“What’ll it be? Usual, I presume?”
“No, give me a glass of scotch,” Davis said, watching as the barman pulled his face into a disapproving expression.
“A glass of scotch? At half-past four? Bit much compared to your usual in’it?”
“I thought it was your job to pour drinks— not pester paying customers.”
“Right you are.”
Davis turned his attention to the joyful patrons all around the pub. A young couple were seated at the table he and Williams had occupied on the day they became partners. He could almost see apparitions of them toasting to a long and fruitful working relationship in his mind’s eye. It felt like it could have been yesterday. Where had the time gone? Had five years really passed since that day? He thought about all of Williams’ plans for the future, the hopes and dreams he had for himself and his family and the fact that he would never have a chance to fulfill them. It wasn’t fair.
“Where’s the bloke oo always comes in with ya?” the barkeep asked as he set Davis’ glass of scotch on the counter. “Will you be ordering for ‘im? Is ‘e runnin’ a bit late?”
It took every ounce of willpower Davis possessed not to lash out at the man. He clearly had no idea what had happened to Evan. How could he know? Davis bit his lip and settled for saying, “He won’t be here.”
“Bit odd, that . . . in’it?” he trudged on. “’ E always comes round with you for a pint. Has been for the last five year—” “He’s dead!” Davis burst out. He drained his scotch in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “Why don’t you learn how to keep your bloody gob shut!” Without another glance at the man, he threw a crumpled up five pound note next to the empty glass and left.
The rain had worsened during the short time he was in the pub. It was now lashing the ground as if it had a score to settle. Cursing himself for leaving his umbrella in the car, Davis ran out to the car park and hurried into his car. He started the engine and turned on the defroster.
As he sat, waiting for his windscreen to clear up, his mind spun with painful questions and regretful thoughts. He couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of guilt about the circumstances of his sergeant’s death. It had been his job as Williams’ superior, and more importantly as his friend, to be on the same wavelength; to know if there was an issue that needed attention. Why hadn’t he been more intuitive? Why hadn’t he seen the signs? His stirring thoughts fell to a question that had been haunting him since the day Williams died. And, although he had already asked himself numerous times, he asked again. Why didn’t I recognize that Williams would never be able to leave the Hemmings case alone?
It wasn’t in the sergeant’s DNA to leave a case unsolved. For him it was about knowing the truth— getting to the bottom of things. It was part of what made him such a good detective. But when Williams’ mate, Jason Hemmings, was found slain, bearing what appeared to be the kind of wounds a large cat would inflict, Davis should have known his partner would never rest until the case had been solved.
It wasn’t as if Davis hadn’t wanted to continue investigating, but he had his orders from the chief superintendent to close the case after the long and fruitless investigation started running over its designated budget. Williams insisted that they were on the verge of a breakthrough and tried his damnedest to talk Davis into continuing their investigation under the radar of New Scotland Yard. But Davis was already in hot water with the chief super at the time and refused. What he wouldn’t give now to go back and do things differently. If he’d had his sergeant’s back, he might have been able to save him.
“How did I not realize that he was still working the case?” Davis erupted, slamming his palms against the steering wheel.Tormented thoughts of remorse and self-scrutiny continued to plague him as he made the short trip from the pub to Loates Lane and parked in one of the available spaces near his flat. He took a deep breath before getting out of the car, hoping to calm himself— a method he found to be helpful in most cases. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of them.
He entered the block of flats, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor and walked down the hall until he came to his front door. He unlocked it and entered a spacious two bedroom flat. The front room was well furnished, but he hadn’t cleaned in ages. Piles of paper littered the tea table that stood between a setting of two leather couches with matching armchair, and an array of dirty dishes inhabited most of the other flat surfaces around the room.
Davis threw his keys on the table and went to the gas cooker in the kitchen, which adjoined to the front room in his flat’s open floor plan. He ignited the hob that lived under his resident kettle, not bothering to check how much water remained within the tarnished old pot. After a glance in the fridge, which revealed nothing but leftover Chinese food from the previous week and a few Newcastle Brown Ales, he left the kitchen and sat down in his armchair.
For the umpteenth time, he began musing over the plethora of questions his mind had conjured the day Williams was found mauled to death in a North London alley, his injuries identical to those of his mate’s. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been killed in the same fashion. Whoever, or whatever, killed Williams’ mate also killed Williams, and the reason was obvious: Williams had got too close to discovering the truth.

From Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

He was so preoccupied with work that he gave no thought to life.

His twenties passed in a ferocious blur, aggressively selling himself at every opportunity. His thirties were focused on ascending the greasy pole, whatever it took. In his forties he was busy establishing the dominance of his brand. In his fifties he was riding high, except that the younger sharks were now circling, pulling at every weakness.

He decided to retire with a seat on the board and a knighthood. And maybe look for a wife.

Sadly, he had a heart attack two days before his retirement party.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Shevek spat and drew his knife with clear purpose. “You should not let him live, my Captain. I can tell you what kind he is. He’s kashlihk.”
Caer glanced up at Shevek sharply. ‘kashlihk’ was an insult no one used lightly. You might use it to describe a  vicious criminal or a slave who turned against their master. It was an ugly term of abuse for someone without honour- someone perverted, dangerous and insane who would break any laws and social taboos. Caer could see no way someone could tell any of that from an unconscious man. But this was Shevek, who was one of the handful of Zoukai who had been with the caravan when Caer took over as Captain and had been a source of much good advice and tactful wisdom, so instead of the sharp words that sprang first to his tongue, he said: “It is not my place to decide. He belongs to the Caravansi, she will make that decision.”
The old Zoukai shrugged, disowning the consequences, returned the knife to its sheath and went about the task of checking their prize for signs of any further, hidden injury.
The red rim of the sun was beginning to disappear behind the horizon by the time Caer was finally ready to leave with the choice pickings strapped to the ponies. Caer’s own mount carried an extra burden as he had slung the offworlder across its withers, bound securely in place so that he did not fall off during the slow and precarious descent of the mithan. And it was truly precarious and slow, taking perhaps twice as long as the ride up. In the end they had to lead the ponies for much of the way, as the fading light made the path too treacherous to trust.
Once back on the plain they remounted and rode to the caravan. Word of their success arriving on the wind before them, so no sooner had they passed the first of the gaudy tents than they were surrounded by excitable Zoukai, slaves and children. A few made gestures to ward off evil, but more were simply curious to see what had been found. Caer found it impossible to ride through them and reaching for his whip he ordered the Zoukai to clear a path. That was enough. In the expert hands of the horsemen, the whips could cull strips of flesh straight from the bone. So at his shout, the small crowd dissolved instantly – children diving away between the tents, women lifting their long embroidered skirts, dodging under the raised whips and running off with a clatter of bangles from their wrists and ankles.
Looping the whip back on his belt, Caer nudged his pony through the narrow streets between the tents. The other Zoukai followed, those that had been with him on the plateau boasting loudly about all they had seen. Caerstopped before the central pavilion and under his direction the Zoukai began to unload their ponies, passing the various treasures from hand to hand and exclaiming in wonderment at what there was. Caer let them enjoy themselves, they would all be working hard tomorrow to bring the rest down from the plateau. He slid from his pony to untie its heavy burden, pausing to check the man was still alive and pleased to find the pulse still steady, if a little weak.

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Ladies of a certain age/type get right on my norks. You know the ones I mean, those whose sneezes sound like a tiny cricket chirping, and who would die of embarrassment if they farted alone in an empty room.
I know I scare the snot out of these mimsy little ladies and doing so is a source of constant delight.
If you don’t believe what fun it can be, sneak up behind a maiden lady in a queue and announce that your arse itches.
Cruel. But deserved for every uncharitable thought she will have hidden behind her lace hanky…

A Field Guide to Saturn by John Meszaros an illustrated fictional natural history book on the alien life of the ringed planet and its moons. It is written as a series of personal letters between Hyacinth- a young woman from Earth who is training to be a pilot for a kingdom on Saturn’s moon, Titan- and her girlfriend Jess, a science illustrator exploring the icy rings.

John has always loved speculative biology books like Wayne Barlowe’s Expedition and Dougal Dixon’s After Man, and this is his own contribution to the genre. It’s still very much a work-in-progress project, though he is hoping to have all the writing an illustrations done by the end of 2021.

A little bit to whet your appetite :

My dearest Hyacinth,

The rings! I still can’t believe I’m actually seeing the rings of Saturn! When our ship first approached, they looked like flat razor-edge roads curving off to the horizon. I saw Enceladus and another moon- I think it was Mimas- floating against the stars.
And then we dove down into them and it was- well, do you remember that ice storm when we were kids? When the power went out all night? Remember how we sat at the window and tried to heat our cocoa over candles while we listened to the frozen rain go tink-tink-tink on the glass? And how the drops glowed like gems in the moonlight? That’s what I thought of when the ship dove into the rings and I heard the ice particles tinkling on the hull.
I hope the piloting experiments are going well. And I hope connecting with the ship isn’t wearing you out. What’s it like linking with a bio-ship? I’ve watched Ayum piloting our exploration ship, but it doesn’t seem nearly as complicated as that big thing you’re training with.
I’m sorry, love. It’s not fair that I get to see the rings before you do. I wish Titan’s atmosphere didn’t blot them out. I want to dive them with you in our own bio-ship, just you and me, once you’re done with training. You think the queen would let us take a ship out by ourselves for a few days? Do pilots get vacations?
I’ve taken lots of notes and made drawings of the ring life. I’m still not totally fluent in the Titanian language, though Ayum has been a big help. He’s handling the local translations of the field guide while I do the version for Earth. I mean, I’m really writing and drawing all this for you. But might as well share my work with the folks back home, right?
Anyway, let me tell you about the ring plankton! They’re the foundation of the ecosystems out here in, on, and between the ice particles. Hya, I just can’t believe the diversity. Every time we haul in the sample scoop, we find at least five new species. I could spend the rest of my life cataloging and drawing them.
I recognize some of the groups from the library on Titan. There are triskelions and pseudichthyians. And even some ice-elephants form Enceladus. I wonder- could they have ridden into the rings on debris blasted out by meteorite impacts? Maybe the ice-elephants were flung into space in Enceladus’ geysers?
Many of the plankton are photosynthetic, though we’ve found a few that seem to feed directly off the radiation of Saturn’s magnetosphere. I even found an organism that was powered by Saturn’s radio waves which it collected with a tiny galena crystal. Where did it even obtain that mineral? From space dust? The rocky core of one of the moons? A centaur comet that got caught in Saturn’s gravity? So many mysteries. I’ll solve them all for you, I promise.

Your intrepid explorer,
Jess

A Bite of… John Meszaros

Do you see writing as an escape from the sorrows of existence, an exercise in futility, or an excuse to tell lies and get paid for it? Or is there another option…

 I don’t view writing as an escape from sorrow and life’s difficulties so much as a method for processing, understanding, and coming to terms with all of it. Many times yes, I relieve stress and depression by writing, but I think of it as a method to calm my mind and organize my thoughts so I can find a path through the difficulties I’m facing. Also, I put a lot of my anxieties into my characters and by exploring the way they struggle and overcome these issues, I gain insight into how these same difficulties are affecting me.

Have you ever written somebody you know into a book? A lover? A friend? An enemy?

Most of my characters are loosely based on people that I know- if they aren’t based on some aspect of myself. I think it’s difficult not to put a little bit of the people you know into your characters, consciously or unconsciously, since writing is all about taking your knowledge and experiences and weaving them into a new tapestry. The personality, quirks, and struggles of the protagonist in one of my current works in progress- not A Field Guide to Saturn, though- was inspired by a former romantic partner, though I made the character different enough that she’s not an obvious fictionalization of a real person.

If you could meet one person (alive or dead) who would you choose? And what would you talk about? And what do you bring as a gift?

I would really like to meet Dr. Joseph Barratt, a polymath and geologist from Connecticut who studied fossil dinosaur trackways in the 1800s. He’s not a very well-known historical figure. I only stumbled on him by chance through an entry in a book about New England paleontology. But I find his life story fascinating. I even wrote about him for ConnecticutHistory.org
He had a wide variety of scientific interests that he tended to bounce between, to the point that he had trouble following many projects through to completion. He allegedly had an apartment that was like a mad scientist’s laboratory, filled with bones, minerals, plant specimens, books, papers, preserved brains, taxidermied creatures, etc. As a curious person with ADD, and a collector of books and oddities, I relate hard to Dr. Barratt.
I’ve actually got a story outline that features the ghost of Dr. Barratt meeting Kate and Maggie Fox, the founders of the 19^th century Spiritualism movement.
If I hopped in a time machine and went back to meet Dr. Barratt, I’d really just like to listen to him talk about all of his discoveries. I love hearing people talk about scientific things that drive their passions. I’d especially like to hear his thoughts on the prehistory of New England. I think we could talk late into the night about a lot of ideas. As a gift, I’d bring him casts of the few fossil bones that have been found in Connecticut in the 20^th century. I think he’d like them for his collection. 

John Meszaros says: Like a lot of creative folks, I’ve been a writer since I was old enough to hold one of those big, Sharpie-sized Kindergarten pencils. When I’m not writing, I’m usually exploring and gathering inspiration for more writing, be it through books or through life experiences. Museums have been a huge influence on my work, particularly old natural history museums packed with cases of fossils, dioramas, and maybe a Mastodon skeleton or two (every natural history museum needs a Mastodon, in my opinion). I’d absolutely live in a natural history museum if I could. Or a library. Or a botanical garden. Heck, I’m already halfway there with all the bookshelves, fossils, and plants filling up my house.
I’m an artist in addition to being a writer and I often like to weave these two aspects of my creativity together in my works. Sometimes I’ll create illustrations to accompany my writing. Sometimes I’ll write long explanatory texts to accompany my illustrations.
I grew up in Michigan with occasional trips to Hawai’i and Florida. After getting a Bachelor’s degree in Biology and Creative Writing from the University of Michigan, I moved to Connecticut and haven’t stopped traveling since. My biology background has greatly influenced my writing and art- as have those old natural history museums mentioned earlier.

You can follow John Meszaros on Twitter and Instagram, find him on his personal Website or on his Author/Artist Blog or his State Cryptids Blog.

OK.
I admit it.
I could have been a bit more tactful.
Telling her to her face.
But someone had to.
All this time lying when she asked: ‘My bum look big in this?”
Course it bloody does!
But I never said.
Today though, it was too much.
Three jam doughnuts.
Then. “You think I should lose a bit of weight?”
A bit?
All I said was, “You could do with it.”
And now?
She’s not spoken a word to me since.
All afternoon.
Guess there’s only one thing for it.
“You fancy fish and chips for tea?”
“Ooo. Yes!”

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

It had been a quiet few days in Wrathburnt Sands. The months since the Expansion had been very busy for Milla in her new role as a quest giver so she appreciated the break. It gave her more time to go beachcombing with Ruffkin, her little dog, and chat with Pew whilst she strung the shells she had gathered into necklace charms to give out as quest rewards to those Visitors who returned from the pyramid dungeon to claim one.
Pew – or more correctly Firecaster Pewpowerpwnsyou – was, she supposed, her boyfriend. At least he seemed to think he was and Milla was not entirely unhappy with the idea, even if there were times she wanted to shake him. But the other residents of Wrathburnt Sands made no secret of their feelings.
“He’s not a proper ryeshor. He’s not even a Local.”
“He don’t belong here.”
“Folk like him drag trouble with them. They’re cursed with it.”
“You be careful young’un, he’s a Visitor. He’ll only break your heart.”
Those last words were still ringing in Milla’s head as she walked along the beach in the morning sun, Ruffkin bounding ahead of her. One Eye Rye had said that yesterday, when she went to buy some fish for Ruffkin from his shop by the pier. He was her truest friend amongst the villagers. He even liked Pew. She knew he did because he sold Pew provisions from his shop at a discount those times when Pew was down on his luck and One Eye never did that for any other Visitor.
“Visitors never stay for long,” One Eye added, “and they always have other lives.”
“Not Pew,” she had told him stoutly, “He promised me he’s maining on his ryeshor toon and has stopped playing all his other alts.”
One Eye’s snout wrinkled at that.
“I start to worry about you, young’un. You’re even talking like a Visitor now – ‘toons’, ‘alts’ and whatever the bluesky and ocean that all means.”
Milla shrugged and had left quickly after that. The truth was she didn’t entirely know what any of it meant. But Pew had said it with such fervour that she knew it was something that mattered to him for her to know. She understood at least that it was his way of saying he wasn’t going to go away like the other Visitors always did. That made Milla happy as when she tried to imagine not having Pew around, life began to feel very flat and empty.
Walking along the beach in the early morning, she paused to pick up a shell. The pendant she always wore around her neck, swung forward, glowing with its hidden magic. She tucked it away in her simple tunic and was disturbed by voices on the pier. She couldn’t see them as the pier was above her, but she knew from what they were saying that it was Visitors.
“I hate this fragging fishing quest. Must have done it a million times.”
“You and me both, bud. You remember when we were in Epic Legends with that crazy guy, what was he called? The one who loved crafting and spent all his time harvesting?”
“You mean Buffalott?”
“That’s the one. I heard his wife left him for their guild leader in the end. She always just wanted to raid. Best MT on the server she was too.”
“Yeah? I thought that was Aggrowhore?”
“Just because We Rulz is the top raiding guild, doesn’t mean they have the best MT.”
“S’ppose. Anyway, I’m done fishing, have to go turn it in and then I can do the pyramid questline.”
Milla sighed and made an effort to keep the frills on her crest from flattening. Not for the first time she wished she didn’t have to be a quest giver. Life had been so much simpler before she became one.

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.

Crisping in her sweaty fingers
How the smell of money lingers
How the aroma of wealth entices
Making possible prayers, and vices
Crisping in her sweaty palm
Money. Reparation. Balm

©jj 2021

When a dame whose everyday walk is as smooth and studiedly sexy as a big jungle cat, and whose make-up is as immaculate as a well-pressed designer suit, arrives in your office at a shambling run with her face all over tears and snot it’s a safe bet that something pretty bad is wrong.
I was lost in thought, with my feet propped on my desk and my hat tipped way down over my eyes, when my office door was thrown open in a dramatic fashion. I barely had long enough to wonder why in the hell my holographic door was now making an eldritch shriek, when Katie Scarlett O’Halleran and her exceptional bosom landed almost in my lap. She was crying, and her face was a mess.

She grabbed me by the lapels and tried to shake me.
“Sam. Sam. You have to come. Somebody has taken Daddy.”
I sat bolt upright and squared my shoulders. Anybody brave enough to mess with Mister Aitch was certainly a big fish, and I guessed I was about to go shark fishing. I grasped the sobbing girl by her slender shoulders.
“Calm down Katie Scarlett, and tell me what happened.”
“I already told you,” she all but screamed, “somebody has taken Daddy.”
“Details Katie, details.”

I gently compelled her to sit down, and held onto her until her chest stopped heaving and she took two steadying breaths. Then I got the bottle out of my drawer and poured her a stiff one. Her teeth chattered against the side of the glass, but the act of drinking calmed her almost as much as the bourbon.
“Daddy’s personal alarm sounded about an hour back. Me and the twins ran, but his office door was locked. When we broke the door down he was gone, and there was blood all over.”
“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t think anything was okay. “Where are the twins now?”
“Flirting with your holographic floozie. We set droids to watch on the office and came straight here.”
I decided now was not the time to react to the slur on Sugar’s character. Instead, I reached into the locked drawer of my desk and pulled out two extra weapons, a mini blaster that I stuck in my sock, and a weighted sap that slipped into my pocket.
“Let’s go then.”

The twins and Sugar were in animated sign language conversation.
“Sugar,” I said, “if anybody comes looking…”
“I don’t know where you are, and I certainly never saw these folks.” She flashed me that empty-headed smile that I knew hid a mind like a steel trap and wiggled her assets. I gave her the raised eyebrow and we left.

The trip down the glides was tense and silent. Katie had herself together but she was only holding by a thread, while the twins obviously looked to me for a lead. I’ll admit it. I was worried. So much so that I didn’t even bother to exchange words with the young chancer who thought it would be a good idea to put his hands on Katie Scarlett; I just broke his wrist before I threw him off the glide. Myk gave me the thumb, and Zig grinned a tight grin.

At Hood’s Bar, everything looked smooth on the surface, the booths were full, the bar droids were just about run off their feet, and the holographic pianist was playing that damned song. Again. The undertones of worry were there if you had the eyes to see them, though. The droids were jittery, and every security guy had a hand on his weapon. Oh yeah. It was tense and they were all looking to Sam Nero for a lead.

“Office,” I said and followed Katie Scarlett’s long legs down the familiar corridor. She signalled to a guard droid, who opened the door.
“You all wait here.”
I strode into the office then stopped in my tracks. The blood was wrong, it smelled wrong. I rolled back the plastic ‘skin’ from my fingertip and bent to touch the red fluid. It was blood all right, but not human blood. It was rat blood. Somebody had recently killed one of the rats that inhabit the tunnels that honeycomb The City. So why was that blood artistically splattered all over O’Halleran’s office?

I turned and closed the office door. I spoke softly.
“Okay Mister O’Halleran, what gives?”
A panel behind the desk opened and the big shark himself stepped out. He was a little dusty, but unharmed, and he held a blaster in one big fist. Seeing it was me, and I was alone, he pocketed the weapon. His flat, killer’s eyes regarded me unblinkingly for a second.
“You have just presented me with a problem, Nero.”
“How so?” I leaned one shoulder against a bit of door that wasn’t smeared with rat blood and lifted a brow at the hulking killer.
“I got information that you had taken money to kill me. And that Katie Scarlett was in on the deal.”
“So you decided to disappear?”
“I did. And I heard my little girl screaming. And now you come in here quiet, with your hands empty. And I don’t know what to think.”
I shrugged.
“Try thinking that you’ve been had.”
He regarded me for a long moment.
“Maybe I have. But what to do about it.”
I examined my fingernails for a long minute before giving him my blandest stare.
“Go back in that cubbyhole and await developments. Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or find out who set this up.”
“And how do you suggest I go about that?”
“Think for a start. Think about who would benefit if you thought Katie Scarlett had betrayed you.”
O’Halleran stared at me. His eyes were lightless and unreadable. Then he nodded.
“I’ve thought. And now we have to catch the bastard.”
“You narrowed it down to one?”
He shook his big head ruefully.
“Not that simple. Gotta be family. Nobody else benefits. Nearest is my sister and her slimy bastard of a husband. But it don’t quite fit.”
I waited as something came across his countenance, something he didn’t like too much by the looks of him. When he said nothing I pulled my brave together and spoke up.
“Okay, Mister Aitch, what does fit?”
He looked at me with something akin to loathing, but I gave him back stare for stare and in the end he dropped his eyes.
“I got a cousin, his mammy died when he was just a button and my ma and pa brung him up as their own. We was like brothers. He has a son, a smooth handsome son…”
He stopped speaking, and I kept my mouth shut too, knowing that this glimpse of O’Halleran’s humanity was a dangerous thing to have seen. He was quiet for a while, but when he did speak his voice was as coldly unemotional as it always was unless he was talking to Katie Scarlett.
“All right, Nero. You are supposed to be the best. Catch the bastard for me. I’ll pay whatever.”
“I’m working for Katie Scarlett right now.”
His face worked for a moment.
“I suppose you are. So now what?”
“That depends on you. Can you get out of here unseen?”
“I can.”
“Once you are out, where can you get to?”
“My private apartment, upstairs. You will need a key card to get in,”
“Doesn’t Katie Scarlett have one?”
“No. She has her own apartment and I don’t have a key to that.”
I thought he probably did have a key, but deemed it prudent not to voice that thought. He handed me a card and turned to go back through the panel.
“One hour,” I said to his retreating back, and he nodded.

From Sam Nero PI by Jane Jago

I’m in my happy place
The world is all rosy
I’m feeling good today
All safe and cosy.

I’m in my happy place
Outside the storm rages
I’m letting it go by
Lost in a books pages.

I’m in my happy place
Though troubles are many
I’m chilling with TV
And don’t give a penny.

I’m in my happy place
The door closed on worry
I’m letting woes roll by
Not feeling sorry.

I’m in my happy place
Today I can borrow
Time to forget it all
Until it’s tomorrow…

E.M. Swift-Hook