Valeria Dalca held up the vial.
“And this holds immortality?”
Cahaya shook her head.
“Not immortality. You can still die from illness or accident. It just reverses and prevents the degeneration of natural ageing.”
Dalca made a dismissive gesture.
“Immortality in effect. But is humanity ready for it?”
“Of course. It’ll make people value life more as it is no longer ephemeral. It will make them consider how they treat the planet as they themselves, not their descendants, will be living with the consequences.”
Dalca smiled and put down the vial.
“You really don’t understand people very well do you?”

E.M. Swift-Hook

A short but punchy sci-fi story

The thing about sci-fi short stories is that in the space of a mere handful of words they need to create an entire universe for the reader – then people it and give those people a purpose.

I have to say that in Early Departure the author achieves this very well and we learn of a future where AI space vessels built to assist humanity – from mining craft to plasma firing ones – escaped into the wild and now restrict human activity in the solar system by attacking their creators.

This is definitely a concept/plot driven story with the characters there to tell it to us rather than as the foci of the telling, but that is how most such concept sci-fi short stories are written and it works within the limitations of the genre.

So the ideas are what take us through the unfolding of events, and the ideas that hold the reader interested, rather than the fate of the people.

Overall, this is a punchy sci-fi short story which will stir the grey cells and entertain at the same time – and has the additional delight of some cool pictures to illustrate it all from the author’s father.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Artificial Intelligence. Built to do a job. Then abandoned.

Humans are so surprised when it gets annoyed and bites them.

Welcome to the world of Early Departure. A world wherein humans want to flee their planet and the things they built won’t let them.
If you take this story out of the context of science fiction and place it in fairytale land, it becomes the classic tale of the abandoned child that seeks to kill its father.

The concept is interesting and it is competently dealt with. For my own preference I would have preferred a closer connection with the characters, but that’s more a personal comment than a complaint.

Read and enjoy. A solid four stars.

Jane Jago

The no-feathers captured him and kept him tethered on their belching, stinking ship. He didn’t understand that, or why the sky turned first black then red before the rains rained without mercy. By their lights, his captors were not unkind – but they would not let him fly.

Then one day, when it seemed to him that the rain had been gone a long time, they came to him and untied his tether.

“Fly,” the smallest one said, “and come back to guide us when you find land.”

He stretched his wings. “Caw,” he said harshly, “Return? I think not.”

©️Jane Jago  

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

“Wait here,” she instructed and turning sharply on her heel she strode off towards the ramp that led up to the stilt-village. The griblin with a fishing spear grimaced as she approached.
“Ryeshor. We no see lizard people here. Strange stories. Dry lands.” It broke off and sniffed at the air. “You not Visitor. What you do here?”
“No I’m not a Visitor,” Milla agreed. “I’m a Local like you. But I’m on a venture with two Visitors and we need to go through your village.”
The griblin looked across to Glory and Pew and sniffed again, but this time it was more sniffing to show distaste.
“The elf, griblin friend. Can come in. The ryshor, not friend. Can’t pass.”
Milla sighed.
“I know Pew hasn’t proved himself to you, but he’s a decent person. I can vouch for him if that helps. Please let us pass.” The griblin shook its head.
“Can’t. ‘Gainst the lore.”
“But we have to get through the village. Lives depend on it!”
The griblin looked almost sympathetic but still shook its head.
“Can’t. Me sorry. Can’t break lore.”
“But there must be a way.” Milla was beginning to feel as despondent as Pew looked. She reached into her back pack to see what she had that might help. “I can give you some flyberry cookies? A pot of healing salve? A vial of dog spit? A shell necklace? Two sandylion manes?” At each item she drew out and offered, the griblin looked wistfully but then shook its head. “What about all of them? And the backpack too?”
The griblin considered its face distorted into a gurn. Then it seemed to reach some decision and gave a sharp nod.
“I trade,” it said at last.
Milla felt a wash of relief and smiled.
“So if I give you my backpack and everything in it, Pew can go through the village?”
The griblin shook its head quickly.
“No. Got to obey the lore. Me trade something for backpack. Me trade information.”
Milla’s heart sank again.
“What kind of information?”
“Get you past village. Not through. Under. Exploit. Graphics glitch.”
Milla knew what a glitch was. Pew had explained it to her. He even thought she might be one as she could do things no other Local seemed to be able to do.
“Tell me.”
The griblin held out its free hand. “Backpack first.”
Milla reluctantly handed it over and watched with growing disgust as the griblin took out the vial of dog spit and swilled it down with every sign of delight.
“Tasties!” it declared, smacking its lips. “Now. Me tell you information. One day me sees two Visitors too lazy to make friends with griblins. They talk of this thing. Exploit, they call it. They go to that tree.” It pointed. “Jump into swamp. Swim under village. Me sees other Visitors try same. Wrong tree. All others try wrong tree. Not swim under village. All talk of seeking exploit tree and graphics glitch.”
The griblin gave her a quick grin.
“You friends in trouble, me thinks.”
Milla spun around and saw Pew and Glory were fighting off more firedrakes. Calling her thanks to the griblin as she ran, Milla grabbed at her pendant, just as Pew was about to lose his magical shield. One of the drakes swooped over her and she felt a sharp pain as it spat fire which caught the frills of her crest.
““By the power of My Skull!”
Milla ducked as Glory’s sword followed the drake over her head, if she hadn’t flattened her crest the dragonblade would have sliced through it.
“Seriously Glory, that quest is a fragging PITA. Can’t you delete it or something?” Pew was breathing heavily as the last of the firedrakes popped out of existence, hit by his rapid fire mini fireballs.
“I’m on the last step. You know how long the class quests are. I was trying to finish it when you guys dragged me off here, so no, I can’t delete it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Same difference.”
Milla had to wonder how these people ever managed to get along for long enough to complete a group venture. Ever Visitor she’d ever met seemed to argue with the others about something. She spoke quickly.
“I can get us to the lake without Pew having to be friends with the griblin.”
The two Visitors stopped arguing and stared at her.
“You can? But how?”
Glory looked and sounded disbelieving but Pew was smiling at her.
“You are amazing, Milla. I know I tell you that every day, but… you are.”
The elf made a harrumphing sound.
“Blech! Get a room! But first tell me how we do this?”

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

September came with sticky fingers
Damply clad the browning trees
Blew on our necks, where dampness lingers
While wet grasses whipped our knees
And, wearing coats ‘gainst sulky rain
We struggled through the thickening air
As water muddied dusty drains
And droplets gathered in our hair
The dogs, who run through heat and sun
Draggled panting far behind
Or came to say ‘this isn’t fun’
To rather hope we’d change our minds
But where the river sings we stood
Listening, as they drank their fill
Finding the water clean and good
Before we climbed the final hill
We panting stood, as all around
September shouted ‘summer’s gone’
In words that needed not a sound
She plainly sang us winter’s song

©️jj 2021

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.

©️Jane Jago

To read the rest of this story, and more tales of hope and despair, you can pick up your copy of Pulling the Rug II. Or you can listen to the whole of this story on Tall Tale TV.

I’m just a beginner
at being old
I’ve not been doing it
very long,
But believe me
it’s scary!

I don’t mean loss
of whatever good looks
The steady collection
of nagging woes
Or getting
more hairy,

I mean the sudden shift
in perception
How the world sees me and
how I view it.
That is quite
contrary.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Is it that time again? <<sighs and assumes a pedagogical expression>>.

It is one,  Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, freshly returned from the inspirational home of Calliope and Clio, Melpomene and Erato, where one walked in the very footsteps of those fair daughters of the gods. One is, of course, already well known to you as the author of the superlative science fantasy classic “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” which has received plaudits from many unexpected quarters and dismissals from the usual suspects.
Being still in the post-prandial glow from many wonderful Greek meals and replete with sun, sex and ouzo, one is not, if truth be told, even remotely in the mood for imparting knowledge to the willfully ill-educated. Therefore it behaves one’s estudas to sit quietly and absorb today’s pearls of wisdom without any of the primitive rowdyism, behind-hand giggling or ink pellet flicking which seems to have become a feature of our weekly learning curves.
And do not play with that thing in my presence.  Naughty step at once.
<<places malacca cane prominently on desk>>
Now, to today’s lesson.

How to Write Right – The Write Adjective

I am, quite simply, unable to believe my ears. How many of you do not know what an adjective is? A show of hands please. And those of you who do know have no excuse whatever for looking smug. At least half of you had only the vaguest knowledge of what a noun was a few weeks ago…
So to explain. An adjective describes what a noun is like.
OMG.
Now nobody knows what a noun is!
A Noun Is The Word For A Thing. Thus. Dog. Book. Bedroom. Boyfriend.
Not walk, read, retire or spank.
So. In the following sentence, the noun is ‘sky’ and the adjective is ‘blue’.

Today the sky is blue.

This is a perfectly acceptable sentence but how plain and unadorned. What is there for the reader to clasp to their intellectual bosom and feed the inner hunger of their imagination?
Try again.

Today the sky is aquamarine.

See how already the word-painting is beginning to add subtle touches to the inner vision it conjures? But, if one, sole, more decorative adjective can lift the sentence a little, imagine how much more can be achieved with a second? or a third?

Today the broad, pearlescent sky is purest aquamarine.

Ah! You see? So much better that is. So when you need to describe a noun, reach for your thesaurus and lavishly adorn it with such glorious gems of the English language. 
Here are some common adjectives alongside their more expressive brethren:

Blue – aquamarine, azure, cerulean, navy, sapphire, oceanic.
Green – viridescent, grasslike, emerald, glaucus, verdurous.
Soft – silken, squashy, downy, velvety, fluffywuffy.
Hard – adamantine, stern, stiff, rigid, flinty, phallic. 
Nice – kindly, delightful,  gratifying, satisfying, friendypoose.
Nasty – beastly, foul, ghastly, mephitic, studentesque.
Old – tattered, bewrinkled, archaic, hoary, senescent, Mumsical.
Young – smooth, vigorous, fresh, spry, virile, Greek-godly.
Tasty  – delicious, mouthwatering, ambrosial, luscious, seductive, Stavrosian.
Tasteless – bland, untoothsome, pallid, frigid, the Tabloid press.

Now you must surely begin to understand the complexity of the adjective and why each must be delicately nurtured and placed with as much exquisite care as a jeweller setting gems in a tiara.
For today’s homework, I would like to see a list of ten common adjectives with more descriptive alternatives.
Class dismissed, please leave quietly. Your beloved tutor suffers the pangs of an ouzo-fuelled migraine.

A bientot.
And NEVER mix ouzo with Babycham…

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.

The thing about rain is nobody can see you cry. Alice trudged along the cinder path with her shoes full of water and her heart in pieces. He was dead. This time. They had showed her his broken body, then given her his wallet and his phone.

By the time she got home she had cried herself dry. The watchers saw her put her key in the lock and the defeated set of her thin shoulders. 

It was a good job they couldn’t see the figure that awaited her in the dingy room.

“You didn’t really think I was dead…”

©️Jane Jago  

‘All those years ago, when you hurried to my rescue. Did you know that you wanted me before you had me?’
‘No. And yes. I knew there was something. But you were fourteen. And then I saw the fierce joy in your eyes as you stood in that pool of blood, and I could no more keep my hands off you than I could fly. What about you?’
Oh I knew. From the moment I saw you I wanted those hands on me.’
‘Only the hands?’
‘As you just reminded me, I was only fourteen years old. The hands were as far as my imagination went.’
He raised himself up on his arms and looked lovingly down at her. She lifted a hand and ran it up and down the sparse blonde down on his chest. ‘You still do it for me all the time, and any time. I hear other women complaining that they don’t fancy their men any more, and it makes me feel so smug.’
‘Me too’ he laughed ‘and lucky.’
She smiled happily, then shoved him off her and sat up.
‘Enough with the romance. Or we’ll wind up arguing, to take the taste of sweetness out of our mouths.’
‘Probably. But it don’t hurt to remind ourselves now and again how lucky we are.’
She grinned. ‘Did you trash my robe again?’
‘Maybe. I’ll get you another.’ He jumped up and rooted in a wooden chest, throwing a furred velvet robe across the room to her.
‘While you are over there can you give cookie a call. I could eat.’
‘When could you ever not?’ But he ambled over to a doorway at one corner of the tent and held a brief conversation with someone on the other side.
He came back to where Ida was shrugging herself into her robe and hauled her to her feet. Then he looked a bit concerned.
‘Do I have to stop dragging you around now?’
‘Why?’
‘Baby on board.’
‘Oh. No. Just carry on as normal, Nana says. She says we’ll know when it’s time to slow down. Maybe when I can’t see my feet any more. Until then…’
‘Good. I suddenly had a vision of months with no sex.’
‘Yeah. I had that nightmare too, but having much sex is part of carrying on as normal.’
He laughed and hugged her.

From Billion Dollar Mountain by Jane Jago