Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Remotes

Everything today has a remote and I for one am delighted by that. From the comfort of my arm chair I can control the world, and that’s without having to put up with what I call a sycophantic smartarse – and my technologically enthused great-niece refers to as ‘Alexa’.

But remotes are a bloody pain at times because…

They. All. Look. The. Same.

How often have I reached for the device to control the TV and found I was changing the temperature in the room instead?

I suggest standardised colour coding to avoid all possible confusion.

Black and white for the telly (obviously), red for the thermostat (self-explanatory), blue for the radio (get it?) and so on.

In the meantime, until the designers catch up to the needs of their customers, stick something on it yourself so you don’t wind up answering a call on your land-line by talking into your Amazon Fire Stick…

The sirens split the air, as the lights rent the sky asunder. People ran and dodged. Women screamed and children cried. One man stood watching the unforgiving bombs fall and the tears ran down his soot-streaked cheeks. His home was one of the blackened skeletons and his wife and his children were among the thousands who died in the fires that crisped the city.
He raised his hands and did the one thing he had sworn never to do in this life. He spoke a single word of power and the earth shook beneath his feet, before a chasm opened in the river and the waters boiled around it. A flaming hand was raised into the murky sky and it grasped the flying bombers one by one, dashing them to the ground to where they lay as charred and broken as the city they were menacing.
When the last bomber was dispatched to hellgates the chasm closed. But not before the head and shoulders of the river master reared up and the creature stared at the wizard with cold antipathy.
“There is,” it grated, “a price to be paid”.
The wizard nodded his head, just once.
“Paid willingly,” he whispered, before clutching his throat and dropping to the ground as dead as his wife and children.

Jane Jago

Art by Ian Bristow

Gabriel Newsome walked the streets with no fear. He was big, strong and vicious enough to subdue anyone who stood in his way physically, and his perfect face ensured that the government cameras lay him pass unmolested.

He could walk right past a posse of android cops, and their ‘eyes’ would see only perfection – even if he was covered in the blood of a murdered victim.

Gabriel had the world at his feet and he knew it, until the day a discarded lover threw acid into his perfect face and he learned to know what it was to be hunted.

©️jj 2020

It was like walking around with a bomb in your head.
That wasn’t such an unfamiliar feeling for someone like Jazatar Baldrik who had served time in the Special Legion. There they plumbed a direct link into your brain and set it so that you had to keep connected to the data network lattice or it would fry out and kill you. Even if you made it through the five years of hell so you could qualify for release from the convict unit, as very few ever did, the device had a bad effect on the brain tissue it was implanted in and would kill you eventually anyway. Jaz had personal experience of that too. He had recently lost a friend that way. A man he had once considered as close as a brother.
But this was different.
Different because this bomb wasn’t going to go off and kill himself. When it went off, it was going to kill one of the very few people he actually cared about. Getting that news had been the most unexpected event of the day. But still only one in series of unexpected events. and that in a place where the unexpected was so rare it never happened. 
For the past two cycles Jaz had been effectively imprisoned. Initially against his will and now with a kind of grudging acceptance, he was held in a secure clinic run by the terrorist organisation known as The Legacy. It was the kind of place where today was the same as yesterday and tomorrow wouldn’t be too much changed from that. Running to its own quiet, pre-planned patterns, nothing was allowed to penetrate which might risk breaking the steady rhythm of daily life. It was the sort of protected and predictable environment Jaz had never known any time in his forty-two years of life. He had even begun to feel safe.
Which was a mistake.
When they told him he had a visitor, he’d been a bit puzzled, but mostly just curious. It wasn’t like anyone he knew had any idea he was even here. So he didn’t expect it to be the kind of visitor most of the other inmates of this place got now and then. 
It wasn’t going to be some family member who would look all concerned. Or even an awkward work colleague, checking up on how he was doing because someone had to and they had drawn the short straw at the office. Jaz had seen those kinds of people in the reception area sometimes, waiting to be taken through to see one of the inmates – or guests as the staff smilingly called them. There was even an elderly couple standing there now, the look of worried parents clear on their faces. Obviously distracted, they didn’t even notice him. He walked right in front of them and into one of the therapy rooms.
It took him a moment to realise who his visitor was and when he did, his first reaction was to turn himself around and walk right out again. He had to use some real willpower to make himself stand still and not do that.
Car Torbalen.
The man ultimately responsible for Jaz being put in this place and being taken very much out of circulation. Even thinking that was enough to make Jaz tense up all over. But, in a place where yesterday and tomorrow were both so much the same, he was curious enough about this sudden shift to see what it might be about. 
Torbalen greeted him with a slight smile, holding out his hand like some formal event.
“Jaz. I was delighted to get your message that you wanted to see me today. Let’s go for that walk you suggested, eh?”
Something was wrong. 
Jaz was more than sure he’d sent no such message. Even if he had the faintest idea on how he might have set about trying to get in touch with Torbalen, he would never have been inviting him over for a cosy one-to-one, walking in the grounds.
This man had effectively betrayed him. But the fact was Torbalen was standing there and knew that. He must also know he wasn’t going to make it on to Jaz’s link list in any conceivable future. Which made Jaz wonder enough that he didn’t deny or challenge what Torbalen had said. 
There was nothing to read in the pleasant smile, because Torbalen was an operator with a lot of skill, but there had to be something important behind this. For him to step away from his so-busy life drawing in ever more fanatics for The Legacy, there had to be something pretty big on his mind. So Jaz took the offered hand briefly in a firm grip and said nothing. Then he went through the door which Torbalen had opened and walked out into the secure grounds around the clinic.

The opening of Iconoclast: Not To Be the eighth Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Coyly euphemistic advertisement speak

What the heck is, ‘Itching Down There’?

Is it scratchy anus time?

Does it indicate something stirring in the lady garden (okay itchyfanny)?

If the advertiser of the cream known only by number means itchyfanny why don’t they bloody say so, not make me think the whole of Australia has impetigo.

And while I have your attention. What the fuck is ‘feminine leakage’? 

Is it menstrual fluid, or maybe urine? But it can be neither as it’s blue. (Hint: if you are leaking something blue seek medical aid. Now!)

And finally. 

Stop sending me Viagra adverts. I. Don’t. Need. It.

In Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow, when the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival…

“Mensi, we’ve captured strange trespassers.”
A low, gritty voice reached Madelyn’s ears. She was sat, bound at the hands and feet and her head was throbbing. Thankful that her captors hadn’t removed her helmet, which housed the built-in translator, she opened her eyes and tried to locate the speaker without making any unnecessary movements. But a full sweep of her visual range without turning her head revealed nothing but the blank expanses of a canvas wall across the dirt floor she was sitting on, leading her to assume she was in some sort of tent-like enclosure. The voice spoke again.
“They seem to have some kind of magic, just like Calitari predicted.”
“How many were there?” The replying voice, which Madelyn guessed belonged to Mensi, carried an unmistakable note of arrogance.
“We didn’t get an exact count, but we killed the aggressive ones—at a somewhat significant loss of our own—and captured four… Three escaped.”
Madelyn’s heart skipped a beat. Three of the others had gotten away.
“Escaped? Neza, I task you with keeping threats out of our great lands and you allow three unknown magic wielders to escape? This is not your first or even second blunder in recent times. Your persistent failure is intolerable.”
“I will personally see to it they are—”
The sound of something swiping through air cut Neza’s words short, and hopeless gurgling noises replaced them, followed by the sound of dead weight crumpling to the ground.
Horrified, Madelyn realized she had just heard Neza die for allowing three of her companions to escape. Such brutality toward one of his own did not bode well for how this Mensi figure might treat her and the others.
“Lintu,” Mensi yelled.
“Yes, lord.”
“Come here. Your services are required.”
Chancing a small movement, Madelyn peered to her left and saw a Xantarian running toward the enclosure through a break in its flap-covered doorway. One of the flaps swooshed open and light poured in, stabbing at her pupils. Her head pounded in revolt and she closed her eyes.
“Three others like these four are out on our lands somewhere,” Mensi said.
These four? For the first time, Madelyn had reason to believe she was not alone in the tent. Whoever else had been captured were here as well.
“They are magic wielders, so you will need to be cautious in your hunt. Use the Manori if you need to. I want them returned here alive if at all possible. I believe they might have answers about the moving stars.”
“Your will is mine,” Lintu said.
The sound of multiple footsteps faded away, and she risked a more revealing look through the open flap. No one was standing there. Now feeling it was safe to do so, she wriggled around and found Lexi, Cameron, and Mitzu all huddled nearby, which meant Chiara, Charlene and Peter had escaped.
“Have they gone?” Lexi whispered.
“I think so,” Madelyn said, looking around again.
Her vision fell to Neza’s body a few yards away. Lifeless eyes and a deep wound across the throat spoke of the cruel fate this creature had suffered. She couldn’t be sure if it was a male or female, but its body looked similar to that of the one Hodgson had called a male during the briefing in Liverpool. That day could have been a lifetime ago now. She could still remember her growing excitement and Jonathan’s encouraging expressions as the mission started to sound more and more accessible.
Jonathan.
His smiling face materialized in her mind and tears surfaced. Her fate was now less certain than ever before in the field. If she died, all her worries and fears would come to an abrupt end, but Jonathan would be left to mourn, surely questioning if her death was his fault. Feeling like he had encouraged her to do something that ultimately resulted in her passing would destroy him.
The tears were flowing freely now.
“Maddie…”

A Bite Of… Ian Bristow

Ian is a writer, artist, and musician. A true renaissance man. But what makes him tick?

Q 1: Why do you write?

I write for several reasons. Chiefly because I love to create. I’m drawn to the way it feels when two characters interact on a page and no longer feel two dimensional. Or when words are able to paint the image in my head (though I sometimes struggle to find the exact words to do so. But when I do manage, it feels really good).

Q 2: Have you ever written someone you dislike into a book just so you can make them suffer?

I modelled one of my antagonists on someone I dislike, but not so I could make them suffer. It was just that the person was a perfect model for the sort of antagonist I wanted to write. When I first started writing the character, I hadn’t considered modelling them after that person, but the parallels started to emerge, and once I noticed, I then made a conscious effort.

Q 3: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

None. Some of my characters have personality traits that are similar to me, but that’s only because those elements of my personality are quite common, making it easy for any believable character to have similar opinions, beliefs, etc. I’m not sure I’ve had an interesting enough life to write autobiographical-based stories… LOL!

Ian Bristow is a freelance artist and the author of Instinct Theory – Contact, Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on the second and final instalment of the Instinct Theory duology. When he isn’t writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends. You can visit him on Facebook and Twitter.

 

 

Ever since the Explorer returned with stories of exotic alien females and what they would do to a man in freefall, the world salivated and wanted that experience for itself.

The planet’s first freefall room opened with a waiting list of two years.

The day Joel’s turn came, he could barely contain himself. As the light dimmed and his body became weightless he felt as if his heart would burst. 

In the darkness he felt the featherlight touch of fingers before those hands pressed a point behind his ear and he knew no more.

Another fool and his money parted…

©️jj 2020

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Back home after the unbelievable events that had just transformed her life completely, Ginny made herself a soothing cup of rosehip and chamomile tea and wondered why she didn’t feel the usual mix of dread and panic that anything so stressful had always induced in her in recent years.
If anything, she decided after a little self-reflection, she felt calm, confident and even invigorated. Part of that she was sure came from whatever physiological changes being undead provided (undead—she quickly pushed the uncomfortable word away), being a vampire provided, but there was also the simple sense of belonging. Ginny had never ‘belonged’ before, and now she suddenly did. She had a Nest, sisters and a village. That thought left a warm glow deep within.
But part of belonging meant commitment, a giving as well as a taking and right now that meant she had to do her bit to protect both her new communities from the grasping hands of Ronald Dump and his enabler-stroke amanuensis Dom Schilling. She glanced at, then put to one side, the pile of booklets Anges had given her:
Vampires and Other Supernaturals—a spotter’s guide.
Sucking for Amateurs—a new vampire’s guide to blood
Community Manners or How Not To Get Your Face Eaten Off—social regulation in the supernatural community
These things Can Kill You—what to avoid for a long and happy unlife
It was not that she wasn’t interested or didn’t need to know, but right now other things had to take priority. If what she had been told was correct she would have decades or even centuries to get around to reading them.
Ginny also ignored a missed call from Lucinda Lorinski, one of her superficial and supercilious London set—no doubt calling up to either gloat and patronise, or to whine and vent as she seemed incapable of any other variety of social interaction—and instead started rummaging in some of the unpacked boxes looking for her ‘important papers’ locked file. She was pretty sure it still contained some of the research she had done on Schilling when their paths had crossed before.
When she finally unearthed it she had then to spend another half hour looking for the key before she could sit down with a fresh cup of tea and walk through a little of her own history.
There were copies of certificates and awards, letters from celebrities—actual letters not printed out emails—insurance for places and things that no longer existed, or at least not in her life, an entire book of long-forgotten passwords and another of addresses and phone numbers belonging to people who also might no longer exist and had not touched her life for many years.
Ginny was close to giving up as she reached the last thin section of documents. Perhaps she had thrown them away in one of her less lucid moments, when expunging the past had seemed the only way to make the present bearable. Or perhaps she had put them somewhere else, deeming them no longer so important as to take up space in her secure file. Or perhaps…
The folder was manila brown and sat between two large card backed envelopes which contained—respectively—her degree awards and her marriage and divorce certificates. It had one word written on the front in block capitals—BASTARDS!
Sitting back she held it unopened for a while, collecting the reserves she needed to face the painful past. Then she slipped it open and started scanning the documents. She was not entirely sure what she thought she would find there, maybe nothing of real use to the present, maybe just a reminder of how much winning this mattered to her personally as much as to the village.
An hour later, feeling more determined, she put the papers away and locked the file, knuckled away tears that were surely of anger over what had been done than grief at her personal loss, surely, and then gathered the corners of her courage and determination and picked up the phone.
“Major Harmsley-Gunn? This is Virginia Cropper, I just wanted to apologise for being a bit distracted when you called on me before and to say that I would be delighted to take up the vacant seat on the Parish Council. You’re so right, I certainly want to bring along some much needed common sense about progress in the village.”

Part 24 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Writing with a crayon
On yellowed pads
I’m not allowed a biro
Because I’ve been bad
I’m not allowed the Internet
Because I swear and cuss
And if I want to keep my crayon
I better not make a fuss
Writing words that flow like silk
From my imagination
In this room with its white walls
That smells of desperation

©️jj 2020

Excerpt from the bestiary of Thomas Bookbinder: There is a race set apart from the rest of us, who are in appearance half Man and half demon. They call themselves The People and their function is to maintain the balance between good and evil. They are a force for the right, and they are said to speak with Angels…

PROLOGUE

When Aascko son of Aasgo became a fully fledged Hunter his pride knew no bounds. He had learned diligently, and his Teacher had even managed to shake some of the moral certainties that a rigid and unimaginative upbringing had rooted in his head. He was no longer the arrogant youngling who had reported for training, and he knew that his further development would depend on who had been chosen to partner the greenest rookie in the pack. His first winter saw him paired with a stolid oldster, who steadied him and taught him who might be trusted and who he should be wary of. 
Then the old Hunter retired, leaving Aascko partnerless and vulnerable. He went on a couple of low grade jobs before being called to the home of the Master Hunter to meet his permanent partner. He found himself more nervous than he had been since his first day of training and was forced to wipe sweaty palms on his trousers before knocking on the door of the Master’s office. The old Hunter stood up to greet him.
‘Welcome Aascko. Come and meet Aaspa.’
Aascko felt a cold finger on his spine. Of all the Hunters in the pack,  he was to be paired with the Abomination. He steeled himself and held out a hand. A slight figure uncoiled itself from the chair in the corner of the room and he beheld her for the first time. She was beautiful, slender and strong, with silver-grey skin, aristocratic features, and a crest of night black curls. Then he saw her eyes and it was all he could do not to recoil. He held firm, and kept a smile of polite greeting on his face. Even so, she saw the revulsion in him and the pleasant smile on her own face faded.
‘Forget it’ she said shortly. ‘This one has too much baggage.’
The Master a Hunter held up a hand. ‘Please Aaspa. Do this for me. Aascko deserves a chance.’
‘With respect, Master, I don’t think he wants a chance. He can barely bring himself to touch my hand. What sort of a partnership will that be? How should I trust a partner who thinks my very existence violates the rules of being? The first chance he gets he’ll betray me.’
Aascko felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. ‘No lady. I would not sink so low.’
She turned to look at him and he saw the hurt that lurked in those blue eyes. It hit him like a hammer blow.
‘The eyes of The People are brown and no other colour’ she said bitterly. ‘I expect you were brought up reciting that alongside the other commandments.’
‘I was. But I’ve already had most of my certainties shaken. That one is about due to be amended too.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘I can give you no reason, save my oath.’
‘And why would you give your oath to Abomination?’
He met her gaze straightforwardly. ‘Because I need a partner and so do you. Also, I have heard of your skill and I would learn from the best. I would not offer friendship to anyone on first meeting, but I would promise my loyalty. Will you accept my word?’
She regarded him solemnly for a moment then nodded. He bent his knee before her.
‘Huntress Aaspa I pledge my fealty from this day forward.’ 
Then he stood up and offered his hand. She took it, and he noticed how finely boned she was. 
‘I’m sorry’ he said honestly. ‘I find myself ashamed.’
She favoured him with a twisted grin.
‘Forget it. It happens all the time.’
‘I dare say. But that don’t make it right. It makes it worse.’
‘Maybe we do have a chance at forging a partnership’ she bumped knuckles with him. ‘We’ll give it a go.’   

Two years later: Aaspa herself takes up the story.

CHAPTER ONE

The naked woman knelt before the huge male vampire with her hands held carefully behind her back. She looked hungrily at his alabaster flesh before raising her eyes to his face. He ignored her, making her await his pleasure. She moaned softly and he backhanded her with casual cruelty, before turning his white eyes towards a corner of the dusty room, where a pile of flesh and hair attested to the fight the woman’s hounds had put up before they were ripped to pieces. Draped across the dead hounds was the body of a Helper, his flesh grey and lifeless and his wings all but torn from his body. The Demon Hunter thought him dead too. The vampire wasn’t so sure, but he was sure he could allow himself a moment of indulgence before seeing to details like the death of a mere Helper. He looked down into the woman’s face and nodded. She leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
I crouched on a beam in the bat-smelling roof and worried. I knew my Mate wasn’t dead, and I also knew he would die very soon without help. But I had to wait. If I got this wrong, the rogue vampire would kill both of us.

Carry on reading about Aaspa, her family, friends and enemies for FREE in Aaspa’s Eyes and for 0.99 in Aaspa’s Imps this weekend.