Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I’m as fond of food as anyone, and I cook some pretty mean stuff. But the day I plate it and stick it on a carefully dressed table in order to post a picture of it on Facebland or Instayawn or Birdnoise you have my full permission to slap me about the head with a wet fish and have me committed. 
Worse still?
Being in a restaurant and perfectly willing to let food go cold so one can be a pretentious poser.
Just.
Stop.
It.
You are paying through the nose for your food. Eat it and stop fucking about.

When word of the Church army reached the Sky Temple, the High Priest was delighted by what he perceived to be an opportunity for a very wealthy retirement. He reasoned that he, as the ranking churchman, should assume control of this army, by which measure he would also control the city, and thus have a major say in the election of a new Emperor – which would, he reasoned, result in pecuniary gratitude on a grand scale. Accordingly he called up his personal guard and sallied forth to take command of his army.
The High Priest found the general in command of the Church troops in a noble square close to the palace precinct. A commanding figure in his golden robes and tiara of office, he rode forward on his white palfrey. ‘You’. He addressed the general. ‘Come forward’. The general looked up briefly from the papers he was studying but made no move. The cleric kneed his palfrey closer; ‘I spoke to you knave’, he said severely. The general, a husky-looking veteran in a plain soldier’s uniform only differing from that of his men by virtue of the embroidered insignia on his left breast, cocked a sardonic eyebrow at the pompous prelate, then spoke quietly to a diminutive grey-cloaked figure at his side. The enraged priest urged his mount closer; ‘Come to me at once, lest I relieve you of your command.’ Finally the general turned and gave his full attention to the by now purple-faced priest. ‘You? Relieve me of my command? I think not. Sergeant-at-Arms, this man is irritating me, do something about him.’ Another burly veteran stepped forward and plucking the High Priest from his saddle threw him to his knees on the ground. The grey-clad figure beside the general put back its hood to reveal a young female face of icy beauty before speaking in a low compelling voice.
‘By what right do you address the commanding general of the Church Army?’
‘By the right of my office, and as the ranking churchman in this city.’
‘That would be the churchman who hid in his temple whilst the common people were terrorised by thugs and assassins. The churchman who cowered behind his altar while the whole of the Imperial family lay murdered and unburied. Again I ask you by what right you address this army?’
Stung by the young woman’s tone and her accusations, the arrogant old man raised his face and looked at her. ‘I ask you by what right a mere woman questions a prelate of the church?’
A rustle ran through the ranks of those close enough to hear those words. The young woman laughed low in her throat and raised her right hand towards the cloudless sky. A black speck appeared in the heavens, and plummeted down towards the small, grey-clad figure. As it came closer all who dared look saw it was a great Golden Eagle, which came to rest gently on the woman’s shoulder. The city prelate suddenly bereft of his arrogance prostrated himself on the cobbles, aware that he was outranked and in grave danger. He had just challenged a Priestess of the Sky, a direct representative of the Holy Mother, and would be lucky to lose only his position for such presumption. ‘Forgive me gracious lady, I knew not to whom I spoke.’
‘Do not beseech my forgiveness, rather reach deep into your soul and ask forgiveness of the gods for your many sins.’
She turned and beckoned into the mass of church soldiers, which parted to allow a procession of brown-clad figures to converge upon the priestess and the dumbstruck churchman. The priestess raised her voice. ‘Let all who can hear my voice bear witness. The man now cowering on the cobbles is here stripped of his office, and will be taken from this place to await the judgment of the Holy Mother.’
She paused and two of the brown clad figures hauled the, by now jibbering prelate to his feet. They plucked the tiara of office from his head and one of them stamped on it with a sandalled foot. He then placed the mangled mess of gold and jewels at the feet of the priestess, before he and his colleague frogmarched the sobbing ex-priest away.
The priestess spoke again, only this time her voice seemed to come from the skies all around and everyone in the city could hear her. ‘By the powers given to me and mine from the hands of the gods themselves, I declare a ten-day period of mourning for the Imperial family. During that time the Monks of Chastisement will cleanse your temples. On the eleventh day after this we will inter with all honour such Royal remains as can be found, and a new High Priest will be appointed. On that day we will also announce our decision in the matter of the Imperial succession. In the meantime do not fear to go about your business. The streets will be safe.’
The thunderous voice ceased, and quiet held the city for a moment, as if life itself held its breath for an instant before shaking like a wet dog and carrying on.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.

Because life happens…

A man in a sharp suit, he said
Sign here to be rich. When you’re dead
But the feisty old bat
Said bollocks to that
And smacked him quite hard round the head

Jane Jago

Madelyn got comfortable in a chair as she watched the loading symbol swirl in a clockwise motion. The projection morphed, now displaying Hodgson’s bust.
“Miss Lawrence—I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally speak with you.”
“About that,” Madelyn said. “How the hell did you get my stream code?”
“It wasn’t easy, but I assure you, I will not retain the code any longer than needed.”
“That’s a bull shit answer.” Hodgson didn’t reply, and his expression remained eloquent.
“Anyway, I’m in the middle of some really important fieldwork, and it’s imperative that I’m left alone while gathering data for an ethnography. My work must be authentic and cohesive, or I won’t be able to publish—”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?” Madelyn echoed, unsure.
“Yes, Miss Lawrence. Exactly. You see, the dedication you have for your craft became more than evident when I read the work you compiled in Africa. You spent eight years working on that book, and it is one of the most comprehensive ethnographies I’ve read—mind you that is saying something. I’m no stranger to the offerings of the world’s top anthropologists. Some truly remarkable works have been released over the last few decades.”
Such praise left Madelyn stammering. “I—uh—thanks. That’s quite the compliment.”
“I assure you, it’s not more than you deserve. Now, on to the reason I have contacted you. First of all, is there anyone who will hear our conversation from your current location?”
“No, I’m alone in my hut, and anyone that might hear us can’t understand English.”
“Good—because what I’m about to tell you is sensitive information.”
“Yeah, you said that in your message.”
“Indeed.” Hodgson’s hologram paused, as if taking a moment to consider what he was about to say. “You may be aware of the fact that I was at the helm of a project that sent the first satellites into interstellar space in 2174.”
“I am aware of that, yes.”
“Well, I know you will struggle to accept this, but in the first year, one of those satellites did what we so desperately hoped it would do. It discovered alien life.”
Madelyn laughed. Not only was this guy some kind of creep who could get her private number, he was also out of his mind.
“So let me get this straight, you’re trying to tell me you’ve discovered life on another planet?”
“Yes. And more to the point, we have confirmation that it is intelligent. Our satellites have been in orbit for nearly four years, gathering data. Being the hopeful type, I insisted that each satellite be equipped with a small rover drone in order to further explore any planets that showed promise. That decision has paid dividends. We now have hours of recordings from the planet’s surface, many of which reveal that the life forms have a language system of some kind.”
Madelyn shook her head. “This is crazy! I mean, shit—I’m just waiting for the punchline here. It’s not really easy to believe what you’re telling me.”
“I would be shocked if you didn’t have a hard time digesting what I’m telling you. Not many would accept such information without needing some kind of evidence or attempting some amount of rationalization.”
“I guess my question now is why? Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Oh, come now. Don’t insult my intelligence—or your own for that matter. You know exactly why I’m telling you.”
“But—I mean—it’s not like I can actually go there and study them.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Lawrence. Ever since we discovered life, we’ve been laboring to finalize the project we already had in the works. The first passenger ship equipped to accommodate interstellar space travel is awaiting its maiden voyage.”
Madelyn covered her mouth. “You can’t be serious…”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in all my life. I realize this must be a bit overwhelming for you, so I will give you a few days to think it over. We have already assembled a team for the first mission. You are the last one, and might I just say, the most essential. Had I been able to reach you when I first tried, you would have far more time to think.”
“Not your fault.”
“Unfortunate nonetheless… Either way, I cannot express to you how important it is to have a top cultural anthropologist on the team, and you are my first choice. Please give this opportunity your utmost consideration.”
A silent nod was all Madelyn could muster in response.
“I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
The projection faded, leaving the screen as blank as Madelyn’s thoughts.
She took a few steps toward the edge of her hut and surveyed the landscape. What she saw now was no longer just a valley in Peru. It was Earth: the only planet she had ever known to harbor life.
Until now.

From Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Who in their right mind goes to a ‘salon’ and gets their pubic hair wrenched out by the roots?
One. It fucking hurts.
Two. It’s creepy walking around with a child’s pudenda
Three. It fucking hurts 
So. Before paying out your hard-earned cash ask yourself this. 
Why the fuck?
If you are doing it for a laugh then carry on – although I might question your idea of a ‘laugh’.
However, if you are doing it because your significant other finds your pubic hair in some way unpleasant that’s a whole new ballgame. 
Unless you really do have creepy pubes…

To begin there was only the darkness, all pervading and all encompassing. Then slowly, from within, it crystallised into a second state: awareness of the darkness – and for a long time nothing else seemed to matter. It was enough to just have being and consciousness within the darkness. But gradually that changed and there grew a strong sense of urgency – a knowledge that there was something more.
he awareness struggled for comprehension of itself.
With a suddenness that shocked, a dull pain gnawed in from one direction and a wave of nausea rose from nowhere in an irresistible surge. The physical body took over, turning itself and vomiting over and over again. Then there were cool hands and a reassuring voice, but the body was exhausted and darkness came again, taking even the awareness of itself away.
The second time it was easier and the ascent to full consciousness came more naturally, almost like waking from a dream-filled sleep. There was time to accept the fact of the pain, to notice the feel of the rough cloth on naked skin and the strong smell of animals and unwashed humanity. The previous sense of urgency to action seemed somehow less intense. Part of the mind registered automatically that this was due to the effect of some drug, but the strength to fight it was not there. Both body and mind were too weak. Instinctively the mind reached back, searching for the reason to explain its present state.
There was very little there.
He could remember he had been on a ship, fleeing something – what, a battle? Nothing there. Perhaps a battle, because the ship had been badly damaged and unable to maintain Faster Than Light status. A battle would explain the damage. Leave it for now. Follow what was there. Dropping out of FTL, no idea where – could have been in the middle of nowhere and without an operational drive there would have been no way of getting to a planet before the life-support systems failed. But it had not been in the middle of nowhere – can’t have been because there had been a hard landing and an explosion.
Then there was no more memory – nothing but the blackness.
It was little enough and experience said that the gaps might remain forever or at some time in the future fill in with full and vibrant recall. For now, though, that was all and no struggle to force memory would add anything else. Other things mattered more in that moment. The drug was beginning to lose its hold and the pounding ache in his head which it had kept partly locked away was intensifying. He heard a low groan nearby from someone in pain and he realised with a shock that it was himself.
Other sensations came to awareness. The air temperature was cold. Hands were touching him, lifting his head and trying to force some bitter liquid between his lips. They were trying to drug him again. He turned his head sharply, close to panic at the thought and what it could mean, spitting it out, almost retching at the taste and with a supreme effort of will forced his eyes to open.
It was dark and the only source of light came from a primitive flame-lit lantern hanging from the supporting pole of a low fabric roof. He was in the corner of some kind of make-shift shelter, lying on a crude pallet and covered with blankets of thick, coarse felt that was harsh against his skin but apparently offered some protection from the cold, because his naked body beneath it was warm. An old woman knelt beside him, her face dark and wrinkled, almost grotesque in the dim light. She spooned a noxious-looking brew from a wooden bowl.
Seeing her was a relief and the sense of near-panic receded. If he had been in the hands of his enemies he would be in a much more secure prison than this flimsy shelter and have a far more effective gaoler than this one old woman. For with the fractured memories had come the responsibility of knowing who he was: Avilon Revid, probably the top name in almost every Coalition Security Force list of most wanted.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

Because life happens…

It’s ironic when privilege wails
That their freedom to bellow has failed
But the cure for their ill
Isn’t vaccine or pill
It’s a jolly good kick to the tail

Jane Jago

The Wrath of Swords and Magic

Clinging to hope on the front lines of battle, these heroes vow to persevere as fires rise and shadows fall before them. New heroes (and heroines!) will arise to conquer faraway lands and defeat the forces of evil threatening to destroy their world.
Alliances will be forged.
Kingdoms will meet their demise.
Betrayal will haunt their steps.
And their wrath will be felt.
But these gallant protagonists will complete their quests, even when they struggle to find a guiding light to pull them through the darkness.
Experience the riveting clashing of swords and duels of magic throughout these page-turning tales of dragons, mages, mythical creatures, crooked conjurers and treacherous villains. Follow each compelling character as they are forced to choose between fulfilling their personal desires and altering the fate of their world to realise a destiny they oftentimes didn’t decide for themselves.

Featured story: The Wrong Bitch by Stephanie Barr. 

The Wrong Bitch is an expansion of a story  previously told in The Paths We Choose, which was told from her familiar, Shah’s, viewpoint in the anthology Legacy. This is from Elia’s viewpoint as someone trained, against the mores of her tribe of arcane archers, in their magical arts. When she escaped to find happiness, they followed, destroyed (nearly) everything she loved and left her blinded, unable to use her skills. At least, they thought she couldn’t. 

A bite of… Stephanie Barr

How much of what you write could be classed as therapy? 

All of it? I’m frustrated by some social ill I don’t have the power to correct: I write it (in a way that provides me satisfaction). Some personal tragedy befalls me: I write something that makes me laugh. I worry about something I can’t fix: I find a solution with writing. Someone charming wanders into my life: I include those mannerisms in a delightful side character so I can enjoy them any time. Someone with characteristics that anger or frustrate me wanders into my life: I write them into a character who gets a taste of karma.
Writing is my ultimate therapy. Anything’s possible even if that isn’t true in real life.

Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I don’t think it’s essential to do so, but it’s a good idea to include diversity, in whatever kind you have in your world, as frequently as possible. I do think it’s essential not to attack that diversity. I don’t do races=evil ever in my books. I have among the protagonists in my many book: demons, dragons, shifters, humans, POC, LGBQT folks—including a delightful troop of drag queens I’d love to know in real life, disabled people, cats, ghosts, a vampire (cat!), aliens, and even zombie (kitties!).
Belief is a different beastie, however. Belief is, at least to a point, a matter of choice, which makes it a separate question for me than race or sexual orientation. Extremists in belief show up in my books but are less likely to be protagonists. Less extreme beliefs of varying degree and type can show up in my protagonists, but, as a general rule, I don’t touch much on recognisable belief systems current in today’s society. I like people to have any belief they like unless they use it as a cudgel to mistreat others. Most of my characters might have some particular belief, but it doesn’t push them to do bad things. And, if it does, they are likely headed for a reformation or are the villain.

What time of day do you write best? 

I am not a morning person. And I work during most days so my best and most likely time to write is in the last few hours before I go to bed, so maybe 7-10pm most nights. I do better if a have a sprint partner.

Although Stephanie is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part time novelist and full time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next! You can find Stephanie on her website, on Facebook, her FB fan group and her blog, subscribe to her newsletter or follow her on Twitter.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Please explain the phenomenon of the selfie to me. People and cameras at beauty spots. Photographing the scenery?
Are they fuck.
It’s selfies. Why?
I might like to see a picture of cherry blossom in Japan. Without someone’s fecking stupid face dead centre of the shot.
I have a nephew who is a minor celebrity and his life has been rendered hideous by the constant demands for a selfie from airheaded young females.
He even had one perch on his lap while he was getting a haircut.
He managed not to tell her where to shove her selfie stick. Just.

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

The path to the pyramid was blocked by the two drakkonettes who guarded the gate. They were kind of friends with her. The kind who didn’t breath fire on you when you stopped for a chat, kind of friends. They blocked the gate to the pyramid by crossing their polearms in front of it to form a barrier. But when Milla approached they both relaxed and leaned on the poles and one of them called a greeting.
“Hello there, lass? How’re you keeping? You and that Visitor of yours?”
“We’re fine thank you. I was just wondering if you had seen an elf come through here recently?”
The other drakkonette smiled showing a mouthful of razorsharp teeth.
“Oh yes, dear. If you mean the one wearing the golden Armour of Blessings and carrying a moonoak bow?”
“Did she go inside?”
The drakkonette’s smile grew wider revealing even more teeth.
“She was very rude and started waving her sword around right under our noses. So we defended ourselves. But I’m sure she’ll be back. That sort always are”
“Here she comes now,” the first drakkonette observed.
Milla turned in time to see the golden clad elf dismounting from a bright pink unicorn, which shimmered into thin air the moment her feet touched the ground in the way that Visitor’s mounts always did. Having made a quick farewell to the drakkonettes, Milla hurried back up the path and stopped abruptly. The elf was standing in the middle of the path making odd weaving gestures and humming to herself off-key.
“Are you alright?” Milla asked when the weaving and humming stopped and the elf seemed to come back to herself.
“Oh frack! It’s you.”
“Yes. It is. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“What? Oh. Yes. I was just respeccing to get some better heals.”
“Heals?” Milla heard the word and perked up. That was exactly what Pew had said they would need. “You can heal?”
“I’m a Blessedknight. It’s what we do. Depending which way I spec I can be more tankish or more healerish. You can’t move on the forums for people who think they know the sweet spot to get the best of both worlds.” She smirked. “I have it but I’m not telling.”
“I need your help with something,” Milla said, speaking quickly before she changed her mind. Spending time in the company of this elf was going to be a trial.
“You already gave me your quest. And the reward. Or don’t you remember?”
“This is another quest. A bigger one. It’s a…” she tried to think of something that would win a Visitor’s attention. “It’s an epic heroic mythical saga quest.”
The elf stared at her.
“Not heard of one of those before. What’s the reward?”
Milla thought desperately.
“It’s a secret. No one is allowed to know until someone has completed the quest.”
“And no one has yet?”
Milla shook her head. She could see the gleam in the elf’s eyes
“So not just server first, would be an all time game first?”
Milla nodded. “But only if you do it right now and come with me. Or I’ll offer the quest to someone else.”
She stalked off, head high as if not really caring whether the elf followed her or not. It took less than the time to breathe in and out before the golden-clad figure was beside her.
“Hail fair lady! I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, pledge myself to your cause. You have my sword and my bow.”
Hiding a smile at just how easy it was to get these Visitors to do things, she inclined her head gracefully and continued walking.
“Thank you. But I’d rather you kept your sword and bow and used them yourself. And my name is Milla.”
“Got it. Milla. And I’m Glory. So where do I get the quest?”
“You’re already on it.”
“But there’s nothing in my quest log window.”
Milla stopped walking and put her hands on her hips.
“I am a quest giver? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ve just given you a quest. You are now on it.”
“But…”

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.