Like children’s brightly painted blocks 
Words build the world we see
They can alter our perceptions 
Tell us how things are meant to be.
The way we understand our words
Defines just who we are
Because we mould ourselves to meet
Their definition’s bar. 

Some words are true derivatives
Taken from other words
Our values they take with them
In repeating what we’ve heard.
Words can be abbreviations as in
‘Car’ and ‘hippo’ and ‘mam’
Or they might even be acronyms like
‘Scuba’, ‘laser’ and ‘spam’.

The power of a word can raise us up
Or bring us down
Can free us or enslave us
Be our shackles or our crown.
How we define their meanings
Changes how ourselves we see
We can play and pick our own
Give words new history.

So let’s grow words from other words
Their meanings modified 
Let us have ‘pullovers’ made from ‘love’
And ‘unbridled’ formed from ‘bride’.
And let us carve new meaning from
Words with a greater span 
So ‘unavowed’ could give us ‘wed’
And ‘womanliness’ bring forth ‘man’.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Surprising though you may find this, the elderly do not live on cups of tea and Bourbon biscuits. Our diets are a little richer and more fulfilling than that. And one day I may even entertain you to my opinions of sushi and sashimi. But not today.

Today we are taking a stumble through the confusing and mind-destroying maze of the soft drink.

By which I mean fizzy stuff. Squash and fruit juices have their own horrors and hieroglyphs, of which I am quite aware.

However, we will concentrate our minds on the job in hand. Fizzy drinks.

Lemonade. Dandelion and burdock. Tonic. Bitter lemon. Ginger ale. Ginger beer. Cola (may whoever invented it be eternally damned). And Irn Bru (whatever the fuck that is). Of course there are more sorts out there. Many more. The above are just what reside in my under stairs cupboard. Obviously I’m an adult so I don’t drink the cola, or the dandelion crap, or the volcanic orange Caledonian stuff, but I do drink the others.

I have made quite a study of them. Particularly the ones you mix with booze.

And I have sad news to impart to you all. With the introduction of the ‘sugar tax’ to ‘curb obesity’ many soft drink manufacturers decided to cut their products with artificial sweeteners.

*pauses to evacuate bit of sick at back of throat*

The results are spectacularly vile.

The great grandchildren inform me that one of the reasons they love me so extravagantly is that I have not succumbed to the ‘reduced calorie’ craze. The little sods come to mine and we have a bloody good walk and then Gyp kicks their asses at football. After which I think chips and full-fat fizzies are perfectly in order.

Which deals with kiddy drinks and leaves us with what the trade so coyly calls ‘mixers’. 

The tonic in your gin and tonic. The ginger ale in your Horse’s Neck. The lemonade in your mojito. And so on…

As the fizzy bit can be anything from a quarter to three-quarters of the drink, if it tastes like shite the whole drinky will be ruined.

Take my word for it.

My advice when making a purchase is as follows:-

Walk right past the own brand, and even eschew the one we always used to buy. No. Sadly the only one worth drinking these days is the hideously expensive one that has No Artificial Sweeteners and no strange plant-based crap neither. It’s delicious. And it won’t fuck up your evening snifter.

Bite the bullet peeps.

Unless you want to spend all evening burping up bitterness and having your mouth go dry because of whatever cactus leaf has been added to fool your head into thinking ‘sweet’.

In the end, sugar still has no rivals. Cut the quantity. But go for something whose taste doesn’t make you want to run screaming from the room…

And finally.

When the world turns and we can get back into the pub. Before you order a large G&T ask the barman who the fuck makes their tonic. You really don’t want to be spending better than a fiver on a drink that tastes like shite.

To celebrate our third birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a drabble writing competition.

As it is our third birthday completion we have three runners up! This one is from Ian Bristow.

“Cake or pie.”

Elise looked up at her mum’s attempt at a stern face and pulled a far superior expression of disappointment.

“But … but you said we could have both.” She turned away, as not to betray herself with a sly grin she could no more resist than the desire to indulge in her favorite treats on her birthday. After all, birthdays only came once a year. 

“I said we might be able to have both if you behaved this week.”

Pout reestablished, Elise turned back to face her mum. “And I have behaved!”

Cake and pie it was.

It was a beautiful May morning, but my life was currently being rendered hideous by my five-year-old twins throwing simultaneous epic tantrums. I wasn’t even sure what the screaming was about. I had been feeding the dogs when Ali started to whine, and I turned around just in time to see Roz slap her sister quite hard. Then they both began to scream. The dogs looked at me with deeply reproachful eyes, so I put their food out on the back patio. They went in evident relief, which only left me with two red-faced and hysterical children to deal with. I looked at them for a moment then came to a decision. ​
I filled a large jug with icy cold water. I was just lifting it out of the sink, when a masculine hand came over my shoulder.
​“Allow me.” ​My beloved, and normally wholly even-tempered, husband walked quietly over to where two of the loves of his life were screaming like demented banshees. He poured the water over their blonde heads. Miraculously the screaming stopped. Ben waited a beat then spoke very quietly.
​“People who behave as badly as that the moment their Daddy’s back is turned should be very grateful he isn’t a spanking sort of a man.” ​
Then he turned on his heel and left.
​The twins sat as if turned to stone and I let the enormity of what had just happened sink in. ​
It was Ali who found her voice first.
​“Is Daddy very cross?” she breathed.
“Sounds like it to me,” I said briskly. “Now is somebody going to tell me what all that was about?”
​But of course they couldn’t. It had come over them and they could no more explain than they could fly. They just shook their heads and looked at me with round eyes. Roz even went so far as to stick her thumb in her mouth, even thought she hadn’t sucked it for months. I tried to keep my own expression sober as I looked at their woebegone faces, but I wasn’t proof against the pleading in those big eyes. I held out my arms and scooped the two wet little girls into a hug.
​“We’re sorry Mummy.”
​“Never mind sweethearts. Let’s get you dry and calm.”
​Half an hour later, we were at the breakfast table and the twins were eating porridge. The dogs were in their baskets and peace and quiet reigned. Ben walked back into the room on soft feet and two spoons stopped moving in two bowls. He crouched down between them.
​“You two all better now?”
​They nodded and he put an arm around each. ​
“You still cross, Daddy?” Roz quavered.
​Ben smiled and kissed each rosy cheek.
​“No I’m not cross. Don’t worry my loves. I know you didn’t mean to be naughty.” ​
Ali clutched his tee shirt in one small hand. ​“We didn’t. We wasn’t meaning to be bad, but once we started we couldn’t stop.”
​“I don’t expect you could. But there’s a lesson for you both. Don’t be silly. Because it is very hard to stop once you start.”
​The twins studied his face carefully and he winked at them. They hurled themselves on his chest and he stood up with one little girl on each arm.
​“Have you said sorry to Mummy.”
​“We have.” ​
“Then let’s forget all about it. You two finish your breakfasts.”
​He put them back in their chairs and they picked up their spoons. At a quirk of his eyebrows I got up and walked into his embrace. As I leaned in he bent and whispered in my ear.
​“Fancy a day off? We can keep the brats out of school and take them for a good walk in the forest.” ​
“Yeah. I was going to suggest keeping them home anyway. There’s something not right about them. Even before the screaming fit I was concerned. They are unusually clingy, and when I went to wake them this morning Roz was in Ali’s bed.” ​
“I thought it was just me being fussy Daddy.” He watched the two blonde heads with a worried frown.

The opening of Who Pulled Her Out? from Jane Jago

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Posting Pictures of Your Dinner

I’m as fond of food as anyone, and I cook some pretty mean stuff. But the day I plate it and stick it on a carefully dressed table in order to post a picture of it on Facebland or Instayawn or Birdnoise you have my full permission to slap me about the head with a wet fish and have me committed. 

Worse still?

Being in a restaurant and perfectly willing to let food go cold so one can be a pretentious poser.

Just. Stop. It.

You are paying through the nose for your food. Eat it and stop fucking about.

Julia chivvied the household back to work and Dai was about to return to his own administrative labour, when Gallus intercepted him.
“Submagistratus, I have a favour to ask of you.”
Gallus was a man typical of his class and status. You could slice and dice through him at any point and the solid soldier would be left in every piece. He had the typical legionary contempt for civilians – a contempt that extended to the Vigiles which Dai had served for many years. If the last few months had led Gallus to give Dai some grudging respect for his abilities, it had manifested in a patronising attitude, which was unspoken but omnipresent. And that grated.
Dai squeezed out a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s the matter of my application to join the Vigiles. The Magistratus informed me that whilst he had approved it, since I would be working in your district I  would need your formal approval as well.”
It took a moment for Dai to recover. He suspected that his jaw must have dropped slightly open, but was struggling so much for words that he could not be sure.
“You? You are applying to join the Vigiles?” Not, Dai realised, his finest moment of tactful diplomacy.
Gallus’ expression became even more severe than usual and his eyebrows lowered into a frown.
“I’ve already been approved for it.” He sounded defensive. “This is just a matter of courtesy as you are -”
Dai lifted a hand, feeling acutely awkward. “No. I mean – I know. You just said.” He took a steadying breath, “I am simply very surprised. The last time I heard you say the word ‘vigiles’ it was with the words ‘namby-pamby’, ‘play-soldiers’ and ‘glorified lost and found service’ attached, as I recall.”
At least Gallus had the decency to look a little uncomfortable at the memory.
“Yes. Well – uh – that – that was different. And it was a while ago.”
“About two weeks.”
Gallus cleared his throat and came to attention.
“Submagistratus Llewellyn, I apologise for any prior comments I may have made that in anyway disparaged or demeaned the Vigiles. They were inappropriate.”
“I agree.”
Gallus expression shifted slightly.
“You agree to approve my appointment as an Investigator to the local vigiles?”
“I agree your comments were inappropriate.” As a form of revenge it was petty, Dai knew, but then the digs from Gallus had been too. Dai saw something harden in the other man’s face and realised that his own behaviour was rapidly becoming equally ‘inappropriate’.
“Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “before we make anything formal, why don’t you go and spend a few days working with SI Cartivel and his team? See if you fit in. See if you suit the work and if it suits you. I don’t see any point you signing up if not. You can go down to the Vigiles House this afternoon and I’ll let them know to expect you.”
For a moment the grey eyes of the older man held his gaze with the familiar, appraising look that Dai found so profoundly irritating. Then Gallus saluted smartly.
“As you instruct, Submagistratus.”
Dai watched him walk smartly towards the gates and then made his own way into the house. His Senior Investigator and friend of many years standing, Bryn Cartivel, was going to love this. Not.

From ‘Dying to be Welcome’ one of the short stories in The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

The politician cursed.

Her favourite social media platform, the very one that had helped her reach her electorate, winning votes for her manifesto promising everyone the earth, had turned on her. She’d climbed the greasy pole with daggers between clenched teeth to stick in the backs of those she clambered over and she wasn’t used to having her will thwarted.

So they thought they could tag her posts with fact-check warnings?

How dare they!

When the hack was announced a month later, she hid her smile. The cost to her secret slush fund was worth every penny in embarrassment caused.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Voltz stood at the heart of its community – if not in terms of true geography then for certain, Avilon could see, in the way it served the needs of the mercenaries and freetraders, smugglers and other spacefarers of dubious means and even more dubious reputations, who gathered there. Always open, always something to offer its clientele, providing them with a place of entertainment and a place of refuge. Somewhere to have fun, meet friends, find a job, broker a deal, fence goods, buy recreational highs, trade up a ship, get laid, or get into a fight. And the queen of Voltz was a woman who went by the name of Shame Cullen, except to those who she chose to trust to call her by the name she had been given at birth – Sarnai Altan.
Avilon found himself admitted into the charmed circle by default. Because he always kept close about her, those others who were also often close about her, assumed him to be given the same privilege as themselves. They also seemed to assume he shared her bed. Which went to show assumption could be a dangerous thing. Sarnai herself made it clear the exact way she saw Avilon. She told him the first time he reported to her.
“You are my weapon of war: the sword that strikes and the shield that defends. You are my freedom because with you close to hand I can act without fear.” She turned as she spoke, her robe moving like a living being over her skin in a shimmer of gold and red.
“So what do you want me to do?”
The soulless black eyes studied him.
“I want you to keep me alive.”
“I thought I got to do Max’s job,” Avilon said, wondering if acting as a bodyguard meant an additional task or would be his main role.
“Max did very little except sit in the bar and gamble. If there is a problem in the bar, then yes, you will deal with it. But you will have a team to do most of that.”
“I am not used to command,” he admitted. For a moment the porcelain face froze and she stepped away from him in total disbelief.
“So you stand by what you said – that you have no memory?”
Avilon nodded.
She reached out one hand with slow deliberation and placed the palm on his chest, as if trying to touch his heart. Then stood still in the same pose for a time, her eyes closed. Then she opened them again and said:
“You were a great leader, Avilon Revid. You were a man who could inspire the love and devotion of those who you chose to touch with that greatness. And one who would win half of every battle by the power of the fear your name would bring to your enemies.” She bowed her head. “I grieve for that which has been lost.”
To his utter amazement, when her face lifted to his again, a single tear stood out visible on her cheek, clear and glistening. He felt lost for words and nearly as lost in how he should feel. Because of who she was he could not say he despised that past self, the mindless murderer of innocents. He also could not bring himself to lie and embrace her vision of the man he had once been. So he said nothing and waited.
“Of course,” she said, her voice soft, “you can not know what we have lost – I do not expect you to understand.” She lowered her hand and spoke as if pronouncing a curse. “From now on, to me, you are indeed just Vitos Ketzel.”
He never heard her speak his real name again.
It seemed his duties were to be primarily bodyguarding, but sometimes Sarnai would send him to deal with a more normal security matter. If an individual who walked into Voltz proved to be a known trouble maker, or when the regular security team had problems with someone, it would be Avilon who would be sent to troubleshoot. But his skills were not as broad as were needed for anything more sophisticated. He could only be the pounding fist, not the subtle blade in Sarnai’s armoury.
Mostly it meant meetings. Meetings in which Avilon hovered like a silent threat. And mostly nothing more was asked of him except to be there. Occasionally, very occasionally, Sarnai would link him one word.
Kill.
And he would.
Either there and then – or later.

From Trust A Few, the first book in Fortune’s Fools Haruspex Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Call Centres

The ones that phone and try to sell you shite. You ask what they are selling they deny it. 

And you KNOW they are telling porkies.

And it’s not really their fault.

There are two routes. Hang up.

Or string them along. Agree to everything up to the moment they start wanting money. Then say you don’t have a card or a or a bank account.

They always ask why.

Then explain that your nurse doesn’t let you have money and you shouldn’t even be on the phone. Then laugh like Hannibal Lecter.

It’s funny how fast they run…

Letters from the Light is a debut dystopian sci-fi novel by Australian author Shel Calopa. Join her and celebrate diversity, explore the corrupting influence of power, and ask whether it’s truly possible to break free of your upbringing.

Aggy Wilcocks surfaced, gasping and coughing. The surging flood had taken her by surprise, separating her from her family, pushing her right through town and slamming her against the tin veranda of the transit station.
Winded, she sucked desperately for air before diving down into the murky water in a frantic search for Uncle or the children. She came back up, still breathless and alone. Aggy dove again, pushing at the shifting debris. Lots of branches, a tractor battery, two dolls and some hydroponic drip-feeding tubes. Nothing important or useful.
Bobbing atop the water-line and blinking back tears, she squinted towards the horizon. The familiar landmarks were missing. No more grain silo or McWilliam’s two-storey Pub. Even the town hall, where she had hoped to attend her first harvest dance with Stevie Bennet, had gone. Swirling, turgid water had swallowed everything and everyone; so quickly.
Aggy grabbed a wooden table that floated within reach and clung to it as she looked west for the source of the flood. It was impossible to see anything clearly in the white-topped turmoil.
Then, looking up she noticed the cavern’s rocky roof approaching as she rose higher in the water. Unless she could find a way out soon, the vast underground cavern that had been her home would fill to become her watery tomb.
Behind her, the roof arched down into the water and merged into the back wall of the drowned transit station. All her life it had been there. A distant, largely ignored wall that defined the edge of their territory and kept them safe. Now it was a dam that was drowning them all.
She forced down a sob and reached out to touch it. The wall was slippery, cold to the touch and impossibly smooth. She clawed at it with her hands but couldn’t get any purchase. Feeling above her head, she found a conduit that ascended from the recently submerged building beneath her feet, and clung to it.
Steady at last, she made herself recall Uncle’s last instructions, hoping it would calm her down and help her to find a way out.
What had he said? Think, Aggy, think! The stories of the world above us are true. Just need to survive this. Find … something? Find what? It had happened so rapidly she couldn’t remember. JayMoe would know.
Aggy was about to dive down to search for him when she heard a low growl. She looked into the distance. Her heart screamed. Another wave loomed. There was only enough time to strengthen her grip and take two deep breaths.
The green wall of frothy water hit and, once again, she was submerged…

Extract from Letters from the Light published by Inspired Quill UK Dec 2019.

A Bite of… Shel Calopa

1. Why did you choose science-fiction as the genre in which to tell this story?

As a teenager, I picked up Abbott’s Flatland from my school library which lead me to the work of Philip K Dick and Asimov. By Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy I was hooked.
But the feminist writings of Sheri S Tepper taught me that this genre could be so much more than entertainment. Science fiction allows us to question what is, by projecting what might be.
Letters from the Light is able to ask big questions about social equity by placing the characters in a futuristic setting. Space is a safe place to shine a light on bigotry and greed.

1. Which of the characters do you feel is the most like you and what makes them so?

This is a tough question as Letters from the Light has a huge cast!
If I must choose one, then it would be Kohl Pallas, a young man born to extreme wealth and privilege. When he discovers the crimes his family have committed to maintain their position, he becomes a hot mess of indecision. Somehow he must face the corruption in his family and find the strength to do what is right, but is it ever possible to break free of your upbringing?

1. Are you a cat person or a dog person and why?

I am definitely a cat person, although my husky dog would disagree!

Shel Calopa is a new author from the UNESCO City of Literature – Melbourne Australia. Whilst mostly set in the sci-fantasy genre, her stories only use science as the backdrop against which characters struggle with the contemporary issues of class, gender and power. Actually, it’s all a bit dystopian!
Shel is a passionate believer that all our small lives are connected, valuable and critical to the collective journey. She is published by Inspired-Quill in the UK and Aussie Speculative Fiction in Australia and you can follow her on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.