The funeral was beautiful and her death had been a liberating experience.
Kahina Sarava knew she had a lot to thank her murderer for and made a mental note that she should be sure to do so if probability ever permitted it.
Not that many here knew Kahina had been murdered.
A few would be raising a slight eyebrow at the official pronouncement of her having passed away after a sudden, unspecified, illness, recognising in that formula the designation that suggested foul play. But Coalition policy prevented the assassination of those at its heart in Central being generally known unless they were so public that it could not be avoided.
The official commemoration of her life was everything Kahina could have wanted. Smiling beneath the all-concealing mourning veil, she listened to music commissioned especially for the occasion and eulogies from those who had spurned her so completely, following her fall from grace as one of the key pivots of Coalition power.
Her death had been a liberation. It had freed her from the need to lurk in the shadows, eking out an existence, closeted away in the extravagant country estate she had always loathed and allowed her to return to her true home in the midst of the greatest Central metropolis.
Admittedly the luxurious apartment she now occupied was slightly less desirable than the one she had lived in at the top of Sarava’s headquarters building. But it was chosen for being perfectly placed to allow her to access and be accessible to, those who breathed the refined air at the pinnacles of power in the Central establishment. She was not about to allow the inconvenience of her demise to prevent her from living out a full life in the manner which she preferred.

From Iconoclast: Not To Be, the eighth Fortune’s Fools book by E.M Swift-Hook.

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

Alyx: An AI’s Guide to Love and Murder is the latest book from by Brent A Harris.

We all depend on AI technology to help run our lives, from our phones to our homes. They say home is where the heart is. It’s where we feel safest, sheltered with our loved ones.
But what if your home wanted you dead?
Tech-loving teen Christine makes fast friends with her home’s AI, Alyx. But when a real-world romance threatens their bond, Alyx turns from friend to foe.

Christine nodded through another bite of pancake. She usually just left user preferences blank or selected pre-programmed options. With Alyx, she sensed that it would be much more fun to personalize the program a bit.
“If you choose, I can scan through all your social media sites, pictures, browser history, and online interactions to get a feel for you. It might allow me to customize myself a bit better. I can upload the data over the course of a few hours and be my new self by the end of the day.”
Over another bite, Christine considered the offer. Growing up with software like this, she’d found it simpler to allow programs access to her devices, photos and location and such. It made her programs more intuitive and easier.
“I have a job, should be home by midnight. Work your magic. I’m curious to see what you can pull off.”
“Challenge accepted.” With that, Alyx brought over another plate of pancakes. Christine’s stomach bloated in protest. She put up her hands. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you to stop.”
“Oh…” Alyx’s eyes dropped.
“They were great, really fantastic,” Christine comforted the cook once she realized her error. “I just mean that I’m full. Thank you.”
“Yeah, I don’t know the limits of your appetite. Besides,” Alyx flipped another pancake in the air. “I’d never made pancakes before. They’re fun.”
“Just keep the ones you made for tomorrow.” She pushed herself away from the table and headed toward the sink, crossing the invisible line marked by the embedded sensors.
Immediately, the arms powered down, limply hanging over the kitchen floor. The screen flickered and Alyx warned her, “Please stay behind the safety lines. I wouldn’t want to accidentally harm you.”
Christine stepped back, startled as the arms returned to life. “Thank you.” Only this time, Alyx’s arms began cleaning up the mess.
“I can…,” she searched for the word. Help? There the feeling was again. She hadn’t realized Alyx would respond like that and she felt guilty for violating some robot rule. Once the scare subsided, however, it was replaced by the same unease she had felt earlier. She’d always done the dishes. But that was before, this was now.
Why then, did it feel so wrong? She didn’t have an answer.
Alyx approached, lowered itself to her level and swiveled face-to-face. The big blue puppy eyes were so cute. “You seemed uncomfortable with the idea of me serving you. Do you not want a servant?”
It was absurd to think a machine was anything more, but she couldn’t help it. Raising herself up by stepping over others was no way to live, especially since she felt as if she’d been stepped on her entire life. “It seems stupid, because no matter what you call it, you’ll be doing all the work.”
“It’s my function. But what is it that you need?”
Christine thought for a long moment before hitting on just the right response.
“…A friend,” she said.

A Bite of… Brent A Harris

Brent here. Who knew interviews could be this much fun for an ex-circus clown with tiny feet? I’m coming direct to you from a concrete bunker where I plan to survive the rest of the COVID-19 pandemic living off Hostess Fruit Pies and recycled urine. When not listening to the plethora of voices in my head, I’m busy writing the official biography off Shel Silverstein in purple crayon.

Q1. Do you see writing as an escape from the sorrows of existence, an exercise in futility, or an excuse to tell lies and get paid for it? Or is there another option… 

It’s always a bit of each, isn’t it? 2020 could have used some more escapism, certainly, and less murder-hornets. Then, there’s the futility of it all. How do you translate what’s in your head to paper in a way that others will understand? Impossible. That’s why we’re always rewriting the same damned stories; no one has gotten right. And of course, anything I write may or may not be the truth. People pay me money for the privilege of spinning lies. That’s an odd exchange when you think of it in those terms. Like willfully shopping at a used car dealership.

Q2. How much of you is in your characters? 

None of the characters are mine, but I inhabit a bit of them. Characters stem from my mind, my interactions with others, little things I notice on the streets and in public squares, so they all exist as part of me as I’ve perceived the world. To be a writer is to be a people-watcher. Yet, I don’t write myself in my books. Not yet anyway. Might be a fun easter egg sometime. Maybe I’m the egg? Hrm…

Q3. Chips (fries) or pasta? 

Depends on when you ask. I’ve lived in both England and Italy. I so do miss fish‘n’chips. But you know, Italian food… it’s a tough choice. Who knew there were so many types of pasta? I can’t even begin to name them all, but it’s a lot. I guess it’s a matter of “When in Rome?” Get it??! It’s funny. Okay, I’ll see myself out. *Shoes echo against the silent stadium. Door slams*

Brent A. Harris is a speculative fiction writer. He’s been twice shortlisted for the Sidewise Award in alternate history. He lives with his family in Naples, Italy. You can learn more about him by visiting his website, from where, you can join his mailing list, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter.

They said it would tell the computer if you were happy, and that wearing it wasn’t compulsory.

Milo laughed hollowly at the glibness of the lies, but he wore the thing home so the algorithm could ‘adjust itself to his biorhythms’. 

The bosses never bothered themselves about the lives of the workers – or they might have known about Milo’s brother Keaton. Who had the wristband stripped down and rechipped inside an hour.

Milo became a much happier employee when the algorithm marked him out for fast track promotion to managerial status – from which position he immediately scrapped the wristband program.

©️jj 2021

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

He called Joah as he travelled, on the excuse of telling her he had done his bit, but a big part of him needing some reassurance.
“You did good, Dog, really good.” Joah’s face smiled at him as he finished his tale. “We are trying hard as we can to tell people there is no curse, but no one seems to be listening.”
For a moment Dog was puzzled, then he got it and felt a spike of adrenaline.
“I did my best,” he said, “but those guys — they really believe in it.”
“I know. It’s everywhere. And I’m getting worried, Dog. People are saying the whole series is cursed and it’s having a knock-on effect. Now no one is donating to the president’s project, and those that have are trying to get their money back.”
Dog let that thought echo around wherever it needed to before he replied.
“And that about Zarshay?” He showed her the tweak. “It’s just the same crap, isn’t it?”
There was a long pause and Joah’s face blinked away. When she reappeared, she looked grim.
“I didn’t know about that one, Dog. I don’t know where Zarshay is, she’s not answering my calls and I can’t get hold of her.”

Joah woke in the dark, heart thudding, and reached out a hand to the empty space where Zarshay should be. It was the worst time to allow her mind free rein in speculation. She had spent a while trying to convince the nice woman the police sent round to interview her that there was nothing wrong. But she knew she had not succeeded.
“If Ms. Sygma was missing, don’t you think I’d be the very first to report it? She’s my wife.”
“So, where is she? These tweaks say she’s been kidnapped and you say you don’t know where she is — and I can see you are worried. Where do you think she might be?”
“I — I don’t know.”
“You can think of somewhere possible, though?”
Joah could not deny it.
“Below,” she said, her voice hoarse with worry. “She has — had — family down there, somewhere.”
The nice police officer looked gently inquiring.
“But wouldn’t she have told you if she was planning a visit there?”
Joah had tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. “No. She wouldn’t. She knows how I feel about her going there; we would only have rowed, and—” She broke off and blew her nose. “She probably thought she could go and come back before I missed her. Something must have happened.”
The nice police officer looked sympathetic.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything about it? I mean, all these odd things being reported about events at your studio and this silly talk of a curse—”
Joah had erupted then. All her fear channelled into anger.
“How dare you?” she spat, standing up as she did so, her whole body shaking with emotion. “How dare you come here and suggest I’m playing some game around the love of my life? You came to question me — I didn’t call you here. I think she’s just fine. She’ll be home tomorrow. Now get the hell out of my house.”

The call came a day later when she was drifting in and out of tormented dreams again. Early, too early. A spark of hope died as she saw who it was.
“Joah, darling,” Heila crooned, “I just heard the dreadful news. It’s simply awful, darling. I wanted to ask if you would join me for breakfast? Hmm? You shouldn’t be alone at this time.”
Joah blinked and wondered if she’d heard right.
“Uh, Heila, it is” she checked the time again “about three hours before you get up. What are you—?”
The other woman made an impatient tutting sound. “Breakfast, darling. My place. Half an hour?”
Then she broke the call. Joah rolled onto her back, her mind racing.

Breakfast for Heila, it turned out, was an odd greenish-purple coloured drink. Joah eyed hers dubiously as it was set on the table by a silent robot. It smelt faintly floral, with undertones of compost.
“It’s all horribly healthy, darling,” Heila assured her, “but don’t ask what’s in it. That’s a Camarthy family secret. I positively thrive on this stuff.”
Joah risked a sip and was relieved to find it tasted more of the floral spectrum than the alternative her nose had suggested. She swallowed a polite amount, then returned the drink to the table.
“So, what do you know about—?”
Heila cut across her before she could finish. “You simply must try my new spa-bath. It’s so relaxing, you won’t believe it.” She was getting up as she spoke, her smile intense, and she grasped Joah’s hand and pulled her up with a surprising strength. “I won’t take no for an answer, darling. This is simply exhilarating and quite the best way to brace for the day.”

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 1011.

February comes with snowdrops
Green spears through frost-shot soil
As reaching up through snow and ice
Their small white flags uncoil
Proud banners soon a-flying
The vanguard of the spring
They hold the first pure promise
Of what the year will bring
Like resurrected martyrs
In dresses all of white
Beneath the ground just yesterday
Then rising overnight
The ones beside my window
I look for every year
To see the modest stand return
And know that spring is near

E.M. Swift-Hook

The steps took him up to a less well-populated level of the castle, but no suggestion of a means to leave. He was not averse to climbing, but the sheer walls without a rope presented a bit too much of a challenge. It took a while to make his way discreetly, avoiding contact with any members of the household, into the areas of the castle where servants and slaves mingled in the performance of the most necessary and basic tasks of living.

Here there were the slaves who swept the halls and changed the linen, who brought fresh matting and disposed of the old. A woman, naked to the waist, towering baskets of laundry held balancing easily on her head, a child running with a jar of scented unguent to the bath house. Here and there an overseer, shouting orders or beating an offender for some careless mistake or unintentional oversight.

He moved amongst them unchallenged, assumed to be there by right as he came from within the castle and not without. He made his way to the outer courtyard where the more hazardous necessities were attended to – the stone-built bake house and brewery with their great fires that needed to be kept apart from the rest of the household. Here the smell of grain, fresh bread and fermentation flooded the senses, reminding Avilon he had not eaten in a day.

He kept to the edges of the frenzied activity, careful not to seem uninvolved himself and started looking for what he needed. It took some time, during which he won the sympathy of one of the women working, red faced and sweating, in the over-hot bakery and was rewarded with a small loaf of rough-milled bread.

From there it was not so hard to attach himself to a group of delivery men who had brought in some goods from a trader in the city on a sledge and were now making their way out. The guard seemed less than interested in who was leaving, their attention being more focused on who was seeking admittance. Even chatting easily with one of the group about the harshness of the weather, Avilon made his way with them towards the open gates.

It was just sheer bad luck that Caer chose that precise moment to bring a patrol of cavalry in through the gate. Even then it should have been no problem if one guard on the gate had not decided that the passing presence of one of the Warlord’s commanders meant the need to be ultra-officious. He barked at the group to stop and wait, whilst he checked their names against the list of those who had been admitted earlier. The other men reeled off their names quickly and were dismissed. Avilon stood mute, hoping that by the time the guard got to him Caer and his men would be away. 

“You. Name?” The soldier demanded and when Avilon said nothing: “Come here.”

Caer’s head swung round at the sound of a break from routine and his eyes brushed over Avilon, who was keeping his gaze very carefully lowered as would suit a servant or slave in the presence of the military, his gait was altered too, slower and more nervous, as if expecting a blow.

“I asked your name,” The soldier repeated.

Time had slowed down around Avilon. He took in the distance between himself and the open gate, where even now the rest of the group he had been walking with were making their way out. He took in the way the soldier in front of him stood, working out exactly where he would need to hit him to take him down fast. He took in the distance away from Caer, who was still mounted, a snap shot could hit the pony and buy another few moments, but Caer’s men were all mounted and some were closer to Avilon than Caer himself.

The real difficulty lay in what was beyond the gate. It did not open directly into the city but onto a trestle bridge. Anyone leaving would be exposed to the soldiers on the walls for a good thirty meters and even running flat out Avilon could not hope to cover it unscathed. He processed all the information instinctively, his eyes and brain calculating the odds and feeding his conscious mind with the information he needed to make an instant decision on how to act.

The heel of his hand was already moving at speed towards the thyroid cartilage of the man before him and to even those closest it must have looked as if the guard had simply stumbled forward into him slightly. Avilon muttered something in audible protest, using his own strength to keep the dying man in life-like verticality. Almost in a shuffling dance step, he eased the burden back against the wall, still apparently standing by virtue of the angle of its incline at that point. Nodding and scraping, as if just given permission to leave, Avilon turned and followed the rest of his chosen group out of the castle.

From Dues of Blood part three of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

When the shit hits the fan
When the nail is rusty
Sometimes the only thing you can
Do. Is this old trick. Trust me
When the sky is black and wet
When all the world is shite
There is just one way you can get
Things to come out right
Take yourself into a corner
All your nerves up pluck
Act as if you were Jack Horner
Scream and shout oh fuck
Then if trouble don’t abate
Ameliorate
Your dreaded fate
With chocolate

jj 2020

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica… You can listen to this on YouTube too.

Aries. 

Aries children are the cuddly lambs of the zodiac. They are warm, charming and utterly without aggression or ambition.

Managing your Aries child

Just lead. They will follow.

Taurus.

Taurean children are sturdily stubborn. They won’t argue with you, but equally they won’t listen to a word you say.

Managing your Taurus child

Get between them and their ultimate gaol and wave your arms about. This sometimes works.

Gemini.

The twins are a conundrum as one side of your child’s complex character will always be obliging and persuadable. Sadly, the other half will spend all it’s waking hours looking to outwit you.

Managing your Gemini child

Dot every i and cross every t. And hope. Unless your Gemini offspring are actually twins, in which case the best advice is to sit back and enjoy the ride. 

Cancer.

Complicated and convoluted of thought, your Cancer child will sneak past you at any given opportunity, and may well nip your arse in passing.

Managing your Cancer child

The ostentatious opening of a large jar of mayonnaise may function as a deterrent to the worst behaviours.

Leo.

Lazy, handsome, amoral and fond of sleeping in the sun. A Leo child will be untroublesome, but also unhelpful and invisible if there is any heavy lifting to be done.

Managing your Leo child 

Just scratch his belly, he will roll over and play dead for hours.

Virgo.

Virgo children are prim and often humourless. This is the only birth sign that voluntarily tidies its bedroom.

Managing your Virgo child

Just tell her how perfect she is. They bask in praise and will bend over backwards if compared favourably to their siblings.

Libra.

Libran children are calculating and weighing up the opposition is their forte. No Libra child will pick a fight with a low probability of victory.

Managing your Libra child

Just make sure they know you are bigger and uglier than they are.

Scorpio.

Scorpio children are intelligent, charismatic, humorous and wholly unprincipled. They are capable of the most monstrous behaviour couched in such a way as to render you speechless with laughter

Managing your Scorpio child 

Good luck with that foolish notion!

Sagittarius.

Pointedly principled, Sagittarian children can be relied on to ask embarrassing questions in public places, in very loud voices. 

Managing your Sagittarius child 

Remember that the centaur has two stomachs. These children may be instantly bribed with chocolate.

Capricorn.

Amiable, clever and organised. You can’t keep a goat anywhere a goat doesn’t want to be. On the plus side they are not picky eaters

Managing your Capricorn child 

Logic works. Threats don’t.

Aquarius.

Interminably busy, these children are often convinced that life is not giving them a fair deal. Can be whiny.

Managing your Aquarius child 

I recommend applying alcohol by mouth.

Pisces.

There are two kinds of Pisces children. The serenely uncomplicated swimmer with the tide and their absolute opposites the bruised, battered and scarred children who spend all their lives battling upstream.

Managing your Pisces child 

The serene sort need no management, the other buggers are unmanageable.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

“I know he’s wrong. But isn’t censorship just as wrong?”

“It would be of this was censorship.”

“What is it if it’s not censorship, Miss Clever?” 

Annie felt the lash of his displeasure and the peering eyes of all his friends, but she wasn’t being intimidated this time.

“Censorship is when government denies the right to free speech. This is  someone being removed from a specific platform.”

“Which is the same thing.”

“It’s not. He is not being threatened because of his opinion. He has just overstepped the boundaries to which he agreed.”

She walked away and left them arguing…

©️jj 2021