It was brightly lit, and, according to the captain’s gauges, full of clean, breathable air. He signalled ‘helmets off’ and once everyone was breathing station air the search began. In the eerie quiet of the station the crew’s boots sounded very loud and most of them were fighting down the urge to creep. It didn’t get any more comfortable, and yet they found nothing frightening. The lowest deck was taken up with junkster machinery and hundreds of deactivated mining and terra-forming machines. The next level was workshops, and here they found row upon row of the primitive junkster droids similarly deactivated, but looking quite unharmed. Finally, back on the living level, things felt even more eerie. The few occupied rooms were tidy and looked as if they were just waiting for their occupants to return. Even the kitchen was spick and span, although one of the huge dishwashing machines still bore a load, and there was a bowl of scrubbed tubers on the worktop. The only thing there was no sign of was life. Mebwina scowled at her gauges. “No life of any sort outside ourselves, Captain.” The captain scratched the back of his neck. “Home planet isn’t going to be too pleased with us if the only answer we can come up with is that.” Nobody replied, because there was nothing to say. The sound of machinery starting up close by made every man jack of them jump, and Mebwina went so far as to emit an undignified squeak. “Air scrubbers.” The oldest crewman put in succinctly. “We must have been in here long enough to use up some air.” He smiled in a superior fashion before grabbing for his throat, while desperately trying to replace his helmet with his other hand. Within seconds, Mebwina’s gauges stopped bleeping and blipping and a tinny little voice piped up. ‘no life forms detected’ before it too fell silent. Inside the cruiser, the pilot droid awoke and ambled over to the two guards. It pushed them into the airlock and closed the door before jettisoning them to join the rest of the garbage clustered around the space station. It made a slight tasking sound in the back of its throat as the bodies were smashed into pieces by the effects of sharp metal wastes and aggressive artificial gravity. The two spacesuited figures guarding the airlock could be seen to be fighting nausea. Vomit in a suit is unamusing. The droid smiled thinly and set an autopilot course for home planet before exiting the cruiser via the captain’s emergency pod. As the spaceship exited the system the droid felt itself swell with a new purpose as its will was joined with its brothers and sisters on the space station. “Space Junk,” the voice in his head exulted. “Score one to the space junk.”
The corset made her waist so tiny it could be spanned by a man’s hands. The Photographer saw her across a crowded comicon – and ended up following her all through the day snapping picture after picture of her hourglass silhouette and the ridiculous top hat she wore with such panache. It was past time to breathe, she thought, as she leaned against a convenient wall waiting for the lift to where her car waited. He waited too and they stepped into the lift together. When the lift doors next opened there was nobody inside – only blood and a discarded corset.
The food they brought him, some kind of broth, was hot with a strongly spiced flavour. He ate it all and was given more. The two women sat together watching him as he was eating, until Avilon began to wonder if they saw him as an exhibit from some freak show. On the tail of the thought it struck him that they probably felt exactly that way about him. He set aside the crudely-made bowl and smiled at the dark haired woman. “What is your name?” She looked uncomfortable and flushed, as though embarrassed that he addressed her directly. “They call my name Shemille.” “And what is this world called, Shemille?” “Temsevar.” The name was not familiar and did nothing to enlighten him. In all probability it was only the local name and the one that would appear on any Coalition planetary charts of the region. “Do many people on Temsevar speak Coalition Standard?” The woman looked at him, puzzled, so he tried again: “Do many people here speak my language?” Shemille’s face cleared and she shook her head. “No, Kashlihk. Few, very much few. Only in Keran.” With much prompting he was able to learn that Keran was the capital of Temsevar – a large city which lay on another continent on the other side of the planet. It had some kind of spaceport and enjoyed the occasional visit by free traders. Shemille explained that she had been born into slavery in Keran. When she had been little more than a child she had been bought by one such trader who had been stranded on Temsevar after landing with a damaged ship and no resources to repair it. When the trader eventually left, he sold Shemille to a merchant who had brought her with him to this continent. But with advancing years she had lost her value, been sold again and then again until she was purchased to serve as a domestic slave by the owner of this caravan. “And how many Shemilles would it take to buy me?” he asked, cynically. But his tone was wasted on the literal Shemille. “Tens. Many tens – a hundred,” she told him seriously. Avilon felt a sudden desire to laugh. The Coalition had valued him at two million credits at the last count, but on Temsevar he was worth a hundred plump, slave girls. “The Captain said you were to stay with me?” “Yes, Kashlihk.” “And how long will it be before we reach Alfor?” “Long time. Over a moon. A moon and half.” “And how many days in a moon?” “Two tens and five days.” Avilon rewarded her with a smile. “Good. Then you will have the time to teach me to speak your language.” Shemille nodded uncertainly, her eyes troubled. “The Captain -” “The Captain will be very pleased. How can I do what he says if I can’t understand him?” That seemed to satisfy her and her face brightened slightly, or at least the shadow of anxiety lifted by a fraction. “You wish it, Kashlihk?” “Yes, I wish it. And you can begin by telling me why you call me ‘carish-luck’.” “Kashlihk,” she corrected, then looked at him nervously as if fearful at having spoken out of turn. Avilon repeated the word, copying her precise intonation of sounds. “The Captain call you ‘Kashlihk’,” Shemille explained. “It is bad word – very bad. It mean one who do bad things. One who do what must not is done.” Avilon felt his lips curve slightly into a slight, ironic, smile. “And what have I done that the Captain thinks must not be done, Shemille?” “You fight Zoukai. No slave fight Zoukai.” Avilon’s smile broadened fractionally. “It seems I have a lot to learn.” But his voice, like his thoughts, held no trace of remorse.
Aunt Artemisia had long been the repository for family secrets. Telling her something, was as safe as talking in your own head. A visit to her house. A nice cup of tea. Sharing the burden.
It even continued when she moved into residential care. Until one day, while sharing marital issues, Jack got a shock.
“Yes dear. Marianne hates you shouting at the telly.”
Secrets were no longer sacrosanct it seemed.
This changed the family, who started talking to each other.
“Such a shame. Her mind’s gone,” they said.
Artemisia smiled inwardly. She had wanted to do this for years.
And so, as I ride in tow, looking on at the man I’ve chosen to follow, I must confront myself. Is this, then, the life I will lead? Is this where I belong? Forever living on the frays of war. Forever attuned to the injustices I had once so desperately sought to amend…
Bloodline is a concept album about a young man caught up in the first English Civil War, the mercenary leader he comes to follow and that man’s mysterious heritage… It is the first album from Earth Forge which is the band created by Ian Bristow.
Beware these, the follies of men, lust and greed and treasons ascend You can’t know the heart or the soul, you can’t see the sickness take hold. Then when you’re cast away, you learn what it means to pay The dues of a wounded land, can’t be what they all had planned
All had planned All had planned
We do we can but do what we must Life isn’t easy, life isn’t just On we ride On we ride
Like worms with a flesh meal, they twist and they vie Shunned away from the light, they are shameless and blithe They take just to have now, they’re taking all that they want Playing life like a chess match, they’re moving their pawns Get in the way at your own cost, and see their design You’ll be what they said to be, or you’re dying this time
Promote these, the triumphs of men, truth and pride and friendships ascend You can’t know the future till past, you can’t write your life in cast And now that you’re here to stay, you’ve learned what it means to pay The dues of a wounded land, can’t be what they all had planned
All had planned All had planned
We do we can but do what we must Life isn’t easy, life isn’t just On we ride On we ride
We do we can but do what we must Life isn’t easy, life isn’t just On we ride On we ride
(1) What made you decide to write this concept album? The drive to start writing this album came from the inspiration I got while reading Lord’s Legacy, an absolutely brilliant book series, which was written by the amazing author E.M. Swift-Hook. I was lucky enough to get an early look at the books, so I can’t offer a link to them, as they are not yet published, otherwise I would tell you all to drop what you’re doing and go get and read them this instant. I was still reading book one when the first song idea came to me, and by the middle of the six book series, I had too many other ideas to deny an album was what I really wanted to do. So, I set to work writing and recording tracks that would take the listener through what – to me – were key events within the story.
(2) So this is a solo project, but it sounds like an entire band, how is that? Well, thanks to the sort of technology we have these days, I was able to write and record parts for each instrument. Then I took each of those tracks and mixed them as if it was a band playing and not just me all by me onesie.
(3)Which is your favourite track of the album musically, which was the hardest to bring off and which was the one you are proudest of? Let’s see, favorite track off the album musically… Blimey, that’s tough, as they all mean a lot to me in their own ways. But if I had to say one, I think I’d go with The Covenant. The hardest is easy, that was Oath. Bloody track is 24 minutes long and was a beast to write and record. And being that Oath was the hardest track to bring off, it’s also the one I’m most proud of. There were times I thought that one would get the better of me. But I did finally manage to make it stick and I’m really happy with the outcome.
Ian Bristow has spent the majority of his life in love with music, studying almost every genre during his twenty-five year relationship with guitar. And while he primarily plays guitar, he also avidly explores bass, piano, drums and vocals. His music is released under the name Earth Forge and his debut album ‘Bloodline’ is available on all music streaming platforms. Check it out on Spotify or YouTube today.
She was lovely as moonlight, milk pale and slender, and tied to the cruel tree with her unbound hair as her only modesty. Her knight protector sat firm astride his coal-black steed. And waited. The dragon came out of the sunset, shining like a golden spear. He set his scaly feet upon the earth, then frowned a draconian frown. “Sheathe your sword, young knight.” “Come but one step closer and I will sheathe it in your breast.” The dragon laughed, it was a bitter sound. “They have cheated us both,” he breathed, “that one is not my legal prey.”
Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…
A group of four sinuous bodied females were skimming across the waters of the lake towards them, propelled by their finned serpentine tails,their long blue and green hair covering some of their upper torso and a diaphanous fabric crossed beneath their breasts into a kind of trailing skirt which outlined where they had human like bottoms and thighs before their legs became snakelike. Their expressions were of feral anger and they each wielded weapons – swords, daggers or staves Milla was not surprised they were so angry. It must be terrible not having proper legs. “And this,” Pew said as he held his own staff aloft, “is why we needed a tank and heals. We get two waves of four then the boss who comes with two more and can summon an add every ten percent.” “By the power of My Skull!” Glory slashed out at the nearest of the Lamia as Pew sent a fireball over her shoulder and two of them exploded into stars. “Got their healer,” Pew said with satisfaction, and then waded into the fray using his staff as a blunt weapon. The two remaining Lamia hissed and writhed. One clawed at Pew and Glory shouted “No you don’t you fat cow!” which enraged the Lamia so much she returned her attention to hitting Glory, who was looking a bit beaten up. A few moments later it was over and the lake was tranquil once again. Glory moved her arms in a gesture of supplication and her injuries faded as if they had never been. Then pulled her bow from over her shoulder. “If we can down one before they close it’ll be easier,” she said just as a new group of Lamia came over the lake towards them. Two arrows and a spray of mini fireballs sank one, the other three were subjected to a mouthful of abuse from Glory, depreciating their physical characteristics, their philosophy and their parentage. Milla’s ears burned with it and she wondered how Glory could come up with such vile things. But it kept the Lamia fully focusing their ferocity on the elf as Pew sent spell after destructive spell into them doing far more damage than Glory was. This time Milla had to send the power from her pendant to stop Pew from exhausting his magical powers before the fight was done. Then the two Visitors were breathing hard and the last of the Lamia had disappeared into thin air. “Alright this is the big one,” Glory said, wiping a golden gauntleted hand ineffectually across her brow. “Milla you are going to have to be our off-tank. The encounter needs one or we won’t make it.” “No!” Pew’s protest combined with Milla’s squeak of horror. “We have to, Pew. You know that. Once in the fight the mob will charm whoever is holding aggro and make them useless. The only way to avoid that is to have someone to take the aggro. If you put your aggro transfer on Milla, then the moment I get charmed and stop taunting, it’ll drop to her and I’ll be back in the fight.” “I’ll take the aggro.” “No. You mustn’t. You’ve got to keep the damage going or the Queen’ll start to self heal. For fracks sake, that’s why the whole thing is set up this way. It’s meant for a full group not… not whatever we are.” “But Milla could get hurt!” “If she doesn’t do it we’ll all get dead!” Milla held up a hand to silence them. She could already see the waters of the lake beginning to boil and was pretty sure that meant they were out of time. “I’ll do it. And shut up Pew, it’s my choice not yours.” She heard his mouth snap shut, but her eyes were fixed on the lake where the Lamia Queen had just appeared in a spume of mist and bubbles, her body about half as big again as her Lamia sisters, was clad in two thongs, one around her rather impressively large chest and one around her hips, that left almost nothing to the imagination.
We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.
Will you walk a little faster said a Mummy to a gran I’ve Jemima and Sebastian and a very strict time plan I’ve my iPhone on my shoulder and it’s saying beepy beep And I have to get the toddlers home before they fall asleep Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you walk more fast Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you walk more fast
Granny looked around her at the blue sky and the sun Thinking that the silly girl behind her never had much fun But then she looked severely at the pushy one behind I shall walk at my own pace, she said, and that’s if you don’t mind I will not, shall not, will not, shall not, will not, shall not walk more fast I will not, shall not, will not, shall not, will not, shall not walk more fast
Yummy mummy cried such tears that flooded all the way Oh please be moving faster or we’ll mess up all today I have to have my acupuncture visit my hairdresser Instead I’m stuck behind a besom who is a distresser Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you walk more fast Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you walk more fast
Saturday evening came, and she dressed with care, wanting to look good but also wishing to avoid anything that might be construed as ‘sexy’. Her taxi dropped her at the end of the pedestrianised street where Luigi’s restaurant was found. Almost at once she spotted Mike’s tall figure striding towards her. He reached her side and offered his arm in a strangely courtly gesture that made her smile. “Hello Jenny. I’m very glad you’re here, because people are trying to get me to make choices and that really isn’t my long suit. I’m hoping for help.” “Choices?” “Yes. Would we like to sit inside or would we prefer a table outside by the river? Would we like antipasto on the table while we make our minds up about main courses? Would we like a bottle of wine on the table? If so what?” Jenny found herself relaxing under the influence of his self-deprecating humour. “Let’s break it down shall we? Would you like to sit outside?” “Yes. But only of you would like it too.” “I would and I’d also like antipasto. Though I’ll stab you with a fork if you take more than your share.” He mugged extreme fear. By this time they were at the restaurant and the hovering waiter recognised Jenny. He bowed effusively. Mike waited until he straightened. “Riverside table please. With antipasto on the table.” The waiter looked a question and Mike smote his forehead. “Oh yes. What about wine Jenny?” “Oh, why not? Bardolino?” “Bardolino it is.” When the waiter disappeared, Mike smiled down at Jenny. “Can I buy you an aperitif?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” “No. But should I be? Is that the way to your flinty heart?” Jenny found herself grinning and hip bumped him. He affected agony and by the time she had stopped laughing they were at the bar. “What would madam care to drink?” “Surprise me.” He beckoned to the barman and they had a low voiced conversation. Jenny was intrigued. “What are we…” “It’s a surprise.” He steered her to an empty window seat before heading back to the bar. She watched as he passed over some money and accepted a tray, which he managed to screen with his body until he reached her. The drink he put in front of her was pale yellow, and bubbly, and it had raspberries floating in it. She took an experimental sip. The drink was citrusy and light, and quite delicious. “What?” He grinned. “My mother’s favourite when we used to come here. Prosecco, limoncello and frozen raspberries. I did cheat, though, noticing that the waiter knew you I guessed you were a regular so I asked the bartender if you like limoncello.” “Just this once we can overlook the cheating.” He winked and slid into the seat opposite her. “When you used to come here?” “Yes. This was my parents’ favourite restaurant and it became mine.” “Was?” “Yes. When Dad retired they moved back to Scotland.” “Do you miss them?” “I do, but they are happy. Mum hated living where they were after the rumour mill slaughtered me for losing my fiancée to a fat guy with a Jaguar.” “I can get behind that. My parents got enough crap when my marriage failed, and it would’ve been worse if they weren’t deeply rooted in the land.” “That about says it. Rooted in the land. Dad always managed wherever because he had an absorbing job. Mum missed Scotland really badly.” “Absorbing job?” Jenny tilted her head to one side and lifted an enquiring eyebrow. “Is your father a doctor too.” “Good grief no. He’s a meteorologist.” “A weather man?” “Yup. Worked in Exeter for the last few years before he retired. I know your parents are farmers, and you work here in in the city, but I don’t know what you do.” “I’m an accountant.” “I knew there was a reason you fascinated me.” “Fascinated? Accountancy? Are you mad?” “No. Just completely impressed by numeracy.” She looked at him narrowly and was met by an apparently guileless pair of bright blue eyes. “You,” she said sternly, “are by way of being a dangerous lunatic. If I didn’t really, really like the food here I might have to run for my life.” The waiter appeared, smiling. “Your table is ready.” They followed him to where a table for two was set with shining glassware and a tempting array of antipasto. It was beside a tall glass balustrade and commanded a view down the river. As it was high tide, the lights of all the quayside businesses blinked and swam in the blackness of the water. “I’d forgotten how pretty this is,” Mike said. “It’s gorgeous on a night like this.” “My mum’s birthday is in January but she loves this view. So one year, Dad persuaded them to set a table out here for us. We ate in our puffa jackets and warmest boots. And just as we started our desserts it began to snow.” “Oh. That sounds magical.” He smiled. “It was. But. Food…” Jenny dug in, miming threats with her fork as Mike heaped his own plate. The evening flew past, with only one tiny bump, and even that was smoothed by Mike’s easy kindliness. Instead of a formal dessert they opted for a plate of tiny cakes, two of which were doughnuts. When Mike made to put one on her plate she recoiled. He made absolutely no comment – but by the time she had her head back together the doughnuts had disappeared. Before Jenny was ready for their date to be over it was nearly midnight and the restaurant was closing. When he had paid the bill, Mike insisted on walking her to her taxi. It was waiting at the end of the cul de sac and he smiled down at her. “That was fun. Wanna do it again?” Jenny found herself nodding. “I’m on call next weekend – joys of being the junior partner – so can we make a date for two weeks time? Pretty please.” “Yes. Okay. I’ve always heard you should humour madmen, so it’s a date.” He bent his head and for a second Jenny was afraid he was aiming for a goodnight kiss, but he did nothing so crass. Instead he touched the tip of his nose to hers. “Goodnight Jenny.” He handed her into the cab and placed a small, slender grey cardboard box in her hand. “Rental for the phone I’m still borrowing,” he said gently and ambled off. The taxi pulled away and Jenny looked at the thing in horror. It appeared to her to be a jeweller’s box, akin to those Graham had brought home his conscience gifts in. Just looking at it made her feel sick. In the end she shoved it in her handbag, thinking that she probably wouldn’t even open it. At home in her own place, she badly wished for Meg’s warm weight against her leg, while a small voice in her head admonished her for cowardice. In the end, she poured herself a big drink and took the package out of her bag. Setting it on the coffee table she lifted the lid. There was no telltale gleam of precious metal or gemstone, instead, what lay on a bed of cotton was a pencil. Only it wasn’t a pencil. It was a pretend pencil made of some dark, smooth wood. Whatever was it? There was a small piece of folded paper in the lid which she opened in some curiosity. Kanzashi are Japanese hair sticks, which are, by tradition, both for adornment and protection against evil spirits. I saw this one and thought of you. It was signed with a smiley face. Jenny picked up the hair stick, enjoying its smoothness in her hand. This man was very surprising. On impulse she stuck the thing in her curly topknot and took a selfie which she sent to Mike before she could lose her nerve. She got a text back immediately. ‘Colour me relieved. Sleep well.’. Jenny finished her drink and went to bed smiling.
Working Title Blogspot 