Voltz stood at the heart of its community – if not in terms of true geography then for certain, Avilon could see, in the way it served the needs of the mercenaries and freetraders, smugglers and other spacefarers of dubious means and even more dubious reputations, who gathered there. Always open, always something to offer its clientele, providing them with a place of entertainment and a place of refuge. Somewhere to have fun, meet friends, find a job, broker a deal, fence goods, buy recreational highs, trade up a ship, get laid, or get into a fight. And the queen of Voltz was a woman who went by the name of Shame Cullen, except to those who she chose to trust to call her by the name she had been given at birth – Sarnai Altan.
Avilon found himself admitted into the charmed circle by default. Because he always kept close about her, those others who were also often close about her, assumed him to be given the same privilege as themselves. They also seemed to assume he shared her bed. Which went to show assumption could be a dangerous thing. Sarnai herself made it clear the exact way she saw Avilon. She told him the first time he reported to her.
“You are my weapon of war: the sword that strikes and the shield that defends. You are my freedom because with you close to hand I can act without fear.” She turned as she spoke, her robe moving like a living being over her skin in a shimmer of gold and red.
“So what do you want me to do?”
The soulless black eyes studied him.
“I want you to keep me alive.”
“I thought I got to do Max’s job,” Avilon said, wondering if acting as a bodyguard meant an additional task or would be his main role.
“Max did very little except sit in the bar and gamble. If there is a problem in the bar, then yes, you will deal with it. But you will have a team to do most of that.”
“I am not used to command,” he admitted. For a moment the porcelain face froze and she stepped away from him in total disbelief.
“So you stand by what you said – that you have no memory?”
Avilon nodded.
She reached out one hand with slow deliberation and placed the palm on his chest, as if trying to touch his heart. Then stood still in the same pose for a time, her eyes closed. Then she opened them again and said:
“You were a great leader, Avilon Revid. You were a man who could inspire the love and devotion of those who you chose to touch with that greatness. And one who would win half of every battle by the power of the fear your name would bring to your enemies.” She bowed her head. “I grieve for that which has been lost.”
To his utter amazement, when her face lifted to his again, a single tear stood out visible on her cheek, clear and glistening. He felt lost for words and nearly as lost in how he should feel. Because of who she was he could not say he despised that past self, the mindless murderer of innocents. He also could not bring himself to lie and embrace her vision of the man he had once been. So he said nothing and waited.
“Of course,” she said, her voice soft, “you can not know what we have lost – I do not expect you to understand.” She lowered her hand and spoke as if pronouncing a curse. “From now on, to me, you are indeed just Vitos Ketzel.”
He never heard her speak his real name again.
It seemed his duties were to be primarily bodyguarding, but sometimes Sarnai would send him to deal with a more normal security matter. If an individual who walked into Voltz proved to be a known trouble maker, or when the regular security team had problems with someone, it would be Avilon who would be sent to troubleshoot. But his skills were not as broad as were needed for anything more sophisticated. He could only be the pounding fist, not the subtle blade in Sarnai’s armoury.
Mostly it meant meetings. Meetings in which Avilon hovered like a silent threat. And mostly nothing more was asked of him except to be there. Occasionally, very occasionally, Sarnai would link him one word.
Kill.
And he would.
Either there and then – or later.

From Trust A Few, the first book in Fortune’s Fools Haruspex Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

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

Call Centres

The ones that phone and try to sell you shite. You ask what they are selling they deny it. 

And you KNOW they are telling porkies.

And it’s not really their fault.

There are two routes. Hang up.

Or string them along. Agree to everything up to the moment they start wanting money. Then say you don’t have a card or a or a bank account.

They always ask why.

Then explain that your nurse doesn’t let you have money and you shouldn’t even be on the phone. Then laugh like Hannibal Lecter.

It’s funny how fast they run…

Letters from the Light is a debut dystopian sci-fi novel by Australian author Shel Calopa. Join her and celebrate diversity, explore the corrupting influence of power, and ask whether it’s truly possible to break free of your upbringing.

Aggy Wilcocks surfaced, gasping and coughing. The surging flood had taken her by surprise, separating her from her family, pushing her right through town and slamming her against the tin veranda of the transit station.
Winded, she sucked desperately for air before diving down into the murky water in a frantic search for Uncle or the children. She came back up, still breathless and alone. Aggy dove again, pushing at the shifting debris. Lots of branches, a tractor battery, two dolls and some hydroponic drip-feeding tubes. Nothing important or useful.
Bobbing atop the water-line and blinking back tears, she squinted towards the horizon. The familiar landmarks were missing. No more grain silo or McWilliam’s two-storey Pub. Even the town hall, where she had hoped to attend her first harvest dance with Stevie Bennet, had gone. Swirling, turgid water had swallowed everything and everyone; so quickly.
Aggy grabbed a wooden table that floated within reach and clung to it as she looked west for the source of the flood. It was impossible to see anything clearly in the white-topped turmoil.
Then, looking up she noticed the cavern’s rocky roof approaching as she rose higher in the water. Unless she could find a way out soon, the vast underground cavern that had been her home would fill to become her watery tomb.
Behind her, the roof arched down into the water and merged into the back wall of the drowned transit station. All her life it had been there. A distant, largely ignored wall that defined the edge of their territory and kept them safe. Now it was a dam that was drowning them all.
She forced down a sob and reached out to touch it. The wall was slippery, cold to the touch and impossibly smooth. She clawed at it with her hands but couldn’t get any purchase. Feeling above her head, she found a conduit that ascended from the recently submerged building beneath her feet, and clung to it.
Steady at last, she made herself recall Uncle’s last instructions, hoping it would calm her down and help her to find a way out.
What had he said? Think, Aggy, think! The stories of the world above us are true. Just need to survive this. Find … something? Find what? It had happened so rapidly she couldn’t remember. JayMoe would know.
Aggy was about to dive down to search for him when she heard a low growl. She looked into the distance. Her heart screamed. Another wave loomed. There was only enough time to strengthen her grip and take two deep breaths.
The green wall of frothy water hit and, once again, she was submerged…

Extract from Letters from the Light published by Inspired Quill UK Dec 2019.

A Bite of… Shel Calopa

1. Why did you choose science-fiction as the genre in which to tell this story?

As a teenager, I picked up Abbott’s Flatland from my school library which lead me to the work of Philip K Dick and Asimov. By Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy I was hooked.
But the feminist writings of Sheri S Tepper taught me that this genre could be so much more than entertainment. Science fiction allows us to question what is, by projecting what might be.
Letters from the Light is able to ask big questions about social equity by placing the characters in a futuristic setting. Space is a safe place to shine a light on bigotry and greed.

1. Which of the characters do you feel is the most like you and what makes them so?

This is a tough question as Letters from the Light has a huge cast!
If I must choose one, then it would be Kohl Pallas, a young man born to extreme wealth and privilege. When he discovers the crimes his family have committed to maintain their position, he becomes a hot mess of indecision. Somehow he must face the corruption in his family and find the strength to do what is right, but is it ever possible to break free of your upbringing?

1. Are you a cat person or a dog person and why?

I am definitely a cat person, although my husky dog would disagree!

Shel Calopa is a new author from the UNESCO City of Literature – Melbourne Australia. Whilst mostly set in the sci-fantasy genre, her stories only use science as the backdrop against which characters struggle with the contemporary issues of class, gender and power. Actually, it’s all a bit dystopian!
Shel is a passionate believer that all our small lives are connected, valuable and critical to the collective journey. She is published by Inspired-Quill in the UK and Aussie Speculative Fiction in Australia and you can follow her on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.

Esme had lived alone in the cabin high in the mountains as long as she could remember, getting by on what she could find and on ‘make do and mend’. She liked it that way. People were a nuisance like the wolves and the bears – only more dangerous.

So when she found the unconscious man she was half-inclined to leave him be. But of course, she took him in and saw him right.

Two years later Esme regretted her decision as the mining company began to rip up her mountain on the report of the freelance geologist she had saved.

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.

Agnes and Petunia looked Ginny over carefully as she slept. Finally, Agnes grinned.
“Looks as if we got away with that one. Aside from the fact the hair on her head seems a bit less wispy and her front teeth are a bit prominent, she’s just the way she was.”
Em was bitterly tired but she managed a smile, and when Arnold offered her a cup of something steaming she took it gratefully. It was soup, and it helped. However, what she really needed was blood tea, and a lot of sleep. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when a puffed-out Agnes handed her a tall mug from her own kitchen. She drank deeply and felt a measure of strength seeping back through her bones.
“Now what?” 
Agnes indicated the trussed-up were with a lift of one of her chins.
“Good question.”
The voice was unfeasibly deep and came from the doorway. Em smiled a weary smile.
“Come in Leodigrace. Come and tell us how the heck that one got away from you.”
The shadows readjusted and a tall man came quietly into the church.
“He didn’t get away, Emmeline. He slipped under the radar. I can find no trace of anybody knowing anything about him. Although someone did. And we will find out who.”
Agnes gave the big lycanthrope a dirty look. “Not wishing to be thought unwelcoming, or anything like that, just how did you happen to be in the area?”
“I didn’t happen to be here. I was having a meeting with the bishop – about yon bunny rabbit – when I suddenly knew something was happening here. I hurried…”
“Now you are here,” Em managed to sound severe even in the face of gnawing fatigue, “can we leave the disposal of that poor mad creature to you?”
“You can.”
Leodigrace bent over and lifted Doug Turner as easily as if he was a tiny child. Then he was gone.
Arnold looked at the three women. “I don’t suppose anybody is going to tell me who or what.”
Em shrugged. “You’ve seen too much already, so why not. Leodigrace is the big cheese when it comes to weres. And he’s the biggest effing wolf you have never seen in your life. He might eat bunnies for all I know. And now I have had about enough. Will you carry Mzzz Cropper over to my house please?”
Arnold swallowed, then pulled himself together. “I will. Then I will come back and scrub the floor.”

By the time her unwanted guest had been installed in the guest bedroom, Em was feeling the full effects of a very trying day. For once the age she felt reflected the age she looked and it was not entirely down to the drain of creating a new Sister. Agnes had sensed it, of course, and insisted on organising everything, making Em sit in the lounge with her feet up whilst she sorted the settling in of the Cropper woman.
“Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” Em asked when Agnes placed a brandy in her hand and sat down with one herself.
“Not like you to second-guess yourself, Em.”
The brandy helped. It tasted of fire and nostalgia.
“No. It isn’t. I think I am still trying to work out how I missed all the signs about Doug Turner. How could there be a were – or any kind of supe – wandering around the village and I just didn’t notice?”
“None of us noticed, not just you. So stop blaming yourself. You’re tired and a good rest will see you right as rain.” She finished her brandy and stood up. “Now I’ll leave you to it. Do you want me round tomorrow to help out with explaining things to our new Sister? It’ll be a bit of a shock for her as we didn’t have a chance to do the pre-chat and all that.”
Em groaned.
“And I can just imagine how she’ll take it. This is one I’m really not looking forward to.”
“She can’t be worse than Petunia was can she?”
“Maybe. After all, according to Angela Pendle-Burton she’s a committed vegetarian.”
Agnes’ mouth formed an exaggerated O shape. Then she laughed.
“Well that will be one for the books.”
“Exactly,” Em said. “What the hell do we do with a vegan vampire?”

Part 16 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Do you remember when life was a mystery?
When all of your doings had never been done?
When every song spoke of promise and wonder
And things you’d imagine of times that would come.

And if you remember when life was still mystery
Your heart it did beat to so different a drum.
All lay ahead as intrigue and adventure
And hints of the way that your future would run.

And then when you parted the veil of life’s mystery
Stepped oe’r the threshold and sailed on its seas
Did you forget how it felt to anticipate
When you had no notion of how life would be?

And as you explored the world and life’s mystery
Carved out your path in the way that you pleased
Did you succeed in all that you wanted to?
Or were you defeated and brought to your knees?

When left by the waves on the shores of life’s mystery
Are you shipwrecked? Abandoned? Or sitting at ease?
Are you one of the ones who’s unlocked life’s mystery?
Or are you still hoping to find just one key?

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Dog and Onion, was situated at the heart of what counted for the bad side of town in Viriconium. Here small retailers selling dubious items were squashed between nightclubs, gambling rooms and scantily disguised brothels. Above, between and around these were some of the cheapest rooms and apartments to let in the city.
Like most of the business and homes on its street, the taberna was a narrow fronted building which went back a long way. The street itself was also narrow with barely room for two vehicles to pass. Alleyways and car park entrances cut between the buildings, under the tunnel of their first floor rooms.
Most of the buildings were old and ill-maintained. If it had been in Eboracum, Dai reflected, they would have called it something interesting and turned it into a tourist spot, refurbishing the buildings, replacing the sex shops with gift shops, the brothels with fashionable boutiques,  and the nightclubs with eateries of various descriptions catering to broad tastes. If it had been in Londinium they would have gated the road at either end and thrown away the key. But here in Viriconium it provided habitation, employment, and what passed for entertainment, to the lowest strata of society. And any of the rest of society who liked to indulge themselves in such a way.
The last time Dai had been here it had been in broad daylight and then the area had looked grimy, run down and insalubrious. But night time was its element. There wasn’t enough street lighting to illuminate more than patches, but the various establishments made up for it with illuminated signs promising any variety of vice. There were shifting, multi-coloured lights emanating from the same open doors as the zing-tinkle of slot machines, and bursts of loud music as the bouncers opened and closed the doors to the nightclubs. The deep background thump-thump of loud bass beats, accompanied them, like an external heartbeat. The smell was a mix of overcooked streetfood, spilt alcohol, cheap perfume and fresh vomit.
Bryn seemed completely at home and even exchanged reserved nods with a couple of the local denizens. But that was to be expected. It was his job to know this place and fit in. For a moment, watching the older man stride confidently on, turning sideways to avoid a gaggle of half-drunk whores and their present companions, Dai felt a stab of envy. This had been him a year ago, prowling the streets of Londinium with the same superb assurance. But here in Viriconium his role was no longer that of street Vigiles and there were times he missed it badly.
Which was the real reason why, when Bryn suggested he come along, Dai hadn’t protested.
The taberna was busy, but not overwhelmingly so. The two of them managed to spot an empty table which they were heading towards when a large man wearing smartish tunic and trews and an ugly scowl intercepted them, grabbing Bryn by the arm.
“Not a good idea for you to be in here. We don’t cater for your kind.”
“My ‘kind’ being?” Bryn asked politely.
The large man nodded at Dai.
“Well, his kind to be precise. You would do better taking him along the road to the Aureum Pomum. They got things a bit more classy there. We don’t cater that way.”
Then Dai realised and felt an irrational sense of anger. Before he became a Citizen he was forever judged on his lack of status and now he was being judged on an excess of it. Bryn must have felt his mood shift because he smiled broadly at the large man blocking their way, then spoke in a pleasant and friendly tone.
“I suggest you let go of my arm and take your assumptions and stick them in your twll tin. Because you’ve read this so wrong it’s like you’ve mixed up the business news with the sports pages.”
The big man moved, but in the wrong way, and a moment later he was on the ground gasping with Bryn standing over him still wearing a friendly smile. Dai stepped forward and trapped his wrist with one foot, quite casually, as the downed man tried to reach for some weapon or other.
Around them people had pulled back chairs and stools, some edging away and some moving in. The atmosphere was as raw as blood on knife blade and Dai spared a moment to feel grateful they had a wall to their backs. Beneath his jacket he had a nerve whip, the non-lethal Citizen-only weapon, but he was reluctant to draw it here. Instead he shifted his stance to something more defensive.
Bryn was talking to the prone man.
“You must be new in here, fresh from the sticks?”
The man made a muffled grunt and tried to get up. Bryn might have been minded to allow him to, but before that could become clear, the gathering group around them parted and a woman who had to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with a plump figure and hard eyes, flanked by men with hard bodies and even harder eyes, kicked at the prone man quite viciously.
Any possible lingering idea that this was a sweet, rosy-cheeked middle-aged landlady vanished as she opened her mouth and demolished the unfortunate on the floor with a tirade of vicious profanity. When she had finished he seemed to have withered to half his original size and he scurried off, doubled over, vanishing through a door marked for staff use only.
The woman looked around at the audience they had gathered and made a circling gesture with one finger. “Show’s over. You can all get back to your drinks.”
The clientele of the place dispersed to the tables and conversation picked up almost immediately, with only the odd glance cast in the direction of Dai and Bryn to indicate the topic might not yet have moved on.
“So why is it every time you come in here you make trouble SI Cartivel?” The hard tone had gone to be replaced by a warm, friendly one with a hint of flirtation. That last became more obvious as the woman shifted her gaze to take in Dai – slowly, from head to toe. She was so clearly mentally undressing him that for a moment he almost felt naked.
“I wasn’t the one making trouble, Aoife,” Bryn protested. We just came by for a drink and a chat and your man decided to put himself in my face.”
“You’ll be ruining my trade bringing a Citizen in here. But don’t I remember him? Good looking bachgen like that is hard to forget. Isn’t he one of your Vigiles?”
“Something like that,” Bryn agreed easily. “Now about that drink and that chat.”

From Dying on the Mosaics by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago The seventh Dai and Julia Mystery, set in a Britain where the Roman Empire never left..

Somehow. Somewhere.
In these pages
I have found
The wealth of ages
Understood
The old and wise
Found their words
Beneath my eyes
Somehow. Somewhere
In this book
I’ve laughed. I’ve cried
Come see. Come look

©️jj 2020

I am, in case you had failed to notice, of an age where suntanned skin resembles nothing more than a pair of worn out walking boots: wrinkled, crumbling and deeply unattractive. Which is just one of the many reasons I don’t sit in the sun….

For more reasons I don’t indulge read on.

It’s boring. You can’t read because the sun gets in your eyes. You can’t hold a conversation because your brain is too hot to be arsed. And even Gyp won’t entertain you because he has sufficient sense to have sought shade.

It’s sweaty. Your undertit area will be sticky. Your armpits will be miniature waterfalls. And even your hair will be sweating.

It’s bad for you. If the spectre of melanoma doesn’t scare you, fine. Me? I’m in enough trouble with the ciggies.

So then. The advice on the sunbathing front is – don’t do it.

If the sun is hot take yourself somewhere shady and equip yourself with an ice-cold beer. 

But. But. Do I hear you say?

A suntan looks healthy. It doesn’t. It just looks like a suntan.

Being tanned is slimming. It just isn’t. 

Need I say more?

However. If you really must feck with your skin colour there are options that don’t involve self-barbecuing.

Sunbeds. Just as boring as ordinary sunbathing, and arguably not any better for your health.

Spray tan. Almost always weirdly orange.

Self-tanning lotions. Streaky and stinky and orange.

Moisturiser with a hint of self tan. Probably the least obscene option if still a tad satsuma in colour. 

To conclude. Do. Not. Sunbathe. And think carefully before you apply any sort of fake tan. There are horrible warnings out there. Look at them and think.

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 completion we have three runners up! This is by science-fiction and fantasy author Sharon Wong.

“But it’s not my birthday,” says the child.

“No matter,” Alibeth coos, setting the frosted wonder down on the kitchen table. “It’s yours.”

The child approaches the cake with wide eyes, her gazed fixed as though she cannot look anywhere else. Once she takes a bite, she won’t be able to think of anything else. Alibeth has made sure of that.

On the kitchen floor, the corpses of the child’s parents grow cold. Alibeth will deal with them when the child sleeps. She will clear the house of any trace of them. Her house, now.

The child begins to eat.