From Iconoclast: Not To Be by E.M. Swift-Hook, the eighth Fortune’s Fools book and the second in Iconoclast, the final trilogy. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A slight buzz told her someone was at the door of her apartment and she pulled up a screen to see who was there. It was one of her neighbours, Nilis par-Yorken. Not much older than her own body made her appear, mid-twenties perhaps, scruffy cut hair which seemed to be the fashion and a face that looked like it would smile a lot.
She had run a check on him the second time he tried to get her to stop and chat. A local. Newly qualified as a pilot and working relief for the planetary run freight company, ATG, which was the only organisation running regular shipping to Arca. Another attraction of the place for Avilon was that in order to protect its own merchant fleet, none of the big corporations were allowed on Arca and any freetraders had to purchase a license to operate there.
So she knew Nilis would have been trained locally, but the fact he’d been offworld left him open to having been recruited by the CSF or the Legacy. She let out a breath in a sigh. That was the kind of paranoia that could cripple her if she let it run unchecked. 
It was late and she could use that as an excuse for not responding, if he bumped into her again and asked why, but through some sense of wanting to dismiss a phantom, she opened the door and moved to grab another drink from the synth. 
“What are you drinking?” she asked as her visitor walked in. He stopped a couple of paces from the door, his way barred by the couch.
“Uhh… Mys jist jooze, plars. Narms Nylees.”
Avilon grimaced internally and began to filter out his accent. It was one of the worst aspects of living on Arca, the isolationism had led to the development of a very heavy dialect.
“Maris,” she told him, turning back to persuade the synth to produce something that approximated fruit juice. “Maris par-Kenten.”
“Really?” he seemed surprised. “You sound like you’re from Central.”
She picked up the freshly created chilled drink and handed it to him, aware his eyes were not restricting themselves to her face. She returned the compliment. He had a good body. One he clearly looked after.
“No. But I spent the last five years there studying.”
“Studying what?”
“My masters thesis was in Co-Regional Internexus Sub-Quantum Linkcast Technology.”
Nilis blinked.
“Uhh…?”
Avilon shook her head and chuckled.
“Mostly about how to optimise links from here to the main Coalition hubs.”
He smiled, slowly. “So, what do you do for a day job?” Avilon sipped her own drink and said nothing until Nilis looked uncomfortable. “Uhh yes, that’s a bit rude of me.”
“Not really, I just wanted to know why you were calling at my door this time of night before we got into the pleasantries too much.”
He hesitated so long she thought he’d not reply. Then he gave an embarrassed smile.
“Well, since you turned up here last cycle, I’ve been meaning to come round and ask if you needed anything, like a good neighbour should. I seen you in and out a lot so thought this time of day would work best.”
It was hard not to laugh. She put her drink down, feeling even older than her fifty-two years.
“You wanted to ask me out? Or were you just after a quick fuck?”
The sudden flood of colour into his face was comical.
“Uhh – I… Well, I mean-”
She put up both her hands in a gesture of contrition.
“Sorry. Central teaches you to cut to the chase in such things. I’m going to have to retune my sensibilities now I’m home.”
To his credit he didn’t retreat.
“I’m up for either. But I came round to ask if you’d like to come over to my place tomorrow. I got a few friends coming round, you might like to meet. Get to know some people.”
“That must be cosy,” she observed, gesturing with one hand to indicate the size of the room.
“Uhh, we won’t stay in, just meet up there and head out. Say yes? They’re all good people, most from this block. You’ll like them.”
She hesitated a moment then nodded. Better to accept one or two occasional invitations out with one young adult social group than wind up fending them all off with excuses. That would only make her stand out. This way she might be able to be accepted on the fringes of a group without needing to commit.
“Why not? I’m not busy far as I know.”
Nilis made a fist and hammered the air with it. 
“Yes! Kiss that! So can I ask where you work now?” 
Avilon had to laugh.
“Sure – it’s no secret. I’m doing some private consultancy work for the government.” No secret. Just a straight up lie, but one he’d find it very hard to check out. “What about you?”
“I work for the ATG – that’s the -”
“Arca Trading Group – what you do with them?”
She was regretting her earlier flippancy now, Nilis seemed to have taken it as an open invitation to hang around, he was lounging back in the seat as if taking root there.
“I’m flying shunts to some of the nearby Coalition places. Uhh, I mean, freighter runs. Works out well. I get a few days on then a few off.”
Avilon faked the start of a yawn and brought her hand up to her mouth. Then moved it away with a slight smile. “Sorry. Not you. Just been a long day.”
Nilis didn’t seem to take the hint.
“I can tell. So how did you get to Central? I mean I know a few who tried, but only one who succeeded and he got accepted on a virtual course. I mean just getting the visas and at that…”
“I got a scholarship to Central Main,” she told him, suddenly wondering if he was indeed the random neighbour being sociable or if her initial paranoia was merited.
“You did? Well kiss that! Impressive. Not just a gorgeous body, but an incredible mind.” Nilis smiled.
Avilon grimaced and turned it into another yawn
“Yeah. Well if you don’t mind, it is kind of late and I do have work tomorrow even if you’re on a break.”
She stood as she spoke and saw the reluctance in Nilis’ expression and posture, but under her insistent gaze he sighed, drained his drink and put the cup down before standing as well. 
“Of course. I shouldn’t keep you up. But don’t forget – we have a date tomorrow evening.”
 Avilon managed a smile and opened the door. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I could do with making a few more friends.”
After he had gone she disposed of the cups and headed for bed, shaking her head at her previous doubts. Nilis par-Yorken’s motives were very easy to read.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Can you smell the rain?
Lifting the dust from the street
Damping the parched pavements
And bouncing over your feet
Can you hear the rain?
Dancing a tango on the roof
Drops so fat they bounce and split
Tapping like tap-dancing hoofs
Can you feel the rain?
Blessing the thirsty earth
Flowers lift their wan little faces
Drinking their own rebirth
Can you smell the rain?
Thick and soft and sweet
The autumn rain that washed the land
And polished the shining streets

© jane jago

You can listen to this on YouTube.

It is not often one is granted insight into the mind of one’s parent through the medium of literature. But so it was that I came to understand Mumsie’s tendencies to overindulge in aspects of culture most regard as less desirable – sex and booze.

It was last summer and I had gone into her ‘retiring room’ to see if she had, yet again, absconded with my iPad as I had a hankering to take it and compose bucolic pastoral poetry whilst sitting in the garden. I needed something to provide the quintessential inspirational imagery so lacking in our squalid backyard, whilst I committed the consequential flow of rhyming commentary, contemporaneously to paper with pen.

Instead, I wound up reclining in the garden reading with interest a volume I had found poking out from under her favourite chair. It even reminded me of Mummy in appearance being much handled, rather fat and dog-eared. Surprisingly it had a Biblical quotation for its title, not something I would normally associate with my mater. There were also many self-revelatory notes in my mother’s long-lost youthful hand, highlighting passages or underlining phrases.

I later learned it is also a science-fiction classic.

The Review

There is much written nowadays about supernatural beings like vampires and angels and this book falls neatly in that category.

In this book, the angel called Michael Smith comes to earth from Mars. He is fabulously wealthy and naturally has magical powers. He lives in a commune where everyone runs around naked and has sex with everyone else and they eat dead people. He is eventually killed and comes back as a ghost to explain that he is going to take over the world with a new super-race, by evolving his followers. In the end, it turns out he was really an archangel.

I found the story by turns cloying, disgusting, strangely sensual, often all three together and always puzzling.

Three stars for the intriguing footnotes and marginal commentary from my maternal parent.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung with great gusto to the tune of ‘Here We Come A Wassailing‘)

We’ve been out a bevvying all down the Fox and Goose,
Then we had a curry so me bowels are kind of loose
Love you mate, but it’s late
And the wife is at the gate
And she’s yelling she’s going to her mum’s until New Year
So it’s Christmas alone again this year.

We’ve been out for Christmas drinks with all them folk from work
I had to karaoke now I feel such a berk
Told the boss, don’t give a toss
Bout the last financial loss
And she told me I’d need to find a new job this New Year
So it’s unemployed I am again next year.

You can listen to this being read on YouTube.

When you die pretty much before you had the chance to learn anything about anything being a ghost is hard.
I mean it ain’t like there’s ghost schools nor stuff like that. No siree. Some guy with a big knife tells you you’re dead but you can’t go to heaven nor the other place because you’re too little for them to know what you might have become.
And besides which, there’s the small matter of what that man done to you afore he killed you dead.
It ain’t easy.
So you start watching him and you start to understand that you been given the chance to stop him. But it ain’t gonna be easy.
Once you make up your mind what to do it’s just a matter of working out how to do it.
It took some thought, but little don’t necessarily equal stupid and the plan feels as smooth and deadly as the knives he used on your skin.
For weeks now he has heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet following him around the emptiness of his house, and every night a sweet voice whispers ‘daddy’ in his hairy ear as he lays in his wide, white bed chasing after the sleep that won’t come.
But tonight. Tonight when the veil is thin. Tonight he gets the comeuppance that is so far overdue. Tonight you let him fall asleep and wait at the side of his bed until the clock strikes midnight. Then you awaken him with your claws in his face, and when his eyes fly open you howl your pain and sorrow to the full moon that floats in the sky like a blue ship.
“Daddy. Daddy,” you cry as you take his big body in your insubstantial arms and bend your mouth to his brown throat.
His screams are your reward for a life cut short and an agonising death. His screams and the way his sanity dribbles out of his ears and runs away.
“Happy Halloween you murdering bastard…”

© jane jago

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung brightly and gleefully to the tune of ‘Deck the Halls‘)

Buy the stuff with shiny plastic
Fa, la, la, la, la, la la, la la
Glad your credit is elastic
Fa, la, la, la, la, la la, la la
Shop Black Friday
Come and buy day
Fa, la, la, Fa, la, la, la la la
Call the bank
On crawl and cry day
Fa, la, la, la, la, la la, la la

You can listen to this on YouTube.

“Come forward and face your destiny.”
The voice from beneath the stag’s head mask that addressed the two warriors was, surprisingly, female.
Tiach and Kungrun obeyed, both having to bow their heads to pass under the lintel of the door. They stepped together into the booth their friends had woven from strips of willow and yew, the day before, then decorated with ribbons of brightly coloured cloth.
The unfamiliar weight of the ceremonial amber beads newly around his wrist, Tiach faced the unblinking gaze of the obsidian-eyed stag. Was he was making the right choice? All the doubts he had suppressed before rose up like taunting demons. He knew he was not supposed to look, but from the corner of his eye he could see the bearded profile of Kungrun’s face and caught the determined set of his expression.
Yes.
It was too late now for doubts.
They were committed and had to see this through. Not for themselves alone, but for those who would follow. They were the first in the clan to claim this right, but he knew they would not be the last.
The shamen was chanting and her voice rose with the smoke from the small fire of scented woods that she had lit. Both filling the booth. Then she grasped each man by the wrist with startling strength, pulling them around to face each other at last.
Feeling the smoothness of ancient bone thrust between his fingers, Tiach held his hand very still.
This was the moment.
The fragile bone that came from the breast of a long dead bird. How many had stood here before them, resolve tested by this symbolism? Who knew? But for sure it had never been two men who did so.
Taich found himself profoundly grateful that the smoke gave him every excuse for the tears in his eyes as the shamen spoke the words that bound him to his soulmate in marriage.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be droned loudly and nasally to the tune of ‘Gaudete‘)

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Tiddly tiddly, tiddly pom, tiddly tiddly tiddle
I have lost half of my brain and I need a widdle

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Stand we all inside the choir, masters come to school us
Tempers fuggit, Dominus, smacks us with a ruler

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Deus, homo sapiens, strange sounds with no glory
We don’t understand a word, cannot see the story

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Puer nobis nascitur, rector angelorum
What the hell does this all mean? We could die of boredom

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is boring
But we have to sing it, on Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is boring
But it’s now an earworm. Won’t go away.

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

Vane’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t think you understand your legal position, soldier. You are acting as if it is your right to be released. It is not.”
“The justice system of the Coalition has granted me the legal right to apply for a discharge into the community after five years service, sir, and the legal right to appeal your decision to the Criminal Rehabilitation Department tribunal if necessary. My lawyers assure me they will honour my instructions and take my case back to the CRD if it is refused here. I have already completed four lower level appeals, I will take on another if I have to.”
Vane drew a sharp breath. That came as close to a threat as he had ever heard from one of his men. It shocked him any ranker of the Special Legion knew their rights so well. Again he was left with the impression of an acute mind behind the blank green eyes and the sense of discrepancy between that and the idea of total amnesia.
“It’s still my decision, soldier. You can appeal as many times as you like and I can refuse you every time.” He snapped out the words, his tone harsh. “I can order you suppressed and retained in the Specials indefinitely, or insist your discharge is made conditional upon your enrolment into another military unit. I have the right to veto your discharge – on any grounds or none.”
Nothing. No visible response.
This was ludicrous. To turn this man lose on the streets constituted a dereliction of his duty for the protection of the community. To have allowed proceeding for Revid’s release to begin, let alone allow it to go through four appeals – had the system gone mad? Behind the holofacade Vane could see the unwelcome observer becoming agitated. More words appeared: Just do it. My responsibility. Except that was the problem. It remained his responsibility. No one could take it from him.
He shook his head to answer the observer, but he looked at Revid. The soldier’s green gaze was once more fixed into the anonymous distance, as if he had no interest in the result of this interview. Vane felt his breath escape in a sigh. The easy route would be to confirm the discharge and hope it didn’t come back to bite him. After all, every other agency involved had checked into the background. They wanted to let the discharge go ahead – and they were the ones who assessed and probed the issues deeply. They must know more than he did in this case. In theory, Vane’s only role in the entire legal process, as he had been reminded by his unwanted observer just before the interview began, was to rubber-stamp those previous procedures. Who was he to challenge the combined weight of expertise recommending this man walk free?
But something stank and Vane could not ignore it. At the end of the day, it would be his name on the discharge authorisation and if – when – something went wrong, questions would be asked. ‘I was only following orders’ remained a popular but useless defence and a ludicrous one when offered by the man in command of an entire Legion. Vane already planned on further promotion, his eyes were on the highest of military ranks, so he had no intention of allowing the risk of such a scandal jeopardising his future career. With a dismissive gesture, he closed off all the screens around him and stood up.
“Sergeant Hynas, escort this man back to barracks. He can maintain training only status for now, until my final decision is confirmed. I need to review some aspects of this application further, for administrative reasons, I want to make sure this kind of thing can’t happen again. But I am not going to approve the discharge.”
Vane said the last for Revid’s benefit. Whatever else the man might be, he was an intelligent individual, being misled by those more concerned with his rights than the rights of society. Not his fault, but it would be unfair to hold out any further false hope. Now, for the best outcome, this whole mess needed to be dismissed and Revid put back on active duty as soon as possible. The decision made, Vane felt his jaw relax. It was insanity to have imagined coming to any other conclusion.
The Sergeant saluted smartly but failed to hide a vicious grin as he turned away. If Vane’s statement impacted at all on Revid it did not show externally. The green eyes remained impassive. He responded precisely to the brusque orders given by the Sergeant and marched out of the room without any attempt at protest or appeal. The door closed, and for a moment Vane stood staring at it, lost in speculation.

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

It was not so easy to train Jake. There was no two ways about it he was just very slow on the uptake. He’d stand there, head cocked looking a bit bemused, as if he knew there was something being asked of him but he was not quite sure what.
Meg spent the best part of two years working on training him and by the end of that time he had a pretty good understanding of ‘walkies’, ‘go pee in the garden’, ‘bed time’ ‘dinner time’ and a few other key phrases.
But Meg persisted because she loved her human.

E.M. Swift-Hook