Two Women and Some Books
I sing a song of spring and flowers
Quiet moments gentle hours
Grass of green and sky of blue
Nature in her brightest hues
Daffodils in petticoats yellow
Primroses in colours mellow
As I sit beneath the sky
I think of you and wonder why
You walked away and stole my heart
Although you swore we’d never part
I sing a song of spring and sorrow
Perhaps I shall forget tomorrow
Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes!
Today’s Victim is Julia Llewellyn, one half of the husband and wife team who solve the Dai and Julia Mysteries in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules, written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.
When you come from where I do the trappings of civilisation mean little. I was a scruffy kid from the slums who remembered only too vividly what it meant to be hungry. My grandparents gave me better than that but I still ran with the Suburra gangs and learned to fight and swear rather than being civilised. To be honest, the only thing I miss from Italia is olives. Britannia has given me a family and that’s kind of all I could ever ask for.
Dai’s moods are legendary. Mostly I ignore them. But if he gets on my nerves too badly I get in his face. Or shove Aelwen in his arms. He can never resist her dimples.
The biggest disadvantage about knowing those two is….. those two. They are basically a pair of overgrown schoolboys, and mostly above the law. I love them like brothers, but like brothers they can be a right pain in the ass. Also stupid people think I can be bribed or frightened into using my ‘influence’ with the Praetor. That’s a pain – although it usually hurts them more than me.
I have two. A belief that justice is for everyone no matter who their pater might have been. My family. Dai, Aelwen and Rhodri are the heart of me and the motivation for most of what I do.
Regret? Probably being captured and raped by the Mongols when I was just a kid. It took some living down. But even then I’d not change it, because I firmly believe I’m where I am now because of where I was then. ‘Change one thing. Change all’
Fear? Something bad happening to my children.
Hope? Those same children. I hope they will grow to be proud, happy people who understand how much they are loved
“Gutwulf, will you hold the fragging thing still…”
Circe waved her mascara brush at the goblin in the horned helmet.
“How am I supposed to keep still when a half-dressed siren is using my blade as a make-up mirror?”
“Your problem halfwit. If you hadn’t broken the sea mirror you’d still be raping and pillaging and I’d be back on my rock. But you did break it, and now we are stuck together for seven hundred and seventy seven years.”
Gutwulf considered.
He cut Circe’s throat, deeming death less than the dishonour of life as a ladies maid.
If ever a woman was between two unwanted destinies…
I was sitting astride one of the sturdy roof supports of the smithy with my back against the warm stone of the forge chimney, listening to two men discussing my future.
One was William Smith, a brawny giant of a man who was making nails as he spoke. The other was the Puritan gentleman who now owned my family home.
“Nobody,” the dark-clad man was saying, “is able, or willing, to tell me where I might find the daughter of the house.”
“I shouldn’t think they know,” William’s bass rumble held a thread of amusement.
“And you, master Smith, would you tell me if you knew?”
“That would depend.”
The man rounded on him angrily. “I could turn you out in the streets and have you whipped from the village for your insolence.”
“You could try, but I own this smithy free and clear, and I’m not a man easy to intimidate.”
They stared each other in the eyes for a long moment, and it was the Parliamentarian who looked away first.
“No harm will come to the girl of my doing. I would marry the chit, or, if she will not, her father is alive in the Low Countries with others of his party.”
William made a deep humming noise. “So, the girl must either marry a man she has never set eyes on before, or she must leave her home to follow a father who is as like as not to lose her in a game of cards. Not a lot of choice.”
The dark gent ground his teeth. “Do I not know that? But it is the best I can offer.”
There was a long moment of silence broken only by the musical ring of hammer on anvil as William beat iron into nails.
“And what if there was another way?”
“I am listening.”
“The girl is as wild as one of her father’s hawks. She is not one to be tamed by any man. Marry her against her will and you would spend your life looking behind you. Let her be. It may be that you could come to know her that way and in time.”
“She doesn’t have time. The family of her father’s second wife has designs on her person.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason her father wants her. Money.”
“Money?”
“Aye. The girl is wealthy in her own right and there are many who would use that wealth.”
“Including yourself,” William’s voice was full of contempt.
“Yes. But at least I would use it to address the neglect of her home and it’s acreage. And I would be kind.”
William studied him then shrugged his massive shoulders. He threw the last nail into the bucket and shifted his head to look up to my perch.
“What do you think, Miss Henrietta? Will you marry? Or will you go to your father? Or…”
He held up his arms and I jumped into them before turning to look into the narrow, dark face of the man I was to spend the next fifty years married to.
The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…
Should you wonder if something tastes nice
Just listen to this sage advice
You can try a small bit
If you don’t like it, spit
If you do, bite it big once or twice
“Captain’s Log update. Further to the recent encounter with the last human colony in the Calamarti Sector, The Golden Strand is currently moving into uncharted space. We are following up on reports of the existence of a mythical and demonic alien race. The Kyruku.”
Captain Gervain’s elegant and poised outline could be seen silhouetted in profile against the receding planet as she finished recording her log.
“Do you believe the colonists, Captain?”
The youthful-looking science officer lacked expression in both her voice and her face. Despite the question, she displayed zero curiosity. It was as if the captain’s response, whatever it might be, was of no more than academic interest to her.
“I don’t know,” Gervain admitted after a moment of reflection. “Sub-Commander Stude seems to think the colonists have some genuine grounds to believe they do exist. He says the landing team he led met too many who had stories to tell about them for it to be a complete myth. But all I really heard from him was wild stories of the curse they are supposed to carry.”
“It is completely irrational to believe such accounts,” Science Officer Chay agreed, her tone clipped. “To accord any credence to the entire concept of a curse requires an irrational and superstitious mindset.”
The captain lifted one eyebrow and leaned closer to her colleague, lowering her voice so the rest of the crew wouldn’t hear. “Between you and me, I think you have Arlan Stude pinned, Xexe. You don’t get much more irrational and superstitious than he is.” She smiled knowingly at her science officer, who blinked and tilted her head.
“I am not sure I can agree with you, Captain. In my experience, Sub-Commander Stude makes highly rational decisions.”
The captain drew a sharp breath, but whatever she had been going to say next was silenced on her tongue. The lights on the flight deck suddenly flickered and a siren began blaring the “High Alert” warning. Both women turned and looked towards the huge viewing screen, just as a brick-shaped vessel shimmered into view against the backdrop of stars. It looked ugly, with the rusted colour of its hull and the alien technology appearing to human eyes like protruding pincers, needles and claw shapes.
“Will you look at that?” The expression on Captain Gervain’s face was a well-crafted blend of wonder and horror. Beside her, the deadpan of the science officer was a brilliant counterpoint. High emotion set against pure mentation.
“I see it, Captain. It is there. The Kyruku. Do. Exist.”
Two such different female faces, one shot. Perfect.
Joah Meer glanced from the monitor view back to the studio where the two women stood in an empty room staring, rapt, at a blank wall. They really were very good. She had them hold their pose for a few seconds longer than was strictly needed, stopped the recording and smiled.
“Nice work. Take five and then we’ll be setting up to get the fight scene recorded.”
Heila, whose role as captain of The Golden Strand had lasted three seasons so far, stretched slowly as if she had been cramped, and glared at Joah.
“I’m not doing that hurling myself around on the floor thing again, so don’t ask.”
“Never, darling,” Joah said, soothingly. “You might get another bruise, and you have a full-exposure publicity shoot tomorrow.”
Beside her, no longer stone-faced, Zarshay snorted and broke into a grin. Heila scowled at her.
“So funny?”
“Full exposure? Oh my, the life of a leading lady.”
Which was enough to send Heila stalking out in high dudgeon. Zarshay was still grinning as she navigated through the two tech-droids and their human keeper, Wilf, to reach Joah’s console. Joah opened her arms and hugged her tight, lifting her off her feet as they kissed.
“Seriously? You have booked Heila for a skin shoot?”
Joah shook her head.
“Of course not, it’s just a usual media thing, but she has been getting so precious recently, I’ve been tempted. It’s like she thinks we should change Starways Pathfinders to The Heila Camarthy Show.”
Zarshay made a rude noise and laughed.
But something of the tension was still there when they were adding the space-battle scenes.
From ‘Star Dust’ by E.M.Swift-Hook one of the stories set in The Last City a shared-world science fiction anthology.
Edgar knew himself to be the matrimonial catch of the season, and he wasn’t about to be hurried into anything.
All winter, the marriageable women flirted and pouted and many allowed themselves to be caught and kissed in the moonlight. Edgar made no promises, but one girl, more determined than the rest, emerged as front runner.
The day of decision came and Edgar looked into the icy complaisance of her eyes. She was wealthy, beautiful, suitable and icecold.
He passed her by, and offered for the hand of a plain girl with a smile as warm as a June morning.
Torwyn watched the cold eyes behind the high Vyazin nose and found himself thinking of the last time he had been in such a room with the man who had then been just a Warlord.
It had been in Alfor two summers before at the time of the Fair and he had been left chained so the Warlord could talk with him alone. For the longest time, Qabal Vyazin had just walked around his naked, freshly oiled body and said nothing, examining him from every angle.
Trained to such display from an early age, Torwyn kept himself still. He had been uncertain what to expect from such a man as this. Some nobles were quick to make their desires known and wanted a response to feed their egos. But this man seemed to study him from another perspective altogether.
At last, he had stood in front of Torwyn, and held his gaze with a vice-like stare which had been cold and dispassionate. Torwyn had lowered his own eyes after a short time and it was then Qabal had spoken, his voice enquiring.
“Tell me how it is you have such power?”
Torwyn had struggled with that, uncertain what he was being asked or how he could please this man with an answer.
“I have no power, Most Honoured One,” he had said at last, aware of the burden of the unemotional eyes upon him. “I am just a fighting-slave. I cannot command others.”
Qabal had stood very still and given a sharp upward nod.
“You know your place well,” he said softly. “But you also underestimate yourself. Each time you walk onto the sand you have more power than any man – the power of death over another human being. How does that feel?”
Most who paid for private time with the Sabre were interested in only one aspect of his anatomy: that which he kept between his legs. Qabal was clearly equally obsessed, but with another part of his body: that which lay between his ears.
Torwyn stared at the Warlord and hoped the sudden rush of contempt was not visible on his face. How could he ever explain the sick sense of fatality? How to describe the gut-churning fear? How to express the burn of adrenaline which had to push you further than thought? What possible way could he put into words the sense of intense self-disgust which choked the soul each time he had to kill? Standing before Qabal he had struggled to find anything in that which had to do with power. Eventually what he had said was what he thought Qabal had wanted to hear: a simple lie.
“It feels as though I am the ruler of the world – in that moment with my opponent’s life in my hand.”
Qabal had stared at him for a long time and then given that same odd upward nod.
“Then you and I are men of the same cast. Except that my arena is all Temsevar.”
From Dues of Blood the final part of Transgressor Trilogy in the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.
The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…
When it’s raining just sit by the fire
And dream of the things you desire
Like brandy, and sweets
And a man with big ‘feet’
The thought of whom makes you perspire
What if Dickens went steampunk? A Twist in Time by Brent A. Harris published by Inklings Press, follows an older Oliver as he investigates the disappearance of orphans across London. He sets out to save them, with help from tinkerer, Nell Trent, and a slew of fantastical contraptions – including a mysterious pocket watch that allows its bearer to bend the rules of time. With Oliver’s childhood nemesis, the Artful Dodger and her lethal bag of tricks dogging their steps, he discovers that there is more at stake than his own life and the missing orphans. Can he save London from the flames?
I raced down the macadam road, toward the flames, the storm breaking on my heels. The wind had picked up, the barometer had dropped, and flurries chased me. I shivered without my coat, having shed it in a rubbish bin at the club. I would have given thanks for the warmth of the fire, but those same flames meant that I’d arrived too late.
The door to the Curiosity Shop had fallen from its hinges by the time I entered the building. Already, the smoke was thick enough to send me coughing. I searched in vain for Nell. A stout wooden beam blocked my path. The wall to the training room had begun to crumble. And the roof threatened to cave in.
“Nell?”
Flaming debris fell around me. Clothing, tinker-toys, automaton birds were all just kindling for the fire. A copy of Oliver Twist went to ash before me. I implored Nell, “Tell me what to do.”
Silence fell but for the roar of flames and the bells from the fire-carriage outside. The very same carriage sat unmoving when I’d come in. All anyone could do was to watch the old building burn, ensuring that the flames didn’t spread.
“Where are you?”
“I’m still here, for now. But there’s nothing you can do,” Nell’s voice returned. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“There must be something to save you, to keep you here.”
I could sense her shaking her head, but it was probably just how I knew her in my mind. “Take your cane. I’ve kept it safe from the flames. It’s by your case. Take it, get to the steam mill.”
“No.” I was so tired of losing. Of failing. I wanted to put my past behind me, I wanted to be someone different, but every time I did, someone suffered, from Farley in the street, to Edward. Now… Nell. This was going to end. I was going to save Nell or die in the attempt. “I need you.”
“I can’t stay. The store is gone.”
Another beam fell from the ceiling. I flew deeper into the store, my choice made. I saw the case Nell mentioned. I could have saved it. I might even have escaped the store alive. Instead, I watched as flames licked it, then tasted the case and cane… then consumed them.
My cough increased. My eyes shut in tears. It was too late now anyway to escape.
“No, Oliver—” Her voice grew distant, a fading echo.
I took the watch and held it out. “No gear twists back time. It knows my soul. It knows where I must go.” The timepiece didn’t work for me earlier. But it had to now. I wanted nothing more in this world.
The second hand ticked on as the flames grew.
Take me back to before the fire. Before the club.
Seconds ticked on.
Take me back far enough to save Nell.
Swirls of copper surrounded me as orange flame entangled the light. I could hear Nell’s faint voice echoing, “Don’t do this, Oliver. Let the watch guide you, or you could make it worse…”
I shut the voice out of my head. White and blue currents of electric energy crackled and shot from the copper ball of light entombing me.
Everything went white—
The storm was gone.
A Bite of… Brent A. Harris
Villain. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a villain, as every Big Bad is technically the hero of their own story. Therefore, you can never be the villain. Thanos just wanted to make the universe a better place. Darth Vader wished to bring peace and order to the galaxy. They would never call themselves anything but a hero.
James Bond. Batman is cool but he’s a small fish in a world of Supers always hunted by the police, tormented by a clown, and imprisoned by his own moral code. James Bond lives in a world where he’s the only one with super cool gadgets, cars, women, and a license to thrill. His only semi-super-powered nemeses are a guy with metal teeth and a guy who can throw his hat. Although I’d possibly take the Batmobile over the Aston Martin, but I’m not terribly picky.
Well, the problem with that is I’ve yet to write a book where I’d have any chance at survival. I’d die of dysentery, smallpox, or a musket ball during the American Revolution in A Time of Need. Victorian London isn’t regal at all; life is nasty, brutish, and short in A Twist in Time. And dinosaurs are literally fighting for survival in “Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon.”
I guess the only thing to do is to make this world the best it can be, and that takes all of us working together. The problem is, we all view ourselves as the heroes, even people who are tearing the world down. Either we start agreeing on a way forward or the next book I write needs to feature me living on an island paradise called Brentlandia.
Brent A. Harris is most known for writing alternate history. His most notable work is Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon, co-written with Ricardo Victoria, where evolved dinosaurs travel back in time to save their dying world, was nominated for a Sidewise Award 2016. He considers Southern California his home but currently lives in Italy. You can follow him on Facebook and Twitter or find him on his website.
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