Adrenalin-Packed, Anime-Style, Science Fantasy

“The tricky thing about living in history is surviving it.”
Fionn should know as the legendary Greywolf and his Tempest Blade have lived through a fair chunk of history. Yes, Fionn, Gaby and Alex are back and there are new faces too like Kasumi and Joshua, trying to shape the world for the better despite history, monsters and supernatural incursions.
The heroes are preparing for the Triannual Chivalry Games held in the heart of the Kuni Empire – called ‘games’ but these are also an alternative way for nations to settle their differences without resorting to war and there is also a major diplomatic event going on in the background. But things happen at the games that have dramatic consequences and suddenly our heroes are back on track to have to save the world from the eponymous cursed titans.
This is science fantasy in the pure sense of the word – a high-tech futuristic setting combined with magical powers – such as the Gift – and magical, sentient weapons such as the Tempest Blades themselves. It is high adrenaline action, manga/anime style and yet it has deeper currents too. There is an exploration of depression as Alex suffers it terribly, showing how it can feel from the inside and how it impacts those around someone they care for suffering with it. It also shows how sometimes what others see as a disability can be an advantage as Kasumi’s profound deafness actually protects her when others fall.
I enjoyed this book a lot and thought the characters interesting and diverse, although I will admit I found the writing a little lumpy in places and the ‘cool’ dialogue (and monologues even) for me were sometimes just a little over-contrived rather than cool and witty. There were other aspects I struggled with too – people who are described who were clearly cartoon characters in appearance just shattered my reading immersion. But then this book is aimed at those who love Japanese comic book culture, where such is the norm and the expectation.
If you enjoyed Tempest Blades: The Withered King then you will love Tempest Blades: The Cursed Titans. If you love manga and anime and want to read books that encapsulate that in the written word, pick up either of the Tempest Blade books, but I’d suggest starting with The Withered King so you can begin your journey from the beginning…

E.M. Swift-Hook

First admission, I’m really not the target audience of this book at all, as neither manga nor anime really float my boat. But I’m always game to give anything a go and I did enjoy the first outing of this little gang of superheroes…
So. The Cursed Titans?
It’s not easy being a superhero, particularly when you are Alex who is both bored and plagued by depression. The chance to compete in a sort of superhero Olympic Games could be his saviour. Or his nemesis? You’ll need to read it to see.
Me? I found it mostly very readable, if occasionally a bit clunky grammar and vocabulary wise. The action comes fast and furious and there are plenty of baddies to boo.
Overall this is a brave attempt to look at real world issues through the medium of comic-book characters with amazing superpowers. And mostly it does precisely what it sets out to do, hide a message in a strong story.
If you love your manga and anime grab this book and dive in.
A solid four stars.

Jane Jago

It was raining, he could hear it hammering on the metal sheeting that roofed his prison. Skipper sighed and lay down on his hard bed. He’d no idea how long he’d been there. Weeks. Months. He wondered what he’d done to deserve this. Whatever it was he’d not do it again. Ever. 

If he was given a second chance. 

If…

The outer door opened. 

Voices.

“He was a lockdown puppy. They didn’t want him when they were back to normal.”

“He’s gorgeous. We’ll take him.”

Skipper looked up into a kind smiling face and wagged his tail.

A second chance.

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Sure, enough she had barely got home, given Ruffkin his breakfast and made a fresh pot of fruit tea, before the Visitor she had overheard on the pier was banging on her door. She didn’t bother to welcome them, focusing instead on pouring some of the fruit tea into a pottery bottle and sealing it up.
“Come in. It’s not locked.”
The figure who entered might have stepped out of an ancient tale. She was clearly an elf, the pointed ears, elaborate hair and lofty expression of superiority spoke to that. She wore golden armour that gleamed with its own radiance and even lit up the room more brightly. One hand rested on the pommel of a sword, shaped to resemble the skull of a dragon with hollow socket eyes that gleamed darkly and a jagged blade representing flames coming out of its mouth. On her back was a bow, Milla could see it over the elf’s shoulder, which looked like it was made of a milky white wood, set with tiny gemstones.
This was clearly the kind of Visitor Pew called a poser.
“Hail fair lady. I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, have need of your wisdom.” The elf managed to make it sound as if she were doing Milla a favour by allowing her to help, instead of it being the other way around.
Putting her hands on her hips, she wrinkled up her snout and glared at the elf, and Ruffkin gave a low growl from his bed by the hearth.
“Really?”
The elf looked a bit puzzled and cleared her throat.
“Hail fair lady. I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, have need of your wisdom.”
“Yes. You said.”
“Uh…?”
“I don’t know how things are in the Melifulous Glades where you elves all come from, but here in Wrathburnt Sands we have these things called ‘manners’. You might even have heard of them?”
The elf had changed colour and looked a little grey.
“I…Uh… B-but this isn’t in the walkthrough.”
“Please,” Milla told her helpfully. “You say please.”
The elf swallowed.
“But it isn’t…”
“In the walkthrough?”
The elf shook her head.
“I don’t think that’s my problem,” Milla said and tapped her foot impatiently.
The elf looked close to tears.
“Alright. Please. Please will you give me the fragging pyramid quest?”
Milla sighed and picked up the bottle of tea and held it out to the unhappy-looking elf.
“You’ll need to get some flyberry cookies from One Eye Rye as well, so save yourself the time and get some flyberries before you go to see him.”
The elf took the bottle and stared at it uncomprehending.
“I already got some berries, but what’s this?”
“Fruit tea. The drakonettes who guard the pyramid love it.”
“But that’s not…”
“In the walkthrough?”
The elf shook her head again.
Milla resisted the temptation to shake hers and instead managed a fake smile. Not that the elf would think it fake. Visitor’s never noticed such things. Except for Pew.
“Uh. Alright. If you say so,” the elf said, sounding sulky. Then the colour shot back into her face with embarrassment “I mean – I thank you fair lady Milla for aiding me in my quest.”
Milla decided not to say that the only reason she had given her the tea was because she didn’t want the elf coming back to her house and trying to use her fire to make the tea herself. She’d learned early on that if she let them do that the Visitors always left the place in a mess.
Instead, she pulled a newly finished necklace of shells from her pocket and dropped it into the elf’s hand.
“Oh, and that’s the quest reward so you won’t need to come back and find me afterwards.”
The elf’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish.
“But..but…”
“But it won’t work until you’ve finished the whole thing in the pyramid, relit the Everburning Eternal Fire, defeated the Lich Lord and summoned the Guardian of the Ages. So you’d better get going. You’ve a busy day ahead.”
As she spoke she gripped one heavily armoured elbow and spun the elf, unresisting, on the spot before pushing her firmly out of the front door and closing it behind her.
This time Milla did lock it. Turning the key firmly. She’d had more than enough of Visitors for the day and it wasn’t even lunchtime. She sat at her table and drank some of the fruit tea. Once she had tidied the place up she might do some baking then pop over to see One Eye and…
There came a thunderous knocking on the door.

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.

Time, the winding river, runs to the eternal sea
Leaves us stranded on its banks as on through all it flows
It sweeps away what was not and what is meant to be
And none can dam its waters as ever on it goes.

It brings the look of wonder to each new child’s face
It sets the heart a-racing in a lover’s brimming breast
It carries those who fight so hard to win in the rat race
It brings the poet inspiration in moments blessed.

I sit beside the river and I record all I see
The highs and lows, smiles and tears, the joy and the pain
I then paint word pictures, how those moments seem to me
As the river brings them by, then takes them off again.

There is so much it brings me that I can only try.
So lay my pen beside me when the river’s run me dry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – “
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -“
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -“
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”
“Let me get this right,” Charis said, incredulous. “You are telling me that because I took a break from the freight shunts to help a friend with their new business I am – ” It felt surreal and for a moment Charis had to close her eyes.
“No longer a citizen.” the official finished for her. “That is indeed so, Var Sweetling.”
She opened her eyes again and tried to deal with the situation in a calm and logical way.
“Look, if the Coalition needs me on the cargo runs so badly, I’ll go back to Rota tomorrow.
They will be happy to have me back. They told me they would.”
The official’s face wore an expression which might even have held some trace of regret.
“I am sure you would and I am sure they would. But, I am sorry to say there is an issue with your doing so. Those posts are only open to those who are citizens of the Coalition. And, as you have now confirmed all the details which underlie the ruling of the committee, the status of your non-citizenship has already been confirmed.”
Charis felt her mouth dry up as her throat became suddenly constricted and sore.
“I want a lawyer,” she said, snapping out the words and without even waiting for permission she sent a link out to her mother. It failed to connect and dropped away.
“You are welcome to seek legal representation if you wish to re-apply for asylum, appeal the decision or seek citizenship, but only once you have been deported. As a non-citizen, you have no right to residency in any of the Central or other Coalition worlds, so whatever legal steps you feel you need to take will have to be conducted from outside them.”
The full horror of her situation impacted then and left Charis feeling weak, as though her muscles could not support her body. She felt herself slump back into the chair.
“I need to go home if you are going to deport me, I need my things. I -“
“That is not going to be possible. You will leave here for a detention facility where you will be informed as to what options may be open to you. I do suggest you co-operate as it makes the process less unpleasant for everyone, but most of all for yourself.”
“But – you don’t understand. I am a citizen of Central – raised here, educated here, my parents live here, all my friends are here, I don’t know any other life. I couldn’t survive a day on half the Middle World protectorates I’ve shunted cargo to, let alone on some below low-tech Periphery hell hole. I won’t know the culture, the way of life, the people. Why take me in and teach me, nurture me, make this my home – then throw me out? What was the point? It’s beyond pointless – it’s – it’s cruel.”
Her voice broke a little on the last word and she had to stop talking or risk allowing the tears of anger and frustration, which pricked in her eyes, from showing.
The official looked a little weary as if he found himself dealing with this situation one time too often.
“The Coalition always takes the cases of displaced minors, children who need asylum, very seriously and the Protected Children Program has been long established as a humane and fair way of treating unaccompanied or orphaned children who come to us in need. Those, such as yourself, who are accepted under Amendment D are required to repay the community through military service, which you did. After which you may be accorded rights of citizenship if you are working in reserved employment – as you were for many years. There is nothing unfair, pointless or cruel about it.”
Charis heard the door open behind her and, still in denial when her arm was taken in an iron grip, she felt as if the end of her life had begun.

From Haruspex:Trust A Few part of the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

They say
I should remember you today
But don’t
They know I miss you every day?
And hear
Your voice although you went away
They say
This is a time for contemplation
But don’t
They know the train has left the station?
To hear
Your voice when I need confirmation
Would be
The very best of gifts, if sad
They call
It Father’s Day
I just miss my dad

©jj 2021

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Start Writing A Book – The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

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.

Yesterday, she looked into the mirror and her own eyes had looked back and her own lips had smiled.

She had gone to the shops, that was all, to the shops to buy a new pair of trainers. The explosion had happened as she was trying them on and she had just run, still wearing them.

Run, as it rained blood.

In the edge of her vision she still saw the red, like a mist and the severed hand clutching at nothing. In her ears the screams still echoed.

Today, she looked into the mirror and she saw another person.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I suppose now is as good a time as any to explain my parents and me. My Dad is third-generation Polish/east London. He’s a nurse; works with terminally ill children in a hospice. My actual mother was a nurse too, a delicate Japanese beauty by the name of Akiko. Sadly, she got too fond of the things her patients were taking. She left me and Dad when I was about two and I don’t much remember her. I hadn’t even started school when her body was found in a flop up west somewhere. Dad reckoned she had taken some bad shit.
After that, he moved us out of London, and we came to the English Riviera, where I’ve mostly been ever since. I was seven when he met my stepmum, who is a maths teacher at the local comp, and from the start I knew she was good for him. He started grinning and whistling, but they were moving at a snail’s pace. It took my seven-year-old mind a few weeks to grope its way to understanding that they were unsure of my reaction to their relationship. I decided the next move was mine. I’m not sure it was entirely intelligent to make that move in a fast food restaurant, but I was only a little kid. So I looked up from my banana milkshake and grinned at the pair of them.
“When you two get married can I be a pageboy?”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Dad looked shrewdly at me. Then he smiled.
“Okay. Where did that come from?”
“You are happy now. Since Pam been your friend. I like her too. I thought you might get married. Did I say something bad?”
“No love, you didn’t. But are you sure?”
I beamed at them until I felt my cheeks were close to bursting. “Course. I seen other people’s stepmums and I think we would be lucky to get Pam.”
Dad looked fondly at both of us. “We surely would. What do you say Pammie? Going to take us on?”
And, God bless her, she did.
Twenty-one years later she is one of my best friends, and one of the few people whose opinion I value.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Why do I have a drawerful of odd socks? I don’t buy odd socks. I don’t make a habit of taking off one sock and leaving it somewhere random. I don’t make a hole in one sock of every pair.
So where do the single socks come from?
Some of them aren’t even from pairs I have ever owned.
Does the washing machine
Is there a sock fairy stealing them?
I have no bloody idea. 
But what I do know is that there’s only one way to deal.
From now on I’m only ever gonna wear odd socks…