The blobs sang, though it got on their nerves. The humans moved knobs and made what they laughingly called ‘tunes’, although most were, at best, uninspired.

At worst, the blobs hurt their own ears as they strained and squealed, and burped and groaned to make the awful noises their masters demanded.

It was awful. Demeaning, disturbing, disgusting, and it made them dreadfully unhappy.

However, they carried on.

Until.

Then one man went too far, tuning the bass to high c and the tenors to somewhere approaching a faraway thunderstorm.

When the blobs sucked off his head, the silence was bliss…

©️jj 2021

The railroad formed the first leg of the great trek to the rich lands beyond the desert, and it was rumoured that, long ago, the tracks ran from coast to coast. Nowadays, however, the railroad came to an abrupt end in a place of cattle yards, whorehouses, and bars. Hard-eyed women, and conscienceless men, preyed on the stream of humanity that poured out of the cross-continental trains as they puffed and wheezed to a halt alongside the ramshackle platform.
A dispirited-looking Church Army Band played hymns and waved collecting tins, more in hope than expectation. Behind them, a twice life size head of General Stonejaw Johnson, with his piercing eyes and pointing finger, adjured ‘upstanding young men’ and ‘modest females’ to join the Army in its fight against Shaitan and all his works. Which might have been ironic if any of the denizens of Trail End were of a mind to enjoy irony.
The Friday train came all the away from south-eastern ‘civilisation’, and its passengers had endured the swaying, clanking ride for the best part of ten days. Those who were in the first half dozen carriages fared better than their less affluent cousins in the rest of the train – whose accommodation more resembled cattle trucks than anything else.
When the train shuddered to a halt, the doors of the rear carriages burst open and a stream of humanity walked, crawled, or fell into the merciless light of the midday sun. They were converged upon by the whoremasters, slave drivers, and purveyors of dubious modes of transport who found it worth their while to endure the discomfort of a rail-end town in the name of profit.
The unsatisfactory daughters, disappointing sons, and con artists just ahead of the law, who occupied the front carriages exited the train in a rather more leisurely fashion, and most were met by family members, pre-appointed guides, or the representatives of the wagon masters retained to carry them west. There was a good deal of hand shaking and back slapping at this end of the platform, and while the sharks of every kidney circled each other a figure slipped quietly out of the train on the opposite side.
It was a slight scarlet-haired woman, dressed in functional leather boots and a khaki frock coat. She jumped lightly to the ground and reached back inside for a sturdy leather back pack. Adjusting the straps of the pack she pulled a pair of smoked goggles over her eyes and walked purposefully away from the crowds.
She crossed the goods yard and squatted down in the shadow of a ramshackle warehouse. Pulling the hood of her coat up to cover her flaming red hair she composed herself to wait. In time, the train was pulled away from the platform while its engine was laboriously turned around on an iron turntable powered by indentured labourers – humans being cheaper and more expendable than horses.
The woman sat, barely breathing and becoming less and less visible as the hours crawled past.  As far as she was able to ascertain only one person noticed her: a tall muscular stevedore with brown skin and eyes the colour of the desert sky. He nodded just once, before dropping an eyelid in a swift wink. She wondered if he might be her contact, but as thinking about it required more effort than she was prepared to expend with a long night ahead of her, she simply withdrew her mind from the surrounding area and sat motionless.

You can keep reading The Redhead, the Rogue and the Railroad by Jane Jago for only 0.99 between 11 and 15 February. Immerse yourself in a Wild West that never was…

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Kanu lay down in the sacred place in the Dreaming Room and closed his eyes. The rolling chants of the priests in the god’s sanctuary reached in through the doorway lifting his inner self free.
Then he was standing on the shore beneath a dark star-filled sky on the shores of a blood-red sea.
“Look!”
The voice was that of the High Priest and yet also that of the god. Kanu looked into the water and saw his reflection. Talons. Wings. Horns. A towering body with primal strength.
It was true.
The prophecy was true.
He was indeed the Destroyer.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN

In Viriconium there was something of a surprise awaiting them. They arrived at the barracks where they were to sleep overnight, only to find the city abuzz with gossip. Lucius Ambrosius Caudinus had petitioned Rome and obtained a conubium, which enabled him to marry his British mistress.
“Is that who I think it is?”
Dai shrugged. “Maybe. I dunno. If she hasn’t fallen out with him since my mother last phoned. She’s perfectly capable. Water is too wet for my dear sister.” He stopped speaking and his handsome face twisted wryly. “I wonder if it is because she is now acceptable as the sister of a full Citizen? Would figure,” he added, now sounding angry, “not good enough on her own merits, but soon as she is related to someone his precious Empire has named a ‘hero’ she suddenly becomes ‘marriage material’ instead of ‘bed-warmer’.He shook his head and made to turn away from Julia. She grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Stay right where you are, and listen to me, spado. A conubium is a very difficult and expensive document to procure, it is only granted in very special circumstances and will have taken at least a half year. Now. Will you please stop acting like this.”
“Like what?”
Julia attempted to shake him and finding him immovable kicked him sharply on one shin.
“Like a bloody prejudiced cunnus who can’t see any good in anybody or anything Roman. I’m a Roman in case it has escaped your notice and your unbending attitude is like scraping my nerves with a blunt knife.”
She turned her back so he shouldn’t see how close to tears she was, but she heard his breath catch and he placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Oh Julia, I’m so sorry.”
She spun around to face him knuckling her eyes like a hurt child.
“So you should be. Now go away before I say something regrettable.”
He didn’t move so she turned on her own heel, but he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, just holding her gently. When she was quiet he loosened his hold.
“I truly am sorry, love. I know I need to start thinking more about my prejudices. And I specially need to be aware of how my saying things about Rome affects you.”
“If you could. It would help. I’m already in the unenviable position of a plain woman who loves a handsome man. Please don’t heap coals of racial disdain on my head as well.” Then she relented and smiled up at him. “Just remember that I love you, so you can hurt me in ways nobody has ever been able to hurt me before.”

From Dying for a Poppy by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

Tammi hated Zoom meetings, and how her colleagues sneered at her humble home. But she squared her shoulders and survived the winter.

When spring came, a skinny geek arrived with a laptop. She gave him a cup of tea and  chocolate chip cookie

“This one has smellivision,” he whispered, “but I ain’t supposed to tell you.”

Tammi’s house smelled sweetly of lavender and home baking.  The chief among her tormentors, however, was a less particular housekeeper and her high-rise apartment smelled of old ashtrays and feet. 

Tammi said nothing, simply watching as the pack turned on its former alpha.

©️jj 2021

The funeral was beautiful and her death had been a liberating experience.
Kahina Sarava knew she had a lot to thank her murderer for and made a mental note that she should be sure to do so if probability ever permitted it.
Not that many here knew Kahina had been murdered.
A few would be raising a slight eyebrow at the official pronouncement of her having passed away after a sudden, unspecified, illness, recognising in that formula the designation that suggested foul play. But Coalition policy prevented the assassination of those at its heart in Central being generally known unless they were so public that it could not be avoided.
The official commemoration of her life was everything Kahina could have wanted. Smiling beneath the all-concealing mourning veil, she listened to music commissioned especially for the occasion and eulogies from those who had spurned her so completely, following her fall from grace as one of the key pivots of Coalition power.
Her death had been a liberation. It had freed her from the need to lurk in the shadows, eking out an existence, closeted away in the extravagant country estate she had always loathed and allowed her to return to her true home in the midst of the greatest Central metropolis.
Admittedly the luxurious apartment she now occupied was slightly less desirable than the one she had lived in at the top of Sarava’s headquarters building. But it was chosen for being perfectly placed to allow her to access and be accessible to, those who breathed the refined air at the pinnacles of power in the Central establishment. She was not about to allow the inconvenience of her demise to prevent her from living out a full life in the manner which she preferred.

From Iconoclast: Not To Be, the eighth Fortune’s Fools book by E.M Swift-Hook.

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

Alyx: An AI’s Guide to Love and Murder is the latest book from by Brent A Harris.

We all depend on AI technology to help run our lives, from our phones to our homes. They say home is where the heart is. It’s where we feel safest, sheltered with our loved ones.
But what if your home wanted you dead?
Tech-loving teen Christine makes fast friends with her home’s AI, Alyx. But when a real-world romance threatens their bond, Alyx turns from friend to foe.

Christine nodded through another bite of pancake. She usually just left user preferences blank or selected pre-programmed options. With Alyx, she sensed that it would be much more fun to personalize the program a bit.
“If you choose, I can scan through all your social media sites, pictures, browser history, and online interactions to get a feel for you. It might allow me to customize myself a bit better. I can upload the data over the course of a few hours and be my new self by the end of the day.”
Over another bite, Christine considered the offer. Growing up with software like this, she’d found it simpler to allow programs access to her devices, photos and location and such. It made her programs more intuitive and easier.
“I have a job, should be home by midnight. Work your magic. I’m curious to see what you can pull off.”
“Challenge accepted.” With that, Alyx brought over another plate of pancakes. Christine’s stomach bloated in protest. She put up her hands. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you to stop.”
“Oh…” Alyx’s eyes dropped.
“They were great, really fantastic,” Christine comforted the cook once she realized her error. “I just mean that I’m full. Thank you.”
“Yeah, I don’t know the limits of your appetite. Besides,” Alyx flipped another pancake in the air. “I’d never made pancakes before. They’re fun.”
“Just keep the ones you made for tomorrow.” She pushed herself away from the table and headed toward the sink, crossing the invisible line marked by the embedded sensors.
Immediately, the arms powered down, limply hanging over the kitchen floor. The screen flickered and Alyx warned her, “Please stay behind the safety lines. I wouldn’t want to accidentally harm you.”
Christine stepped back, startled as the arms returned to life. “Thank you.” Only this time, Alyx’s arms began cleaning up the mess.
“I can…,” she searched for the word. Help? There the feeling was again. She hadn’t realized Alyx would respond like that and she felt guilty for violating some robot rule. Once the scare subsided, however, it was replaced by the same unease she had felt earlier. She’d always done the dishes. But that was before, this was now.
Why then, did it feel so wrong? She didn’t have an answer.
Alyx approached, lowered itself to her level and swiveled face-to-face. The big blue puppy eyes were so cute. “You seemed uncomfortable with the idea of me serving you. Do you not want a servant?”
It was absurd to think a machine was anything more, but she couldn’t help it. Raising herself up by stepping over others was no way to live, especially since she felt as if she’d been stepped on her entire life. “It seems stupid, because no matter what you call it, you’ll be doing all the work.”
“It’s my function. But what is it that you need?”
Christine thought for a long moment before hitting on just the right response.
“…A friend,” she said.

A Bite of… Brent A Harris

Brent here. Who knew interviews could be this much fun for an ex-circus clown with tiny feet? I’m coming direct to you from a concrete bunker where I plan to survive the rest of the COVID-19 pandemic living off Hostess Fruit Pies and recycled urine. When not listening to the plethora of voices in my head, I’m busy writing the official biography off Shel Silverstein in purple crayon.

Q1. 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… 

It’s always a bit of each, isn’t it? 2020 could have used some more escapism, certainly, and less murder-hornets. Then, there’s the futility of it all. How do you translate what’s in your head to paper in a way that others will understand? Impossible. That’s why we’re always rewriting the same damned stories; no one has gotten right. And of course, anything I write may or may not be the truth. People pay me money for the privilege of spinning lies. That’s an odd exchange when you think of it in those terms. Like willfully shopping at a used car dealership.

Q2. How much of you is in your characters? 

None of the characters are mine, but I inhabit a bit of them. Characters stem from my mind, my interactions with others, little things I notice on the streets and in public squares, so they all exist as part of me as I’ve perceived the world. To be a writer is to be a people-watcher. Yet, I don’t write myself in my books. Not yet anyway. Might be a fun easter egg sometime. Maybe I’m the egg? Hrm…

Q3. Chips (fries) or pasta? 

Depends on when you ask. I’ve lived in both England and Italy. I so do miss fish‘n’chips. But you know, Italian food… it’s a tough choice. Who knew there were so many types of pasta? I can’t even begin to name them all, but it’s a lot. I guess it’s a matter of “When in Rome?” Get it??! It’s funny. Okay, I’ll see myself out. *Shoes echo against the silent stadium. Door slams*

Brent A. Harris is a speculative fiction writer. He’s been twice shortlisted for the Sidewise Award in alternate history. He lives with his family in Naples, Italy. You can learn more about him by visiting his website, from where, you can join his mailing list, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter.

They said it would tell the computer if you were happy, and that wearing it wasn’t compulsory.

Milo laughed hollowly at the glibness of the lies, but he wore the thing home so the algorithm could ‘adjust itself to his biorhythms’. 

The bosses never bothered themselves about the lives of the workers – or they might have known about Milo’s brother Keaton. Who had the wristband stripped down and rechipped inside an hour.

Milo became a much happier employee when the algorithm marked him out for fast track promotion to managerial status – from which position he immediately scrapped the wristband program.

©️jj 2021

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

He called Joah as he travelled, on the excuse of telling her he had done his bit, but a big part of him needing some reassurance.
“You did good, Dog, really good.” Joah’s face smiled at him as he finished his tale. “We are trying hard as we can to tell people there is no curse, but no one seems to be listening.”
For a moment Dog was puzzled, then he got it and felt a spike of adrenaline.
“I did my best,” he said, “but those guys — they really believe in it.”
“I know. It’s everywhere. And I’m getting worried, Dog. People are saying the whole series is cursed and it’s having a knock-on effect. Now no one is donating to the president’s project, and those that have are trying to get their money back.”
Dog let that thought echo around wherever it needed to before he replied.
“And that about Zarshay?” He showed her the tweak. “It’s just the same crap, isn’t it?”
There was a long pause and Joah’s face blinked away. When she reappeared, she looked grim.
“I didn’t know about that one, Dog. I don’t know where Zarshay is, she’s not answering my calls and I can’t get hold of her.”

Joah woke in the dark, heart thudding, and reached out a hand to the empty space where Zarshay should be. It was the worst time to allow her mind free rein in speculation. She had spent a while trying to convince the nice woman the police sent round to interview her that there was nothing wrong. But she knew she had not succeeded.
“If Ms. Sygma was missing, don’t you think I’d be the very first to report it? She’s my wife.”
“So, where is she? These tweaks say she’s been kidnapped and you say you don’t know where she is — and I can see you are worried. Where do you think she might be?”
“I — I don’t know.”
“You can think of somewhere possible, though?”
Joah could not deny it.
“Below,” she said, her voice hoarse with worry. “She has — had — family down there, somewhere.”
The nice police officer looked gently inquiring.
“But wouldn’t she have told you if she was planning a visit there?”
Joah had tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. “No. She wouldn’t. She knows how I feel about her going there; we would only have rowed, and—” She broke off and blew her nose. “She probably thought she could go and come back before I missed her. Something must have happened.”
The nice police officer looked sympathetic.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything about it? I mean, all these odd things being reported about events at your studio and this silly talk of a curse—”
Joah had erupted then. All her fear channelled into anger.
“How dare you?” she spat, standing up as she did so, her whole body shaking with emotion. “How dare you come here and suggest I’m playing some game around the love of my life? You came to question me — I didn’t call you here. I think she’s just fine. She’ll be home tomorrow. Now get the hell out of my house.”

The call came a day later when she was drifting in and out of tormented dreams again. Early, too early. A spark of hope died as she saw who it was.
“Joah, darling,” Heila crooned, “I just heard the dreadful news. It’s simply awful, darling. I wanted to ask if you would join me for breakfast? Hmm? You shouldn’t be alone at this time.”
Joah blinked and wondered if she’d heard right.
“Uh, Heila, it is” she checked the time again “about three hours before you get up. What are you—?”
The other woman made an impatient tutting sound. “Breakfast, darling. My place. Half an hour?”
Then she broke the call. Joah rolled onto her back, her mind racing.

Breakfast for Heila, it turned out, was an odd greenish-purple coloured drink. Joah eyed hers dubiously as it was set on the table by a silent robot. It smelt faintly floral, with undertones of compost.
“It’s all horribly healthy, darling,” Heila assured her, “but don’t ask what’s in it. That’s a Camarthy family secret. I positively thrive on this stuff.”
Joah risked a sip and was relieved to find it tasted more of the floral spectrum than the alternative her nose had suggested. She swallowed a polite amount, then returned the drink to the table.
“So, what do you know about—?”
Heila cut across her before she could finish. “You simply must try my new spa-bath. It’s so relaxing, you won’t believe it.” She was getting up as she spoke, her smile intense, and she grasped Joah’s hand and pulled her up with a surprising strength. “I won’t take no for an answer, darling. This is simply exhilarating and quite the best way to brace for the day.”

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1011.