Two Women and Some Books
What shines so greenly through the glass?
What magic does it hold?
If you drink, what comes to pass?
Does it stop you growing old?
Is it poison?
Is it food?
What is in suspension?
Is it frozen?
Is it hot?
Is it in this dimension?
You’ll never know unless you drink it just what it will do
You may find it lifts your mind, or rips the life from you
Friday the Thirteenth!
Who’s afraid of Freddy Krueger then? Lights a fag from the stub of the last one and sneers.
Look at yourselves will you. Frightening yourselves shitless about a random date and a fictional monster.
Get a grip!
Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day.
To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….
So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.
Stop watching horror films if you don’t have the balls to realise they are fiction.
Don’t be looking for lucky items of clothing, just put your adult panties on and get on with the day.
Do not walk around with your fingers crossed. You will only wind up hurting yourself.
Put the bloody rabbit foot down. It isn’t lucky for f***’s sake. The poor bloody rabbit is dead.
To cut a possibly very long rant a little shorter here is the bottom line.
Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.
Again I say crap.
If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…
Piss off. I’ve said all I’m going to say and you are annoying me now.
Happy Friday suckers!
There are so many gods on Olympus that the odd falling out isn’t surprising…
Trevor was the god of typos and he burned with hatred for Andreas Autocorrect.
But Trevor was skinny and plain, while Andreas was handsome and muscular, and, gaining followers daily, constantly grew bigger and more obnoxious.
That was where matters stood.
Until.
Andreas was the lover of Kira Keyboard. But he left her for Charis Chip.
Kira found comfort in Trevor’s bony embrace and he was happy.
Until.
Andreas crooked a finger.
It doesn’t pay to underestimate skinny gods. As Andrea Autocorrect discovered to her cost.
It was a real shame that the company who had accepted the contract on Leo’s life already had a team of two men in Devon who were sure they could rub out a bloke who drew dogs for a living on the way back to headquarters. Sitting astride a Triumph Speed Triple in the village street, they were a little bit put out by the level of security at the house, but cheered up when they saw their target, and another man, bowl out of the drive in a bright red Morgan Roadster.
‘Easy enough to follow.’
‘Yeah, and I got the Glock with me.’
‘Shall we then?’
‘Yeah. Don’t look like it’ll be too difficult.’
‘Need to do it quiet. Don’t want to be dodging the filth all the way back home.’
‘Yeah. Gotta find a nice isolated stretch of country road.’
They followed the red car at a discreet distance, only closing up a little when they reached the A38.
In the Morgan, Clay shifted uneasily. ‘We seem’ he said tautly ‘to have picked up a tail.’
‘Yellow Speed Triple?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not precisely discreet, is it?’
‘Oh. I dunno. Around seventy per cent of people don’t see motorcycles at all. And of those that do it’s only aficionados who would recognise the make and model.’
‘True. So what do we do? I don’t reckon we’ll easily lose him. And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come again?’
‘This wants dealing with. Here and now. How ruthless are you?’
‘That’ Clay announced with some dignity ‘is my line. But since you are asking, I’m up for whatever. Although they will have a gun.’
‘I rather assumed that. A fast bike is ideal for a drive by.’
‘You are a cool customer ain’t you?’
‘My wife’s phrase is ‘hard bastard’. Now fish around in the glovebox in front of you. There’s a paintball pistol in there and it needs loading.’
Clay found the pistol and the paintballs. ‘Any particular colour?’ he asked facetiously.
‘How about red?’
Leo changed down and upped his speed to just shy of a hundred.
‘We’re about to turn off.’
‘Into the forest?’
‘Yep. I know it like the back of my hand. If those buggers come in after us you can be pretty sure they don’t. You’ll need to hold on tight for the first five minutes or so, because we can’t afford for them to come level with us until we’re further in.’
The red car swung off the dual carriageway onto what was little more than a single track. Leo gunned the engine and the Morgan sprang forward. He wrestled the car around a series of tight bends and kept the accelerator floored as they hit a long straight.
‘They coming?’
‘Yeah. But the twisty bit is holding them up.’
‘Good. We need to be around the next hairpin and climbing the hill before they catch us.’
The motorcycle was gaining on them, but not quickly enough, and the Morgan made it around a tight hairpin bend with about two layers of paint to spare. Then it turned sharp left up a steep drag.
‘Christ Johnson, that was fucking close. I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘Me too. Get your gun ready. I’m going to slow enough for them to get alongside us. Try for the driver’s visor.’
The Morgan slowed its impetuous rate and Clay watched the Triumph getting bigger and bigger in the mirror. It pulled alongside and he could see the business end of a big pistol. Leo touched the throttle and the Morgan surged forwards. Clay discharged two balls of red paint and had the satisfaction of seeing them burst across the visor of the driver’s helmet.
He was later to swear that the next fifteen seconds took place in slow motion. Leo took his foot off the gas and the Morgan dropped behind the struggling motorbike just as they reached the apex of the hill. With another deft touch of the throttle the front wing of the Morgan just touched the leg of the pillion passenger, ensuring that the bike went straight on. The road didn’t. Leo wrestled the sports car almost ninety degrees to the right before stopping the engine and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it. That was close. I nearly scratched the paintwork.’
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
I am old, which I have noticed means
I no longer look good in tight jeans
But if fifty can be
The new twenty-three
Why can’t seventy be seventeen?
The outbreak of violence was sudden and almost gleeful. At one minute the darts match was friendly, if a little rowdy, the next second the air was full of curses, thrown punches and broken glass.
Mickey crouched down behind the bar, pulling at Charlie’s trouser leg until he too ducked under the sturdy wood.
“Get down Chas. It ain’t worth getting hurt for a few bottles of cheap hooch.”
For an instant he looked as if he was about to argue, then his shoulders slumped and he sat down. Mickey passed him a thin, black cigarette and he lit it moodily.
As they sat smoking, a bar stool flew through the air smashing into the optics ranged behind the bar. Charlie winced, and Mickey patted his shoulder. There was a further loud crash before the welcome sound of sirens split the air.
The atmosphere in the bar did another abrupt flip-flop as the navvies and stevedores who had been happily exchanging punches suddenly found lots of other places they needed to be.
Charlie stood up for a look, just a second too soon, as he was hit in the side of the neck by a shard of glass from the last salvo of broken pint mugs. He slumped back to the floor and Mickey grabbed him.
“Chas, Chas.”
By the time the police got to them, Mickey’s hands were slippery with blood, and her face was slippery with tears and snot as she cradled her dead brother to her skinny chest.
It was a banquet for the wealthy and jaded. Snowy napery, gleaming crystal, and dining companions as colourful and delicate as butterflies glimmered in the light of a thousand candles.
As course followed course the butterflies grew bored, and when one threw a chocolate coated strawberry the outcome was inevitable. Food became a plaything. It was thrown about as if it cost nothing, and if someone chose to eat chocolate cake from the bare bosom of his companion…
The broken meats served ten hungry families. It would have been more – save that most was stamped underfoot and spoiled beyond repair.
‘Wrathburt Sands’ by E.M. Swift-Hook is just one of over twenty Game Lit stories by as many authors in Rise and Rescue – Volume One. All profits from the Rise and Rescue anthologies will go to support wildlife devastated by the Australian wildfires.
Milla had lived in Wrathburnt Sands for as long as she could remember. It was a good place to live compared to some of the outpost camps like the one out at Terraraptor Gorge or the guard tower at Wraith’s Watch. Those places were dangerous, overrun by monsters and undead. Here the worst hazards were the landsharks and the sandylions, but they kept away from the village and regular hunting parties of Visitors made sure they were never a problem.
Wrathburnt Sands was a small ryeshor community of a dozen small hovels and the rubble remains of an ancient stone monument nestled in a bay on the shores of the Silent Sea. Most Visitors arrived by boat from one of the great cities of the lands beyond. Occasionally one would come from inland to trade such rarities as dragon scales or harpy talons before heading back out on their ventures. Milla often wished she could go on a venture, but she was a Local and only Visitors could do that. Still, it didn’t stop her dreaming of going on one as she combed the beach for small treasures with Ruffkin, a scruffy little hound who seemed to have adopted her as his owner.
Milla had a small hut on the foreshore which she shared with Ruffkin. They shared what little she could scavenge from the beach directly, or sometimes she might find a large decorative shell, which she would trade to get fresh fish for them both from One Eye Rye.
But times had been hard recently with few Visitors coming to the village. Somedays none came at all. Which was why when she shaded her eyes against the sun, Milla was surprised to see a couple of them were already on the pier catching fish to give to One Eye. He would buy the catch of any new Visitor who needed a bit of silver, even lending them a rod to fish with, and his stall by the pier relied on their fresh catches.
As she got closer, Rufkin trotting at her heels, snatches of speech reached her from the pier, slowly coalescing into a full conversation, but little of it made much sense to Milla. Then very little of what the Visitors said and did ever made much sense to her. One Eye Rye said it was like they were from another universe.
“… been too long…came back early…need to grind WBS faction to over eighty percent…”
“…the kind of crap you get…devs nowadays.”
“Yeah. No thought for those of us who might be returning for the Expansion.”
“This fishing quest repeatable?”
“No. But there’s one to kill sandylions. Guy in the tent at the back. By the camels. Easy to solo, decent XP and a wad of faction too. It unlocks once you’ve done this one.”
“Sounds good. I’ll try that soon as I’ve caught these frigging fish.”
“Just hope the new expac is worth it.”
“Screenshots look awesome and the trailer hints at some really cool new group runs and raids.”
“And the new gear? You seen that? Shiny stats!”
You could always tell the Visitors even if they never said a word. Their weapons were all enchanted with spells and charms. They dressed in the most outlandish clothes and smothered themselves with magical rings and wristlets. Milla had just one magical item. Her hand went to touch the precious pendant. In truth, she had no idea what it did and sometimes wondered if it was just in her own mind it had any magical power at all. But it seemed to. Sometimes, at night, she was sure she could see it glow.
One Eye Rye had sniffed when she asked him about it.
“Who’s to say? You’d need to get to one of them big city mage types. Get it ‘eenalized’ as they calls it.”
And that was never going to happen. Even if she had the silver to pay a big city mage, the boats that brought Visitors wouldn’t take locals and there were no other boats she knew of heading to the cities across the Silent Sea.
Her thoughts seemed to conjure the reality and a sail appeared offshore tacking past the headland and into the bay. Then a second followed. And a third. Each carrying at least one Visitor maybe more. The dock was just past the fishing pier and she couldn’t see how many got off, but before she had finished climbing the steps from the beach to the houses, she could hear them chattering excitedly.
One Eye Rye thanked a Visitor politely and paid them for their fish then held out a rod to another who was waiting, tipping a quick wink at Milla to show he’d seen she was there and threw a scrap to Ruffkin who snuffled it up. He would talk to her when he’d dealt with the rush of new arrivals.
There were the usual assortment of elves and dwarves, halflings, gnomes, kittafolk, wolfenfolk and even a human.
Rise and Rescue – Volume One is out now, to keep reading snag your copy now and help support Australian wildlife.
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
I am old, that cannot be denied
But I’m taking it all in my stride
I know I look crumpled
My skin truly rumpled
I am still a twenty-seven inside
The Darkly Vampires, in Chloe Hammond‘s Darkly Dancing, aren’t the undead. They have been infected by a virus and undergone physical changes as radical as a butterfly during metamorphosis. It’s a difficult adaption to their strange new lives. They strive to cling to their humanity and hopes, to avoid compromising away their very natures. They tumble through heartbreaks and rage as they come to terms with being monsters.
This is not your common or garden pervert: we’ve hooked ourselves a proper monster. I almost pant in anticipation, and then, horrified, remind myself that I am not supposed to be enjoying this. No matter who, or what, he is, I am about to be involved in killing a human being. I have to remember to consider what this will make me, who I could become. I must not lose myself in the thrill of the hunt. I must not let myself become a monster too.
‘Verity, I saw what you wrote. I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting here alone believing no one understood. Verity, I understand you. I read your poems, and I know you are an old soul. Kids your age won’t understand you, but don’t blame them, they can’t help being stupid. You’re special. That’s why I came to find you, we’re the same, you and I,’ he croons to her as he squats besides her and takes her hand.
I know where this would lead if she really was a human girl sitting out here on her own at night, with no one at home caring where she was so late and no peer group to protect her. This monster would groom her until she was completely under his control, so he could do whatever he wished, and she would thank him for the privilege, and never, ever, tell. He would undermine all her other relationships, using lies and insinuation to make her doubt everyone she had left. Then, if any of her friends or siblings was tenacious enough to stick around, he would flirt outrageously with them. This would serve three purposes. It would damage her relationship with the unlucky recipient of his attention, because he would swear the flirtation was the other way around; it would chase the friend away because there would be a veiled threat in the flirting that the friend would feel; and it would break Verity’s confidence that little bit more, because she’s so ugly her friends flirt with him under her nose. She would end up feeling that he was so good to put up with her at all.
He is looking at her hand as he traces the pattern of the lace with the tip of his finger, testing, testing, to see what she will allow.
‘My name is Thierry,’ he tells her. ‘I live near here and when I read that you would be here all alone, I couldn’t bear it, I had to come to you.’
Liar. I don’t know how I am so sure, but my gut tells me that he’s travelled almost as far as us to get here tonight. For the same reasons.
As he speaks, he lifts his head slightly so he can glance at her coyly through his eye lashes, so subtle, no confrontational behaviour, luring her in with his romantic gestures and promises of understanding and care. But as his eyes meet Annie’s, his head jerks up and he rears back as his instincts scream at him that he’s stumbled onto a predator more dangerous than himself.
This is my cue; I turn my Glamour up to full blast and then sway out of the shadows.
‘Thierry!’ I coo. ‘Darling, come here.’
I cover the distance between us deceptively quickly, keeping my gaze on his as I sway towards him. I see terror on his face, which soon dispels as the waves of my Glamour thicken around him and his pupils dilate. He stands and steps obediently towards me. He is spellbound. There is nothing he can do but comply and come with me as I lead him back towards the others.
Over his shoulder Annie grins viciously: even her hunter has been stirred. Before we reach Elaine and Simon, I turn Thierry to face me and look deeply into his eyes. I just want to satisfy myself that right in the very depths of his soul he is still aware and screaming.
I smile broadly at that bit of him, and can’t resist a small gnash of my pointed, shiny teeth.
A Bite of… Chloe Hammond
Yes. The ideas for my novels came to me in nightmares, and I wanted to keep that intensely emotional feeling, with completely believable characters. So I based my clumsy, awkward, slightly maudlin main character loosely on me, and her vibrant, irrepressible, fun loving best friend on my own best friend. Some of the things we go up to together found their way into the book, and when I showed her, my friend loved it. She was so supportive through the whole writing process, from being the first person to read my first draft, to being the last person to read the final draft, she was my cheerleader every step of the way. So when she died suddenly of a brain aneurysm on father’s Day in 2017, it completely derailed my writing. The first time I realised that she was never going to know what happens, I had a physical shock from the level of grief that hit me. It took a very long time not just to feel like I could write at all, but to feel like I could attempt to capture some of her fizz on the page.
The one I have created, not just because I would still have my friend-even if she did do something stupidly dangerous out of boredom. Also because in my world there might be vampires in the shadows, but some of them relish the opportunity to even up the power imbalance a little. I have had great pleasure writing Rae and Layla’s hunting scenes as they pursued abusers, murders, pimps and rapists. And Rae’s influence is spreading, more and more vampires are coming around to her way of thinking. Who doesn’t love the idea of the dark allies holding retribution for the evil? Well, other than the evil.
Oh God yes! So ticklish, everywhere. It’s meant to be physiologically impossible to tickle yourself, but I can, and hate it when I do. In fact, sometimes I keep myself awake at night thinking about my armpits being tickled, which tickles. Awful.
Born in Liverpool, Chloe Hammond grew up in West Wales. Without T.V, books became her favourite escape. She studied Behavioural Sciences and Creative Writing at the University of Glamorgan. She always planned to write- life just got in the way. When diagnosed with anxiety and depression Chloe refused to give the depression the isolation it craves. She feared judgement, but instead found compassion and support.
She made time to write again. Darkly Dreaming came as nightmares, vivid scene at a time. She started writing them down, and quickly Rae and Layla’s characters introduced themselves and took over.
You can find Chloe on Goodreads, Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, LinkedIn and her own Website and Blog.
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