Becca offered a silent prayer as the engine failed to catch then did. The car was too old but she couldn’t manage without it. Today, her day off, she had been temping as a receptionist. Tomorrow it was back to an early start as a home carer. But now she had to collect the kids from her mother’s. A neighbour’s daughter would babysit for her evening shift waitressing.
On the radio, a slimy politician sucking on his silver spoon was saying that poor people should get a job.
She wondered how many jobs she needed not to be poor anymore.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Have you ever asked the question “What if…?”
What if things had turned out differently, what if history had taken another turn, what if our world had gone another way?
That’s the question at the heart of the genre of alternate history – and that powers the stories in the new Inklings Press anthology, Tales From Alternate Earths 3.
Alternate history has had quite the renaissance in recent years – from TV shows such as The Man in the High Castle, an adaptation of the Philip K Dick novel, to the HBO series Watchmen, and more light-hearted adventures through history such as Timeless or Legends of Tomorrow. Even Disney is getting in on the action with their “What If?” series looking at what might have happened if key moments in the Marvel Cinematic Universe had gone differently.
That’s the fun of it – there’s so much range in the genre, but all so close to home that it could just be the slightest difference that takes us there.
That difference is usually called the point of departure, the moment when history departs from our own. That can be something huge – an alien ship arrives, say – or it can be a tiny difference. In one of the stories in the new anthology, it hinges on a man having a pair of boots.
Stories in the book span the world, from Hitchcock directing Titanic to a hunt for Jack The Ripper, from Cold War chicanery to a Roman Empire that never ended, from mythological beings turned real to post-World War Two genetic experiments. It’s a big canvas and it’s great to see what the authors involved bring to the table.
There are stories by Alan Smale, Daniel M Bensen, DJ Butler, Minoti Vaishav, Brent A Harris, JL Royce, Jeff Provine, Ricardo Victoria, Rob Edwards, Matthew Kresal, Aaron Emmel, Christopher Edwards, and the fabulous EM Swift-Hook and Jane Jago!
Oh, and there’s a story by me, Leo McBride. It’s called Heaven Above, Hell Below, and here’s an extract right here:

The manmade island was quite a sight from the air. Two islands would be a more accurate description – an outer ring around the central island. Four long roadways connected the two as if they were spokes, making it look somewhat like a wheel. The outer rings had the most construction going on, with vehicles and workers buzzing around putting up hotels, while groynes extended into the sea to help to create the beaches shown on the glossy cover of the brochure on Ellie’s lap. But it was the central island that was her business.
“Make the most of it, no one will get a view like this soon,” said the man sitting across from Ellie, a slim older white man dressed in the clothes of a pastor, complete with white collar and crucifix around his neck.
Without looking away from the window, Ellie replied: “I know. Anyone tries to get this close, two F15EX2 Eagle 2 jets will blow them out of the sky. If that’s not enough, the tower has Sea Sparrows mounted on all corners able to take anything down far enough away not to worry about fragmentation.”
The man coughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Clearly you know far more about the defenses of Shinar than I do. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Bishop John Wilson. And you are?”
He extended his hand across the space between them, and Ellie took it, his pale skin a contrast to her own black skin.
“Ellie Floyd,” she replied, “and yeah, I guess you could say I do – I designed the defenses. You here with the religious advisory body?”
“That I am. Although I do fear my opinion might not matter much, I’m not sure how much I can offer to a project as ambitious as Shinar.”
Ellie paused. “That’s the second time you’ve called it Shinar. So far, it’s just Pacific Base while the marketing teams do all the brand testing. Why are you calling it Shinar?”
The pastor raised his hands. “Oh, you know what they say, if you want something try to speak it into being. I figure if I keep on using it, it might stick in someone’s mind and might just make it to the final list. My own little contribution.”
Ellie smiled. “Well, clearly you know far more about where that comes from than I do. I’m afraid my days of learning scripture are a long while back. What’s Shinar?”
“Ah,” he said, “well, Shinar was once—“
He was interrupted by the chopper pilot calling back. “On final approach, buckle up, we’ll be touching down in a moment.”
Ellie smiled. “Something to tell me over lunch,” she called, as she buckled her belt and the helicopter banked and descended to the central island.

A Bite of… Leo McBride  

(1)  What draws you to write alternate history? Is it the what ifs? Or maybe the  if that happened it would be funs? Or something deep in your soul. 

For me, it’s all about the tantalising possibilities. It’s great when you think back to that moment where everything shifts and realise how differently our world can play out. That’s only half of it, thought, you have to tell a story in that world, and that has to get right to the heart of who the characters are and what is important to them. So the change in history sets the backdrop, but the people still tell the story.  

(2)  Do you think your writing is driven by character or storyline? 

I think I tend to be focused more on character. Maybe part of that is years of playing roleplaying games and having one single character that you’d play for session after session and while the adventures changed, it was the growth in your character that was important. But yes, I like to get as close to the character as I can in the story, and why the events that take place matter to them.  

(3) What is your favourite street food/takeaway?  

Parmo. I may live very far from there now but the Teesside parmo is a thing of legend. Chicken parmesan, which sounds healthy when you say it like that, but it’s beaten and baked and smothered in cheese and béchamel sauce and served like a pizza with oodles of chips, a big splosh of garlic sauce and some salad just for show. It’s unhealthy, it’s far from fancy, but by golly it’s magnificent.  

Leo McBride is a journalist, editor and fiction writer born in Northern Ireland but who has since drifted across the ocean to The Bahamas. He has been published previously in each of the Inklings Press anthologies, along with collections from the Sci-Fi Roundtable, Rhetoric Askew, Starklight Press and elsewhere. He has also self-published his own short story collection Quartet, and ghost written and edited a number of biographies. You can find more of his work on his blog, on Twitter and on Facebook. 

The dress called AnnaMaria with all the seduction of a lover. But it was as expensive as it was beautiful so she could only look. Then one morning it was gone. She and her mother speculated about who might have bought it as they ate their meagre supper.

The next day there was a dress box on the table when she got home from school.

“Who?” 

“Your father.”

“The one who only sends eating money when the judges make him?”

Mother nodded.

AnnaMaria never opened the box. 

She wore her old dress to the dance and kept her pride intact.

©️Jane Jago

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

The airship was moored to a platform just along the waterfront from where the real ships came in. It turned out to be a boat-shaped basket which could hold perhaps eight people if they stood close together. Above the basket was a bright red egg-shaped bubble, decorated with some kind of complex heraldry and attached to the basket by ropes. At the back, behind the basket was a large whirling device which Pew told her was called a propeller. Which made sense as it was this which propelled the airship along.
Pew and Glory both ran up the stairs to the top of the platform and jumped into the basket. Milla followed them more cautiously, wondering what would happen. It didn’t look very safe to her. Indeed, no sooner had she got in than the ground dropped away below them. Milla’s stomach felt as if it was still on the ground, but the rest of her was high in the air. She gripped the sides of the basket and closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to stop pounding and her stomach to rejoin the rest of her body.
When she finally managed to open her eyes, she saw an amazing sight. There, beneath her, were hills and fields and forests, rolling away. In all the time she had lived in Wrathburnt Sands she had imagined what other places the Visitors talked about might be like. Over the last few months she had pestered Pew with questions about the places he had visited and so she thought she had some idea of what to expect. But the reality was incredible. Her fear evaporated and she stared with awe and wonder at the world.
Then the ground below became stoney and bleak. There were massive wooden houses almost tall enough to touch the bottom of the ship and a group of giants waved their huge cudgels and snarled up at the passing air ship.
“They don’t seem very friendly,” Milla said. But Pew and Glory were bickering about something they called ‘stats’, throwing initials and numbers around fiercely and apparently oblivious to anything else. It was odd to think that they took this incredible journey so much for granted that they didn’t even look at the view.
The airship had begun following the course of a river and then suddenly Milla’s stomach dropped away again as the river thundered over a cliff and the airship plunged down with it. For a few giddy moments she thought it had lost it’s magic and was falling, but Pew and Glory didn’t even stop their argument, they both just grabbed the edge of the basket and carried on. Reassured, Milla looked down again and felt as if she could see to the very edge of the world, but a world that was now purple and brown. And very flat. This, she assumed, must be Seersucker Swamp.
Odd creatures like giant slugs and worms and other things with tentacles that Milla really didn’t want to know anything about, slithered in and out of the rusty looking pools which pocked the surface between close pressed tussocks of purple grass. There were occasional trees with trailing branches and uplifted roots, with the same purple foliage and grey trunks. These trees grew more frequent as the swamp progressed until the airship had to swoop to avoid it’s canopy. A pathway snaked through the swamp, marked by posts with skull shaped lanterns and the airship moved to follow it towards some kind of village which was built on stilts with walkways connecting the various buildings.

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

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

The halcyon days of summer
Lazy dust motes sailing by
Timid clouds can find no shade
Beneath a copper sky
The grass throws seeds
That itch against our skin
And finding clothing
Tuck themselves within
Whilst flags hang windless
In the noonday heat
And even green is harsh
Beneath our feet
The summer embers burning
In their shades of gold
Trick us to forgetting that
It will soon grow cold
But leading us a dance
The season cries
Come love me now
Tomorrow I may die

©️jj 2021

Queen Ingonida having been in the arms of her ancestors for more than a year, parliament decided that the King’s Majesty needed a new wife. King Armand himself was less than keen, but, as his ministers held the purse strings, he found it politic to acquiesce.
Accordingly, proclamations were sent to all the surrounding kingdoms, which process resulted in a dozen offers of eligible brides. As was the custom, each candidate was represented by a portrait painted by her country’s foremost artist, and a letter written in the hand of the princess herself.
Once the portraits and letters had been gathered together, they were delivered to an apartment in the north tower of the palace and the King was summoned.
The Prime Minister spoke: “Your Majesty. There are twelve candidates for your hand. The choice is yours.”
The king stared at him.
“When we leave this room, you will read the letters and study the pictures. From that information you will make your decision. However, you will not leave this place until your decision is made.”
With that the members of the Royal Council turned on their heels and progressed with studied dignity out of the suite of rooms. The king picked up a small stool and hurled it at their departing backs, which at least served to dissipate their dignity. Then the door closed behind them.
The king opened the door by which his ministers had exited, to find himself faced by a couple of men at arms who shuffled their feet and looked a bit embarrassed.
“You are all right, lads” His Majesty said genially. “I’m not going to be awkward. I was just curious. And I could do with a snack. Bread, cheese and beer.”
“Ain’t there wine and stuff in there?”
“There is, but there’s no bread or cheese or beer.”
The brighter of the two guards grinned a gap-toothed grin.
“I’m on it.” And he scooted to the end of the corridor from whence he could be heard bawling for a servant in truly stentorian tones.
His Majesty grinned appreciatively and went to sit in front of the fire in the room with the twelve portraits. It wasn’t long before his snack arrived and as he munched he ruminated on the task before him.
“What do I do now?” he mused aloud.
“Well you could try talking to us.”
His head snapped around as if it was on a spring.
“Talk to who?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
The voice was female and sarcastic.
“Maybe he really don’t know…” another less angry woman.
“Ingonida” the first voice snarled.
King Armand was nothing if not quick on the uptake.
“Is that portraits talking?”
“Don’t play the innocent with us. You must have chosen your first wife in this room.”
He laughed sardonically. “You think I chose Ingonida?”
“Why not? She was beautiful and wealthy.”
“And cold and miserable” he said bitterly. “I’d have traded twenty Ingonidas for a plain face and a merry heart.”
“So why did you pick her portrait then?” The first voice was less angry now.
“I keep telling you I didn’t pick anything. I got up on the morning of my fourteenth birthday to be shoved in a white satin doublet and frogmarched to the cathedral. I was married before I even had my breakfast.”
“Oh. But why didn’t you get the Choice?”
“Think about it woman” it was the man’s turn to snarl. “The fourth son? The third spare heir? I was lucky to get hand-me-downs and my father could never bother to remember my name.”
A third female voice chimed in. “And that will teach you to jump to conclusions Araminta.” Then the tone of that voice changed from mild censure to genuine curiosity. “Did nobody explain the Choice to you my liege?”
“Nobody explained anything. I wasn’t supposed to be king. You can add it to the list of things I have had to make up as I went along.”
The first voice made a sound of disgust deep in her throat.
“Bloody Ingonida could have told you…”
“Bloody Ingonida never told me nothing in twenty years of marriage. So maybe one of you would be kind enough to explain.”
First voice actually sounded conciliatory.
“Very well. This is how it works. The portraits and the letters are brought to this apartment, which is only ever used for this purpose, and the ancient magic that resides within the walls links us to our portraits so that we can both see you and speak to you.”
“I don’t know that I like the sound of that. It seems to me as if you are being manipulated without your consent.”
“Oh we are. And as far as I know you are the first of your line to recognise that. Makes you a much more interesting human being. But we digress. It would be good if you cut the numbers down a bit, twelve egos over here is a bit crowded.”
“Okay. I’m thirty-four and I’ve been the young half of a lopsided marriage. I didn’t like it. So. Anybody under twenty?”
“Six of us are.”
“Who? And how do I go about cutting down the numbers?”
“If you decide a princess isn’t for you, just take her picture down from the wall. Those who are under twenty will show up red.”
“I see.”
He stood up and looked towards the portraits, six of which were now tinged with blush red. The first five left the wall gracefully and with almost a feeling of gratitude, but the last one adhered to his fingers.
“What lady?” he asked gently.
“I would stay longer if I may. I am close to my twentieth birthday and in all that time I have never heard a male gentleman of a royal household even consider the feelings of a woman.”
He thought for a moment then bowed his head.
“Very well lady. You shall have your wish. It ill behoves me to ignore your wishes if I am not to be as bad as all the other men you have known.”
“Thank you.”
“And then there were seven” the first voice purred.
“Behave Araminta” the third voice was gently chiding.
Armand laughed. “My next question is this. How many of you have a man you love, who you might even have been allowed to marry if this stupid contest for my hand hadn’t cropped up?”
Three pictures blushed red and he lifted them gently down from the wall.
“And now there are four. Would you mind introducing yourselves?”
He moved to stand in front of the first remaining portrait.
“My name is Araminta. I am twenty-five years old. On the shelf even.” She laughed a bit nervously. “I’m not usually this aggressive, and this is how I really look.”
The picture changed subtly, the girl was still pretty but her face was rounder and her figure less slender.
“Thank you.”
One by one the girls introduced themselves and the pictures changed to reflect the true appearance of the princesses. The last girl was the young one who had pleaded to keep her place, and her picture was the one that changed the most dramatically. The elf-slim beauty was replaced by a plain faced girl with broad hips and a quantity of mouse-brown curls.
“The picture” she explained softly “is my older sister, who is already promised to the crown prince of a neighbouring country. My father sought to cheat you. But I do have a merry heart.”
Armand was impressed by how she had taken on board what he said, but he felt it was too soon to single out one of the remaining quartet.
He carried on talking to the four, but time and again he found his eyes returning to the picture of the plain, dumpy girl with the engaging giggle.
In the end the other three grew quieter and quieter until the first voice spoke without a trace of its former abrasiveness.
“I have a feeling that three of us are wasting our time. Maybe you really do want a plain face and a merry heart. And I can vouch for the fact that Lyonette does have that merry heart, even living in a household where she is less regarded than the kitchen maid.”
Armand bowed his head, then removed three pictures from the wall leaving only the image of Lyonette de Bouchard.
“My lady, will you do me the honour?’

Jane Jago

I’m an Amazon girl
I know how to prowl
Through the jungle of pages
To find my new towel

I’m an Amazon girl
I know how to stalk
In the dense product forest
To track down a fork

I’m an Amazon girl
I know how to hunt
Cross scarcity deserts
But I’m at the front

I’m an Amazon girl
A fine honed consumer
If I need a new PC
Or a posh poodle groomer

I’m an Amazon girl
I just make a few clicks
And all that I desire
Arrives in a few ticks.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

One somehow cannot bring oneself to address you as ‘Dear RWW’. Mummy has always insisted that one should be punctiliously polite (a skill she herself was taught by the nuns at a frightfully expensive Swiss Finishing School). Thus such a contraction of the words feels too informal for a budding relationship, although please know that is how one thinks of you, one’s little chums, since we have become so much better acquainted. I shall, however, make free use of that reduction in the main body of my text. You will have heard I am known as ‘Ivy’ to those whom I allow close familiarity – but you may call me Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

As the author of science fiction and fantasy – “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” – Amazon’s one millionth on the bestseller charts and a masterclass in ‘how to’ in its own right – I feel I have the perfect credentials to offer you the highest of heuristic insights to release your own inner writer.

For those of you who have been following one’s bon mots, one will continue to offer you the benefit of one’s deep and sympathetic wisdom. And to those who have only just had the inestimable good fortune to discover my erudition and brilliance, I bid you welcome.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Music

Tuneful tintinnabulation: Summoning the muse with music has its antecedents in acts of sympathetic magic from across our spinning globe. Like summons like. So with the aid of Eurtepe and Aoede we may bring forth Erato and Calliope. One’s musical accompaniment should be reproduced in the most audiologically pleasing manner that one’s pecuniary resources may obtain.

Oh how one longs for a full orchestra, seated in the shrubbery and serenading as one captures the essence of the Muse! But that is not to be, and, as Mummy genteelly opined when I requested this: ‘Don’t be such a twat, Moony, the bastards would only trample the euphorbia’.

Therefore one has had the inestimable good fortune to become acquainted with a young lady named Alexa, who responds to one’s every whim and command. Sympatico….

Before I even think of adding a single word to my new magnum opus ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth Go Forth’, I must first suffuse the atmosphere with my own especially blended symphony of scent (see the last lesson) and listen to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth exactly eight times. I follow this with the closing sequence of the 1812 Overture – ensuring that it is a recording with real cannon – to awaken my inner author from his sophoric slumbers deep within. Then either ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’ or Handel’s ‘Music for the Royal Fireworks’, so as to appease the higher cognitive aspects of my psyche. I am then ready to soothe the sybaritic segregations of my soul with something profound and sensitive and will put on Pure Peruvian Flutes, Whale Songs or Perry Como.

Please, gentle RWW, do not be fooled into thinking I actually write to any of this. No – this is all about preparing the psyche from heights to depths in order that the eventual overlay of choice melodies, selected to match the mood and theme of one’s authorial flow, can wash deeper into the creative mind. It is indeed a ritual akin to religious profundity and it is worth the hour and a half which one gives over to it before one begins to write. Without it, one could not unlock the core of one’s essence and allow the riches within to leach from one’s tender soul onto the polished whiteness of the page.

You are welcome to adopt my musical rites of pre-writing within your own sanctuary to the muses, or develop your own as mine are intended only for a higher mind which is capable of scaling the peaks of literary prowess.

Until next. Adieu estudas. Bon Ecrit!

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.

Rosita lit cigarette from the stub of the last and scrubbed a yellow sock.

“Me and Manuel don’t get jiggy no more. He’s so fat I can’t find his cojones. Last night he’s begging for it, so I go looking. What’d I find under his great belly? I’ll tell ya. I find the biro pen he lost last month. I find a half-eaten sucking candy. I find cannoli from the ristorante we went for his last birthday. What don’t I find? His pênis. I’m shouting out the list and he laughs so much the bed collapses. Hombres. Who knew…” 

©️Jane Jago

At Binti Hammam, the veiled ‘woman’ jumped lightly down from the litter and hurried into a big skin tent. Once inside, and with the robe and veil cast away it could be seen that she was certainly no lady, being a leanly-built brown-skinned man with untidily cropped whitish hair and a poorly stitched scar bisecting his left cheek.  
‘Do we trust Hakim?’ he asked the very big plain-faced, sandy-haired man who had been officiating as negotiator. The man shrugged. 
‘No as far as I could throw one of his camels. But when his spies see black ninjas he will at least think carefully before betraying us. Anyway. If I have this right in my head it won’t matter if he do.’
‘True. But that don’t mean I won’t hunt him down and slit his weasand if the little shit plays us false.’ 
‘Goes without saying. I’ll help. It would be a pleasant diversion.’ 
The blonde man laughed. ‘You, my friend are even worse than me!’
‘Can’t be. I’m only wanted in two countries.’ 
‘Yeah. But that’s more by luck than judgement.’ 
‘Possibly. My old mother used to say it was better to be born lucky than rich.’ 
‘This being the same old mother who said never leave dead enemies behind you?’ 
‘The very woman. But now I’m hungry. And thirsty. I’ll go see what I can rustle up.’ 
‘You do that’ the blonde man grinned at his departing back before moving through the tent to an inner ‘door’ where he poked his head around the leather flap. 
‘You awake princess?’
‘Course I am’ came a crisp voice. ‘Come in.’ 
He bent his head and entered the next ‘room’. He bowed floridly to an elegant figure lounging in a hanging seat. 
‘Mission accomplished ma’am.’ 
She laughed out loud. ‘Good. Come and sit down. Did it go as we expected?’ 
He eased himself to the ground in front of her. ‘Yes. Boris had a nice time intimidating Hakim and I sat in my litter like a perfect lady.’ 
She laughed delightedly ‘Oh, I wish I could have seen that, Gren. I’m sure you make a lovely lady.’ Then she sobered abruptly. ‘Will this work?’ 
‘Honestly? I don’t know. And I don’t like it a bit. But the little princess may be the only chance we have to locate the prince.’ 
‘Aye. She might. And I like it even less than you. She is only sixteen. But if we don’t find the prince, Alba will cease to be.’
‘It will. So we carry on.’ 
‘We do, but I just wish I liked him a bit more than I do.’
‘Whyn’t you like him?’ 
‘I don’t know precisely. No. That’s a cop out, I do know. He’s a golden boy. Handsome and born to rule. Very aware of his own importance. And absolutely sure he’s right in any given situation.’ 
‘Oh. I see. But he’s a symbol so we hafta find him even if he is a tit.’
She giggled. ‘We do, and we need his intended to help us. But, Gren, the girl is over young to carry such a weight on her shoulders.’
‘That’s as maybe. However, young isn’t necessarily soft. If I remember rightly, you were only fourteen when Ali Turk kidnapped you…’
She smiled into his eyes. ‘When you and five knights rode bravely to the rescue?’
He grinned back. ‘Yeah, then. When we arrived to find him dead and you just about up to your knees in blood.’
‘I hadn’t realised how much a man bleeds when you cut off his cock’ she said reflectively. ‘I was damned if I was being raped then married out of hand by that piece of excrement. Even so. I was dead meat if you hadn’t arrived when you did.’
‘No doubt. But your revenge on Ali has made more than a few ambitious young men a bit pensive when it comes to the old ‘rape the wench then marry her when she has a big belly’ ploy.’
‘It has. And that is pleasing. But what happened among Ali’s silken bed sheets, with his blood staining the virginal robe they had put me in for his delectation, was much more pleasing.’

From Billion Dollar Mountain by Jane Jago