They had been getting away with it for years – savaging the vulnerable and weak, while hiding themselves behind fanciful avatars and pretend identities.

They felt invincible  But nobody can hide in cyberspace, no matter how clever they think they are. 

On the day that a skinny kid in Silicon Valley wiped the tears from his face and vowed to expose the evil bastards who drove his sister to suicide the ‘trolls’ were in the firing line.

It took two weeks to find them, and two hours to show them how it feels to be hated and vilified across the Internet.

©jj 2019

You can listen to this on YouTube.

Arena do Battaglia just before dawn on the longest day of the year. The place is heaving, every seat and every standing space is taken. People are chanting, and screaming, and eating chilli dogs and churros.
The marching band sweats under the arc lights as it plays songs of the revolution and marches in perfect time. Troupes of mostly naked gymnasts prowl and leap and perform feats of near-impossible balance. There are fire eaters, lion tamers, maestre with their estudas strung behind them collared like dogs, and cages containing every form of maimed and malformed human life are being paraded for the delectation of the baying mob.
Oh yes, all of the starry universe is here, but the multi-tentacled monster that fills the seats from stadium floor to the heights from which the arena seems peopled by ants is barely aware of any of it. It is the main event the crowd wants, and, although it waits good-naturedly now, let the battle commence just one second late and the riot will be unstoppable.
Under the banked seating, the elite competitors wait, oiled, half-naked, and sweating in the sultry air. Every province has sent its best: the golden-haired, golden skinned inhabitants of el norte towering over the swarthy smiling southrons with their gold teeth and elaborately braided hair. Where they have a sisterhood, though is in the breadth of shoulder and massive upper body development. That and the multiplicity of scars on their arms, shoulders and ribcages. The softness of their clean carefully manicured hands, then, is all the more surprising.
The light in the tunnel is reddish and dim and the competitors eye each other unsmilingly. They wait in silence.
As the clocks crawl towards sunrise, the tension in the tunnel becomes so magnified that there is a tang of iron in the air that almost smells like blood. Even the hulking guardsmen with their nerve whips seem uneasy, and watch their charges with care.
A deep-toned bong tolls once, and it is as if the crowd in the stadium is turned to stone. The arena floor empties and there is silence. Then the gong tolls twice.
Two massively muscular guardsmen carry a strange contrivance into the mathematical centre of the arena. It is a tall thin column topped with what looks like a ball of gold. As soon as the men have positioned the column the lights in the stadium go out, save only for one spotlight trained precisely on the ball of gold which now looks as if it is suspended in mid air by magic.
The gong tolls thrice and the entire mob holds its breath, watching the golden ball as a snake watches a hummingbird.
Then a great voice filled the air.
“Cinco”
“Cuatro”
“Tres”
“Dos”
“Uno”
The ball falls with an ear-splitting crash and the door to the athletes’ tunnel crash back. As the lights in the arena come back on so brightly they all but blind, a hundred battle-scarred women jog out onto the sandy floor.
The crowd bays its appreciation as the women take out their pointed steely weapons.
La batalla de los tejedores* begins…

*The battle of the knitters

© jane jago 

Tanker walked Ben to the gate and watched him get on the school bus. At home time he was waiting, but the bus never came. Instead Mum came out of the house with her face all streaked with tears.

“Come in, Tanker, the bus isn’t coming.”

Ben never came home. All Tanker could do was feel sad. One day Mum put on his car harness and smiled.

“You wanna see Ben?”

Tanker didn’t believe her. But then in a strange place smelling of ill people, he saw his Ben sitting in a funny chair. Boy and dog cried happy tears. 

©jj 2019

From ‘Dying on the Tide’ one of the bonus short stories included in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The navi system took them straight to the dance studio, where Julia followed Dai and Bryn as they made their way to the reception desk in a cool quiet portico. The elaborately coiffed young man behind the white and gold edifice recoiled visibly.
“Members only,” he snapped.
Bryn stepped forward.
“The Submagistratus wants a word with Bont.”
The receptionist opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound emerged.
“Sometime this week, sonny”
“Not possible. Ulysses is busy right now.”
“Well un-busy him.”
“I don’t think I can…”
Bryn smiled and leaned over the desk, cracking his knuckles. The receptionist swallowed audibly, then he thumbed a button.
“Ulysses Bont to reception. Immediately please.”
Bryn rewarded him with a wolfish grin.“Now you’re being sensible. Got somewhere we can talk uninterrupted?”
They were soon ensconced in a pleasant room, which Julia was delighted to find came complete with beverages and cake. It wasn’t long before they were joined by a lean man wearing a sardonic expression.
“You wanted me, dominus?” he said a waspish bite to his tone.
Dai looked him up and down slowly.
“I think wanted is an exaggeration.”
Bont coloured, but Julia could see he wasn’t brave enough to argue with a man whose blue eyes were as bleak as a winter morning. Bont shut his mouth and cast down his gaze.
“Better. Now. Talk to me about Tales from the Mabinogion.”
“What?” Bont looked up in surprise. “The dance troupe?”
“Yes.”
“We were contracted for a three-month school tour. Then disbanded.”
He met Dai’s stare defiantly for a moment, then looked at Julia. She schooled her expression to stone. Something in her face seemed to get to him, though and he sighed. “Okay, it was more than a bit odd. We were paid well over the going rate and our paymasters were a bit creepy. Too interested in kids. Always girls and always the petite ones. Not that I ever saw them actually do anything, I’d have reported them if they had.” he broke off for a moment as if thinking about what had happened. “You have to understand, they really weren’t the sort of people you question. But…”
“But indeed. Do you have any names?”
“There were two of them, a couple of men, called themselves Smith. Can I ask what you think they have done?”
“Eleven of those girls have gone missing.”
“Oh no. Please, no.” Bont looked truly sick. “Look. I don’t know much that could help you, I really wish I did. That’s – just horrible.” He broke off shaking his head as if trying to deny it. Then he looked up directly at Dai. “Except that there’s this female dancer, I never liked her. Her name is Katya Czesny, she was right in with the Smiths. And she is still working. In Viriconium.”
“Where?”
“A nightspot. The Scarlet Letter. She’s cage dancing now. Calls herself Lubricia.”
Julia spoke for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said softly.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

She was fourteen when her father sent Blondel away.

“He’s poor. You’ll soon forget him.”

Faith said nothing, but she knew the minstrel took her heart with him.

At eighteen she was as beautiful as her father was wealthy, but she set her face against every suitor who came to her door. Her father gave her an ultimatum.

“Marry or I will disinherit you.”

She left the castle under the cover of darkness and none saw where she went.

Blondel wandered the world in search of his lost love.

Some say he found her. 

Others insist he hunts in vain. 

©jj 2019

From Trust A Few, which is the first volume in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune’s Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Faust made up half of a team of two brothers. The younger and the more annoying half and a temporary resident in Voltz as he formed part of a team set up to work on an ongoing project. As far as Avilon was concerned if the team included Faust, he did not want to be a part of it.
As soon as he entered the bar, a slight frisson passed through certain segments of its patrons. One or two offered a terse nod, most avoided his eye and a couple even got up and headed out. His reputation in Voltz grew all the time.
He found Faust crouched on one of the well-padded side benches, a remote visor concealing his eyes from view, making strange noises as if imitating some kind of fast firing weapon. Now and then he would twitch his hands, manipulating things only he could see. Avilon grabbed his arm and pulled the visor up. Faust’s eyes looked pale and watery, those of a subterranean creature. Removing the visor was like lifting a stone and finding something squirming and hideous underneath. Faust hissed like a snake and tried to snatch the visor back. Avilon ripped it away, dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his foot.
“Play time is over. Shame Cullen wants to talk to you.”
Faust pushed up fast from the bench with the strength of his legs, throwing his entire body forward, and tried to sink his teeth into Avilon’s face.
It was like handling a wild animal. Worse. He could not use lethal force. Worse. It was in full view of the entire bar on a crowded session. If he let it go on for more than a moment or two he could expect to get a few half-humorous jeers, longer and he would be being mocked by half the bar. He could not afford that.
In the end, he opted for a simple but effective arm-break lock, manoeuvred the feral screen addict through the iris valve door and spun him around, ramming him up against the wall, as it closed behind them. Then he said in a very calm voice: “If you make me go through that one more time, Faust, I will break all the fingers on both your hands – one after the other.”
An idle threat. Shame Cullen needed Faust operational, but Avilon was willing to bet Faust himself could not be sure of it. The younger man looked up at him with limpid eyes and smiled.
“I think you might enjoy that a bit too much,” he said.
“Oh, I would. So don’t give me the opportunity.” But Avilon had no way to be sure whether or not the message penetrated Faust’s skull.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Reynard sat in the sun. It lit his fur and warmed him to his bones. He had almost everything a fox could need. Except a mate. He half closed his eyes and saw her against his eyelids as svelte, and smooth, and subtle as a snake.

When he heard the voice, he thought himself dreaming at first, but the  he realised it was a real happening and he looked to where the sound came from.

She sat about two feet from him basking in the same sunbeam that warmed him.

When the sun went in they walked the night together.

©jj 2019

Picture by the multi-talented Ian Bristow of Bristow Design

Symphony Of Destruction by Ken Goudsward is released on 15 Aug.

Hannah has finally adjusted to life on board the Ventas-341, when a series of strangely catastrophic hull breaches and a devastating viral outbreak decimates the crew. Now she finds herself stranded in the shadows of the asteroid belt. Together with the only other surviving crew-members, Colin, and the robotic Brother Anderson, she must somehow overcome their chaotic relationships if they are to have any chance of escaping the doomed ship…
Hannah stared at a small dark spot on the grey wall. Perhaps dark was not really the right word though. It was a bit dark-ish. But certainly not dark. Not dark like the dead space through which she sailed. Not dark like the blackness eating a hole in her soul. Hardly dark at all, really.
Hannah barely noticed anymore. She barely noticed the constant whine that pummeled her eardrums. She barely noticed the glaring red emergency lighting. She barely noticed the dozens of corpses surrounding her, coated in clear spray epoxy. More accurately, it should be said that she barely noticed the clear epoxy, body-shaped shells, nearly empty now, save for what appeared to be a few handfuls of dirt, and, judging by the slight bulges of the shells, some pressurized gases whose identity she could only speculate at, having never had any inkling to study the sciences. Probably carbon dioxide though, she surmised. Wasn’t that the fate of all things? Being gradually overtaken by carbon dioxide? But what did she know?
The passage of time was one thing though that had gone far beyond barely noticing. Hannah was acutely aware that she had, in fact, ceased to be capable of sensing time in any way. This was natural I suppose, given that days and years had been abandoned along with earth, and given that the computer systems were mostly non-functioning and her access had been denied long long ago, and given that anyone who ever gave a shit about what time it was was also long gone. There was, of course, the shit itself. And the piss. These had become the most reliable markers for time. But that was a very dubious level indeed. And besides, what did it matter anymore. Time was a meaningless vestige of the past. How ironic. A past with people and lives, and planets, and suns. A past with mothers singing sweet little homemade lullabies to their young daughters. “Little babe, blessed babe, there’s nothing to fear, so sleep my dear.” But there were, she knew now, many things to fear.

A Bite of… Ken Goudsward 

Q1: How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

Yes. Life is therapy. Life is also trauma. Hopefully, the life that comes after trauma can be informed by that trauma, and both can become healing. For me, poetry has been important in slowly learning how to allow myself to BE. Switching over to fiction in the last couple of years has allowed me more space to explore some of these same concepts, in a less explicit way, which I feel has been very important. Somehow, there is a certain power that can be accessed only indirectly. You can’t attack it head-on. It refuses to be grasped intellectually. In story and in character we have additional degrees of freedom to move within these conceptual frameworks. To explore without the demands of understanding. We don’t expect our characters to be perfect. Perhaps some of us expect ourselves to attain, or at least strive for, some unreal level of some perceived perfection. We are ridiculous. We have to teach ourselves to unlearn. By becoming our own characters, we may fragment our own internal conflicts into more pure representations of our own self parts. This can be healthy in that it allows one to face these parts realistically and respectfully, setting aside judgement of the non-perfection. Plus, it’s sci-fi, so we get to blow some shit up!

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

It’s important to love each other and respect each person’s right to make their own choices and follow whatever cultural norms they choose to embrace. It’s important to learn to overcome our own assumptions and limitations. It’s important to learn to write from a wide variety of character perspectives. But is it actually possible to include literally all shades of belief and orientation, whether that be sexual, philosophical, political, religious, or whatever, into any book? Is it a good idea to try? It seems to me that would take a nearly infinite number of characters, causing the story to be unreadably convoluted. Aside from that, it would take an essentially omniscient author to understand and write from every possible perspective. As authors, we like to pretend we have an omniscient perspective, but no human ever has. Perhaps it is more important to concede that whatever we think we know is really a very limited and incomplete model of reality.

Q3: What is worse, ignorance or stupidity?

We are all stupid in some regard. Nothing wrong with that. Well, maybe it’s annoying. We are also incredibly ignorant. We have to ignore so much just to survive. But we can also grow, by shrinking our own ignorance. The thing that is the worst, is the rut that people fall into of refusal to grow, refusal to reject ignorance. I guess that is true stupidity.

Ken is an author, poet, musician, programmer, ontographer and game designer. He loves windy days and rainy nights, and dreams of vast deserts, ruined spaceships, and bubbles with lines in between them. Find him on  Amazon, his Blog, GoodReads and Facebook.

Draco leaned on the sticky wood of the bar.

“It’s not as much fun as it used to be.”

“What isn’t?” asked the bardragon. 

“The old eating virgins caper. If you can find one, chances are it has consumed so much takeaway food that it’ll give you indigestion!”

“I didn’t think you could still find them at all.”

“You can, but you have to know where to look.”

“Where’s that then?”

“Slimming clubs mostly.”

“Oh. Hence the indigestion.”

“Yeah.”

A bell rung and Draco sat up.

“Duty calls.”

“Virgin?”

“Nah. Knight in shining armour.”

As Draco flew away, he farted.

©jj 2019

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning. You can listen to this on YouTube.

III

Annia Belonia Flavia was not at her place of work and it took a combination of Dai’s bardic charm and Julia’s patrician authority to learn her home address from her subadiuva, a woman who seemed either fiercely protective of her boss or frankly terrified of her. Dai found it hard to be sure which.
Flavia lived in a very posh apartment in one of the new towering insulae built on the edge of the Tamesis. They were loosely modelled on the tenements of Rome in their outer appearance, but the irony was that these were top class luxury all the way. Even the floors of the public areas had the soothing warmth of a built-in hypocaust. They were tiled with mosaics showing the Divine Diocletian defeating the rebellious self-proclaimed Restitutor Britanniae in the failed Carausian Revolt. It was a popular meme in all Britannia, especially here in Londinium where the final hope of British independence had fallen forever with the dying bodies of those last loyal men. The place it supposedly happened, was now marked by a tall pillar,  guarded by stone lions and topped by the Roman hero of the hour, Constantius.
Not that the bastard had even been there, but like all the Romans Dai had ever met, he was probably very good at taking the credit and burying the name of whichever Gallic auxiliary had actually achieved the victory for him.
The lift slid silently upwards and Dai wondered how much it must cost to live in this kind of place. Certainly far more than his humble salary. Not that he would have the option to live here even if the salary he earned ever reached that kind of level. He had seen the stone eagle above the main entrance, its wings outstretched to embrace the chosen few and the letters ‘SPQR’ clutched in its grasping talons. This was a place where only Citizens could live. Regular Britons, such as himself, were confined to the huddled suburbs of Londinium where concrete leviathans provided hutch-sized boxes for people to live in. Those who were licensed to do so, of course, which meant having a job that qualified as ‘essential’.
The door to Flavia’s apartment was open. Not so surprising when it had a foot lying over the threshold – bare, with toenails carefully manicured and painted. The foot was still attached to its owner, who lay with her bare buttocks on the face of the Divine Diocletian that was mosaiced into the floor. Dai could tell it had to be Diocletian by the inevitable wreath and halo which surrounded the image. It was obvious Flavia was quite dead. It was not at all obvious what had caused that. She was completely naked and her hair was in damp curls around her face, which wore a look of surprise.
Dai reached for his identipad so he could officially confirm her identity and log the death, but Julia’s small hand gripped his arm.
“No. We’ll leave that for the forensic team. I want to get back to the arena. If she has been killed to silence her, the sooner we can find out why, what she was being silenced for the better. Whoever did this is starting to panic.”
Dai opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. It was not his call to make. Julia had done such a good job of making him feel like a partner he had almost forgotten she was the one holding the nerve whip. He straightened up and forced a smile.
“Of course, domina. Whatever you say.”
Julia did not even seem to notice, she was speaking rapidly into her wrist phone to report the murder and call in the necessary forensic team. Before she finished she was leaving the apartment, still snapping brusque details as she went.
Dai stood beside her in the lift and felt his stomach plunge lower than the ground floor.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked down to see her small face, so like a child looking up at him.
“You have nothing to apologise for, domina.”
“Clearly I do or you would not be calling me that.” She studied his face for a moment then looked away. “I have to make executive decisions, Dai – and you may think you know this crime better than me, but this is a Roman crime, not a British one. I know the signs.”
Dai had no idea how to answer that, and the rest of their journey back to the Augusta Arena took place in a tense silence.

Part VII will be here next Sunday. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.