I don’t know when it happened
But somehow I got old
Everything turned silver
When it once was gold

Except the music that I love
Is now all ‘golden oldies’
But to me it is as fresh
As this year’s new-sprung daisies!

I used to be unlabeled
Upon the internet
Now I’m a ‘silver surfer’
A term I much regret.

Yet e’en as my hair turns silver
I’m in my golden years
Though I see little reason
To grace it with such cheer

For all this precious metal
Is pointless simile
I’m as poor as the proverbial
No silver or gold for me!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Mother told Sebastian that conflict is drama. After which he spent his life engineering conflict and being dramatic about the outcome – loudly and to the detriment of the mental health of his workforce.
This was fine as long as his uncle owned the place, but then the old guy retired. Sold the factory to a swarthy individual with an unpronounceable name and a lot of cousins with calloused hands and intricate ink on their arms and shoulders.
Nobody knew precisely who Sebastian pissed off with his habitual dramatics. But they did know how quiet he was with a broken jaw.

©Jane Jago

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Fireworks.
What is the effing point of effing fireworks?
At any time.
They might look pretty for all of about ten seconds, but they leave disgusting litter all over the place when they come down that is positively toxic and someone always gets hurt.
At least the Americans, when they do it, is all about celebration – not remembering some poor bastard who got hung, drawn and quartered for failing to do something we’ve all fantasised about. And our colonial cousins have the sense to choose a nice warm time of year when you can sit out and watch the ruddy things without freezing your bollocks off.
But Brits on Bonfire Night?
Has no one noticed it’s November and freezing cold?
You stand shivering in your wellies in someone’s muddy effing garden and a drunk man in shorts sets fire to some stuff.
In November. In the cold.
Drinking iced strong lager and usually served some burnt offerings from the BBQ or break-teeth chestnuts thrown on the fire. And then you wind up with a jacket potato that’s raw in the middle, ditto a sausage…
Meanwhile your nextdoor neighbour’s cat has scratched someone in panic and your great-nephew little Oliver has singed his sister’s hair with a sparkler.
And then it always rains just as the fireworks begin.
I swore off the whole thing years ago and now me and Gyp turn the TV up and settle in on the sofa with a decent boxed set.
The sheer waste of money and effort beggars belief – not to mention you have frightened pets and toddlers all across the country whose idea of fun is not loud bangs and flashes.
And it’s not even as though it all gets over and done on the one sodding day!
Remember, remember the fifth of November…
Not the fourth, the third, the seventh or the ninth!
If you must set fire to your money please at least confine your efforts to one day so the rest of us don’t have to endure a whole bloody week of it.
Get a grip or granny will shove a riprap up your arse.

The door of the staff dining room banged open and the handsome figure of Launcelot Gribble stood in the doorway with his romantically tousled head held high.
“I think I’ve just broken my geek,” he announced. The Bursar sighed and looked up from the column of figures she was conning. “Again? And what makes you think this one is broken?”
“He’s just sitting staring into the middle distance and making strange sheep-like noises.”
Matron gave the dramatic figure in the doorway a look of deep dislike before grinding out her evil-smelling cheroot and heaving herself to her feet. She headed for the door, and as she passed Gribble she smacked him solidly across the back of the head with one large red hand.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
She didn’t even bother to answer him, just stalked along the dusty corridor like a vengeful leviathan.
Gribble dropped his pose of romantic ennui and ruefully rubbed his head.
“Why’d old iron tits decide to smack me around the head?”
Democratic Runes looked up from the volume of arcane verse he was studying and regarded his colleague in disbelief.
“Why wouldn’t she? You break geeks and she gets to fix them. How many is it this year?”
Gribble studied his feet and muttered something unintelligible.
“Come again?”
“This one is number thirteen.”
“Who else is egotistical enough to break geeks at that rate. Thirteen down and it’s only the ninth moon. You are a fucking liability, my friend.”
Gribble hunched a shoulder and turned his startlingly green gaze on the sturdy figure of the Bursar.
“I’ll just go choose another geek then, shall I?”
“No. Indeed you will not. There have been complaints. The University has generated a memo. Allow me to read it to you. ‘It has come to our attention that the Chair of Ancient Scrolls is somewhat careless of the technicians who assist him in his work. This is unsatisfactory. Should any more instances occur, the choice of assistant is to be removed from his remit’.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you don’t get to choose. You will be assigned a geek. And proper contracts will be signed.”
Gribble bridled. “I don’t sign contracts. It’s an honour to be chosen to help me.”
“As of now you do sign contracts. Because if you don’t, you don’t get a geek. And shut your mouth – you look stupid with it half open.” The Bursar got up and jerked a thumb at the gaping professor. “My office. Now.”

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

In leaving it, the earth was lost to me.
My heart twisted back and forth, between anguish and hope, anxiety and excitement. Yes, I was abandoning friends and family forever, but that was in order to embark on the greatest adventure humanity had ever undertaken.
The thrusting acceleration marked the moment I departed the womb of humankind and became isolated, cut off. Drifting in infinity, regrets and doubts whispering their woe to my innermost being.
Then the screens filled with images of the world we were heading to, beautiful beyond belief, and I fell in love with my new home.

E.M. Swift-Hook

It was a ‘click’ moment.
You know what I mean, we’ve all had a ‘click’ moment. A moment when something happens in an instant that changes everything in your life forever. It might be as transformative and huge as love at first sight or as destructive and small as breaking a front tooth. It might be the moment you hear you’ve won the lottery or the one where you get that diagnosis.
But the thing with a ‘click’ moment is it changes you, your perception of who you are and your ability to deal with things in life in the way you did before.
If you fall in love you have the instant burden of another’s happiness to maintain and if you broke that tooth it’s dealing with the fact your smile is no longer so attractive and people will look at you differently and treat you differently from now on because of it.
So why am I telling you all this?
Well, because of my own most profound ‘click’ moment in life, one that changed not just how I saw myself, how I dealt with things in life but – well – everything and forever. It kind of puts all the other ‘click’ moments, you, I or anyone else ever has into perspective.
It was the moment I realised I’d met an alien…

E.M. Swift-Hook

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.