Time, the winding river, runs to the eternal sea
Leaves us stranded on its banks as on through all it flows
It sweeps away what was not and what is meant to be
And none can dam its waters as ever on it goes.

It brings the look of wonder to each new child’s face
It sets the heart a-racing in a lover’s brimming breast
It carries those who fight so hard to win in the rat race
It brings the poet inspiration in moments blessed.

I sit beside the river and I record all I see
The highs and lows, smiles and tears, the joy and the pain
I then paint word pictures, how those moments seem to me
As the river brings them by, then takes them off again.

There is so much it brings me that I can only try.
So lay my pen beside me when the river’s run me dry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – “
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -“
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -“
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”
“Let me get this right,” Charis said, incredulous. “You are telling me that because I took a break from the freight shunts to help a friend with their new business I am – ” It felt surreal and for a moment Charis had to close her eyes.
“No longer a citizen.” the official finished for her. “That is indeed so, Var Sweetling.”
She opened her eyes again and tried to deal with the situation in a calm and logical way.
“Look, if the Coalition needs me on the cargo runs so badly, I’ll go back to Rota tomorrow.
They will be happy to have me back. They told me they would.”
The official’s face wore an expression which might even have held some trace of regret.
“I am sure you would and I am sure they would. But, I am sorry to say there is an issue with your doing so. Those posts are only open to those who are citizens of the Coalition. And, as you have now confirmed all the details which underlie the ruling of the committee, the status of your non-citizenship has already been confirmed.”
Charis felt her mouth dry up as her throat became suddenly constricted and sore.
“I want a lawyer,” she said, snapping out the words and without even waiting for permission she sent a link out to her mother. It failed to connect and dropped away.
“You are welcome to seek legal representation if you wish to re-apply for asylum, appeal the decision or seek citizenship, but only once you have been deported. As a non-citizen, you have no right to residency in any of the Central or other Coalition worlds, so whatever legal steps you feel you need to take will have to be conducted from outside them.”
The full horror of her situation impacted then and left Charis feeling weak, as though her muscles could not support her body. She felt herself slump back into the chair.
“I need to go home if you are going to deport me, I need my things. I -“
“That is not going to be possible. You will leave here for a detention facility where you will be informed as to what options may be open to you. I do suggest you co-operate as it makes the process less unpleasant for everyone, but most of all for yourself.”
“But – you don’t understand. I am a citizen of Central – raised here, educated here, my parents live here, all my friends are here, I don’t know any other life. I couldn’t survive a day on half the Middle World protectorates I’ve shunted cargo to, let alone on some below low-tech Periphery hell hole. I won’t know the culture, the way of life, the people. Why take me in and teach me, nurture me, make this my home – then throw me out? What was the point? It’s beyond pointless – it’s – it’s cruel.”
Her voice broke a little on the last word and she had to stop talking or risk allowing the tears of anger and frustration, which pricked in her eyes, from showing.
The official looked a little weary as if he found himself dealing with this situation one time too often.
“The Coalition always takes the cases of displaced minors, children who need asylum, very seriously and the Protected Children Program has been long established as a humane and fair way of treating unaccompanied or orphaned children who come to us in need. Those, such as yourself, who are accepted under Amendment D are required to repay the community through military service, which you did. After which you may be accorded rights of citizenship if you are working in reserved employment – as you were for many years. There is nothing unfair, pointless or cruel about it.”
Charis heard the door open behind her and, still in denial when her arm was taken in an iron grip, she felt as if the end of her life had begun.

From Haruspex:Trust A Few part of the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

They say
I should remember you today
But don’t
They know I miss you every day?
And hear
Your voice although you went away
They say
This is a time for contemplation
But don’t
They know the train has left the station?
To hear
Your voice when I need confirmation
Would be
The very best of gifts, if sad
They call
It Father’s Day
I just miss my dad

©jj 2021

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Start Writing A Book – The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

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.

Yesterday, she looked into the mirror and her own eyes had looked back and her own lips had smiled.

She had gone to the shops, that was all, to the shops to buy a new pair of trainers. The explosion had happened as she was trying them on and she had just run, still wearing them.

Run, as it rained blood.

In the edge of her vision she still saw the red, like a mist and the severed hand clutching at nothing. In her ears the screams still echoed.

Today, she looked into the mirror and she saw another person.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I suppose now is as good a time as any to explain my parents and me. My Dad is third-generation Polish/east London. He’s a nurse; works with terminally ill children in a hospice. My actual mother was a nurse too, a delicate Japanese beauty by the name of Akiko. Sadly, she got too fond of the things her patients were taking. She left me and Dad when I was about two and I don’t much remember her. I hadn’t even started school when her body was found in a flop up west somewhere. Dad reckoned she had taken some bad shit.
After that, he moved us out of London, and we came to the English Riviera, where I’ve mostly been ever since. I was seven when he met my stepmum, who is a maths teacher at the local comp, and from the start I knew she was good for him. He started grinning and whistling, but they were moving at a snail’s pace. It took my seven-year-old mind a few weeks to grope its way to understanding that they were unsure of my reaction to their relationship. I decided the next move was mine. I’m not sure it was entirely intelligent to make that move in a fast food restaurant, but I was only a little kid. So I looked up from my banana milkshake and grinned at the pair of them.
“When you two get married can I be a pageboy?”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Dad looked shrewdly at me. Then he smiled.
“Okay. Where did that come from?”
“You are happy now. Since Pam been your friend. I like her too. I thought you might get married. Did I say something bad?”
“No love, you didn’t. But are you sure?”
I beamed at them until I felt my cheeks were close to bursting. “Course. I seen other people’s stepmums and I think we would be lucky to get Pam.”
Dad looked fondly at both of us. “We surely would. What do you say Pammie? Going to take us on?”
And, God bless her, she did.
Twenty-one years later she is one of my best friends, and one of the few people whose opinion I value.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Why do I have a drawerful of odd socks? I don’t buy odd socks. I don’t make a habit of taking off one sock and leaving it somewhere random. I don’t make a hole in one sock of every pair.
So where do the single socks come from?
Some of them aren’t even from pairs I have ever owned.
Does the washing machine
Is there a sock fairy stealing them?
I have no bloody idea. 
But what I do know is that there’s only one way to deal.
From now on I’m only ever gonna wear odd socks…

“What’ll it be? Usual, I presume?”
“No, give me a glass of scotch,” Davis said, watching as the barman pulled his face into a disapproving expression.
“A glass of scotch? At half-past four? Bit much compared to your usual in’it?”
“I thought it was your job to pour drinks— not pester paying customers.”
“Right you are.”
Davis turned his attention to the joyful patrons all around the pub. A young couple were seated at the table he and Williams had occupied on the day they became partners. He could almost see apparitions of them toasting to a long and fruitful working relationship in his mind’s eye. It felt like it could have been yesterday. Where had the time gone? Had five years really passed since that day? He thought about all of Williams’ plans for the future, the hopes and dreams he had for himself and his family and the fact that he would never have a chance to fulfill them. It wasn’t fair.
“Where’s the bloke oo always comes in with ya?” the barkeep asked as he set Davis’ glass of scotch on the counter. “Will you be ordering for ‘im? Is ‘e runnin’ a bit late?”
It took every ounce of willpower Davis possessed not to lash out at the man. He clearly had no idea what had happened to Evan. How could he know? Davis bit his lip and settled for saying, “He won’t be here.”
“Bit odd, that . . . in’it?” he trudged on. “’ E always comes round with you for a pint. Has been for the last five year—” “He’s dead!” Davis burst out. He drained his scotch in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “Why don’t you learn how to keep your bloody gob shut!” Without another glance at the man, he threw a crumpled up five pound note next to the empty glass and left.
The rain had worsened during the short time he was in the pub. It was now lashing the ground as if it had a score to settle. Cursing himself for leaving his umbrella in the car, Davis ran out to the car park and hurried into his car. He started the engine and turned on the defroster.
As he sat, waiting for his windscreen to clear up, his mind spun with painful questions and regretful thoughts. He couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of guilt about the circumstances of his sergeant’s death. It had been his job as Williams’ superior, and more importantly as his friend, to be on the same wavelength; to know if there was an issue that needed attention. Why hadn’t he been more intuitive? Why hadn’t he seen the signs? His stirring thoughts fell to a question that had been haunting him since the day Williams died. And, although he had already asked himself numerous times, he asked again. Why didn’t I recognize that Williams would never be able to leave the Hemmings case alone?
It wasn’t in the sergeant’s DNA to leave a case unsolved. For him it was about knowing the truth— getting to the bottom of things. It was part of what made him such a good detective. But when Williams’ mate, Jason Hemmings, was found slain, bearing what appeared to be the kind of wounds a large cat would inflict, Davis should have known his partner would never rest until the case had been solved.
It wasn’t as if Davis hadn’t wanted to continue investigating, but he had his orders from the chief superintendent to close the case after the long and fruitless investigation started running over its designated budget. Williams insisted that they were on the verge of a breakthrough and tried his damnedest to talk Davis into continuing their investigation under the radar of New Scotland Yard. But Davis was already in hot water with the chief super at the time and refused. What he wouldn’t give now to go back and do things differently. If he’d had his sergeant’s back, he might have been able to save him.
“How did I not realize that he was still working the case?” Davis erupted, slamming his palms against the steering wheel.Tormented thoughts of remorse and self-scrutiny continued to plague him as he made the short trip from the pub to Loates Lane and parked in one of the available spaces near his flat. He took a deep breath before getting out of the car, hoping to calm himself— a method he found to be helpful in most cases. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of them.
He entered the block of flats, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor and walked down the hall until he came to his front door. He unlocked it and entered a spacious two bedroom flat. The front room was well furnished, but he hadn’t cleaned in ages. Piles of paper littered the tea table that stood between a setting of two leather couches with matching armchair, and an array of dirty dishes inhabited most of the other flat surfaces around the room.
Davis threw his keys on the table and went to the gas cooker in the kitchen, which adjoined to the front room in his flat’s open floor plan. He ignited the hob that lived under his resident kettle, not bothering to check how much water remained within the tarnished old pot. After a glance in the fridge, which revealed nothing but leftover Chinese food from the previous week and a few Newcastle Brown Ales, he left the kitchen and sat down in his armchair.
For the umpteenth time, he began musing over the plethora of questions his mind had conjured the day Williams was found mauled to death in a North London alley, his injuries identical to those of his mate’s. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been killed in the same fashion. Whoever, or whatever, killed Williams’ mate also killed Williams, and the reason was obvious: Williams had got too close to discovering the truth.

From Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

He was so preoccupied with work that he gave no thought to life.

His twenties passed in a ferocious blur, aggressively selling himself at every opportunity. His thirties were focused on ascending the greasy pole, whatever it took. In his forties he was busy establishing the dominance of his brand. In his fifties he was riding high, except that the younger sharks were now circling, pulling at every weakness.

He decided to retire with a seat on the board and a knighthood. And maybe look for a wife.

Sadly, he had a heart attack two days before his retirement party.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Shevek spat and drew his knife with clear purpose. “You should not let him live, my Captain. I can tell you what kind he is. He’s kashlihk.”
Caer glanced up at Shevek sharply. ‘kashlihk’ was an insult no one used lightly. You might use it to describe a  vicious criminal or a slave who turned against their master. It was an ugly term of abuse for someone without honour- someone perverted, dangerous and insane who would break any laws and social taboos. Caer could see no way someone could tell any of that from an unconscious man. But this was Shevek, who was one of the handful of Zoukai who had been with the caravan when Caer took over as Captain and had been a source of much good advice and tactful wisdom, so instead of the sharp words that sprang first to his tongue, he said: “It is not my place to decide. He belongs to the Caravansi, she will make that decision.”
The old Zoukai shrugged, disowning the consequences, returned the knife to its sheath and went about the task of checking their prize for signs of any further, hidden injury.
The red rim of the sun was beginning to disappear behind the horizon by the time Caer was finally ready to leave with the choice pickings strapped to the ponies. Caer’s own mount carried an extra burden as he had slung the offworlder across its withers, bound securely in place so that he did not fall off during the slow and precarious descent of the mithan. And it was truly precarious and slow, taking perhaps twice as long as the ride up. In the end they had to lead the ponies for much of the way, as the fading light made the path too treacherous to trust.
Once back on the plain they remounted and rode to the caravan. Word of their success arriving on the wind before them, so no sooner had they passed the first of the gaudy tents than they were surrounded by excitable Zoukai, slaves and children. A few made gestures to ward off evil, but more were simply curious to see what had been found. Caer found it impossible to ride through them and reaching for his whip he ordered the Zoukai to clear a path. That was enough. In the expert hands of the horsemen, the whips could cull strips of flesh straight from the bone. So at his shout, the small crowd dissolved instantly – children diving away between the tents, women lifting their long embroidered skirts, dodging under the raised whips and running off with a clatter of bangles from their wrists and ankles.
Looping the whip back on his belt, Caer nudged his pony through the narrow streets between the tents. The other Zoukai followed, those that had been with him on the plateau boasting loudly about all they had seen. Caerstopped before the central pavilion and under his direction the Zoukai began to unload their ponies, passing the various treasures from hand to hand and exclaiming in wonderment at what there was. Caer let them enjoy themselves, they would all be working hard tomorrow to bring the rest down from the plateau. He slid from his pony to untie its heavy burden, pausing to check the man was still alive and pleased to find the pulse still steady, if a little weak.

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.