His angelic glory lit the small room as he spoke.
“Be not afraid. You have been chosen to bear a divine child,” Gabriel hoped he didn’t sound too weary.
“Afraid? You’re kidding, right?” She stood arms akimbo by the laundry bucket. “No. I’m not having anyone’s baby. Go away!”
Gabriel left. Her words, “Creepy weirdo!” following him out. The fourth sulky teen he’d asked and so far no joy. Literally.
“Be not afraid, Hannah…”
“Go away!”
“Be not afraid, Rachael…”
“Stuff off!”
Gabriel checked the list. The next one was engaged already. This was so not going to go well…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Interview over, Julia felt the need of a fortifying drink. Being unfamiliar with the city, she let Dai lead the way towards the taberna where his team awaited him. Julia followed, carefully not speaking to allow this proud and prickly man time to absorb what the Tribune had to say.
They were walking along a little-used alleyway between two warehouses when they were attacked. A dozen or so burly toughs surrounded them, coming from both ends of the alley simultaneously. Julia touched the emergency alert tab she wore on her wristphone before putting her fingers in her mouth and whistling shrilly.
“I’d be surprised,” she remarked, noticing Dai touching his own wrist device, “if Edbert is actually out of earshot, even if I did dismiss him, but in the meantime.…”
She positioned herself so that she was behind Dai, facing the opposite way. Knowing him to be weaponless she pulled the nerve whip from the back of her belt and pressed it into his right hand. He grunted as his foot took the first thug between his meaty thighs. The man went down whimpering. Secure in the knowledge that Dai had her back, Julia turned her attention to her end of the alley. A huge tattooed figure was running towards her yelling obscenities, and with his hands clawed. She unholstered her personal weapon and shot him through the thigh. He fell to the floor, and she shot a second man as he vaulted his groaning colleague. While the other four were thinking about their options Edbert and the hounds arrived in the company of two angry Praetorians. Satisfied the threat from her end of the alley had been dealt with, Julia turned her attention to Dai’s side. She was pleased, if unsurprised, to find he had managed to incapacitate four of his assailants. Two were running away. Julia shot both in the legs.
“Sorry if that offends, Dai…”
“It doesn’t. I’m a great believer in making examples.” He looked at the nerve whip in his hand. “And this is impressive; we Vigiles don’t get issued them. Or any personal weapons.” Julia looked at his face, expecting to see bitterness and condemnation. To her surprise, he just favoured her with a lopsided smile, and said: “Not your fault. And you did share.”
Came a small commotion at the entrance to the alleyway and a group of Vigiles sauntered in, looking smug.
“What’s afoot here?” the biggest one demanded in haughty tones.
Dai handed Julia her nerve whip.
“Excuse me, domina,” he said, his tone scrupulously polite. “I have merda to shovel.”
He strode over to the group of Vigiles and without any warning ploughed a big fist into the belly of the leader. As the man folded, retching and coughing, Dai turned a furious face to the other five.
“Since when,” he demanded savagely, “did the Vigiles of this city take money to turn a blind eye when law-abiding members of the populace are attacked?”
“And since when did ‘the populace’ think they can get away with attacking servants of Rome?” the biggest of the Vigiles blustered taking a threatening step towards Dai.
Unfortunately for him, the tall Celt was not in a good mood and the man took a well-aimed boot to his solar plexus that had him rolling on the filthy cobbles alongside his confederate.
“Anybody else?” Dai’s voice was dangerously quiet. For an instant nobody moved, then there came a high-pitched whistle from the street. Dai whistled back. His men came thundering in, screaming to a halt as they took in the scene. Bryn was the first to find his tongue.
“What happened, Bard? Scorpius’ thumbs started twitching so we come looking for you. Then your panic alarm sounded…”
“Somebody thought it would be fun to ambush me and the Inquisitor.”
“Inquisitor?” a voice from the back of the group sounded truly confused. Dai gave what Julia was coming to see as his characteristic grin.
“Bryn has had the pleasure already, but the rest of you, allow me to introduce Inquisitor Domina Julia Lucia Maxilla. And before you lot make your minds up there are a couple of things you should know. First, she swears worse than any of you. Second, she loaned me her nerve whip until the cavalry turned up. Plus. See them dogs and the big guy with the muscles. They belong to her. So drop the hostile and take these gentlemen to the Praetorian Barracks where they can be asked some pertinent questions.”
“What, Vigiles and all?”
“Oh yes. I very much want to know who paid them to turn a blind eye. Oh, and Bryn, you lot are moving in with the Praetorians until further notice. All leave is cancelled and you had better call your spouses or the local lupanar and tell them you are not coming home for a few days.”
The middle-aged Vigiles looked at his superior officer with wise eyes.
“That dangerous, is it?”
“Could be. So if anybody wants out I’ll sign you off, on sick-leave.”
Nobody did, and Dai’s men hustled their prisoners into a hovercart and made for the barracks with one Praetorian along to vouch for them.

“I don’t want that drink now.” Even to her own ears, Julia’s voice was as cold as an Appennine snowstorm. “Instead, I’d like a word with the curator of the Augusta Arena. I want to know who paid him to look the other way.”
Dai grinned.
“Not him, her, one Annia Belonia Flavia.”
Their one remaining Praetorian spat on the ground, and Julia lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Futatrix,” the man grunted. “One of the lady Lydia’s patrician friends. Too good to talk to the likes of the Tribune.”
“Let’s go ruin her day then, shall we?”
“What a perfectly splendid notion.”

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

The highwayman rode a bay horse with three white socks. When he held up Sir Peregrine’s curricle on a lonely road across the common swords were drawn.  They fought, and the dandy died at the roadside. His killer stole a kiss from Lady Peregrine and rode away.

The lady never remarried. Retiring from London society she chose to live at the least of her late husband’s properties – an isolated manor in the Kentish Weald. 

It was a quiet life, and if a bay mare with three white socks was stabled at the manor almost every night who was to know…

©️Jane Jago

Avilon curbed his frustration and was about to try again, when the heavy awning at the end of the wagon was thrown back and a man stepped in dressed in the same peculiar style Avilon had seen the youngster he had attacked wearing, even down to the pistol and whip. However this man’s clothing was if anything more garish, and far from being shaven, his hair hung in a thick red braid reaching just below his shoulders. He was not as young as the boy Avilon had encountered before, probably a decade or so older. Hard bodied and hard faced, with no sign of any humour or humanity.
As soon as he came in the old woman began wailing and grovelling at his feet, but he ignored her completely and moved to stand at the end of Avilon’s crude bed. His face seemed completely inexpressive and he jabbered something in the outlandish language. Avilon shifted position slightly to raise his head.
“I can’t understand what you are saying,” he said carefully, keeping his tone even and his own expression friendly. “Do you speak Standard?”
The man frowned and spoke again with slow deliberation, as if he were addressing a child or an imbecile. Avilon shrugged and smiled.
“Sorry, but even if you spell it out letter by letter I still won’t understand. I need someone who can speak Coalition Standard, it is the only language I know.”
The man turned and snapped something at the old woman, who promptly scraped and grovelled her way out of the wagon, then he crouched down beside the pallet bed and probed the wound on Avilon’s head with ungentle fingers. That hurt, but Avilon remained unmoving, his face schooled to unthreatening neutrality. He wanted to convince these people that he was not in need of any more of their drug.
Then the man pulled back the blanket and examined the various scars that marred his naked torso and limbs, prodding at them. Avilon flinched and resisted the impulse to object to this humiliating treatment. There was nothing personal in it. It was as though the other man was testing the quality of a piece of technology – or a piece of meat. Since it was presumably a part of some primitive health check, which if he passed, might well see an end to the drug regime, and possibly release from restraint, Avilon endured it without protest.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

It was one of those moments when he knew whatever decision he made could affect the entirety of the rest of his life.
This was it.
There was no way to avoid making a choice and no way to prevent the cascading consequences reaching down through the years ahead. He could be losing a chance at a lifetime of happiness or maybe committing to the first step of something that was doomed to fail.
For a moment that awareness paralysed him completely. Even his thoughts. Then he looked at the screen in front of him and carefully swiped the picture.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Wolf Killer is book three of the The Magic Mirror Collection by C H Clepitt. The collection jumps through history, retelling fairy tales with a queer twist. So far we have seen Beauty and the Beast set in 1930s France, and Snow White set during the Second World War spanning Germany and rural Wales. In this latest instalment retelling Red Riding Hood, we find ourselves in 1980s America, and on the hunt for a serial killer.
“Honey, it’s the ’80s. You need to find yourself a woman who can hold your hand in public, not one who calls you her ‘friend’ and keeps you away from her boss. You don’t need that kinda heartache. You think it’ll be OK, but it won’t, trust me. It starts to eat away at you.”
FBI Agent Clara Hunter might not be girlfriend material, but as Red soon discovers, if you have a serial killer on your heels she is just the woman you want in your life!

Clara took a deep breath before entering Aphrodite’s Bar. She hoped no one would recognise her from the night before. It was lunchtime. Different staff, hopefully. The woman behind the bar wore stone washed jeans with braces, a fitted white vest and sported a mohawk and nose ring that told the world not to mess with her.
“Help you folks?” She asked suspiciously as Clara and Marty walked in.
“FBI, honey,” Marty flicked out his badge with a flourish. He liked to pretend he was in a movie. “I’m Agent Keating, this is Agent Hunter.”
“We’re up to code,” the woman bristled. “Wanna see our liquor license?”
“Oh, no!” Clara moved forward in front of Marty. “It’s nothing like that…”
Just then she was interrupted by Red bustling in from the back room running her fingers hurriedly through her hair as she did so.
“Sorry, Jill,” she was distracted. “You know how Nanna is, I couldn’t get away!” She spotted Clara and stopped dead.
“You work here too?” Clara asked awkwardly.
“Need to keep up with the rent…” Red glanced between Clara and Marty uncomfortably.
“Knew I wasn’t losing my touch!” Marty grinned and elbowed Clara.
“Right,” she smiled awkwardly at him. “Sure does explain it.” She turned her attention to Jill. “You do bar snacks?”
“Wings,” Jill sounded baffled. “We do spicy Buffalo wings…”
“Great, we’ll order some wings and I’ll have a club soda,” she glanced at Marty who nodded. “Two club sodas and then maybe we could have a chat?”
“You have the best ideas!” Marty kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll grab that table there,” he indicated a small round table by the entrance, “and people watch. You do the interview.”
“You got it.” Clara pulled up a bar stool.
“I’ll get on that,” Jill opened two bottles of soda against the bar and poured them into glasses simultaneously. “Red can answer any questions you have.” She came out from behind the bar and crossed to where Marty had positioned himself, put his drink in front of him and headed to the kitchen.
“Official business?” Red asked as she glanced awkwardly across the room to Marty, who was studying the street.
“Yeah, it could be serious.” Clara lifted her briefcase onto the bar and unclipped it. Reaching in, she withdrew the photographs of the victims. “Do you know any of these women? Have they been in here at all?”
Red looked at the pictures curiously. “They in trouble?”
“They’re dead.”

Wolf Killer is released on 26 September. You can preorder it now!

A Bite of… C H Clepitt

Question one: Fairytales. How important do you think fairytales are in the 21st century?
I don’t know that fairy tales are important to the 21st Century in and of themselves. What I do know is that we all grew up with them and that none of them have any queer representation, and that IS important. People need to see themselves in their favourite stories and that’s what I’m doing with this collection.

Question two: Who are your writing heroes?
My writing heroes are anyone trying to put out own voices marginalised fiction when the odds are stacked against them. Keep doing it, we all need representation.

Question three: If you had twenty-four hours and three wishes to save the world, what would you do?
It would depend how the world was ending how I would need to wish. You can’t just wish willy nilly in the face of an apocalypse.

C H Clepitt says:
“I love the fact that historical fiction gives you a snapshot into an era that you may not have previous knowledge of. There’s something about reading a work of fiction set in a different time that is so much more immersive than just reading a history book.
“With each of the The Magic Mirror collections I have tried to write them in the style of the era, and Wolf Killer may be the most grown up yet. It deals with issues of queerness and identity the way the previous two books have not and I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.”
You can keep in touch on Twitter!

August. A breathless night. Grandma shuffled onto the porch. 

With beer. 

It was icy.

“What? How?”

“Got the frigerator fixed.”

As we took the first reviving belt a voice spoke from the darkness.

“I’ll take them beers.”

“You gonna hafta come get em.”

Grandma dropped into her saggy old chair.

The guy who stepped into the lamplight was as big as a house and he had a Colt lined on Grandma.

But ten-gauge gauge trumps handgun, and Grandma right about blew a hole through him with the sawn-off she slid out from under her cushions.

“Cheers,” she said.

©️Jane Jago

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

Then the airship angled down and stopped abruptly. It had moored at a platform identical to the one where they had boarded. Back on solid ground again, even if it was only as solid as a path in the middle of a swamp could be, Milla breathed a sigh of relief. The other two were still going at it as they went down the steps from the platform behind her.
“…but the armour and defence rating won’t stack so you’re better off taking something to boost your dodge.”
“My agility bonus has maxed out my dodge to the hard cap. And you’re missing the benefit of having the extra HP.”
Milla cleared her throat loudly. “Fascinating as I’m sure all that is, where do we go now?”
Pew looked at her and then looked around as if unsure where they were.
“If we’re heading to Lustrous Lake we have to go through the griblin village,” Glory said, pointing to where the ramp up to the stilt-settlement was guarded by a skinny looking creature with a purple and green skin, clad only in a loincloth and holding what looked like a barbed fishing spear. “The lake’s just on the other side – on the edge of the swamp.”
But Milla was looking at Pew who had a stricken expression. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”
“I’m KOS to the griblins,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Oh fracking frag!” Glory looked appalled “You’re not serious?”
“What does that mean?” Milla asked, feeling lost as she often was around Visitors.
“It means your boyfriend can’t go through the village without every fragging griblin attacking him on sight. But what I don’t get is how come you’ve not got the faction? Every toon on the server has griblin faction by your level.”
“I forgot I’d never done it on this toon. It was last expansion and I only started my ryeshor this expac.” He sounded so miserable that Milla wanted to hug him, but she felt a bit shy doing so in front of the sarcastic Glory.
“Then maybe we can sort that?” she suggested.
The other two looked at her as if she had turned into a swamp slug.
“Seriously?” Glory shook her head and laughed. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to grind up griblin faction? The devs put it in as a time sink for those who’d done everything else in game to fill in before the new expac came out. It takes days just to be allowed into the village and even then you can’t pass through without maxing faction and that’s another week of grind.”
Milla picked out the essential idea that Pew was not going to be able to walk through the village and wrinkled her snout in thought.
“So then let’s go around the village.” She gestured to the swamp.
“No!” The answer came in chorus.
“We can’t do that,” Pew explained. “There are wandering contested raid boss mobs in this part of the swamp and the whole place is set up so you can’t help but run into them. We’d never make it through.” His crest had deflated completely and he looked defeated. “I can’t even use an invis pot. The griblin guards’ll see through it.”
Milla stiffened her shoulders and heaved a sigh.
Visitors!
Which gave her an idea. The one advantage she had here was that she wasn’t one.

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.

Season of mists and mellow
The return of the school master’s bellow
And the post-summer holidays ‘Hello!’
As now life resumes again.

Time to start wearing a sweater
Time to feel cooler and wetter
September’s climate is better
Than summer’s hard blazing heat.

Apples on trees ripen brightly
Brambles grow blackberries rightly
Beech nuts and cobnuts fall nightly
September’s own proffered feast.

The sense of well-being is assuring
With this month the year is maturing
And winter we’re not yet enduring
Indian summer may come.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“A people who move not through space-time, but through the limitless dimensions which lie outside and between time and space.” 

Fun. 

Playing with impossibilities, as the concept bounced within, [^] modulated the parameters one chose to create new variations. Liberally hiving energy through the Concept’s limitations, perceiving the expansion patterns and wondering where the limits might expire. One’s engagement intensity peaked as a promising parabola extruded through multiple frequencies, tiering their continuity in a brilliantly original manner, so an alternative hierarchy of perceived order shimmered into reality. 

Delight. 

[^] released the unfinished concept and harmonized oneself with this new perception, strimming the drifts of ungainly chaos from the extreme boundaries one had created until the whole seemed honed to a viable core, budding into a new authenticity.

>>that seems to be very unstable, my kin{0ne}, you might try at least anchoring it in some known tier, offer some link to actuality. If not, you know it is gone<< 

The harmonization broke unexpectedly through the strain of focus in which [^] held the Concept and the whole wavered, releasing tendrils of minor tiered realities that slipped away diminishing the whole. [^] surveyed the remains with brief regret. No matter. One could play afresh. One snapped the energy away and the concept ceased. 

[+] exuded regret. 

>>that was beautiful, you could still replicate it and strive to stabilize the dimensionality. maybe make it less extreme. you are so much for always pushing the limits<< 

Amusement. 

>>that is where the beauty lies, [+] , spiraling up out, on and over the edge of possibility<<

>>except [v] would call that a waste of energy<<

But there was no reproach in [+] ‘s demeanor, one’s every perceivable parameter, arced back into affection. [+] shared the same disregard for tradition as [^].

>>waste is only ever in not doing what can be done<< 

[^] returned, shaping the communication with a prim trimming more appropriate to the narrow mode [v] always adopted, than one’s own open and thriving manner. 

Brief patterns of wicked appreciation resolved and dissolved between them. They were close kin, extended into the same dimensionalities on many axes and many expressions of energy, being and Consciousness. 

>>we should be Working, my kin{0ne}<< 

Regret. 

But [+] was right by Duty and [^] harmonized that between them, before shifting focus through multiple tiers and frequencies to relocate one’s Consciousness at the Work. It was impressive to perceive. Despite the ever greater restrictions on the energy that was being gleaned from the open tiers in the Symmetry, the 0nes were lavishing it here in a manner [^] found strangely unsettling. 

Desperation. 

Not one’s own, but there, percolating as a taint through their fellow Weavers. Most would be oblivious to it, focused on the Work, but arriving into the event, [^] observed it and, from their close resonance, felt [+] perceive it as well.

>>>>THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. HERE IS YOUR PLACE<<<<

The communication was brusque and intrusive, lacking any real attempt at polite harmonic modulation, just thrusting into Consciousness with disregard for the impact. It was rude enough to be a deliberate insult, but [v] simply assumed one had every right to do so. This Work was under [v]‘s Authority. [^] and [+] were serving on that, constrained by Duty. But [^] and [v] held very different views of the purpose of Authority, which created an ongoing dissonance between them. 

Annoyance. 

>not now, my kin{0ne}< [+] cautioned gently, soothing the disruption and discontinuity that the intrusive surge left in [^]‘s Essence with deft weaving. >this is too important to all 0nes, they will not back your breach with [v] over something they would consider trivial when set beside this Work< 

[+] was right, of course, and [^] modulated back and offered a humble apologetic mien, which [v] harmonized as brusquely as one had slammed in one’s last communication. 

>>>the Work is priority under Duty<<< [v] declaimed, exuding arrogance and self-importance , dismissing the apology as if [^] was a newly budded sentience, still acquiring skills and not a fully extended individual, and a highly talented Weaver capable of encompassing and coordinating more in a single perception, than most 0nes could begin to imagine as possible. The lack of resonance was creating a strain in the Work and as [v] showed no sign of compromise, [^] had little choice except to submit, or risk a real danger of damage to the foundation of the Work. 

>focus, my kin{0ne}. Let it go, and focus. remember we do this for [=], not for Duty< 

>wisdom from you [+], as always< 

[=] was resonance bonded with [+] and [^] although they had not chosen to bud a new conceptual sentience from their bond. [=] was an Explorer and the one chosen to pass through a minute fissure to the tier that the Nexus they now wove would access. [=] was lost to them until it could be established.

For the sake of their bond{0ne}, [^] tried to focus. A gently soothing ripple harmonized between the two kin{0nes} as they began strimming and weaving with the others. Every 0ne seeking a suitable frequency in the dimensionalities open to each, striving to place the anchors where they could both meld in and draw out energy to power the Nexus they were creating. It was more difficult to find viable tiers; even [^] whose reach was amongst greatest of any 0ne, rooted each anchor with ever more difficulty. 

Something was amiss with the resonance here. Not just this Work, but through all the Symmetry. A memory bubbled within [^], recalling the content of the last harmonization one had shared with [=].

>>we are becoming infected by Entropy, my bond{0ne}<< insisted [=], with a welded mix of sadness and anger. >>as an Explorer I see it more than you Weavers. I experience the tiers and return to Symmetry and each return confirms again my perception. the greed of the 0nes to encompass and draw in ever more of energy into the Symmetry is having the opposite effect. each new fissure in the tiers, supposed to bring in more energy, is opening us to parasitic reflux. I have perceived it, I have recorded it, but the Influencers will not receive my concepts<<

Swirls of antipathy and frustration curled between them. In empathy, [^] harmonized and soothed, but one’s own equilibrium was not easy to maintain. If what [=] perceived was as it seemed, then all 0nes stood in danger of ultimate dispersal – of becoming eventual victims of Entropy.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Wondrous Strange’ is the Fortune’s Fools origins story for Durban Chola. Read the whole story in The Quantum Soul anthology.