Two Women and Some Books
The streets are a-dancing in autumn’s lost gown
A scatter of leaves that sprinkled the town
Blown with the crisp packets to catch on a hedge
Swept with the dogends under each ledge.
Played with by the children, in drifts in the park
Lifted by blustery winds for a lark
Packed by the tramp of feet, wet from the rain
Swirled down the gutters and blocking the drain.
Golden and orange and yellow and brown
Streets filled with the beauty of autumn’s lost gown.
Hands up if you, like me, watch cookery programmes on the box.
We’re not talking about them ones where a very thin person pretends to cook and then counterfeits eating with a mouth that looks like a cat’s bumhole.
Neither are we even mildly interested the ones where a ‘celebrity’ chef ponces about putting baby vegetables on a sea of something obscene.
I never watch either of the above – unless of course it’s Nigella, whose substitution of food for sex is to be applauded. But I digress…
Today’s exposition of emotion (okay, maybe a tiny rant) centres on competitive cooking on the telly.
Firstly, cooking is not a bloody competition. It’s the means whereby something earthy and boring like a potato becomes a delicious calorie filled treat like a chip.
Secondly, watching capable people cook isn’t interesting (Nigella aside).
Which leaves us with why.
An educated guess suggests economic pressures with a side order of sadism.
These cookery competitions must be as cheap as chips to produce and the prizes are crap too. A wooden spoon with a bow in it and a kiss from an oleaginous presenter are scarcely gonna break the production company bank.
And the sadism? You really haven’t noticed the delight the producers take in fallen soufflés, burns, cuts, meltdowns, and tears?
The winner usually appears very little because she/he is busy being boring and efficient, while Edna from Liverpool who is obviously only there because she was pissed one night and entered for a laugh is far more fun to watch.
So….
Given that if the competitors all produced well-cooked examples of whatever and neither failed disastrously nor had loud meltdowns in the public eye the programmes would be about as interesting as watching your nail polish dry, there has to be a catch someplace.
Something has to be done to glue viewers to the screen.
And what have they done?
They have set up the rules to ensure failure…
Don’t look at me like that. They bloody have.
One show never gives the competitors quite enough time to get the required dish done.
Another encourages rank amateurs to attempt recipes a Michelin starred chef only cooks with the aid of three sous chefs and a kitchen porter.
A third has some scary bloke patrolling the place to scare the cooks shitless.
And so on.
And that’s why we watch.
Schadenfreude.
And the hope that in some galaxy far far away a person in a creepy apron will so far lose it as to twat one of the supercilious presenters – for preference with a half-iced strawberry gateau.
Surianna was born a slave, albeit one of superlative beauty. Her mother was the property of a superior whorehouse, and by the time she was sixteen years old Surianna was accounted the loveliest of the city’s exquisite hetairae.
When the sultan gifted her with freedom, she should have had a glittering career before her.
Why was it, then, that she wasted her smooth-skinned loveliness on a humble charioteer with no money and no prospects?
As she washed the paint from her eyes, and swapped her silks for workaday linen, Surianna was truly giving herself where she chose. At last.
At some time on the interminable journey, Sergeant Adam Adamson had passed from annoyance, through bitter indifference, to weary acceptance. The job of guarding a convoy of acolytes on its way to the dragon temple wasn’t arduous, but the would-be priests were about the most dislikable bunch of pious, yet self-indulgent, proselytisers it had ever been his misfortune to meet. They were supposedly humble supplicants, but the guard soon found out that nothing could be further from the truth. Each seemed to feel himself entitled to grovelling respect, and to having his every wish acceded to. They looked down their patrician noses at the stocky hard-muscled soldiers in their plain leather breastplates, and made little effort to disguise their contempt for their social inferiors.
Notwithstanding the arrogance and rudeness, Adam’s men tried to accommodate the grey-robed ones, but he quickly saw the unreasonableness of the demands being made could only lead to disaster. He issued the order that nobody but him was to speak to the putative priests and the acolytes were told not to address their guards. This more or less staved off mutiny, although the grumbles were close enough to the surface for him to casually mention a fat success bonus.
It had been three months since they left the city and even Adam’s normally monumental patience was wearing thin. Although the acolytes were mounted on sturdy mules, while he and his men walked, they had still barely managed the allotted daily mileage. In fact, it could be a good deal less if they reached a roadside sanctuary, as the mealy-mouthed majority always insisted it was their duty to spend time in such places fasting, and praying for the souls of those who walked the roads. One of the oldest soldiers in the detail spoke for all of them when he spat in the roadside dust.
“If them little shits is fastin’ and prayin’ why does them need so many young ‘priestesses’ and so much wine?”
“Good question. You gonna ask them?”
“Nah. I’d only wind up takin’ the flat of my sword to somebody. And they ain’t worth a court martial.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Then one of the brighter veterans laughed a nasty laugh. “They’m in for a shock when we hits the mountains in’t ‘em. No mules. No sanctuaries. No wine. No women.”
“That and the way the landscape shifts,” a leathery old soldier spat a stream of yellowish tobacco juice.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the detail to catch on, and the sour mood was replaced by one of sardonic amusement. Adam let them settle before adding his two penn’orth.
“When we get there, you lot need to remember that nobody carries none of their gear. No matter what they offer. If they want it, they hump it. Understood?”
There was a general grunt of acceptance and he left it at that.
Today was the day they turned off the highway and started the climb into the foothills. The mules strained forward, knowing their cozy stable awaited, and even the acolytes seemed to sense something in the clear autumn air.
Adam grinned sourly. Things were going to get a whole lot less pleasant for his human cargo very soon and he found himself supremely indifferent to their upcoming discomfort.
It was sunset when the column rounded an almost conical hill and found itself in the last valley before the climb. There was smoke rising from the chimneys of the squat, fieldstone buildings beside the mule corrals, and he guessed it spoke to the acolytes of dinner and warm beds. He and his men, of course, knew better. He held up a hand for a halt and a high-pitched and querulous voice from behind demanded to know what he thought he was doing. He didn’t bother to answer, instead he watched the skies, ignoring the moaning and mumbling from the grey-clad figures astride their mules. Adam looked westerly and was rewarded by the sight of a graceful winged creature flying towards him, stained blood red by the setting sun.
From The Dragon Riders by Jane Jago in the Game Lit anthology Rise and Rescue – Volume One.
Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…
People who use posh words for everyday things
You know who I mean, the kind of person who invites their pals over for drinks of an evening and calls it a ‘soirée’ or for a coffee in the morning and offer you a ‘latte’. They don’t have a bedroom like the rest of us mortals they have a ‘boudoir’ and they don’t eat chips, it’s ‘pommes frites’.
They have everything ‘au gratin’ when they usually just mean it’s got cheese on it and then eat it ‘al fresco’ rather than outside.
Seeing a pattern here? I am.
Call it something in French or Italian and you posh it up beautifully.
So if you’ll excuse me I’m talking my chien to il parco for a pisciare and a merde!
“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. Vane glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else. “Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?” The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir.”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice. “Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal. Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it made the responsibility he now held a heavy one, weighing up all the factors to consider if Revid should be discharged. Revid might have a legal right to be considered for release, but that was not the same as having the right to be released. That decision ultimately lay with Vane and it was one he was not finding at all straight forward.
“Well, you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger.
A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities.
The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.
Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.
Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.
If you want to keep reading, Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook is FREE to download until 10 May and you can pick up the other two books in the Haruspex Trilogy, Edge of Doom and A Walking Shadow for 0.99 each or snag the Entire Haruspex Boxed Set for just 1.95!
It was late, but the girl waited in the circle of lamplight, hoping for just one more customer. She shivered in her thin coat, and was about to give up when a dark voice addressed her from just outside the ring of orange light.
“How much?”
“Depends what you want.”
“Oh. I want it all,” the glee was barely suppressed.
“Fifty.”
“Done.”
The hand that grabbed her was strong, with hard yellow nails. As he pulled her out of the lamplight she caught the gleam of moonlight on a blade.
The oil he used to burn her body smelled sweet…
Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…
Scented Toilet Roll
Coming from the kind of family that was not arsed about what to wipe it’s collective arses on, I was blissfully unaware this even existed. Until I was invited to a “soirée” – and don’t get me started on people who use posh words for everyday things – by a cousin who’s no better than she should be and really should know better.
To be honest, I only knew it was supposed to be scented bog roll because it said so on the packet.
When I needed the loo, the holder was empty except for wispy scraps of tissue clinging to the cardboard tube. No other rolls were in evidence and I had to search around until I found it hiding in plain sight beneath a cloth cover with a tassel.
The packet declared it was floral scented so I gave it a whiff and at close quarters it did pong a tiny bit of cheap rose perfume with overtones of soap and talc.
But the thing is, why? Who’s going to sniff it? Your bum won’t care and you’re hardly likely to have a sniff at it during or after use. And unless you know it’s supposed to be scented you won’t stick your nose near it before either…
So what is the point?
The Guardian’s Nightmare by Yvette Bostic is one of the books that will be first published in the Soul’s Day Boxset: Horror and Paranormal Halloween Theme.
An uncontrolled evil is sweeping across the land. Every night mysterious warriors fight against the demons. Every day more replace the ones they’ve killed.
When Cortan Hawkins, leader of the strange humans, demands my help it’s impossible to say no. I’m the Guardian – Protector of my world – I must fight against this evil. But is Cortan the savior he claims to be or the reason the demonic army is here?
I perched on the highest limb of a dying oak, my talons scarring the bare wood in their grasp. The leaves around me rustled in the wind, muting the sounds of battle below. Fifty men and women fought against the same number of horned demons. The humans, such as they were, wielded magically enhanced swords and shields, while the demons raged through their defenses with razor sharp claws and brute strength.
An arrow twanged, followed by a dozen more, sinking into the monsters’ rear guard. Another volley soared through the air, doing nothing to slow the tide of evil threatening to overwhelm the warriors battling at the front line.
A flutter of wings drew my attention to the small, brown owl landing on the branch next to me. He turned his head a quarter turn, the way owls do just before they ask a question.
“Why do you not help them, sister?”
“Because they don’t need it, Sasha.” I’d watched these humans fight before. They didn’t need my help then or now.
Sasha’s head rotated another turn as he changed his focus to the battle below. “Really? Their little arrows are ineffective, and the demons are stronger than they.”
“Yes, but the humans have yet to use their magic.” I turned my own feathered face towards my companion. “I’m not certain why they wait, but I have to assume their leader has a reason.”
Sasha clicked his beak at me and continued to watch the combat beneath us. Several warriors in the center fell to their deaths, and a haunting cry floated into the treetops, threatening to pull my heart along with them. It was the only part of the battle that evoked emotion from me. Hearing a soul mourn the death of its body was never pleasant.
“Which one is their leader?” Sasha asked, shifting on the branch as another gust of wind ruffled our feathers.
“See the one at the very center?” I asked. “The largest one, with spikes on his shoulders and enchanted eyes on his helm.”
The human leader brought his sword around from the right and sliced into the muscled arm of the nearest demon. As the demon turned its attention to the new threat, another sword sliced through its opposite arm. The monster howled, raising a clawed hand at the large human. Rather than back away, the man lunged, a sword in each hand, impaling the demon’s wide chest. The creature wrapped its fingers around the man’s neck, and I realized I held my breath. The warrior twisted his blades into the creature’s dark hide, black blood pouring from its wounds. Man and beast tumbled to the ground, lost in the melee around them. Another haunting cry escaped the battlefield, and my heart stuttered.
“Did their leader just perish?” the little owl asked.
“I don’t believe so,” I responded, barely keeping my emotions hidden. “His spirit’s anguish would be much greater, I think.”
“How do you stand by and do nothing? You are the Guardian of the Forest, yet you allow these men and women to die.”
The disgust in his voice threatened my composure. I chose to remain a bird of prey, so I could witness the leader of the group without detection. Allowing this little bird to stir my ire would force one of my more aggressive spirits to emerge, something I wanted to avoid. I drew in several deep breaths, calming the rage building in my chest. He should not have aggravated me so easily. My friend meant well.
“These are the same men and women who hunt and kill us, Sasha,” I hissed. “Or have you forgotten what they did to the last of my kind?”
You can pre-order your copy here: Soul’s Day Boxset: Horror and Paranormal Halloween Theme
1) What would be the best thing about living in the world you describe in this book?
The best thing about the world I created would be escaping today’s politics. Kalle’s world is rather primitive. While she is responsible for the safety of her clan – mostly from humans – she doesn’t have to deal with human politics.
2) If you could have one character from the book to dinner with you, who would it be, why would you choose them and what would you most want to talk about?
I would choose Philip and Red because they have perfectly harmonized voices and would provide fantastic entertainment. Not only from the songs they’d sing, but the stories they could tell of previous performances.
3) Are you a cat person or a dog person and why?
I have three dogs and no cats, but only because my big dogs would probably eat the cat. I love cats for their independence, but I prefer dogs for their unconditional love – anytime I need it.
Yvette Bostic lives in the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. For those who don’t know, West Virginia is its own state-not just the western side of Virginia. She enjoys the company of her children who are successfully moving into adulthood; her ever patient husband who believes she’s lost in her computer; and three dogs who are the only ones who can drag her away from writing-mostly because she has no desire to clean up their mess.
She has been a passionate reader for decades, but her writing interests didn’t surface until her youngest son left home to join the adult world. The Empty-Nest Syndrome assaulted her with relentless fury and she fought back with a surprising determination of her own. She’s now deeply entrenched in the lives of her characters and strives to bring their hopes, dreams, pain, loss and success to her readers.
You can find her on Twitter, Goodreads or her own website.
Two old men sat playing pinochle, while the barroom ebbed and flowed around their table as if it was an island in the ever-moving stream of humanity.
The harsh growl of motorcycle engines emptied the place, save for the card players and a raddled barmaid.
These bikers were spoiling for a fight as they streamed in from the unforgiving streets.
One strutted over to where the old men sat, but as they looked up at him he turned away.
“Who the fuck?”
The barmaid smiled. “That’s the future boys, Death and his brother Taxes.”
The bikers cut and ran…
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