Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

He called Joah as he travelled, on the excuse of telling her he had done his bit, but a big part of him needing some reassurance.
“You did good, Dog, really good.” Joah’s face smiled at him as he finished his tale. “We are trying hard as we can to tell people there is no curse, but no one seems to be listening.”
For a moment Dog was puzzled, then he got it and felt a spike of adrenaline.
“I did my best,” he said, “but those guys — they really believe in it.”
“I know. It’s everywhere. And I’m getting worried, Dog. People are saying the whole series is cursed and it’s having a knock-on effect. Now no one is donating to the president’s project, and those that have are trying to get their money back.”
Dog let that thought echo around wherever it needed to before he replied.
“And that about Zarshay?” He showed her the tweak. “It’s just the same crap, isn’t it?”
There was a long pause and Joah’s face blinked away. When she reappeared, she looked grim.
“I didn’t know about that one, Dog. I don’t know where Zarshay is, she’s not answering my calls and I can’t get hold of her.”

Joah woke in the dark, heart thudding, and reached out a hand to the empty space where Zarshay should be. It was the worst time to allow her mind free rein in speculation. She had spent a while trying to convince the nice woman the police sent round to interview her that there was nothing wrong. But she knew she had not succeeded.
“If Ms. Sygma was missing, don’t you think I’d be the very first to report it? She’s my wife.”
“So, where is she? These tweaks say she’s been kidnapped and you say you don’t know where she is — and I can see you are worried. Where do you think she might be?”
“I — I don’t know.”
“You can think of somewhere possible, though?”
Joah could not deny it.
“Below,” she said, her voice hoarse with worry. “She has — had — family down there, somewhere.”
The nice police officer looked gently inquiring.
“But wouldn’t she have told you if she was planning a visit there?”
Joah had tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. “No. She wouldn’t. She knows how I feel about her going there; we would only have rowed, and—” She broke off and blew her nose. “She probably thought she could go and come back before I missed her. Something must have happened.”
The nice police officer looked sympathetic.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything about it? I mean, all these odd things being reported about events at your studio and this silly talk of a curse—”
Joah had erupted then. All her fear channelled into anger.
“How dare you?” she spat, standing up as she did so, her whole body shaking with emotion. “How dare you come here and suggest I’m playing some game around the love of my life? You came to question me — I didn’t call you here. I think she’s just fine. She’ll be home tomorrow. Now get the hell out of my house.”

The call came a day later when she was drifting in and out of tormented dreams again. Early, too early. A spark of hope died as she saw who it was.
“Joah, darling,” Heila crooned, “I just heard the dreadful news. It’s simply awful, darling. I wanted to ask if you would join me for breakfast? Hmm? You shouldn’t be alone at this time.”
Joah blinked and wondered if she’d heard right.
“Uh, Heila, it is” she checked the time again “about three hours before you get up. What are you—?”
The other woman made an impatient tutting sound. “Breakfast, darling. My place. Half an hour?”
Then she broke the call. Joah rolled onto her back, her mind racing.

Breakfast for Heila, it turned out, was an odd greenish-purple coloured drink. Joah eyed hers dubiously as it was set on the table by a silent robot. It smelt faintly floral, with undertones of compost.
“It’s all horribly healthy, darling,” Heila assured her, “but don’t ask what’s in it. That’s a Camarthy family secret. I positively thrive on this stuff.”
Joah risked a sip and was relieved to find it tasted more of the floral spectrum than the alternative her nose had suggested. She swallowed a polite amount, then returned the drink to the table.
“So, what do you know about—?”
Heila cut across her before she could finish. “You simply must try my new spa-bath. It’s so relaxing, you won’t believe it.” She was getting up as she spoke, her smile intense, and she grasped Joah’s hand and pulled her up with a surprising strength. “I won’t take no for an answer, darling. This is simply exhilarating and quite the best way to brace for the day.”

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1011.

February comes with snowdrops
Green spears through frost-shot soil
As reaching up through snow and ice
Their small white flags uncoil
Proud banners soon a-flying
The vanguard of the spring
They hold the first pure promise
Of what the year will bring
Like resurrected martyrs
In dresses all of white
Beneath the ground just yesterday
Then rising overnight
The ones beside my window
I look for every year
To see the modest stand return
And know that spring is near

E.M. Swift-Hook

The steps took him up to a less well-populated level of the castle, but no suggestion of a means to leave. He was not averse to climbing, but the sheer walls without a rope presented a bit too much of a challenge. It took a while to make his way discreetly, avoiding contact with any members of the household, into the areas of the castle where servants and slaves mingled in the performance of the most necessary and basic tasks of living.

Here there were the slaves who swept the halls and changed the linen, who brought fresh matting and disposed of the old. A woman, naked to the waist, towering baskets of laundry held balancing easily on her head, a child running with a jar of scented unguent to the bath house. Here and there an overseer, shouting orders or beating an offender for some careless mistake or unintentional oversight.

He moved amongst them unchallenged, assumed to be there by right as he came from within the castle and not without. He made his way to the outer courtyard where the more hazardous necessities were attended to – the stone-built bake house and brewery with their great fires that needed to be kept apart from the rest of the household. Here the smell of grain, fresh bread and fermentation flooded the senses, reminding Avilon he had not eaten in a day.

He kept to the edges of the frenzied activity, careful not to seem uninvolved himself and started looking for what he needed. It took some time, during which he won the sympathy of one of the women working, red faced and sweating, in the over-hot bakery and was rewarded with a small loaf of rough-milled bread.

From there it was not so hard to attach himself to a group of delivery men who had brought in some goods from a trader in the city on a sledge and were now making their way out. The guard seemed less than interested in who was leaving, their attention being more focused on who was seeking admittance. Even chatting easily with one of the group about the harshness of the weather, Avilon made his way with them towards the open gates.

It was just sheer bad luck that Caer chose that precise moment to bring a patrol of cavalry in through the gate. Even then it should have been no problem if one guard on the gate had not decided that the passing presence of one of the Warlord’s commanders meant the need to be ultra-officious. He barked at the group to stop and wait, whilst he checked their names against the list of those who had been admitted earlier. The other men reeled off their names quickly and were dismissed. Avilon stood mute, hoping that by the time the guard got to him Caer and his men would be away. 

“You. Name?” The soldier demanded and when Avilon said nothing: “Come here.”

Caer’s head swung round at the sound of a break from routine and his eyes brushed over Avilon, who was keeping his gaze very carefully lowered as would suit a servant or slave in the presence of the military, his gait was altered too, slower and more nervous, as if expecting a blow.

“I asked your name,” The soldier repeated.

Time had slowed down around Avilon. He took in the distance between himself and the open gate, where even now the rest of the group he had been walking with were making their way out. He took in the way the soldier in front of him stood, working out exactly where he would need to hit him to take him down fast. He took in the distance away from Caer, who was still mounted, a snap shot could hit the pony and buy another few moments, but Caer’s men were all mounted and some were closer to Avilon than Caer himself.

The real difficulty lay in what was beyond the gate. It did not open directly into the city but onto a trestle bridge. Anyone leaving would be exposed to the soldiers on the walls for a good thirty meters and even running flat out Avilon could not hope to cover it unscathed. He processed all the information instinctively, his eyes and brain calculating the odds and feeding his conscious mind with the information he needed to make an instant decision on how to act.

The heel of his hand was already moving at speed towards the thyroid cartilage of the man before him and to even those closest it must have looked as if the guard had simply stumbled forward into him slightly. Avilon muttered something in audible protest, using his own strength to keep the dying man in life-like verticality. Almost in a shuffling dance step, he eased the burden back against the wall, still apparently standing by virtue of the angle of its incline at that point. Nodding and scraping, as if just given permission to leave, Avilon turned and followed the rest of his chosen group out of the castle.

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

When the shit hits the fan
When the nail is rusty
Sometimes the only thing you can
Do. Is this old trick. Trust me
When the sky is black and wet
When all the world is shite
There is just one way you can get
Things to come out right
Take yourself into a corner
All your nerves up pluck
Act as if you were Jack Horner
Scream and shout oh fuck
Then if trouble don’t abate
Ameliorate
Your dreaded fate
With chocolate

jj 2020

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica… You can listen to this on YouTube too.

Aries. 

Aries children are the cuddly lambs of the zodiac. They are warm, charming and utterly without aggression or ambition.

Managing your Aries child

Just lead. They will follow.

Taurus.

Taurean children are sturdily stubborn. They won’t argue with you, but equally they won’t listen to a word you say.

Managing your Taurus child

Get between them and their ultimate gaol and wave your arms about. This sometimes works.

Gemini.

The twins are a conundrum as one side of your child’s complex character will always be obliging and persuadable. Sadly, the other half will spend all it’s waking hours looking to outwit you.

Managing your Gemini child

Dot every i and cross every t. And hope. Unless your Gemini offspring are actually twins, in which case the best advice is to sit back and enjoy the ride. 

Cancer.

Complicated and convoluted of thought, your Cancer child will sneak past you at any given opportunity, and may well nip your arse in passing.

Managing your Cancer child

The ostentatious opening of a large jar of mayonnaise may function as a deterrent to the worst behaviours.

Leo.

Lazy, handsome, amoral and fond of sleeping in the sun. A Leo child will be untroublesome, but also unhelpful and invisible if there is any heavy lifting to be done.

Managing your Leo child 

Just scratch his belly, he will roll over and play dead for hours.

Virgo.

Virgo children are prim and often humourless. This is the only birth sign that voluntarily tidies its bedroom.

Managing your Virgo child

Just tell her how perfect she is. They bask in praise and will bend over backwards if compared favourably to their siblings.

Libra.

Libran children are calculating and weighing up the opposition is their forte. No Libra child will pick a fight with a low probability of victory.

Managing your Libra child

Just make sure they know you are bigger and uglier than they are.

Scorpio.

Scorpio children are intelligent, charismatic, humorous and wholly unprincipled. They are capable of the most monstrous behaviour couched in such a way as to render you speechless with laughter

Managing your Scorpio child 

Good luck with that foolish notion!

Sagittarius.

Pointedly principled, Sagittarian children can be relied on to ask embarrassing questions in public places, in very loud voices. 

Managing your Sagittarius child 

Remember that the centaur has two stomachs. These children may be instantly bribed with chocolate.

Capricorn.

Amiable, clever and organised. You can’t keep a goat anywhere a goat doesn’t want to be. On the plus side they are not picky eaters

Managing your Capricorn child 

Logic works. Threats don’t.

Aquarius.

Interminably busy, these children are often convinced that life is not giving them a fair deal. Can be whiny.

Managing your Aquarius child 

I recommend applying alcohol by mouth.

Pisces.

There are two kinds of Pisces children. The serenely uncomplicated swimmer with the tide and their absolute opposites the bruised, battered and scarred children who spend all their lives battling upstream.

Managing your Pisces child 

The serene sort need no management, the other buggers are unmanageable.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

“I know he’s wrong. But isn’t censorship just as wrong?”

“It would be of this was censorship.”

“What is it if it’s not censorship, Miss Clever?” 

Annie felt the lash of his displeasure and the peering eyes of all his friends, but she wasn’t being intimidated this time.

“Censorship is when government denies the right to free speech. This is  someone being removed from a specific platform.”

“Which is the same thing.”

“It’s not. He is not being threatened because of his opinion. He has just overstepped the boundaries to which he agreed.”

She walked away and left them arguing…

©️jj 2021

Next morning, at two minutes to nine, Gribble strode into his office to find the geek chair. Empty. He peered out of the door carefully looking both ways along the corridor. There was nobody in sight and he permitted himself a thin smile. His new geek was going to be late. How perfectly splendid. He was sure there was a clause in the contract that covered lateness; he even rather wished he had read it. Positioning himself in the doorway, he pulled his dwarf-made timepiece from his pocket and stood ostentatiously studying its ornate face. The University bell bonged nine times and a bored imp poked its head out of the casing of the timepiece in his hand.
“Nine of the clock. Midweek day. Climate a little uncertain. Some chance of precipitation.”
The head disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Behind Gribble somebody coughed politely. He spun around as if he had been shot. The geek desk was now occupied.
“What? How? Who?”
His new geek smiled, showing far too many teeth.
“Good morning, Professor Gribble. Belladonna Handyman at your service.”
As she spoke the pieces began to fall into place in Gribble’s distraught brain. The bastards had given him a non-human. He pulled himself together and considered the evidence. Belladonna bespoke vampire or shifter heritage, whilst Handyman was a dwarf name. It just wouldn’t do, so he strode towards her sneering, only to be halted in his tracks by a small gout of flame from somewhere beneath the desk at which she sat.
He squeaked in a most unmanly manner, and stared at the desk.
“Who? What?”
Belladonna smiled. “Oh. That’s just my brother, Eric.”
“Brother?”
“Same father. Different mothers. Only difference is while my mother was hunting the shape-shifting bastard to cut off his balls, Eric’s mother ate him. Oy, Eric stick your head out and say hi to our new employer.”
A square reptilian head poked around the corner of the desk. “Hi.” Then the creature belched another small flame.
“Isn’t he a bit? Petite? For a dragon?”
“Oh. Not really. He’s in his condensed form right now. If he wasn’t he’d not fit in this room.”
Gribble tried to summon a threatening frown. “I wouldn’t entirely mind if he wasn’t in this room.”
Belladonna smiled, it was a vaguely patronising expression. “Oh he’s in the contract too. Where I go, he goes.” Even an egocentric, unimaginative academic knows when he has been outmanoeuvred and Gribble shook his leonine head in recognition of defeat. “Very well. To work then.”

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago 

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.
Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.
Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.
“What makes you think you are worthy?”
“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”
“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”
Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.
The same yearning, the same questions.
Alone in her underground chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action on ART with IAN

The door opened to admit one of the gate guards.
“Hywel Llewellyn to see Dominus Llewellyn. In a bit of a lather if you don’t mind me saying.”
Julia sighed. Dai’s brother, who owned land nearby, was as tempestuous as Dai himself was brooding.
“Wheel him in.” As the door closed she looked Caudinus straight in the eye. “You can bail out if you would prefer. But I’d be grateful.”
He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll stay. I quite enjoy Hywel in a rage.”
The door opened with such force that it bounced back off the wall, and Hywel stomped in. His face was puce and he was waving a sheet of paper. Seemingly unable to speak he threw the paper on the table in front of Julia.
She read it and could feel the blood draining from her own face. It was an official complaint that the family of one Hywel Llewellyn, non-citizen, had been observed to be visiting a sub aquila residence without due authorisation.
The Villa Papaverus was not their own house, it was the residence that went with Dai’s job as Submagistratus and was owned by Rome. As such it was designated sub aquila which meant only Roman citizens and those non-citizens employed to work there were legally permitted inside.
“Oh merda,” she said softly. “I never even thought of that. Dai hates having that wretched eagle above our door.” She passed the paper to Caudinus who read it swiftly then sighed. “I am so sorry, I should have seen that coming. As I didn’t, I shall have to investigate.”
Hywel made a noise like a cat that has just had its fur stroked backwards.
“Sorry? Sorry that I and my entire family are being criminalised by your filthy Roman rules?”
Caudinus looked at him severely. “Hush man. Be glad I didn’t officially hear you say that. As I said, I do have to investigate. So will you just be quiet and let me think. Or is shouting and blustering at a pregnant woman something you think a good idea?”
Hywel subsided slightly.
“If this goes through the fine will take most of my livelihood for the last quarter.”
“Oh it’s worse than that,” Caudinus said his expression grim. “The fine would be the lightest of penalties. If it were deemed to have been done in deliberate defiance of Roman authority it could be counted as treason. And this complaint names you, your wife Enya and your step-mother, Olwen.”
Julia felt sick. Dai’s mother, sister-in-law and brother were being placed in real peril through someone’s spite.
“Treason?” Hywel echoed, his tone hollow and slumped into a chair, the fire and fury suddenly deserting him.
Treason always carried the death sentence – a humiliating and agonising death in the arena.
Caudinus swept the printed emails into a pile and got to his feet.
“Yes, treason. But if I have anything to do with it, it won’t come to that and I will make sure you are issued with passes under my authority so there is not a problem ongoing.”
“Isn’t there something you can do to dismiss this?” Julia asked, “It is your legal jurisdiction after all.”
Caudinus pulled a face. “It will depend on the nature of the complaint and who the complainant is. It could go over my head to provincial level and those damnable bureaucrats in Augusta Treverorum.” He touched Julia lightly on the shoulder. “You mustn’t worry about this, you hear me?” His tone was stern. She mustered a smile more for his benefit than because she felt reassured. “And you come with me Llewellyn, I need to get some details from you if you can guard your tongue enough to manage a trip to Viriconium with me?”

An extract from Dying for a Vacation, by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

“So. It would be okay if I was a man and Toni was a girl half my age?”

“Yes. I mean no. But…”

“But society thinks it’s okay for a man of seventy to have a trophy wife?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds plain creepy.”

“It is creepy. Which is why I aim to challenge popular belief.”

“Why do you have to court controversy? I mean. What about if people turn against you?”

“It’s no bother. I have more money than I could ever spend in two lifetimes. But your publishing house might lose a few bob…”

©️jj 2021