Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Telephone Sales

There is no way this ‘elderly lady’ is going to be buying anything on the telephone. Which means I need to have developed coping strategies.

I have three:

Sometimes I just take the phone outside and leave it in the garden. I pick it up later.

Sometimes I blow a very loud whistle I happen to possess in close proximity to the phone.

Or if I am feeling particularly sadistic I play along – confusedly dim. Until they want money when I sweetly say my son has power of attorney and he will call them when he is finished in court…

On a world somewhat like Earth, but three thousand light-years nearer to the centre of the Milky Way galaxy, three rebellious young aliens met in secret to ready a spaceship for a forbidden adventure…

 “We will be violating our most profound taboo,” said Novan in his voice of doom. “Traveling to unknown worlds—unauthorized primitive unclaimed worlds—looking for living beings we are commanded to leave alone.” His full name was Rleza-novan-nga, engineer and navigator. He had recently transitioned to his male phase.
“Yes! Won’t it be fun?” responded Alala. Analala-noa, still early in her female phase, was the researcher and inventor, and was deeply attracted to newly-male Novan. “And why are you using the language of the Talkis, Novan, instead of our beautiful Singi voice? You think just because you’ve made your transition to male you should talk like a tall upright Type 1?”
Novan stood erect on eight tentacles, balling up his four front foot tentacles. His newly-emerging male skin pattern and texture shone deep red. 
“Look, he thinks he is a tall Type 1, lording it over us,” scoffed Alala. “Why don’t you stand on just two tentacles, like a real Type 1 biped?” She tried to push him off balance; then he chased her around the enclosure, making hooting noises. She squealed with joy, her skin patches glowing bright pink.
Nala ignored their chase. “Are you having second thoughts, Novan?” she asked. Bvar-nala-nga, also a young female, was the chronicler and songteller. Her pale green and mauve skin patches rippled rhythmically. “We all know this is crazy. We risk everything if we do this. 
Novan spoke: “Yes, we’ve all traveled to the tame worlds of the Confederation. On this trip we’ll face so many more hazards. We’re likely to die. We plan to jump to worlds never before visited by any from the Confederation. No idea what we will encounter. Life forms inimical to our health and survival. Microbes that aren’t controlled by our toxin protocols. Alien races that view us as hostile invaders. “
“We won’t land on worlds until we’ve evaluated the hazards,” Alala replied, still enthusiastic. “Look at the other side. Suppose we discover exciting new worlds. When we return we’ll be greeted as heroes.
“If our leaders allow us to return. Such trips are forbidden. They’re likely to lock us up as soon as we land, to prevent us from telling others of our exploits. We’ll be shamed and shunned and exiled.” 
Alala said to him, more sober now, “It’s not too late to turn back or follow a different path. We could send out robotic probes to these worlds and not travel there ourselves, therefore be less likely to get into trouble.”
“No,” Nala said, crossing her arm tentacles in a sign of negation. “Ever since we deciphered the song of the crystal,” she said, looking at the small piece of metal on the table, “we’ve known we were going. None of us would be satisfied if we changed our minds now.”
“Agreed,” said Alala. “We have but one chance. If we don’t take this adventure now, we never will. The Elders will take control of our lives. You, Novan, will be assigned to a drab male existence far from our clan Haw. Nala, you’ll have to sing the propaganda songs of the Elders, meant to keep our people in check. And I? Assigned to raise juveniles I have no clan connection with.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Nala. “We’ve all agreed that our fates if we remain on this world are worse than death. Thus undertaking a hazardous journey loses us nothing. Death is the worst that can happen to us.”
The two females gazed intently at Novan, who drooped his eyestalks. “I agree with you. I’m not having second thoughts. I just wanted to make sure we all know that this is a perilous journey we are undertaking, not a childish lark.”

A Bite of… Mike van Horn

How much of you is in your hero/villain?

A lot. My heroine, Selena M, is a singer. She writes deep soulful songs but is afraid to perform them in public. I write deep philosophical pieces that I’ve never shared with anybody. She got rich performing maudlin country ballads. Her most famous is “Cotton Candy Lovin,” which she’s sick of, but is the most requested. I’ve written twenty-some business books, which powered my business for a quarter century, but my heart is in my science fiction stories. 
But see, she had a singing alien that showed up and together they rekindled her passion for singing. My alien muses are of the insubstantial nature, but they do keep me focused on sci fi.

Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

I write the worlds I’d like to live in. Most of my stories take place on Earth in the near future, so it’s pretty familiar. I’d love to go to the clubs Selena performs at: Berzerkly, Club Xanadu, Slick Slims Slither Inn. They don’t exist, but they should. 
I would also love to have Selena’s spaceship and travel to the worlds she goes to, and hobnob with her alien buddies. 
I don’t do dystopias, hostile alien invasions, or evil monsters. 

Who are the four people–living, dead, or fictional–you would most like to entertain at a dinner party?

I’ll invite Elon Musk and Neil deGrasse Tyson, because I’ve modeled two of my main characters after them.
I’d bring back Ursula LeGuin, because I love her stories, and she’d be an excellent counterbalance to these two powerful men.
And of course I’ll include my heroine, Selena M, because she’s a sassy chick who takes no guff, and she’d love to hang out with these folks. 

Mike van Horn in his own words:

I started writing science fiction over thirty years ago, but writing to make a living got in the way. Lots of how-to books aimed at small business owners. Two books published traditionally, plus a dozen self-published, all built around our consulting business, The Business Group.
A few years ago I saw that if I was ever going to get my stories told in this lifetime I’d better get going! Since then I have concentrated on sci-fi. Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard started out as a short story, but metastasized into a trilogy, and I’m now working on Book 4.
I have an MBA from UCLA, and most of my career I’ve run small consulting firms. I’ve also started a restaurant, fixed up old apartment buildings, and run an export management firm. One thing I’ve never done is work for a large corporation.
Writing science fiction is by far the most fun!
My wife BJ is also a writer and a consultant. We live north of San Francisco in a house that’s too big, surrounded by oak trees.

The best place to find Mike is on his website where you can also find his blog and sign up for his newsletter. As Crazy Alien Escapade is yet to be published you can check out Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard, the first book in the Agate and Breadbox trilogy, while you are waiting.

A niche beside the doorstep once held a scraper to clean mucky boots, but as long as I could remember we’d called it ‘the begonia niche’.

The key was there, under a bulbous pot of begonias. I picked it up and for a moment, I was just home from school to a house of baking smells and laughter.

It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted – the photograph album, the mantle-piece clock, a few trinkets – parts of my history.

When I left, I slipped the key back under the begonias – so the house clearance people could find it.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

“Post-menopausal, wise, calm and risk averse?” Ginny digested the news and grinned wryly. “So I qualify on at least one criterion.”
Agnes, who seemed supremely good at the ‘there, there, never mind’ bits of this conversation, offered a smile of fellow feeling. “You are probably better qualified on all counts than I was when I was Made.”
Em laughed. “You were a dreadful old tart. I was horrified.”
“I still am a dreadful old tart at heart. You’ve just got used to me.”
Ginny gazed from one face to the other. “Just how long have you two been friends?”
“A couple of hundred years, give or take a decade or so.”
Deciding to let that one sit and not think about it right now, Ginny asked the other big question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d seen the vicar become a giant rabbit. A wererabbit, Agnes had said.
 “Given that I have to accept that vampires are real, how many other supernatural beings are more than wild fiction?”
Agnes shrugged. “Most of them. There’s obviously weres and rather a lot of nature spirits. Weres and vampires are natural enemies, so we tend to keep out of each other’s way. And nature spirits are shy. Goblins are a problem if they aren’t regulated as they breed like rabbits and they will eat anything they can catch.”
Caught completely unawares Ginny shook her head. “How do you regulate goblins?”
“There used to be an annual goblin cull, but that got stopped in the last century when we discovered their numbers could be controlled by contraception. Now the females get an annual implant.”
Em looked sternly into Ginny’s face. “Which only leaves elves and fairies.”
Ginny clasped her hands together, her mind full of the flower fairy books she’d adored as a child and the majestic elves of Tolkein she had loved in her teens.
Em made a tutting noise with her tongue behind her teeth. “Never trust a fairy. And if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet an elf, keep your hand on your weapon and don’t take your eyes off the double-dealing little bastard.”
Ginny felt deflated. Was nothing as she had believed it to be? But then she realised she was being told all this for her own protection and sat up straighter. 
“What else do I need to know?”
Agnes picked up the ball. “For now? Not much. Em does the interface between the ‘normal’ community and the local supes, and she will introduce you to the various liaison officers when the occasion allows… Otherwise? Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”
“I think I can manage that bit. Do I get a teacher of any sort?”
“Yes. You get a mentor. Strictly speaking it should be Em. But as she is Queen and has far too much to do already, I’ll be deputising for her.”
Ginny felt a good deal of relief, as she was more than a bit intimidated by the formidably elegant and imposing Em, who raised a finger.
“Before Agnes takes you home and bores you to death with vampire lore I have two things to say. The first is a question. How are you fixed financially?”
Ginny felt herself redden, but realised honesty was the only possible policy. “Truthfully not as well as I had hoped. I can probably just about scrape by until I get my old age pension. If I’m careful.”
Em actually smiled, a kindly sort of a smile. “Sadly, vampires don’t get that pension, but the supernatural scheme is far more generous anyway. It’s kind of like unemployment benefits, but they can’t sanction you. The idea is that if we are given a basic level of support we’ll not be tempted to run riot. You qualify immediately and if you email me your bank details I’ll fill in all the forms for you and get it up and running straight away.”
It all sounded so normal and well organised that Ginny found her underlying anxiety at the strangeness of it all receding. She felt warmed by the thought of financial security, and her relief must have shown in her face because Agnes leaned across and gave her a hug. 
“I live very comfortable on the pension.” Ginny glanced at Em and Agnes laughed a big belly laugh. “No. She doesn’t need a pension –  being filthy rich and all that.”
Em sighed. “Thanks Agnes.”
“Better to get it out in the open. Things only fester in the dark.”
“I suppose so. But the second thing I wanted Ginny to understand is that she is now a Sister of our nest.”
Ginny understood this at some basic level of self. The word ‘nest’ suddenly summoned a powerful sense of belonging and she felt a tear run down her face. “Sisterhood being, if I understand it properly, both a duty and a boon.  You have my word that the concerns of the nest are now my concerns.”
Em inclined her head. “And care for your well-being and happiness is the duty and pleasure of your Sisters.”
Ginny felt as if she had received both a blessing and a task and above all it felt, in her heart of hearts, like coming home.

Part 21 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

The empty seat
Beneath the light
Where they would meet
And bless the night
But idle words
And ageless war
Tore them apart
They come no more

©️Jane Jago 2020

“Did you really kill a dragon, Gran’ma?”
Hepsy had to hide a smile and scooped her youngest grandson into a hug. It was the end of his fifth birthday party and he had been running around waving the wooden sword his grandfather had made for him, pretending to kill imaginary monsters in the vegetable patch. Now the family sat at table eating a simple birthday meal. Hepsy and her husband, Poll, their middle son and his wife and five grandchildren ranging from mid-teens to the birthday boy.
“Who’s been telling you tales like that?” she asked.
“Was Da. He said you killed a dragon, you and Gran’da. Is it true?”
Something in his tone made her realise it was not just a question wanting a story. She released her grandson and caught her son’s eye. He swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and sat back in his chair.
“Word is there’s a dragon back on High Top. Been taking cows from Vasserdale and burned a farm to the ground. Shal willing, it won’t fly this way.”
“Dragons don’t just turn up places,” Poll said. “They have to be hatched and that takes a lot of magic. It means they will have a master.”
“Or a mistress,” Hepsy put in. “Is there any word of a dragon being seen on Prank’s Peak or Scale Height?”
Her son shrugged.
“Those places are the other side of the mountains. We don’t get word from there often. Was a minstrel up from Durmouth though. Seems there’s war over the Marches again. Hobs and trolls.”
“When I’m grown up I’m going to fight hobs and trolls.”
Hepsy mussed her grandson’s soft hair.
“That’s just what your da said at your age, and now look at him, the finest carpenter in Wyvernvale.”

After the family had gone, Hepsy went into her still room where she made potions and poultices, pickles and jams and pulled out the chest from beneath her work counter,  where she pushed it away over thirty years before. Opening the lid she took out the two pieces of her staff and fitted them together, murmuring some words as she did so.
Then she went out and stood in their small garden, shielding her eyes from the low sun to look towards the mountains. High Top could be seen piercing the sky with its needle spire of rock. What she could not see from below though was the steep path that wound up to the plateau from which the steeple of stone began. Nor could she see the cave mouth that led to the lair. But memory told her they were there. Memory and loss.
A sound made her turn.
“You gave me a promise you’d not be using that anymore,” Hepsy said, as Poll came out of the house, her gaze rested on the sword he held in one hand, it’s blade shimmering with a blue light so the runes etched into it stood out. Then she gave a little sigh. “But then I gave you a promise I’d not be using this.” She hefted the staff and small sparks shimmered like dust motes in the air around it. “Looks like we both done broke that vow. But the big question is, what should we be doing?”
“We knew it would happen again,” Poll said, his voice heavy with sorrow. He slid the sword home into the loop on his belt and the blue light faded. Hepsy noticed the buckle was three notches up from the mark showing where he used to wear it. It was not all that had changed since he last took up that sword. His hair then had been thick and black, now it left the top of his head uncovered and was thinning and grey. But then her hair had once been the colour of a wheatfield before the harvest and now was nearly as white as the melting snows.
“We knew,” she agreed. “But I’d not thought t’would be in our lifetime. I thought we’d won the right to have our peace. We’re too old to do it all again. Not now.”
Poll put his arm around her and held her close.
“If not us – then who? The children? The grandchildren?”
Now that was a thought too terrible to dwell upon and Hepsy shook her head. “No. But it’s a dreadful long walk up to High Top and my back and your knee…”
“My knee will bear my weight long enough for what we have to do,” he said gently. “Besides, we’ll take horses this time. Hue owes me for last winter still, he’ll let us have two of his hill ponies.”
Which was a comforting thought because it really was a parlous long way and a terrible steep climb up the mountains. She shivered slightly at the memory and Poll hugged her.
“Less of that, woman. You pack what we need and I’ll go see Hue. We can set out tomorrow with first light. We’ll have to try to find the others and that won’t be easy.”
Hepsy nodded and he released her, his gnarled hands gripping her, work-worn fingers for a moment as he did so.
“They might be dead,” she said. “Do you think we can do it without them?”
Poll drew in a deep breath and looked out towards the mountains, his gaze homing where hers had, to the needle of stone above High Top. “I don’t know, love. I think we need four of us to unlock the seals, but… Well, let’s put out that fire when we can see if it’s burning.”
He was right. Of course. Which left just one question in Hepsy’s burdened heart.
“What do we tell the children?”
For a moment she wondered if he had heard her. She hadn’t spoken loudly and his hearing was no longer so perfect. But then he looked down at her and smiled sadly.
“I think we should tell them nothing,” he said. “They wouldn’t understand.”

The next day they were up before the dawn and Hespy fed the chickens a final time and explained to them that Hue’s wife had promised to come feed them in her absence. That done she went inside and searched deep in her clothes chest. It was still there. At the bottom. She looked at the long robe with its split skirt and fingered the heavy fabric, embroidered with gold and silver symbols with regret. She would no more fit that any more than she would the wedding dress she had given to her eldest daughter. Instead, she chose her most practical clothes and a pair of Poll’s old breeches and decided that maybe looking the part wasn’t so important anymore. She put her hair into a braid and studied the weather-worn face that looked back at her critically from the small hand mirror.
“Still as beautiful as ever,” Poll told her and for a moment his face and hers were captured in the same glass. This mirror never lied and it showed him as he was, which was always a reassurance.
“You and your silver tongue.” She laughed, slipping the mirror into the pouch at her belt where she had already secured some of her most potent potions. You never knew, after all.
They rode out under cloudy skies without a backwards glance.
The countryside swept down from their village to where the River Wyvern wove its way along the bottom of the vale. It was the picture of peace and rustic harmony, with cottages and houses dotting the landscape, roofs tiled with the blue flecked slate from local quarries and walls built from the dark grey rock brought down from the mountains. 
The mountains themselves lurked like ominous misshapen giants, stretching fingers or lifting shoulders towards the sky. From the gentle slopes of the vale, they rose to bleak and desolate heights.
The two barrel-shaped hill-ponies seemed happy enough to set a smart pace. Poll had managed to find his old dragonhide targe which he looped over his back and Hepsy was pleased to see the gemstone set in the pommel of his dagger was not glowing. Maybe things were not so desperate as they thought? Maybe it was all rumour and no truth? Maybe…

E.M. Swift-Hook

The artwork was inspired by a description in this piece and is by Ian Bristow. You can view the creation of it here and enjoy the music he composed that the story also inspired, perhaps whilst reading…

Missus D. Precious
Wishes her tresses
Went with her dresses
So grand.

She never impresses
As her hair transgresses
Coalesces in messes
Unplanned.

Missus D. Precious
Addresses her tresses
Cuts and represses
By hand.

Each gown that caresses
The bald Missus Precious
Is now matched by head-dresses
and bands.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jane Jago’s strange sci-fi is being presented by Tall Tale TV

When Cargo Freighter Zulu/973 found it, the sleek little flitter was floating aimlessly in space, sort of halfway between the mining belt at Beta#32 and the transport station that orbited Jupiter II. It was much more elegant and aerodynamic looking than the ugly cargo hauler that nudged it with an armoured loading claw. The claw poked a bit more firmly and it drifted, with no more sense of direction than any of the other bits of space junk the traders had amassed on their journey.
    “Seems dead.” Captain Clearwater remarked to nobody in particular. “Let’s have a look then.”
    His communications officer turned the cargo hauler’s docking camera to face the wreck. She seemed to be in going on for perfect condition – clean and shiny and with some sort of earthside oriental script scrawled across her slightly flared bow.
    “Get Leah up here.”
    Somebody scrambled. Clearwater wasn’t a man to be kept waiting. Leah Su arrived promptly. She was as poised and unruffled as ever, but her bulky escort was red-faced and sweating. 
    “Su reporting for duty, sir.”
    “You’re the nearest thing to a linguist we have hereabouts. Can you read the writing on that ship?”
    “More or less, sir. It says something like ‘sea of stars’. Very roughly. I guess it is the name of the vessel.”
    “Probably is. Can you see an identifier?”
    “No sir.”
    “Me neither. And I reckon that makes it fair game. Whatever spoilt rich boy lost his toy out here, I’m thinking finders keepers. Even if nobody has put a bounty on her, she should fetch a few bob for salvage. I’m going over to have a look. Take the con Su.”
    Clearwater may have been greedy and even unprincipled, but he wasn’t fool enough to go and inspect a possible salvage vessel on his own. He gathered up a sizeable force, and broke out the blasters. 
    In the end, there were a dozen space stevedores, wearing their exoskeleton work suits, in the airlock, along with the captain, his first officer and the ship’s metallurgist. The inside door sealed and they put on their helmets before Su began pumping out the air. It took a good ten minutes before it was safe to open the big doors into the blackness of space.
    As the doors slowly slid back into their pockets in the hull, Clearwater straddled a jet scoot and headed for the flitter. First officer Ganges clutched the sissy bar behind his captain’s ample backside, and the rest formed a chain behind Ganges clipped together by lanyards attached to their tool belts. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel. But it wasted the least energy and Christopher Clearwater abhorred waste. Particularly if he was paying for whatever was being wasted.

You can hear the rest of the story at Tall Tale TV

To celebrate our third birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a drabble writing competition.

As it is our third birthday competition we have three Honourable Mentions. This one is from Rob Edwards.

Tea-time arrived without resolution. Glares became words; jostling escalated into pushing. Eventually, justicemen escorted them before wise King Volodon.

He studied the source of contention. “Whose cake is this?”

“Mine, my lord,” declared Mrs Drizzle.

“Not hers. I baked tirelessly all day,” countered Victoria.

“Using produce stolen from our farm,” her nemesis spluttered. “Changing ownership requires more than applying heat!”

Royal consideration mulled both sides carefully. “We must simply divide yon dessert, bisecting with sharpened sword.”

Miss Sponge nodded, yet goodwife Lemon cried in horror.

“True passion reveals perfect justice! Bring forth a second cake. Bestow it upon that virtuous farmer”

It was quiet in the garden and Leonore sunk to her knees, grateful for solitude and silence. As the sun dipped below the horizon a cool, white moon illuminated the jasmine that crept up the side of the garage. The heady scent filled the air, and a cloud of tiny white moths gathered among the star-like flowers.
Suddenly almost unbearably weary, Leonore lay back in the cool grass. Tears pricked behind her eyelids as a cold weight settled on her shoulders. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, feeling the cooling air against her hot cheeks.
How long she sat in silence she didn’t know, and then she heard a voice.
“Alone and sad? Why so?”
Her eyes snapped open, but she could see nobody.
She heard a chuckle.
“You will only see me if you close your eyes.”
She obeyed and found herself looking into a pair of golden orbs with vertical reptilian pupils. She concentrated and slowly, slowly a face assembled itself around the eyes.
“Are you a dragon?”
“I am whatever you want me to be…”
Leonore found herself laughing.
“That’s a politician’s answer if ever I heard one.”
The dragon smiled dragonishly and blew a breath into her face. She smelled menthe and cinnamon and something hot and exciting.
“Oh. I can smell you.”
“Of course you can. Now you can open your eyes.”
The dragon sat beside her. His iridescent scales seemed to gather the moonlight and reflect it back in a myriad of shifting colours. She looked at him for a very long moment.
“But I don’t believe in dragons.”
“Of course you do. You wouldn’t be able to see me if not.”
“What do you mean?”
He showed his teeth in what looked like genuine amusement.
“It’s elemental my dear, it is only belief that makes dragons visible. Unbelievers can never see us.”
“Never?”
“Not ever. If an unbeliever was sitting next to you he or she would neither be able to see nor hear me.”
Leonore remained unconvinced, but was pleased by the company anyway.
“What is your name?”
“I am R’u’uth. And you are L’e’onore.”
Leonore tried both names, rolling them around on her tongue as if to taste them. Finding them pleasing she laughed delightedly.
R’u’uth laughed too.
“That’s better. You don’t sound sad any more.”
“I don’t feel sad.”
“Good. But now you need to sleep.”
“Sleep. If only I could.”
The dragon breathed on her and she felt the benison of his presence.
“Lean on me and you shall sleep.”
She frowned but found herself drawn towards the shining presence as iron is drawn to a magnet. Before she knew she had even moved, her back was resting against the dragon’s smooth spicy-smelling skin. Even as she would have protested, her eyelids drooped and she drifted gently into slumber.

She awoke early in the morning with the rising sun in her eyes. For a moment she didn’t know where she was or how she got there. She stretched and heard a chuckle. She turned and spread her hands against R’u’uth’s smooth warm scales.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He blew a breath on her and spread his shining leathery wings.
“Until later.”

Jane Jago