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

Do not refer to me as an ‘elderly lady’

In the surgery of a doctor who looked to be about fourteen years old – okay, I may have been being uncooperative because he called for reinforcements.

Says to the occupant of the next room: “I have an elderly lady here refusing blood pressure medication.”

I couldn’t resist: “I can hear you. And I ain’t no lady.”

I don’t guess I’ll be seeing that doctor again. 

But I was cross. The term elderly lady is both patronising and pejorative. Had he said cackling crone I’d have laughed. And I might even have taken his fucking tablets. As it was. I walked 

Being a wizard in a world where magic wasn’t supposed to exist wasn’t easy. His studies took all his time and left little for earning the money he needed to support himself. So home for Brandon Grey was a rented bedsit on the second floor of a converted suburban house. He was very tired having been up since dawn to practice a new incantation and then an afternoon stint as an Uber driver had tested his goodwill to humanity to its limit.
“Mr. Grey?”
Brandon hesitated between steps and resisted the impulse to swear. Instead, as he turned, his face was already wallpapered with a polite smile.
“Mrs. Howard!” His tone made of the name an answer to her question.
Mrs. Howard was his landlady. She lived on the ground floor. A big-boned thirty-something divorcee with a pack of rude children and a permanent short temper. From the open door behind her he could hear sounds of youthful discontent.
“It’s mine!”
“Gerroff me!” Then an ear-piercing shriek of protest.
“Mum – Shane’s taken the controller again!”
Despite the title being given three distinct syllables of intonation, ‘Mum’ seemed not to hear.
“You put out your rubbish Mr. Grey? It’s bin day tomorrow.”
Brandon maintained the smile and broadened it.
“I’ll do that as soon as I have got myself in,” he assured her. 
“Great and can you wheel the bin ‘round the front when you’re done?”
His smile still fixed Brandon assented. But his thoughts were traitors to the smile. He was getting fed up of being used as an odd-job man for the Howards. Seemed not a day went by and he was asked to do one job or another. Another yell of protest from behind Mrs. Howard decided him.
“But you know, your Shane is a big lad now. He could do with that kind of responsibility. Why don’t you get him to do it?”
As he spoke he added a small push of willpower. But Mrs. Howard had seen off two husbands and the bailiffs. She stared back nonplussed.
“I don’t think so. It is a heavy job.”
Brandon held her gaze and tried harder. No words were spoken. For a moment the woman looked perplexed, then her expression cleared. She half turned her head towards the open door and called out.
“Shane, you stop playing that video game and go do the rubbish!”
“But mum you said you’d get the poxy old lodger to do it!”
It was a red rag to a bull and Brandon was forgotten as she stormed back into the lower apartment yelling loudly and apparently adding to the chaos rather than resolving it in any measure at all.
Allowing himself a moment of satisfaction, Brandon opened his front door, dropped his jacket on the couch and made a coffee.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You’re new, did Sals hire you – the manager?

Thought so.

Me?

Oh, I’m always here, propping up the bar. Ain’t that the lie now? It’s propping me, of course.

Used to be two of us, Johnny and me, til Johnny missed one too many protection payments. They didn’t mean to kill him, just beat him up a bit. But his heart…

‘Course was years ago, now it’s just me. Me and my drinkie, here.

None of your business if I’ve had too many.

What’d’ya mean haven’t I a home to go to?

I’m home already. I own this damn bar.

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<<

The start of the story Wondrous Strange by E.M. Swift-Hook a Fortunes Fools story from the Scifi Roundtable‘s The Quantum Soul anthology.

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

Weird Cutlery

Open your cutlery drawer and stare inside. Is there any weird stuff? Obviously I’m not interested in why you keep your vibrator in there.

No what I’m on about is ‘specialised’ cutlery. 

Do you have? 

Soup spoons

Tiny weeny mustard spoons

Steak knives

Fish knives and forks

Sporks

Chopsticks

Electric carving knife 

If you can answer yes to any of the above I have one question. Why?

I have managed to eat food for the better part of ninety years without resorting to weirdness. Why the fuck can’t you? All you need is a knife, fork, and spoon. And don’t get me started on chopsticks 

The Korpes Agenda is the second book in The Korpes File Series.
Something dark is stirring in Korlune, and there’s only one person who sees it; brilliant, but haunted, Master-Tech Nash Korpes.
Freshly escaped from the clutches of Korlune Military Research and Development he finds safety within the ranks of tech giant Harlo-Fyre. On the surface, the future appears bright, but dangerous forces lurk in the periphery. Nash is plagued by self-doubt, unreliable friends and a punishing work schedule that could tip him over the edge.
As the line between friend and foe blurs and friction between Korlune’s military factions reach boiling point, Nash is forced to act. Will he ever find peace, or will he be distracted just when he needs to focus?

Nash made his way across the vast expanse that was shipping and receiving. The familiar sounds of machinery and the glow of the industrial lights was oddly calming, and he enjoyed having reasons to come down. A sudden gust of wind announced the arrival of a maglev transport via one of the many tunnels that connected this hub to the rest of Korlune. KMR and D was still hunting him, but here he felt safe. Here, he was almost invisible. Close to a thousand people were employed in this section of Harlo-Fyre; everyone was busy, and most of the employees were Diasporan. Nash had even seen a few blonds scattered among them. Pallet-jacks zipped past him in every direction as he approached the Northern loading bay. 
“Hi. I’m looking for…” Nash paused to read the name on the form. “Blythe? You have something for the Korpes Lab, and I’m here to pick it up.”
The Receiver turned as she looked up from her manifest. “You’re Diasporan?!”
Nash flashed her the briefest of grins. “What gave me away?” 
“Your accent.” She replied without skipping a beat. “You’re from one of the Western Diaspora, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” Nash indicated the largest crate on the platform. “If that’s from Lorsa, then that’s the one I’m after.”
Blythe just stood there, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Uh… Can I have my crate, please? I have the invoice and release forms right here…” Nash held the digipad out for her to look at.
She took it, compared the numbers, and signed off. “I didn’t think any of our kind made it past manual labor jobs in the big corps. You must be talented.” 
“Yeah. I can coax beer out of vend-o-mats,” Nash replied absently as he checked the time.
“Honestly?”
Nash looked up at the question and was greeted with a genuine smile. He returned it with one of his own. “Yeah, that and cigarettes, good coffee, a passable Polonu soup—”
“Can you fix vend-o-mats as well?” She handed his digipad back.
“Yes…”
“You’re hired.” Blythe grabbed him by the arm and began leading him to the breakroom. “Ours crapped out on us a month ago, and we can’t get the time of day from maintenance…” She paused halfway. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if you have time. I hear your boss is…” She bit her lower lip as she looked for a nice way to say what she’d heard. “Demanding.”
Nash opened his mouth to introduce himself and thought better of it. “He’s not in the lab right now. As long as I get things set up today, it won’t upset the schedule.”
Blythe locked arms with him and continued the mission. “So, what’s your name?”
The innocent question caught him off-guard.
Think fast, the Sarcastic voice laughed.
“Xander. It’s an old name.” 
“I’d heard that families with Tyran ancestors did that. At least your name’s unique. I have an aunt, a cousin, and a grandmother who are all named Blythe; it gets confusing at reunions. I broke the chain and didn’t name either of my daughters after me. Everyone here calls me Bee.”
Nash chuckled as he opened the door to the breakroom for her. Something playful sparked in him, and he motioned for her to enter with a flourish.
Blythe curtseyed in return. “Smart, handy, and you’re a gentleman, too? Where the hell were you when I was going through the Pairing Protocol?

A Bite Of… J.I. Rogers

1. How much of you is in your hero/villain?

Without incriminating myself, I think I can safely say that there’s a little of all my characters in me. 

2. Have you ever invented a language?

I have. Worldbuilding is a passion of mine, and a few Diasporan conlangs began to emerge as I starting plotting The Korpes File Series. To clarify, the Diasporan are made up from a multi-heritage population, living as refugees in the two countries the first two books explore. Each Diasporan city has a core population based off one of the groups and their ‘Slang’ is a blending of their original language, mixed with words picked up in the 300+ years they’ve shared space. It’s joked in the series that the only thing you can guarantee everyone will understand are the swearwords and a few of the common religious phrases.

3. Are you ticklish? If so where?

I know this will never come back to haunt me – my ribs.

About J. I. Rogers

 

They’d been dancing on the beach in the moonlight, then walked along the very edge of the waves, naked feet leaving transient prints where the sea kissed the sand.

“I do love you, you know,” he said, “ I wish we could stay here forever.”

Her thoughts were less loyal. They were in the city where the excitement of her glittering career beckoned.

But he didn’t understand. He never did.

As they got back to the hotel he pulled out the inevitable ring box.

She turned away to hide her frustration.

Why did he have to spoil such a perfect evening?

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.

Before Ginny could ask her next question there were footsteps on the spiral staircase and Agnes appeared carrying a tray, preceded by the nutty perfume of freshly ground and filtered coffee.
“Sorry for the slight delay,” she said brightly as she handed round the cups, I had to fend off Petunia.” She sat down and lifted her mug in a sort of toast to Ginny. “They all can’t wait to meet you.”
“They?”
“Our Sisters. The Steering Committee of Little Botheringham Ladies Association.” Agnes explained. “That’s me, Agnes, great-great granny and gossip. Lilian who you sat next to at the LA meeting.”
Agnes paused for breath, and Ginny dredged up the memory of a skinny woman with a seamed face and fascinating dreadlocks.
Agnes ploughed on. “Petunia who is a veterinary nurse and who held you down while Em Fed you. Ellen, who is bit of a leftie and a very strident lesbian – especially when she has been drinking. Jamelia, who is quiet, incredibly clever and beautiful. And of course Em who is Queen of our nest.”
Em made a depreciating gesture.
“It really isn’t what you might think. Just the traditional title given to whoever in a vampire community is daft enough to step up to the plate and try and organise things. It’s a very hands-on kind of leadership role. Like most such things, you wind up having to do much of what needs doing yourself.”
“And Em is very good at doing things,” Agnes said. “And at organising the rest of us, which in the case of most of our little community is very like herding goldfish.”
“Don’t you mean cats?”
Agnes grinned. “You tell me – after you’ve met the others.”
Ginny looked between the two women.
“So the Ladies Association is run by vampires?”
“Oh yes. We work very hard to look after the village.”
Ginny thought of the bench outside the village shop and the fundraising for a new minibus for the local primary – and the campaign she’d heard about which had kept the school open. All organised by the Ladies Association.
“You do seem to be very involved in village life.”
Em’s mouth sculpted the hint of a grin.
“You could say that.”
“And a lot of thankless work it is too,” Agnes put in. “I sometimes wonder why we bother with some of the ingratiates.”
“It can be hard work,” Em agreed and took a drink of her coffee.
“So why do you do it?”
Both the women looked at her as if she was asking something that had the most obvious answer in the world.
“This is our home,” Em said gently. “If we didn’t look after it before long it’d be nothing more than a hollowed out dormitory for the wealthy with a sprinkling of second homes and holiday rentals.”
“Like most of the other villages around here,” Agnes added. “Much Botheringham is more like an English village theme park than a real community, and Nether Botheringham has become little more than a suburb of Bedchester and half of that was taken over by an industrial estate.”
Ginny tried to fit the idea of helpful conservationism into her concept of a vampire and what vampires did. And failed. She pushed it aside as something else occurred.
“So about vampires. Are there a lot around?”
“Not that many nowadays.”
“There used to be more?”
“Going back a couple of centuries and some, yes,” Agnes told her. “Too many, in fact. And in the increasing glare of science and mass communication it was becoming harder and harder to keep hidden from humanity. So we had to make some changes within our community. Establish certain norms.”
Agnes sipped her coffee and looked over at Em, who gave a small shrug.
“We just had to make sure we eliminated the troublemakers. It was very obvious that those who caused the most problems were those who had been transformed when young. They still had all the folly and exuberance of youth and never really grew out of it. Imagine a four-hundred year-old with ongoing teenage angst.”
Ginny did, and her eyes widened as Em went on talking.
“And the men were the worst. Vampirism boosts testosterone levels to the point where two could barely be in a room together without having to fight it out to decide who was the ‘alpha’.”
“So that explains all the ravishing young women vampires in the stories and the ravishing of young women by vampires, the overdramatic dress sense and so forth.”
Both Agnes and Em were nodding.
“So we made a new rule. One that would exclude all the most unstable elements from the vampire community. We wanted people who were rational, controlled, wise and careful.”
Ginny wondered which of those descriptors she could actually lay claim to.
“That must be a bit difficult. How do you find such paragons?”
“That was easy,” Agnes said. “The only people who can be made into vampires nowadays are post-menopausal women.”

Part 20 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

I’m dry
Like tinder in the tinder-box is
Dry
I try
As every fledgeling learning how will
Try
To fly
But I’m just sitting as the hours do
Fly
And by
The time I write some words the day’s gone
By
I’m dry
Like sand deep in the desert waste is
Dry
I sigh
At yet another barren day, one
Sigh
Then lie
Upon my bed to sleep and as I
Lie
I tie
Myself to tomorrow’s dreams, so that
I
Don’t cry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I musta winced, because his eyes suddenly grew piercing. I felt like I was falling into their blackness as he stared but I weren’t scared. Much. Then he shook his head.
“I see,” he said and his voice was dry and rasping, like Pa when he talked to Brother Abram.
I thought he did see. Matter of fact I thought he saw too durned much, but I kep’ my mouth shut and waited.
“What do you see Uriel?”
“I will show you my brothers.”
He holds out his hands and all three kinda flows together into a waving tentacled creature what made me think of a picture of a octopus on the schoolroom wall.
Me and Eli was as quiet as mice – we dursen’t barely breathe. Thankfully it weren’t long before the bright ones separated back into three.
“Such wickedness.” The smallest one sounded shocked and mighty cross.
“Wickedness indeed, Jegudiel, but what can we do about it.”
Uriel laughed, and I thought I’d know that laugh any time anywhere. “We could interfere,” he said.
“But that’s forbidden.” By now I was about sure this was the one what had walked through my head, and I wondered what he might be called.
“Since when has that stopped us, Selaphel?”
Selaphel grunted. “Since never. But what do you propose?”
The three on them went into a huddle over the bleeping machine and I looked at Eli.
“You got any idea what wickedness they’m on about?”
He went as red as one of Ma’s tomatoes. “Maybe Brother Abram,” he whispered.
“What. Him wantin’ to take me as his third wife?”
Eli grabbed my shoulders so hard it hurt. “You ain’t supposed to know about that.”
“I don’t guess I am. But Ma thought I oughter know in case I gotta cut and run.”
“Shouldn’t come to that. Scripture don’t say a man can have three wives.”
I looked at him and decided he should hear the truth. “It don’t, but Brother Abram’s first wife has a cancer in her breast. She don’t have long. Then there will be a vacancy.”
I never heard my brother swear afore, but he swore then long and hard. “Do Pa know?”
“He do now, I spect. Me and Ma only found out at Woman’s Church this morning.”
“But Brother Abram is past sixty and you…”
“I’m fifteen.”
“It just don’t seem right.”
“Not to me neither. Not right at all.”
“Nor to us.” It was Uriel. “Not any way at all. So we propose a little game. Are you brave enough?”
Eli spoke right out brave and true. “If it keeps that man’s filthy hands offen Hepsie, I reckon I can be.”
Uriel turned his face to me and I nodded. “I gotta be brave. Or else I gotta run. Brave’ll be better.”
“Very well then. Do you trust us?”
“We have to.” That was Eli. “We got no option.”
“And you, Hepzibah?”
I answered him honest, knowing in my heart that it would do me no good to try and lie.
“Right now, I don’t even trust my own eyes. But I believe you mean us no harm.”
The three flowed together again, only this time they looked like water moving in the spring floods, or maybe snow blowing up the valley in winter. When they returned to their angel forms, Jegudiel spoke inside my head.
“See, little one, we can be anything you want us to be. Anywhere you want us to be.”
I didn’t see at all, but I nodded my head anyway.
The ‘little game’ was a long time in the planning and I was too tired to take much notice. Instead I sat and stared at my dirty feet on the white softness of the bed and felt small and very lonely. In the end Selaphel come across and laid a cool hand in my head.
“Sleep,” he said.
I slept and dreamed of machines running over me and the small sting of a needle in my leg. I remember crying in my dream and Eli coming to hold my hand.
“Hush Hepsie. Soon be over.”
When I woke up fully I saw something had happened to Eli and I shivered.
“What they done to you?”
He grinned and stroked the black beard that now covered his chest.
“They just aged me a bit. You too.”
I looked down my body to realise that I had gotten a whole heap more curves as I slept.
“It’s gonna burn Brother Abram something terrible not to get his hands on this,” I said.
“That’s the plan. You ready to go home and tell them we bin took by angels?”
“I am.”
He took ahold of my hand and moved me to the middle of the floor. The three-in-one dipped the heads they currently wore and Uriel lifted his hand in a kind of a blessing. The floor under our feet opened and I felt sure we would fall to our deaths, but instead we drifted gently to the ground in a blaze of yellow light. All around us was the brassy sound of trumpets and for a minute I could have swore I seen a hundred angels around us with their voices raised in praise.
I never been so glad of anything in my life as Eli’s strong hand when we stood on the grass outside The Temple. People come running from every direction and fell to the floor in praise and fear. Eli held up a hand and spoke slow and deep.
“We have spoken with the Angels of the Lord,” he said.
I never said nothing. Never had to. It was easier to leave the lies to Eli. He seemed to be mighty good at it.
They called him The Son of The Prophet and his word was law, but he went ahead twenty years back and his son now runs things.
Me? I married the lad I always hankered after and give him eleven strong sons.
Now I’m nearing the end of my days I see Uriel and his brothers most nights as they swim through the heavens with their long tentacles touching the stars. I still wonder what they really are.
That’s all I got to say, so now I will put down my pen and decide how I should seal my deposition. But that’s foolish, inside me I know what to do. I seen it one time in the courthouse. I’m putting my hand on these here papers now and I’m speaking out loud. “And that’s what happened to me. I swear.”

©️Jane Jago