From the eighth Fortune’s Fools book Iconoclast: Not To Be by E.M Swift-Hook which is now available for pre-order.

The following day Avilon had deposited her travel bag at the spaceport and reached her chosen observation point in good time. A bench under a tree. She had identified it as giving her a clear view of three of the entrances to the mausoleum. Like most across Coalition space, it was set in a small park. Many mausoleums were polyhedral with the octagonal format being most favoured.  This one was smoothly round beneath its dome, three stories high, with curved alcoves pushing the building’s walls out in bulges, so it looked a little like a sophisticated dessert, upturned on a serving dish.
Considering the venue, she had dressed appropriately and wore a traditional mourning veil over her face. Just as most of the women and many of the men present were doing as a mark of respect or simply to hide the signs of their grief. Except this veil was not as traditional as it appeared. Aside obscuring her features and making her hard to recognise, the fabric was designed to disrupt facial recognition in a way no amount of current technology could correct.
The weather was overcast, which seemed to fit well with the mood of the place. Two funerals arrived as she waited, the people filing in solemn procession through one of the entrances, the coffins bourne on silent gurneys, flanked by smartly clad relatives and followed by friends. Once inside they would be shown into one of the side-chambers of the mausoleum, where they would sit and listen to speeches in praise and remembrance of the one who had died.
After the second of the funerals had gone inside, Avilon checked the time and took the security cameras offline, before walking slowly to join a third funeral procession making its way into the mausoleum. There was nothing preventing her simply walking in to honour the dead, but as part of a larger group she drew less attention from the staff and it was not difficult to detach herself unobserved once inside. She had spotted Car Torbalen walking in the middle of the second procession, a veil over his head and his demeanour as grave as the rest of the mourners, only recognisable by his bulk and the way he moved. She wondered if he was indeed there to attend that funeral. It would have provided a solid pretext to satisfy the Legacy whilst removing him from under their scrutiny. It was a good idea to keep in mind that he was a very clever man.
Even though it was dull outside, the dimly lit interior of the mausoleum seemed dark. Avilon had to allow a few moments for her eyes to adjust as she looked around. The funeral procession she had followed was still slowly filing into a side-chamber, guided by silent ushers. There were also a handful of people in the main body of the building, come to visit their dead. Avilon looked up to where the domed roof was set with thousands of shining points of light. Most were white but there were reds and blues and greens there too, illuminated from around the dome. Each point of light, a gemstone formed from the remains of someone who had died many years before. The gems of the more recently deceased were set in special cabinets where relatives could visit them and place flowers or leave other tokens. These cabinets were in the alcoves, tiered around the walls, accessible by open walkways on each floor so the echoing silence and beauty of the dome was omnipresent.
Torbalen was visible on the top walkway, leaning on the rail and looking up at the dome. He had removed the veil and seemed oblivious to her presence or that of anyone else, lost in thoughts of infinity and mortality, perhaps. It was hard to tell as the lighting was too poor, but it was very clear he was alone.
This was not a place to rush or be seen to move fast, so Avilon walked as quickly as she could without breaking convention and drawing attention to herself. Appearing to be a not-so-recently bereaved relative, moving with purpose to visit her dead. Once she was on the highest gallery she lifted her own veil. Torbalen must have heard her approach as she made no attempt to move silently but he remained, arms folded on the rail, contemplating the starry vault of the mausoleum dome. It was only when she was a couple of paces away, he turned, briefly, met her gaze and stepped into the alcove behind them. Avilon followed.
“My parents are here,” he said, not turning to face her. He opened one of the cabinets to reveal two crystals resting in a soft cloth bed, nestled side by side in the gentle glow of the cabinet’s lighting. “It won’t be long before they are set in the dome – five years I’ve been told. They need the space for the more recently deceased.”
Avilon wondered what to say. Her own parents, dead in an accident that she had long since doubted really was one, would be somewhere in a Central mausoleum. She had never been to visit them and was not sure she would want to even if it were ever possible. She was no longer the child they had raised or the person they had known, in more ways than the merely physical.
“This is your homeworld?” she asked after the silence stretched too long.
“It was. Once. I don’t think any of us really have a home as such now, do we? And yes, I am here for the funeral of a relative. My brother.” He lifted a hand as Avilon drew breath to speak. “No need for condolences and you are not intruding on private grief with this meeting. We were never exactly close. In fact, I can’t recall the last time we had a civil word for each other – and that includes our shared childhood. But it was still expected for me to be here, of course.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
Torbalen half-turned to sweep his hand over the cabinet, closing it again, leaving them in the dark of the alcove.
“You didn’t give me much choice. I need the information you have.”

E.M Swift-Hook

You can snag your copy of  Iconoclast: Not To Be on preorder now!

Brave is not the painted face of a brazen warrior tall
It’s more the paint that hides the tears of women feeling small
Courage isn’t facing foes with muscles rippling taut
It’s more about the difficult things you do because you ought 
Brave is not the proud explorer nor the mighty mountaineer 
It’s someone unsung doing that hard thing because it’s here
Quiet courage, faces misery deep and looks into its eyes 
Defeats her fears for years and years. Although inside she cries

©️Jane Jago 2019

The pursuit had been going on for hours now, and Sharky was about beat. His body felt leaden and with every beat of his tail he knew himself to be getting weaker and weaker.
Something inside him refused to just give in, though, so he turned to face the behemoth. He kept his eyes open and his gaze stony as the monster came ever closer.
He might not be much of a shark but he determined to die with at least the semblance of bravery.
The monster stopped within a millimetre of his face.
“Tag,” it said, “you’re it now.”

©jane jago

New Year, new you!

I have very little doubt that at some time in the waning hours of the last decade ninety per cent of you will have been tempted into making at least one resolution for the improvement of yourselves or the planet you are lucky enough to inhabit.

There will have been earnest declarations of an absolute determination to live a greener more environmentally aware life, drunken avowals to the cause of losing weight, giving up smoking, and getting fit, and, we mustn’t forget those for whom 2020 was to be the year of the birth of the seminal twenty-first century novel.

But two weeks in how have you fared? 

All you little extinction rebels. Did you remember your designer shopping bags when you went to Waitrose? Have you traded in the Range Rover for a Leaf? And did you really manage to talk yourself out of booking that holiday to the Maldives? 

I thought not.

And who has stopped smoking? Lost an ounce? Actually used that gym membership? 

I see one hand raised in a sea of shame.

What about all the wannabe Shakespeares out there. You bought the laptop and Stephen King On Writing. Spent a lot.

Written a lot? No. But I bet you’ve played every game you own and watched a lot of catch-up TV.

Now you have soberly faced up to the undeniable fact that you are the same you as you were before January arrived it’s time to listen to granny.

Don’t be making promises you can’t keep. Better to say to quietly yourself that you’ll try to do a few things a bit different than trumpet your intentions where you will be exposed to cruel ridicule for not lasting beyond January 3rd.

Granny’s first rule for surviving the year. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, your legs crossed and your phone in your pocket. 

And this time next year I hope you will have remembered that New Year’s Eve is really not the time to make any decision except maybe to just have another drink…

I’ve been cleaning hotels since I was fifteen years old – and now I’m forty and as plain as a pikestaff I’m still at it. I’m a good cleaner, though, so I’ve moved up the scale from backstreet boarding houses and these days I wear a nifty little uniform and clear up after the guests in the five-star Venezia Palace that looms over the resort like a fancy wedding cake. 
That Friday evening I had been called to the penthouse level to deal with a ‘little mishap’ in one of the bathrooms. I had just finished, when a wispy little lady drifted into the room. She blushed as if embarrassed to see me, so I bobbed a half curtesy and she smiled vaguely.
“Umm, miss. While you are here there’s a bit of a spillage out on the balcony.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I picked up my emergency kit and followed, admiring her silk lounging pyjamas but feeling a bit sorry for her obvious shyness and awkwardness.
“The maid was still here, Arlo, so I asked her to come and mop up here.”
‘Arlo’ was a handsome devil, but with one of them closed faces that makes me think that the wearer harbours bad secrets. He briefly lifted his head and his eyes slid across me without even really registering me as a human being. But I was so used to that sort of reaction that I wasn’t  even insulted any more. I just got on with my cleaning. 
I was almost finished when I heard a strange noise. It was like wings. Only not bird wings. It sounded leathery and slapping. I looked up to see another man standing on the breast-high balustrade. He was pale-skinned and bare-chested and he had black leather wings. They were folded now, but I knew the snapping sound had been those wings flying him in. 
Unlike Arlo, this man’s cold black eyes didn’t discount my humanity. Instead I could feel his gaze burning against the pulse point in my throat. It felt hungry and made me want to shiver. I made to turn and walk away, but it was as if my feel were nailed to the ground. 
Arlo looked up. “Leave the maid, Luce, she’s only here to clear up after Clumsy Clara here, who can’t hold her drink.”
‘Luce’ jumped lightly down onto the floor and was at the woman’s side in two strides. He pulled aside the woman’s silken collar exposing twin puncture marks in the papery whiteness of her skin. He showed his teeth.
“Arlo. Were you not told?”
“Since when have the likes of us done anything we were told?”
Moving too fast for the eye to register Luce was beside Arlo and he one hand around the other man’s throat. 
Clara made a small sound in the back of her throat before slipping to the ground in a dead faint. As she hit the ground the compulsion to remain in place left me and I went to her side.
As I knelt down, her eyes fluttered open.
“Get away,” she whispered. “While they are occupied with each other. Run away.”
I eased an arm under her shoulders and helped her to sit up. As I did so a she gave a harsh little cry, and I realised Arlo was moving. He walked like a clockwork soldier, or one of the automatons that go in and out of the clock in the hotel ballroom, and when he got to the balustrade he climbed over. For a second, he seemed to stand on thin air before plunging downwards. 
We were eighty-nine floors up and my stomach revolted at the idea of his body being splattered across the pristine stones of the foyer below us.
Only he wasn’t. A moment later he reappeared grinning savagely. His wings were feathered, but as black as Luce’s leather. 
The two men grappled with each other, standing on insubstantial air as they fought. The woman on the floor hid her face in my shoulder for a moment before struggling to her feet.
“Can I help you ma’am?” I asked quietly.
“I should refuse you. But I cannot.”
She took my hand and I walked beside her to where the two winged ones fought.
“Blood for blood,” she said and the men looked hungrily at me.
Then Clara let go of my hand and I fell. 
My last living thought was that the cleaning crew would never get my blood out of the marble floor below.

©️jj 2019

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

It’s amazing how tarmac and gravel
Can fuck up your holiday travel
On a motorway an
Overturned caravan
Will cause all of your plans to unravel

© jane jago

She trod up the aisle, to where the chosen husband awaited her.

He was blocky and brilliantined, with a whitish, bristling moustache, above pursed pink lips.

As she promised to obey, he smiled coldly, although walking down the aisle he patted her hand.

“As long as you obey orders,” he whispered, “you have nothing to fear.”

The wedding breakfast was interminable, but night still came too soon. The groom entered the bedchamber.

“Obedience,” he snapped, shutting the door behind him with a click.

Morning found a figure huddled in the corner of the bedroom. 

He never challenged his wife again….

©jane jago

 When the Apaches overran the wagon train Agnes was afraid almost beyond speech.  She didn’t see what happened to her parents, but a man with face-paint and blood all over him grabbed her and dragged her across the withers of his running pony.
The next thing she really knew was when she awoke to the smell of woodsmoke. She was lying on a bed of furs and a woman wearing leather and beads was saying something she couldn’t understand, holding out a cup of something that smelled of herbs. Her head hurt and she drank the herbs before drifting back to sleep.
Coming around again she became aware of the sound of fighting. She heard screaming and shouting and the call of a bugle. The cavalry had arrived. She thought herself safe, though little could have been further from the truth.
Agnes didn’t know how long it was before the soldiers found her. When they did she could feel the heat of their eyes. Then a coarse voice spoke.
“Form an orderly line, boys. We may as well make use of her before we take her back to daddy. He won’t never know it warn’t the injuns…”
She couldn’t even protest, because her mouth was filled with rank tasting rags. She supposed this was what Papa had warned her about when he spoke of the lusts of men, and fat tears of both pain and shame dripped onto the earth floor.
No one would ever believe her.

©jj 2019

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.

From Haruspex: Trust A Few‘ by E.M. Swift-Hook

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

The limerick’s a thing of great beauty
Although it’s both vulgar and fruity
For rhythm and rhyme
It’s ahead of its time
And the entendres do double duty

© jane jago