From Transgressor: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face.
Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing.
But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road.
“Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of Qabal Vyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?”
If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.”
Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.”
Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle.
“And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost.
The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile.
“I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.”
Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear.
“I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is undoubtedly Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner.
Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Artwork by Ian Bristow

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

(To be sung with joy and enthusiasm to the tune of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High‘)

Watch now merrily on Sky
Netflix and Freevision
Look for Dr. Who and try
The latest Disney version
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
New boxed sets out for Christmas
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
We’re sorted now for Christmas

And so safe at home we go
To watch the latest movies
And I know, I know, I owe
My subscription still due is.
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
New movies on this Christmas
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
We’re sorted now for Christmas.

Action, drama or romance
The choice is ours to make now
And we even get a chance
To catch up now or later.
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
More reruns on this Christmas
Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious,
We’re sorted now for Christmas.

Christmas Dinner

Menu:

Prawn cocktail

Roast turkey, sausagemeat and apricot stuffing, chestnut stuffing, sage and onion stuffing balls, pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, roast parsnips, mashed swede, Vichy carrots, braised red cabbage, ratatouille, leeks au gratin, cauliflower cheese, Brussels sprouts with bacon and walnuts, peas, gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, apple and orange sauce.

Christmas pudding with brandy butter, custard and clotted cream

I would be willing to wager a good portion of my pension that this approximates what at least some of you young things think you need to provide.

Well I’m here to tell you it’s unnecessary.

Simplify.

One: You. Do. Not. Need. A. Starter. Half of your guests will be too pissed to handle anything delicate, and none of them need their appetites blunting. We don’t want to be eating turkey until Valentine’s Day.

Two: Only serve what people will eat. Thus. Small helpings of turkey (breast meat only), a good handful of roast potatoes, twelve peas, as many pigs in blankets as will fit on the rest of the plate. Some gravy. The only exception to this being if you have guests from the colonies who will eat mashed potatoes.

Three: Nobody. Eats. Christmas. Pudding. Give them vanilla ice cream with a generous dollop of dried fruit you have soaked overnight in rum.
This will push even those who are not quite pissed yet over the edge and with only average luck they will fall asleep at the table, leaving the prosecco and mint chocs for you.

Result!

Happy Christmas!

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

(To be sung with vim and delight to the tune of ‘Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel‘)

Come closing time they ring a big brass bell
And tell the customers to go to hell
They banish us to our exile drear
Out in the street whereat there is no beer

But look! But look! There is a golden arch
Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march
Rejoice! Rejoice! A teenager called Matt
Will rescue us with saturated fat

Within that place there is a menu clear
Which promises both cheese and things of cheer
Despite the gloomy clouds of night
They offer boxes brimming with delight

But look! But look! There is a golden arch
Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march
Rejoice! Rejoice! A teenager called Matt
Will rescue us with saturated fat

Come closing time they throw us to the rain
No matter if we grumble or complain
And into exile dreary must we go
Which would be dreadful if we did not know

That over there! There is a golden arch
Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march…

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

Mary showed her teeth. “Sensible. Now. Jack. How’d you know she had a knife and it would be poisoned?”
By way of an answer he turned wrist he was holding over, so that anyone who might be looking could see the runes that glowed against the white skin.
“Oh. One of them is she?”
“Yeah. Except she ain’t no ‘she’.”
A bewildered voice spoke from the background. “What is them two on about?”
A heavily moustachioed Viking answered, in the deep guttural tones that characterised his race. “The blonde is a paid assassin. A Jinje. And probably a shape shifter.”
At the word Jinje, most of the room stepped back from Jack and his captive.
“If’n her is a Jinje shapeshifter, why don’t her change?”
Another voice spoke from the doorway. It was as cold as the coldest winter’s night and as unfeeling as one of the monkeys that scampered through the palm trees chittering and swearing. “As long as the pirate holds its wrist, the creature cannot change. His dwarfish ancestry means he is anathema to magics.”
The figure that moved into the room was dressed from head to foot in a black so dark it seemed to steal the light from around him, but his hair was gleaming silver and his skin was white as milk.
Jack smiled, but his voice when he spoke wasn’t a bit trusting.
“What would a Master Vampire want with a renegade Jinje?”
“Why do you say renegade, dwarf?”
“Half dwarf. And of course it’s a renegade, it has no familiar.”
The vampire showed his teeth. “Neither it does. But I cannot help wondering how the child of an earth crawler knows it should have a soulmate.” He walked forwards with the ineffable grace that was part of his glamour and leaned over the Jinje to within an inch or so of Jack’s unprotected neck. “I have often wondered what dwarf blood tastes like.”
The vampire made a peculiar retching sound as Mary’s hand closed about his neck.
“Think again, leech.”
“Put him down, Mary. Tempting though it is to let you wring his overly clever neck, I think we’d be better served by giving him the assassin.”
She released her hand and the vampire massaged his throat. He turned his burning cold gaze on the red-haired giantess. She laughed and crossed her own eyes.
“You can’t whammy me, bloodsucker. Give it up before I get irritated.”
The vampire was beginning to understand that these people couldn’t be intimidated or beglamoured, so he fell back on courtesy. He spread his hands and bowed gracefully.
“My apologies.” He turned to Jack. “My Maker would deal with the creature in your hands should you so permit.”
“Why does your maker want it?”
“Because it killed a child who was under our protection. By stealth and by poison.”
Jack studied the cool perfection of the vampire’s face. “Very well. But play me false and I will hunt you down.”
The vampire blinked slowly. “That is understood.”
Jack nodded. “Take it, then.”
The vampire placed its icy hands around the throat of the Jinje and Jack loosened his hold on its wrist. Came a bang and a scream and both vampire and would-be assassin disappeared leaving behind a small, probably poisoned, knife and faint smell of sulphur.
Mary stared belligerently around the room. “What are you lot staring at?”
Almost everybody thought of something they would rather be doing, and even those souls who were hardy enough not to run away couldn’t find it in themselves to actually brave that basilisk glare. She snorted her disgust before banging her fists on the table and shouting for hot stew to replace that which had gone cold and a fresh bottle of wine.

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

It is a wonderful story
Set so long ago
A story of a new born babe
Who’s birth was meant
The world to save
And show us love
Though all our days
Until the end

But like a fairytale legend
It is not hard to see
The hope that lay behind the tale
That like the star
That glowed so bright
To summon magi
Through the night
Its message spent

And those who yet embrace it
Their faith we must salute
For midst the pain and the turmoil
That rends our world
And brings us grief
To yet maintain
Such a belief
Is beautiful.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You can listen to this on YouTube too.

It always began with an explosion.
Any explosion – any one of the hundred or more he had survived.
The explosion would lock him in, trap him, make him a prisoner of his sleeping mind. In the real world, he was safe in bed with a woman curled close beside him. Vel’s cousin, Lea, her body warm and sated. But it was not enough. The moment sleep claimed him the explosion would still come, shredding his sanity. Then the nightmare would run on, making him relive each episode, as vivid as life. Every thought, sensation, feeling, image, as clear as it had been at the time, pursuing him remorselessly until he could – somehow – scramble back to consciousness from the relentless abuse of sleep….

An explosion crumpling the building to his right as if it were paper.
Three more blasts in quick succession, the last close enough to spew out a lethal hail of masonry. The kinetic shielding on his armaments belt protected him so the rubble bounced away, but the screaming beside him was cut off abruptly. What had been two human beings a moment before, was now a pulped mess.
A shattering silence followed. He could see troops advancing – eight  – and five more still in cover behind them according to the Lattice screen. With three bursts he  dropped two of the nearest, the rest scattered for cover.
“Leader Four-Delta from Prime. Withdraw immediately.”
The voice in his ears at last.
“Acknowledged.”
Relaying the order to his three surviving team members, Jaz put down covering fire as they retreated. The Lattice was pounding him with information through his scalp implanted data-port, faster than he could absorb it:  numbers and location of the enemy, their armaments, expected movements, ground plans, suggested paths he could take. More.

Then:
“Leader Four-Delta from Prime.  Lattice is showing you are surrounded. We are unable to support. Repeat. Unable to support.” A pause, before the voice added: “You’re on your own out there, Jaz.”
Bastards.
“Acknowledged.”
Snarling the word, he focused on keeping up covering fire. He knew they were surrounded. He could see what was going on.  The handful of Special Legion troops he had been given for this job were being sacrificed – a feint – so the rest of his unit could hit the main enemy base largely unopposed. Except of course no one had told him that. It crossed his mind to wonder who he had pissed off enough so they chose him for this suicide run. If – when – he got out of this he would find out and make them pay. Then the thought occurred that it was probably nothing personal at all. When you were living out a death sentence, you shouldn’t be too surprised to be treated as completely expendable.
A sudden blossom of light caught one of the three whose retreat Jaz was covering. It impacted in the centre of the spine and the figure’s arms went wide, briefly embracing air that was suddenly red with a haze of  vaporised blood, flesh and entrails. Jaz swore and pulled a grenade loose from his belt, sending it in a skilful parabola back towards the enemy to cover his own retreat.
Another of his surviving team went down to a sniper shot,  but the third was trying to offer what covering fire she could from behind a partially demolished building and was being pretty effective. He ran, rolled, then vaulted the lowest part of the wall, crouching beside her, checking Lattice screens, looking for any way out for them.
More blasts exploded on either side and the world disintegrated. Finding himself suddenly under a pile of tumbling masonry, Jaz shook free of it like a wet dog shedding water.  But beside him one arm was all that was visible from beneath the rubble – that and the blood.

He started running again.
Watching the environment.
Watching the screens.
Checking the Lattice data overlays.
A movement on the screen broke the profile of the low rise building beside him, some kind of accommodation block. Appearing on screen: ground-plans, elevations, positions of people, their predicted paths. The data projected into his visual field, augmenting his reality. He turned, raking fire across the facade. A figure fell and a fusillade of energy fire came his way from the building.
Lattice visual was showing him six men in there. Lattice data telling him they were armed with anti-mech heavy weaponry, which he knew they would now be turning on him. The energy threshold of his kinetic shield would be zero defence against that kind of power. Lattice data flashed up a helpful message warning him of the over-ride risk. Better late than never. He cancelled it and pumped more of the adrenalin based cocktail of drugs through the intravenous clip fixed into his torso. Speed was his only defence now and not much of one.

He ran.
Using cover.
Changing course.
His whole focus on making that speed.
The buildings ended in a high wall and as he made the final sprint towards it, he tried to decide between tracking along it for a break or scaling it and risking exposure. Checking Lattice screens for the information he needed to inform the decision. A close burn sent him diving into the last available cover before the wall but –
The screens all went dark and a mild voice was speaking calmly in his ear:
“You are not logged on to the Lattice. Please be aware when the countdown hits zero your brain implants will self-destruct – you are not -”
Fuck the bastards.
He cancelled the voice and ignored the timer as its chilling digits counted down his heartbeats on the edge of his visual field.  There was nothing he could do. The coms drone has been pulled out leaving him to die. For a moment he felt the futility of fighting. They had abandoned him, he was not going to get out this time.

Then he heard it.
Distant sounds of a fire-fight.
Jaz felt an almost dizzying rush of relief – these were the sounds of death that offered him some small hope of life. A moment later he was up and running.
Freeing the climbing line on the belt, he fired the grapnel, barely waiting for it to impact before swarming up the high wall. He felt incredibly vulnerable  – naked to the guns behind. Then he was flattening himself, sliding over the top, dropping down and sprinting.
The trace of light caught in his peripheral vision, making him break into an evasive diving roll. He saw, not felt, the next splash of energy. The shock of it impacted afterwards, horrific and crippling, tearing out his strength and will.
He hit the ground and stayed down, unable to rise, unable to think, his consciousness hollowed out by the pain.
Time fragmented.
Awareness shrank.
The smell of the dark ground beneath his face, tasting musty and sweet – an alien soil. The beat of his heart timing the steady flick of numbers that counted down to the moment oblivion would devour him.
Then –
Something moving, lifting him, an arm under his shoulder. A voice – his brother’s voice – Avilon Revid.
“Let’s get you out of here.”

….. waking was always sudden and never easy.
Like ripping away flesh.
Then came the disorientation as the two worlds of the past and present battled for supremacy.
Which was real?
His mind was still caught in the snare of memory, vividly relived.  He could feel the cold sweat on his body and the hammering of his heart.  A face, vague in the darkness, Avilon’s? Then another voice, familiar and feminine, full of concern and compassion:
“You got it bad tonight?”
The face shifted, the features softening into Lea’s. She was there for him as she had been the last time and the time before that. And he knew then, with a sudden certainty, she would be there for him every night he needed her. He reached out and her arms slipped around him drawing him close, holding him as he sobbed in relief, like a frightened child.

A Fortune’s Fools short story by E.M. Swift-Hook.

We saw a dog otter this morning
In the quiet of the mist
His blunt nose rose from the water
Droplets kissed
He saw us too, then down he dived
With breakfast on his mind
As we watched in silent joy
A voice spoke from behind
Was that just an otter?
How rare a sight to get
I’ve a stream in my garden
How I’d love an otter pet
Maybe I will catch one
And take him home with glee
Oh how fine I’d think myself
If an otter lived with me
But then we turned and looked at him
And when he saw our eyes
He ran from us as if pursued
By our anger and surprise
If you chase the otters
If you disturb their child
We’ll hound you to the gates of hell
The otters here are wild

©jj 2021

You can also listen to this on YouTube.

‘Starship Troopers’ was not a book that one had any intention to read.

Ever.

The blurb made it abundantly clear it was about boot camp and killing insectoid aliens in great quantities and the antithesis of everything that represents fine literature. To one, such as oneself, raised upon more the most sophisticated themes and rarified tomes by She Whose Name One Is Unfit To Mention, it seemed like being asked to enter into a rugby scrum only after ensuring two weeks of torrential rain have softened the pitch.

So why would I do such a thing? One hears the single nonplused warble resonating from my myriad readers. You can be sure, gentle people, it was through no choice of oneself.

This is a cautionary tale that tells how karma always finds a way.

Last month I was prevailed upon to join the local literati gathering – or ‘Ben’s Book Club’ as it is is listed on the Community Centre noticeboard. Mumsie had declared that it would be of great value to my own written words were I to take more time to peruse those of others. She also threatened to evict me from my writing sanctuary and turn it into a hell-hole brewery for her own vile alcoholic distillations if I refused.

So, perforce, enforced by force majeur, I went. The torrid event occupies an entire afternoon each week, filled with in-depth and avid discussion and dissection. Then, once the local gossip is dealt with, the group spends a few minutes at the end considering whatever book Ben has chosen for the week and being assigned one to read for the next.  The first week I went it was Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein.

The Review

A young man goes to boot camp and learns how to fight insectoid aliens so he can vote. The rest of the book describes the fighting. Spoiler: he doesn’t vote at the end of the book.

Stars: Four – for allowing me to learn sufficient juicy gossip from Ben’s Book Club members to blackmail Mumsie into letting me keep my writing sanctuary.

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 warmth and joy to the tune of ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem‘)

Oh little town of Botheringham
How dark thy winter streets
Above thy head the lights are dead
Beware unwary feet
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
One everlasting light
There’s friendship here, and warmth and beer
The pub’s the place tonight

Oh drinking friends together
Proclaim your manly love
And praises sing to beer the king
A blessing from above
For where there’s beer there’s harmony
And peace to all shines bright
Come closing time if mother moon still shines
We’ll have a fraternal fight