The Korpes Agenda is the second book in The Korpes File Series.
Something dark is stirring in Korlune, and there’s only one person who sees it; brilliant, but haunted, Master-Tech Nash Korpes.
Freshly escaped from the clutches of Korlune Military Research and Development he finds safety within the ranks of tech giant Harlo-Fyre. On the surface, the future appears bright, but dangerous forces lurk in the periphery. Nash is plagued by self-doubt, unreliable friends and a punishing work schedule that could tip him over the edge.
As the line between friend and foe blurs and friction between Korlune’s military factions reach boiling point, Nash is forced to act. Will he ever find peace, or will he be distracted just when he needs to focus?

Nash made his way across the vast expanse that was shipping and receiving. The familiar sounds of machinery and the glow of the industrial lights was oddly calming, and he enjoyed having reasons to come down. A sudden gust of wind announced the arrival of a maglev transport via one of the many tunnels that connected this hub to the rest of Korlune. KMR and D was still hunting him, but here he felt safe. Here, he was almost invisible. Close to a thousand people were employed in this section of Harlo-Fyre; everyone was busy, and most of the employees were Diasporan. Nash had even seen a few blonds scattered among them. Pallet-jacks zipped past him in every direction as he approached the Northern loading bay. 
“Hi. I’m looking for…” Nash paused to read the name on the form. “Blythe? You have something for the Korpes Lab, and I’m here to pick it up.”
The Receiver turned as she looked up from her manifest. “You’re Diasporan?!”
Nash flashed her the briefest of grins. “What gave me away?” 
“Your accent.” She replied without skipping a beat. “You’re from one of the Western Diaspora, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” Nash indicated the largest crate on the platform. “If that’s from Lorsa, then that’s the one I’m after.”
Blythe just stood there, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Uh… Can I have my crate, please? I have the invoice and release forms right here…” Nash held the digipad out for her to look at.
She took it, compared the numbers, and signed off. “I didn’t think any of our kind made it past manual labor jobs in the big corps. You must be talented.” 
“Yeah. I can coax beer out of vend-o-mats,” Nash replied absently as he checked the time.
“Honestly?”
Nash looked up at the question and was greeted with a genuine smile. He returned it with one of his own. “Yeah, that and cigarettes, good coffee, a passable Polonu soup—”
“Can you fix vend-o-mats as well?” She handed his digipad back.
“Yes…”
“You’re hired.” Blythe grabbed him by the arm and began leading him to the breakroom. “Ours crapped out on us a month ago, and we can’t get the time of day from maintenance…” She paused halfway. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if you have time. I hear your boss is…” She bit her lower lip as she looked for a nice way to say what she’d heard. “Demanding.”
Nash opened his mouth to introduce himself and thought better of it. “He’s not in the lab right now. As long as I get things set up today, it won’t upset the schedule.”
Blythe locked arms with him and continued the mission. “So, what’s your name?”
The innocent question caught him off-guard.
Think fast, the Sarcastic voice laughed.
“Xander. It’s an old name.” 
“I’d heard that families with Tyran ancestors did that. At least your name’s unique. I have an aunt, a cousin, and a grandmother who are all named Blythe; it gets confusing at reunions. I broke the chain and didn’t name either of my daughters after me. Everyone here calls me Bee.”
Nash chuckled as he opened the door to the breakroom for her. Something playful sparked in him, and he motioned for her to enter with a flourish.
Blythe curtseyed in return. “Smart, handy, and you’re a gentleman, too? Where the hell were you when I was going through the Pairing Protocol?

A Bite Of… J.I. Rogers

1. How much of you is in your hero/villain?

Without incriminating myself, I think I can safely say that there’s a little of all my characters in me. 

2. Have you ever invented a language?

I have. Worldbuilding is a passion of mine, and a few Diasporan conlangs began to emerge as I starting plotting The Korpes File Series. To clarify, the Diasporan are made up from a multi-heritage population, living as refugees in the two countries the first two books explore. Each Diasporan city has a core population based off one of the groups and their ‘Slang’ is a blending of their original language, mixed with words picked up in the 300+ years they’ve shared space. It’s joked in the series that the only thing you can guarantee everyone will understand are the swearwords and a few of the common religious phrases.

3. Are you ticklish? If so where?

I know this will never come back to haunt me – my ribs.

About J. I. Rogers

They’d been dancing on the beach in the moonlight, then walked along the very edge of the waves, naked feet leaving transient prints where the sea kissed the sand.

“I do love you, you know,” he said, “ I wish we could stay here forever.”

Her thoughts were less loyal. They were in the city where the excitement of her glittering career beckoned.

But he didn’t understand. He never did.

As they got back to the hotel he pulled out the inevitable ring box.

She turned away to hide her frustration.

Why did he have to spoil such a perfect evening?

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Before Ginny could ask her next question there were footsteps on the spiral staircase and Agnes appeared carrying a tray, preceded by the nutty perfume of freshly ground and filtered coffee.
“Sorry for the slight delay,” she said brightly as she handed round the cups, I had to fend off Petunia.” She sat down and lifted her mug in a sort of toast to Ginny. “They all can’t wait to meet you.”
“They?”
“Our Sisters. The Steering Committee of Little Botheringham Ladies Association.” Agnes explained. “That’s me, Agnes, great-great granny and gossip. Lilian who you sat next to at the LA meeting.”
Agnes paused for breath, and Ginny dredged up the memory of a skinny woman with a seamed face and fascinating dreadlocks.
Agnes ploughed on. “Petunia who is a veterinary nurse and who held you down while Em Fed you. Ellen, who is bit of a leftie and a very strident lesbian – especially when she has been drinking. Jamelia, who is quiet, incredibly clever and beautiful. And of course Em who is Queen of our nest.”
Em made a depreciating gesture.
“It really isn’t what you might think. Just the traditional title given to whoever in a vampire community is daft enough to step up to the plate and try and organise things. It’s a very hands-on kind of leadership role. Like most such things, you wind up having to do much of what needs doing yourself.”
“And Em is very good at doing things,” Agnes said. “And at organising the rest of us, which in the case of most of our little community is very like herding goldfish.”
“Don’t you mean cats?”
Agnes grinned. “You tell me – after you’ve met the others.”
Ginny looked between the two women.
“So the Ladies Association is run by vampires?”
“Oh yes. We work very hard to look after the village.”
Ginny thought of the bench outside the village shop and the fundraising for a new minibus for the local primary – and the campaign she’d heard about which had kept the school open. All organised by the Ladies Association.
“You do seem to be very involved in village life.”
Em’s mouth sculpted the hint of a grin.
“You could say that.”
“And a lot of thankless work it is too,” Agnes put in. “I sometimes wonder why we bother with some of the ingratiates.”
“It can be hard work,” Em agreed and took a drink of her coffee.
“So why do you do it?”
Both the women looked at her as if she was asking something that had the most obvious answer in the world.
“This is our home,” Em said gently. “If we didn’t look after it before long it’d be nothing more than a hollowed out dormitory for the wealthy with a sprinkling of second homes and holiday rentals.”
“Like most of the other villages around here,” Agnes added. “Much Botheringham is more like an English village theme park than a real community, and Nether Botheringham has become little more than a suburb of Bedchester and half of that was taken over by an industrial estate.”
Ginny tried to fit the idea of helpful conservationism into her concept of a vampire and what vampires did. And failed. She pushed it aside as something else occurred.
“So about vampires. Are there a lot around?”
“Not that many nowadays.”
“There used to be more?”
“Going back a couple of centuries and some, yes,” Agnes told her. “Too many, in fact. And in the increasing glare of science and mass communication it was becoming harder and harder to keep hidden from humanity. So we had to make some changes within our community. Establish certain norms.”
Agnes sipped her coffee and looked over at Em, who gave a small shrug.
“We just had to make sure we eliminated the troublemakers. It was very obvious that those who caused the most problems were those who had been transformed when young. They still had all the folly and exuberance of youth and never really grew out of it. Imagine a four-hundred year-old with ongoing teenage angst.”
Ginny did, and her eyes widened as Em went on talking.
“And the men were the worst. Vampirism boosts testosterone levels to the point where two could barely be in a room together without having to fight it out to decide who was the ‘alpha’.”
“So that explains all the ravishing young women vampires in the stories and the ravishing of young women by vampires, the overdramatic dress sense and so forth.”
Both Agnes and Em were nodding.
“So we made a new rule. One that would exclude all the most unstable elements from the vampire community. We wanted people who were rational, controlled, wise and careful.”
Ginny wondered which of those descriptors she could actually lay claim to.
“That must be a bit difficult. How do you find such paragons?”
“That was easy,” Agnes said. “The only people who can be made into vampires nowadays are post-menopausal women.”

Part 20 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

I’m dry
Like tinder in the tinder-box is
Dry
I try
As every fledgeling learning how will
Try
To fly
But I’m just sitting as the hours do
Fly
And by
The time I write some words the day’s gone
By
I’m dry
Like sand deep in the desert waste is
Dry
I sigh
At yet another barren day, one
Sigh
Then lie
Upon my bed to sleep and as I
Lie
I tie
Myself to tomorrow’s dreams, so that
I
Don’t cry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I musta winced, because his eyes suddenly grew piercing. I felt like I was falling into their blackness as he stared but I weren’t scared. Much. Then he shook his head.
“I see,” he said and his voice was dry and rasping, like Pa when he talked to Brother Abram.
I thought he did see. Matter of fact I thought he saw too durned much, but I kep’ my mouth shut and waited.
“What do you see Uriel?”
“I will show you my brothers.”
He holds out his hands and all three kinda flows together into a waving tentacled creature what made me think of a picture of a octopus on the schoolroom wall.
Me and Eli was as quiet as mice – we dursen’t barely breathe. Thankfully it weren’t long before the bright ones separated back into three.
“Such wickedness.” The smallest one sounded shocked and mighty cross.
“Wickedness indeed, Jegudiel, but what can we do about it.”
Uriel laughed, and I thought I’d know that laugh any time anywhere. “We could interfere,” he said.
“But that’s forbidden.” By now I was about sure this was the one what had walked through my head, and I wondered what he might be called.
“Since when has that stopped us, Selaphel?”
Selaphel grunted. “Since never. But what do you propose?”
The three on them went into a huddle over the bleeping machine and I looked at Eli.
“You got any idea what wickedness they’m on about?”
He went as red as one of Ma’s tomatoes. “Maybe Brother Abram,” he whispered.
“What. Him wantin’ to take me as his third wife?”
Eli grabbed my shoulders so hard it hurt. “You ain’t supposed to know about that.”
“I don’t guess I am. But Ma thought I oughter know in case I gotta cut and run.”
“Shouldn’t come to that. Scripture don’t say a man can have three wives.”
I looked at him and decided he should hear the truth. “It don’t, but Brother Abram’s first wife has a cancer in her breast. She don’t have long. Then there will be a vacancy.”
I never heard my brother swear afore, but he swore then long and hard. “Do Pa know?”
“He do now, I spect. Me and Ma only found out at Woman’s Church this morning.”
“But Brother Abram is past sixty and you…”
“I’m fifteen.”
“It just don’t seem right.”
“Not to me neither. Not right at all.”
“Nor to us.” It was Uriel. “Not any way at all. So we propose a little game. Are you brave enough?”
Eli spoke right out brave and true. “If it keeps that man’s filthy hands offen Hepsie, I reckon I can be.”
Uriel turned his face to me and I nodded. “I gotta be brave. Or else I gotta run. Brave’ll be better.”
“Very well then. Do you trust us?”
“We have to.” That was Eli. “We got no option.”
“And you, Hepzibah?”
I answered him honest, knowing in my heart that it would do me no good to try and lie.
“Right now, I don’t even trust my own eyes. But I believe you mean us no harm.”
The three flowed together again, only this time they looked like water moving in the spring floods, or maybe snow blowing up the valley in winter. When they returned to their angel forms, Jegudiel spoke inside my head.
“See, little one, we can be anything you want us to be. Anywhere you want us to be.”
I didn’t see at all, but I nodded my head anyway.
The ‘little game’ was a long time in the planning and I was too tired to take much notice. Instead I sat and stared at my dirty feet on the white softness of the bed and felt small and very lonely. In the end Selaphel come across and laid a cool hand in my head.
“Sleep,” he said.
I slept and dreamed of machines running over me and the small sting of a needle in my leg. I remember crying in my dream and Eli coming to hold my hand.
“Hush Hepsie. Soon be over.”
When I woke up fully I saw something had happened to Eli and I shivered.
“What they done to you?”
He grinned and stroked the black beard that now covered his chest.
“They just aged me a bit. You too.”
I looked down my body to realise that I had gotten a whole heap more curves as I slept.
“It’s gonna burn Brother Abram something terrible not to get his hands on this,” I said.
“That’s the plan. You ready to go home and tell them we bin took by angels?”
“I am.”
He took ahold of my hand and moved me to the middle of the floor. The three-in-one dipped the heads they currently wore and Uriel lifted his hand in a kind of a blessing. The floor under our feet opened and I felt sure we would fall to our deaths, but instead we drifted gently to the ground in a blaze of yellow light. All around us was the brassy sound of trumpets and for a minute I could have swore I seen a hundred angels around us with their voices raised in praise.
I never been so glad of anything in my life as Eli’s strong hand when we stood on the grass outside The Temple. People come running from every direction and fell to the floor in praise and fear. Eli held up a hand and spoke slow and deep.
“We have spoken with the Angels of the Lord,” he said.
I never said nothing. Never had to. It was easier to leave the lies to Eli. He seemed to be mighty good at it.
They called him The Son of The Prophet and his word was law, but he went ahead twenty years back and his son now runs things.
Me? I married the lad I always hankered after and give him eleven strong sons.
Now I’m nearing the end of my days I see Uriel and his brothers most nights as they swim through the heavens with their long tentacles touching the stars. I still wonder what they really are.
That’s all I got to say, so now I will put down my pen and decide how I should seal my deposition. But that’s foolish, inside me I know what to do. I seen it one time in the courthouse. I’m putting my hand on these here papers now and I’m speaking out loud. “And that’s what happened to me. I swear.”

©️Jane Jago

Quite suddenly the sky went dark
Not full black but nearly
And every tree and blade of grass
Was outlined sharp and clearly
It was as if we held our breath
In the unnatural calm
As if the starkness of the earth
Awaited nature’s balm
A storm predicted overhead
A promise of sweet rain
A bang, three drops, a flash of light
It went away again
And now the heat is heavy damp
The sky relentless grey
Where dogs lay panting in the shade
And even lambs won’t play

©️Jane Jago 2020

Granny’s life hacks – nicknames 

Okay you horrible lot, listen up. Granny is about to impart knowledge.

If you are a married lady of a certain age, look across the room and consider your significant other. How does he appear?

Dashing, debonair and handsome

Rough, tough and dangerous

Slightly grubby and with jam on his vest

Tidily harmless in his cardigan and carpet slippers

If he is any of the first three it’s an even bet you don’t call him  your ‘hubby’….

Also for ladies who should be old enough to know better. What do you refer to your lady bits as?

Fanny

Man Trap

Minge

Front bottom 

If it’s any of the first three you probably still have a sex life….

Are you beginning to catch my drift here? What we call things matters.

If you call a man ‘hubby’ he will grow into the neutered tom cat smugness the word suggests.

If you really do call your fanny a ‘front bottom’ the chances of it ever getting a visitor diminish with the years as the terminology becomes more and more at odds with the age and the experience of the speaker.

My late husband – god rest his OCD little soul – once referred to me as the little woman, and wondered why I didn’t come across for a month. Although I am certainly a woman, I am far from being little and the term is pejorative in the extreme. It is like so many words used about women, being designed to remind the ‘fair sex’ of its position in society.

So let’s strip the cute nicknames bare, shall we?

Fur baby. Nope. It’s a cat or a dog or whatever. It is not a baby. Gyp is a dog and he is my best mate (except when he barfs on the floor). I would no more call him a ‘fur baby’ than buy him a pink coat and have his toenails painted. He needs to be allowed to be a dog.

Your tiny daughter has baby fat in bracelets around her wrists. You decide to call her ‘chubbykins’. She has body image issues for the rest of her life.

And so on.

Words have power.

So please stop fecking about.

And if you want to neuter the old man send him to the vet. It’s quicker and more dignified 

To celebrate our third birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a drabble writing competition.

As it is our third birthday competition we have three Honourable Mentions. This one is from Stephanie Barr.

She’d been driven from her home again.
Hated. Scorned. Alone. Reviled for what she was not who, though how could she be anything but what she was?
She never attacked anyone who didn’t invade her home, even though those invaders were hated as much as she was herself.
She wanted no more than what anyone else wants: the chance to live in peace, to raise a family, to sleep and eat like anyone else.
Well, maybe not eat like anyone else.
Sucking them dry rather than eating per se. It could be disturbing.
It was hard to be a spider.

It was very quiet in this area of the stacks, so quiet that if you listened carefully enough you could hear the books breathing. This portentous silence was broken by a rhythmic squeak as a trolley loaded with grimoires and  magical texts was pushed firmly towards the dark corner wherein such resided.
“It’s no good you being like that,” a determined voice said. “It doesn’t hurt being shelved. It’s not as if any of you are chained. Although if some of you keep misbehaving…”
The rhythmic squeal stopped and the trolley rounded a corner, being pushed by a dumpy girl with a determined looking chin. As it neared the  shelves where arcane and magical volumes were shelved the squeal started up again.
“Does somebody want to be shelved on 99b?”
Silence.
The dumpy girl began shelving volumes with practiced efficiency. She handled the books with care and respect, but would brook no resistance nor any other tricks. One of the grimoires snapped its covers at her and she slapped it firmly.
“Start that with me and I’ll chain you.”
If it was possible for a book to look abashed it did so, coming quietly to hand to be slipped into its accustomed place.
Once the grimoires were tidily placed in their proper positions, the Night  Librarian closed the steel doors around their stack and locked them with a hugely ornate key.
On her way back to the centre desk, she paused briefly at travel and pointed an imperious finger. There was a bit of scrabbling as the books reshelved themselves in their proper order, followed by an embarrassed silence.
“Papua New Guinea, since when have you lived between Jersey and Guernsey?”
A dog eared volume leapt from a shelf and scuttled off. The girl regarded the now tidy stack for a moment before permitting herself a small smile.
“Better.”
She turned on her heel pushing the now empty trolley to the store room where it would be filled by the day staff who were far too busy to ever shelve books.
As they saw it, that was her job and the business of shelving had already taken a goodly part of the night, but at least there was just one full trolley left. She looked at it with some disfavour before grasping the handles firmly. Immediately they turned warm, and furry and she could feel tiny tentacles caressing the thin skin inside her wrists.
“Stop that at once,” she frowned awfully and the trolley behaved as she pushed it past Young Adult, Alternative History, and Romance to its designated area: Erotica.
“Here we are,” she said brightly, “your stop”.
These stacks were somehow claustrophobic, and the air was thick and heavy with what could be felt as either threat or promise. The young librarian appeared to feel neither as she simply proceeded with her work.
“Lesbian romance,” she clapped her hands and a half dozen or so volumes jumped from the trolley and shelved themselves neatly among their peers. She carried on, briskly calling out names and categories and the books kept obeying, even if she did feel the occasional groping hand as they passed her by.
Finally there were just two books left glowering at her from the trolley. “Extreme punishment, am I to assume you are unwilling to shelve yourselves like sensible books?”
There was a sudden sullenness in the air and she sighed.
“You lot are more trouble than grimoires.”

You can find this story in Pulling the Rug IV by Jane Jago or listen to it as recorded by Tall Tales TV on YouTube.

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

Posh Condiments 

I just had my tea. Fish and chips. Bloody nice it was too. On the table there was ordinary salt and malt vinegar. Sufficient condimentation for anybody.

What is with people? Some places there is more condiments on the table than food. 

And. What. The. Fuck. Is. Pink. Salt.

You do not need: Eleven varieties of peppercorns. Salt from the Sargasso Sea (it tastes salty). That bloke with the funny name’s fish condiment. Beetroot ketchup. Any kind of infused oil. Anything that calls itself an artisan condiment.

If your cooking is that shite, instead of overblown condiments, buy a cookbook.