Two Women and Some Books
The whistle and flap of swan wings
And morning mist
The sharp piping cries of moorhens
The wild goose hiss
A fisherman sits in silence
Awaiting a bite
While all around the frost flowers
Steal the light
The crunch of booted feet
On gravel under
As slowly now the sun draws
Haze asunder
The tiniest streaks of blue
Across the sky
And all the while the swans
Fly noisily by
©️jj 2018
The Mole groaned and farted and belched noxious fumes as its diamond edged teeth ground their way slowly through the sandy subsoil. As it dug, a series of precisely placed nozzles sprayed a sticky mixture of polymers and ground rock onto the walls of the freshly-made tunnel stabilising it an inch at a time. As the monster inched its way forward, a rattling, clanging conveyer belt shot surplus material into a closely following fleet of lorries.
Up high, in what would have been the head if the Mole was a living animal, a strangely-conformed man plied the controls with the virtuosity of a maestro. He was thick necked and heavy chested, with almost unnaturally long, muscular arms. His legs, on the other hand, were thin and twisted and would certainly not support his weight should he need to walk anywhere. But he never walked. He never left the Mole. He was Driver, symbiotically linked to the great metal digging machine and as incapable of living outside the confines of the behemoth as it was incapable of functioning without him.
They were the most successful of the dozen experiments in symbiosis that had been carried out a decade previously, and were the only partnership left in existence. If that partnership caused ethical worries in some quarters, those voices were soon hushed by those who appreciated the profitability of the gigantic earth mover.
As the present digging conditions were easy, Driver and Mole were entertaining themselves by playing chess. This would very probably have been frowned on by their masters, but neither man nor machine ever saw fit to mention it. Nor did they mention their musical evenings, or the books they read together. Some things, they reasoned, were just nobody’s business but their own.
For most of the morning, progress continued to be excellent and the giant machine chewed its way through the earth at a comfortable five miles an hour whilst beating its operator at chess for the nth time in their partnership. Right about lunchtime, things changed. Driver was shovelling a doorstep of bread and cheese between his busy teeth when the note from the engines changed and the Mole slowed.
The driver picked up his communicator.
“Rock,” he grunted “speed cut by four fifths.”
He cut off the protesting squawk from five miles above his head and carried on with his sandwich. When he had finished his lunch, he toggled his communicator.
“It’s rock. Hard rock. Ain’t a thing anybody can do. Just send the water bowsers we need to cool the cutters.”
“There’s no rock down there.”
The driver sighed and switched on the powerful lights that formed the Mole’s ‘eyes’.
“Video on,” he said grumpily.
The watchers in the office on the surface were treated to a view of the Mole’s teeth biting into a solid rock face.
“Okay. Water bowsers ordered.”
“Good.”
Some five hours later, as Driver was considering his options for supper, the engine note changed again. He toggled his communicator.
“We’re through. Speed increase to two miles per hour. Putting Mole on auto. Signing out for night.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, shutting communications down and swinging to the floor. As his stomach started to rumble, he heard a knock on the Mole’s metallic outer skin far below him. He opened the door and stuck his head out. Down at ground level he could see a foreshortened figure standing on the bottom step of the ladder that led to his cabin. He whistled. The figure looked up, and he recognised the homely features of his own brother.
“Chu want bro?”
“Nuffink. I got a pot of Mam’s rabbit stew for ya. Chuck down the rope.”
Driver grinned toothily and dropped a thick rope with a hook on the end. His brother ducked and then attached a large bucket to the hook before stepping back. Driver flicked a switch and a small motor purred into life, gently hauling in the rope and its savoury burden up the fifty feet to the cab door. When the bucket reached his feet he lifted it in gently. Ma’s rabbit stew wasn’t to be treated with contempt. His brother gave him a thumbs-up and stepped away from the rumbling, grumbling monster.
Driver went arm-over-arm into his cramped living quarters and tenderly removed the lid from the big enamel pail. It contained several carefully packed items. First there was a brown crock of butter and a loaf of soft, fresh bread. Then he lifted out a heroically sized hunk of fruit cake and a pot of clotted cream. The bottom of the bucket yielded a lidded dish of thick, savoury stew and a letter in his mother’s careful printing.
He inhaled a lungful of savoury steam and reached for a spoon. After about half the bowl, he leaned back in his chair and gave a replete sigh.
“Ma,” he said reverently “I love you”.
A deeply feminine, and richly amused, contralto voice, which seemed to emanate from the very air around him, chuckled appreciatively before speaking.
“What’s it worth not to tell Ma you only love her when your belly is full?”
“She knows already, Mole. You can’t never pull the wool over Ma’s eyes.”
The laughter in the ether went on for quite some time, and it cheered Driver as he went about clearing up after himself and storing the bounty from the bucket.
“And now,” he said contentedly “we got a letter from Ma to read. Will I read aloud or will you read over my shoulder?”
Driver could all but hear Mole thinking.
“Read aloud please.”
And that was how they spent the evening, a misshapen man and an artificial intelligence enjoying each other’s company as they read the homely tidings from the woman they both called Ma.
For the rest of this story, and more tales of hope and despair, you can pick up your copy of Pulling the Rug II.
Dear Reader Who Writes,
It has come to my attention that there may still be those amongst you who are not entirely au fait with who I am and my impeccable credentials for penning these pieces of perfect pedagoguery. More on why I fear this in a moment, but for now, I must yet again remind you, it seems that I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, Ivy to my friends, author of the science fiction and fantasy classic, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mayhap it is because I have temporarily withdrawn this gem of literature from the maw of an unappreciative public whose ability to discern quality is clearly lacking.
The issue of having one’s fame less recognised than it should be, came to one’s attention when Mumsie returned from an evening at our local hostelry ‘The Pink Wigeon’. She stumbled into my writing room cursing and swearing about not being able to see as I had been writing by the light of a single candle to enchant and encourage my Muse.
“You’re wasting your bloody time, Moons,” she declaimed as she picked herself up from the floor. “No one has heard of you and no one ever will. I asked in the pub and no one had any idea. No one. Not one of the bastards.” Then she staggered back up the step from my underground lair and vanished into the night. Had she remained to hear it, my bright witticism of a reply came to me scant minutes later. “Mummy,” I would have said, “prophets are never honoured in their own hometown.” She would have had no answer to that one, I am sure!
You may have heard it said that every writer has their own ‘voice’. But I suspect, dear Reader Who Writes, that no more enlightens you than it did myself when I first encountered that phrase many days ago now. But allow me to explain so you may acquire this essential aspect of your actualisation as an author.
Your voice is how you speak and your writing Voice is how you speak to your readers. It is that simple. When you choose the precise posy of willing words from the diverse dictionary of your capacious creativity, this – this dear reader Who Writes – is your own unique Voice.
‘But, my beloved teacher,” I hear you say, “Is this not what I already do? Am I not thus, fully fledged from the outset with my own vibrant Voice?” And I reply ‘Nay! And Nay! And thrice Nay! Oh ignorant one.” This is why is I who am the teacher and you the humble pupil, sitting at my metaphorical feet to benefit from my knowledge and wisdom in matters pertaining to the literary arts.
That which you fondly consider your Voice at present is merely your own fumbling effort to present prose in a manner that at least is not too distasteful to a reader. Consider yourself as an aspiring cook who has acquired sufficient skill not to burn their offerings. You will acknowledge that is a long way from being a Master Chef!
Your Voice is only achieved at the end of a long apprenticeship. It is the end result of your hard work. Of those long hours spent burning the candle at both ends (though I have yet to find a candle holder that permits this myself) so that you can emerge from the chrysalis of mere imitation into the fully fledged speckled butterfly of your own Voice.
For therein, dear disciple, lies the secret of attaining your own Voice. Copy that of your literary betters until you have imbibed their Voice and imprinted it upon your own. After all, who are you to think you can write with a more compelling Voice than those whose literary feet you are not fit to touch?
Until next we meet.
Two top analysts escaped their intellectual enslavement to the Empire, now intent on taking that same government down using any and every method at their disposal, not the least of which were their great analytical minds. Bryder was well-suited for this task, a chaos agent with laser-sharp instincts, a grudge against the Empire, and contacts with rebels throughout the universe. But Nayna was the one they'd really have to watch out for.
Bryder slid the first connector into place with a snap he could feel in his fingers. One down, two to go.
“Why don’t we start again and you explain the situation,” Ralf said. “Go from the beginning, and give me the details.”
“That’s my girl, keep him talking,” Bryder said, then played his tongue over his lips as he tried to force the second connector into its socket, given he couldn’t see it with the controller floating in the way. “Damn leads should have been longer so I didn’t have to do this blind,” he told the controller testily. The controller bobbed in front of his face with no sign of contrition.
“We don’t have time for this!” Nayna insisted over the airways and he could have kissed her because Ralf’s reaction was automatic: slow things down. The irony was that his reaction was training Nayna had likely given him: when someone wants something in a hurry, that’s a red flag to move with caution.
The gel suit had far less resistance to work against than the old inflatables spacemen used to work with, but even so, the fine delicate hand work was exhausting and he could feel it in his fingers, wrist, and shoulder. His face was noticeably getting warmer, thanks to the extra radiation and his nerves weren’t exactly helping to keep him comfortable. When he missed his socket again and the connector slipped off the tool, he had to stop himself from throwing tool out into the emptiness of space in his frustration, something foolish for any number of reasons. Not the least, of course, was that its loss would make a very difficult job impossible, but also that it was tethered and would probably smack him hard when it bounced back, perhaps even compromise the suit.
With a few Rellimarian curses and careful tongue placement, he managed to slide the connector back onto the tool. Maybe if he got a better angle… Using the handhold, he released his foot from the first foot restraint and slid his other foot into it. That left a free-floating foot, but, if he tucked it behind the other, he was unlikely to kick anything and give himself another repair task. Plus, this way, he had a better angle looking into the other side of the hole.
He sighed. No wonder he was having trouble. He was trying to install the connector upside down. Of course, that meant he had to reinstall the connector in the tool.
As he wrestled with hardware, he listened to her give a perfectly credible rendition of their escape story, only in this case, she wasn’t the mastermind with an incapacitated Bryder. Instead, he was a dastardly villain who had tricked her into loaning her room to the pilot because he was going to seduce her in his ship. She had no experience, she said forlornly with a very believable sniffle, and he said he just wanted to sneak out into orbit to give her taste of zero g sex.
Instead, he had kidnapped her, and, as soon as they had launched, knocked her unconscious. She hadn’t come to until they had come out of jump into a storm that had incapacitated the ship. No gravity, a fraction of life support and transmitter power, no engines. He had to hand it to her, variations on the truth sounded far more plausible, however unflattering they were to him, than total fabrications. And, with that, the second connector clicked into place. He glanced to the side at his Heads Up Display. It had taken him over an hour to get here. He’d better get cracking.
He took a long drag on the drink straw that reached a bag nestled between his shoulder blades and nearly choked when Ralf said, “I’m finding some of this hard to believe. I’ve worked with Bryder for years. Let me talk to him.”
Nayna said, without hesitation. “He’s dead. I spaced him.” Bryder spat it out involuntarily, contaminating his front helmet’s optics. Nor could he clean them again until he was back inside and could remove the helmet.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He had to hurry.
Ideal Insurgent by Stephanie Barr is out now.
Stephanie Barr has a new book out now, Ideal Insurgent.
Space opera. All my books are character driven and this one is certainly so. I’m a rocket scientist so I like to keep most of my science pretty science-like, but there are bits that are pretty speculative. Still, the real driver for the story, for the action, for everything are the strong personalities and intelligence of my main characters, Nayna and Bryder.
My characters are supposed to be uber intelligent–I’ve always favored smart characters–but, in order to challenge them, I had to keep tossing them into impossible scenarios and then, as the author, figuring out how they could work their way out using their brains. Turned out, that was a lot of cleverness I was asked to come up with and I was taxed to the max. Even though smarts, in general, is one of my things.
My cats are in everything. When I do science fiction, they often get to be variations on domestic cats (or wild cats for that matter). In this case, I built on a black Maine Coone and made it a badass fighter called a “methercat.” And my “dragon” is a critter called a were-dog that looks like a cross between a doberman pincher and a Komodo dragon. It has the personality of a dog but can breathe fire, hence it’s named “Dragon.”
My name is Stephanie Barr and I write books, fantasy and science fiction and combinations thereof. A lot of them. I'm also a rocket scientist, raising my two autistic children as a single mother, and herd a bunch of cats. I have three blogs, which are sporadically updated: Rocket Scientist, Rockets and Dragons, and The Unlikely Otaku. Anything else even vaguely interesting about me can be found in my writing since I put a little bit of myself in everything I write . . . You can find me on Twitter, Facebook, on my Blog or sign up for my Newsletter.
The Master Stonemason was in his eightieth summer and he was all but blind, still his hands knew their work and each chisel stroke was as clean and precise as it had been in his youth. Once he had cut and carved he began the laborious task of polishing, trusting nothing to the hands of his sons, or his grandsons, or the apprentices who watched in something like awe. When one of his sons would have intervened to help the old man, his only surviving daughter stepped in front of her brother.
“Leave him. Let him make his last work as glorious as his first.”
When the last letter was incised and the last square inch of the finest Carrera marble was polished to a soft pure shine, the old man lifted his eyes to the sky and rested at last.
One by one, each man in the yard stepped up and laid a gentle hand on this thing of beauty the old man had crafted.
Last forward was the Master’s daughter. Her homely features were shaped into the tenderest of smiles and she laid her cheek against the cool marble.
“It is perfect,” she said softly, “now come home to your dinner”.
The old man took her proffered hand and they walked away together – leaving the young men to carry the headstone the Master had created to its place on the grave of his beloved wife.
I am old, and I really can’t see
The allure of ‘reality’ TV
Leave ‘Zippy and Bungle’
Behind in the jungle
With those who parade endlessly
One encountered this book back in one’s tender teens when it was a set text for some examination or another. One’s peer group was set the task of reading this dull tome and writing about its dystopian view of nuclear holocaust.
Being a child of extreme sensitivity one approached the story of the end of the world with some trepidation. But one need not have worried, sailing through this pages affected one with no more than brain-crippling boredom…
Synopsis: Some people are in Australia waiting to die. In the end they do so.
Review: This is a book in which nothing happens. Repeatedly. Nobody does anything much. Basically they all stooge around waiting to die. There is no romance, no sex, no adventure, nothing to stir the soul.
Our teachers attempted to inculcate in us the belief that this was a case of masterly understatement. They failed. Even one’s contemporaries, whose hard-handed masculinity sent shivers of excitement and fear down one’s spine to one little pink toeses, apostrophed this as dull and uninteresting. Although one clearly remembers that it was not they who were bent over the headmaster’s skinny thighs and beaten for their opinions.
Conclusion: This book would be an excellent cure for insomnia.
Stars: Zero (one can still feel the cane across one’s tender flesh).
An extract from Dues of Blood which is the final part of Transgressor Trilogy in the Fortune's Fools series.
Torwyn watched the cold eyes behind the high Vyazin nose and found himself thinking of the last time he had been in such a room with the man who had then been just a Warlord.
It had been in Alfor two summers before at the time of the Fair and he had been left chained so the Warlord could talk with him alone. For the longest time, Qabal Vyazin had just walked around his naked, freshly oiled body and said nothing, examining him from every angle.
Trained to such display from an early age, Torwyn kept himself still. He had been uncertain what to expect from such a man as this. Some nobles were quick to make their desires known and wanted a response to feed their egos. But this man seemed to study him from another perspective altogether.
At last, he had stood in front of Torwyn, and held his gaze with a vice-like stare which had been cold and dispassionate. Torwyn had lowered his own eyes after a short time and it was then Qabal had spoken, his voice enquiring.
“Tell me how it is you have such power?”
Torwyn had struggled with that, uncertain what he was being asked or how he could please this man with an answer.
“I have no power, Most Honoured One,” he had said at last, aware of the burden of the unemotional eyes upon him. “I am just a fighting-slave. I cannot command others.”
Qabal had stood very still and given a sharp upward nod.
“You know your place well,” he said softly. “But you also underestimate yourself. Each time you walk onto the sand you have more power than any man – the power of death over another human being. How does that feel?”
Most who paid for private time with the Sabre were interested in only one aspect of his anatomy: that which he kept between his legs. Qabal was clearly equally obsessed, but with another part of his body: that which lay between his ears.
Torwyn stared at the Warlord and hoped the sudden rush of contempt was not visible on his face. How could he ever explain the sick sense of fatality? How to describe the gut-churning fear? How to express the burn of adrenaline which had to push you further than thought? What possible way could he put into words the sense of intense self-disgust which choked the soul each time he had to kill? Standing before Qabal he had struggled to find anything in that which had to do with power. Eventually what he had said was what he thought Qabal had wanted to hear: a simple lie.
“It feels as though I am the ruler of the world – in that moment with my opponent’s life in my hand.”
Qabal had stared at him for a long time and then given that same odd upward nod.
“Then you and I are men of the same cast. Except that my arena is all Temsevar.”
When the hole in the sky let the dragon appear
The heavens grew dark and the humans felt fear
And the ships of the light, one by one they took flight
But they fell from our sight, in the bowels of night
Though each one was crewed by the bravest of brave
None could reach high enough homeland to save
When the beast ate the sun and the satellites fell
There were no stories left: there was no one to tell
