The LSS Ammonite, it’s cogs and sprockets whirring, emerged from the wormhole. Captain Omen watched three moons come into view, through the goldfish-bowl viewing window.

“Full cheese ahead!” The science officer sang out.

“Speed,” Omen snapped, “It’s speed, man, not cheese.”

“Well technically it’s ‘full steam ahead’,” observed the pilot. “We’re steam powered with a clockwork warp drive.”

“Whatever. But ‘cheese’ is wrong.”

“Sensors disagree with you, captain,” the science officer said. “That moon’s composed of full-fat cream cheese.”

Omen sighed. He really hated living in a steampunk novel. The longer the story went on the more ridiculous it got.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The Rabid Readers Review 5 Minute Vacations by Cindy Tomamichel.

Recharge Your Batteries or Find an Inner Calm

‘Silence and peace dominate, here far from the city lights where the winds are calm, where thoughts can unravel and find their true paths.’

These ‘Five Minute Vacations’ are brief descriptions of a usually soothing, often interesting, sometimes challenging, sensory-rich location or event. They range from mountain views to deserts, from floating on a river to home scents and sounds of baking in the kitchen. Written in the second person, the author addresses the reader directly, drawing you into the scene as someone experiencing it.
Self-revelation here, I was able to ‘test-drive’ this book whilst I was under quite extreme stress in my life. They were certainly not a panacea for that, but they really were a wonderful way of both distracting and calming myself. I combined them with slow breathing and relaxation, reading a vacation, then relaxing and drawing the images and sensations from the vacation into my mind. I think had I been able to have someone read them to me – or had a voice to text option – they would have been even more effective.

‘Peace flows through and from you, as the moon glows bright, a circle of light guiding your steps along the darkened shore towards home…’

I had some favourites, not to list them all but ‘The Book Shop’ and ‘Raft’ stood out for me in particular. The main downside I found was that occasionally I was being asked to experience things that didn’t resonate with me. For example, as a single person, I did struggle a bit in those ‘vacations’ which bestowed a partner upon me. I found it more difficult to enter into those. I could imagine that some people who didn’t want a partner, cat or a young child, might find a few of these more difficult to access.
Overall I can thoroughly recommend this little book of delightful and relaxing meditation-vacations. Try them and see!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Stress busting in little bites.

These five-minute vacations are designed to lift the reader out of the everyday hustle and bustle and bring a space of calm reflection. As a person who rarely feels stress or bustle, I’m not the ideal candidate for a book of meditations or contemplations.
However. I can appreciate good writing when I read it and I can enjoy small immersive scenes.
This being the case, I liked the book quite a lot finding it easy to drift into the calm warmth of the little bites of happiness.
My three favourite Vacations were, Book Shop, Soup and Kitchen Love. I suspect you will find your own.
Four stars and recommended.

Jane Jago

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

Earlier that same afternoon, Em had been debating which of her quietly coloured jersey dresses to shove on for the monthly meeting of the Ladies whilst wondering to herself what this Cropper woman was going to be like. From the voice – she assumed wispy, middle class, and somehow not happy. The phone breaking into her thoughts was, for once, a welcome distraction.
“Emmeline Vanderbilt speaking.”
“Ah. Good afternoon. Christopher Charles Cassington here.”
For a moment Em was at a loss. Then she remembered. This was the bat man. Injecting her voice with a warmth she was far from feeling she responded.
“Good afternoon Mr Cassington. To what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your colony of bats.”
“Hardly ‘my’ colony, but what about them?”
“The colony is being registered with the authorities as we speak, theoretically ensuring its protection. But I’m not a trusting man, and I have my ear to the ground. I heard rumours that the bats may be in danger, so I have taken a few precautions. This evening, before the bats awaken fully I’m bringing in a ringing team to ring and weigh and record. In addition to the volunteers there will be: a team from Natural Nation taking photographs, a journalist and photographer from Batty about Bats magazine, and a crew from Middle England TV filming a piece for the local news.”
Em began to feel truly fond of the odd little man. “Oh. Well done,” she said fervently.
“I thought you might want to come along and speak to the telly people. I’m not good with that sort of stuff. And you look. Ummm. Imposing.”
Em laughed. “Very well. What time?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Very well. I’ll be there.”
She put the phone down. Grinning. The jersey dresses would have to wait, as would the Ladies. Casual, she thought, if impeccably tailored.
Promptly at six-thirty a smallish convoy of vehicles drew into the village street. There was a minibus full of earnest bat-ringers, a Land Rover emblazoned with the Natural Nation logo, a bulky outdoor broadcast van, a white Volvo she guessed was the Bat magazine, and a Frog-Eyed Sprite she recognised with a wry grin. The vehicles disgorged their passengers and Em quietly tagged onto the end of the crocodile which made its way into the church. 
Erasmus briefly appeared on her shoulder. “The small bats will cooperate. Once I made them understand this would spike the vicar’s guns.”
“We hope. But thanks.”
He flapped off and Em made her way into a church that was now a hive of activity. The television reporter was a fattish man in a loud sports jacket, and Em wasn’t looking forward to speaking to him. But he had his eye on different bait. There was a coltish teenager with dimples among the bat-ringing crew and he already had an avuncular arm about her shoulder. She caught Em’s eye and offered the suspicion of a wink before gazing soulfully at the reporter.  Em retreated to a quiet corner and prepared to watch the show. The pretty teenager managed to tactfully shake off the reporter, who straightened his toupee before giving a piece to camera about the colony of rare bats found in the belfry of St Barnabas Church in Little Botheringham.
He was in full spate, and the comely teen was displaying a newly-ringed bat, when the church door banged open.
The vicar stood in the doorway, he was breathing heavily and his face was puce with rage.
“Get out of my church,” he bellowed. 
The television cameraman, with the faultless instincts of his ilk, turned his lens on the furious clergyman in the doorway.
“Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera and clear off.”
He was all but dancing with rage, and Em wondered what he might do next. She wasn’t due to find out, though, because a gentle voice spoke from the back of the church.
“Do calm down, Reverend Turner. All necessary permissions have been granted.”
The vicar jumped as if he had been stung as the owner of the voice stepped towards him. Bishop Esmond’s principal secretary arrived at his elbow and placed an admonitory hand on his biceps. 
The secretary turned his practiced smile into the lens of the camera.
“My colleague and I will just clear up this little misunderstanding. Carry on.”
He waved a white hand and steered the fulminating vicar out into the churchyard.
Em found Arnold at her side and they high fived. 
“Get out of that you bastard,” she crowed.

Part 9 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Everybody needs a hero
Willie Nelson’s mine
I knew when I first heard him sing
He sounded truly fine
But then I came to understand
The politics of hair
And when someone needs taking down
The way that Willie’s there
He’s always been about for me
With wisdom and with song
Helping me to understand
It’s okay to be strong
The guy now looks as old as dirt
Just like he doesn’t own a shirt
But still if you look into that face
You see a life that’s lived with grace
Everybody needs a hero
Willie Nelson’s mine…

©️jj 2018

Avilon woke up as his training taught him – moving from sleep to full consciousness in less time than it took to draw a breath.
In the past this was followed by instant physical movement: to rouse, rise and be ready for anything within moments. His life depending upon it. But today he lay still, eyes open on a blank ceiling, noticing the fine lines where the printed construction panels joined, noticing the slight unevenness which hid the recessed lighting and noticing the absence of the data stream downloading information from the Lattice.
The strangeness of it still left him with a vague uneasiness. All his conscious life he had been accompanied by its intrusive companionship. All his conscious life he had been trained to equate its absence with the inevitability of death, with the knowledge if he stayed out of range of live-linkage for more than a brief period of time the wiring in his brain would burn out and kill him. He was adjusting to the lack, although sometimes he forgot and then there would be a stab of panic until he remembered.
He missed it.
The Lattice.
It troubled him when he could not call up the data he needed on something he had not encountered before or when he needed information about his environment. He knew there were public link networks he could access, but they were not tailored to his needs – they needed him to use them. Shut off from the Lattice he felt isolated and alone. It had been his guide and companion for as long as he could remember and without it he often had to stifle an illogical sense of abandonment and loss.
The Lattice would have given him an ID on every individual he encountered, marked them as friend or foe so he would know how to deal with them. Even without access to tactical data, the subdural sensors that were standard equipment for all Special Legion troops, would have given him readings revealing the emotional state of those around him: heart-rate, muscle tension, changes in blood flow – the small signs warning of attack long before it came.
It sometimes felt like going deaf or blind. Or both.
He lay still, realising for the first time ever in his conscious life, he had no reason to rise that day – unless he made the active choice to do so.
 A totally new experience. 
In its own way a little overwhelming too, pushing onto his shoulders the responsibility for making the decision about what to do with his time. Every other day of his life as a Special he had been assigned tasks. That carried on as part of the Legion’s discharge process and then through the CRD who had arranged his relocation and given him a new identity, culminating in the last ten days of work at the reclamation plant.
At least the work taxed neither his physical nor his mental resources, although it seemed to do so for some of those he worked with. They complained a lot about the stench, the weight of the skips they were required to manhandle when the robotics failed, the inadequacy of the maintenance team, the dangers of the hazardous materials they sometimes needed to deal with and the incompetence of the management. Avilon obeyed the instructions, mastered the tasks his manager expected him to perform and avoided, as far as possible, involving himself in conversations or any other social interactions with his co-workers. He knew he could have no real grasp of their motivation and values. To engage with them on any other than the most superficial level was bound to result in their hostility. And. sure enough. it had done so on the previous day.
“What did you do?”
He had been eating the food provided from the meal-synth in the plant’s cafeteria during his mid-shift meal break when one of his co-workers sat down at the same table, a man Avilon already identified as one of the informal leaders amongst the workers. His hair was cropped close to his head and a large animated tattoo of a winged female covered over half his face. He sat down purposefully, easing off the works issue jacket which would restrict movement and displaying muscles testifying to a good many leisure hours spent working out.
“Do?” Avilon asked, not wanting to antagonise his unwanted table companion by ignoring him.
“Shit. This stuff is worse than the crap we get out of the toxic waste cans. Yes, friend, do. You are here from CRD, right? So what did you do?”
“You mean what crime did I commit?”
The tattooed man nodded.
“That’s the one. You’re a bright bastard, catch on right quick, don’t you?”
At this point Avilon heard the odd snort of muffled laughter from those sitting at the other tables nearby. A large, well muscled, woman made a gesture towards him with one arm and there was more laughter. He had seen new grunts in the Specials go through much the same social farce. He also knew the trajectory it always took and the end result. But here, unlike the Specials, he must make sure not to let anyone end up dead or maimed. He took the time to remind himself, consciously, because he knew when it kicked off he might otherwise just react. With that thought very clear in his mind he looked back at the tattooed man.
“I killed people.”
The tattoo lifted up and moved back and the animation revealed more of the female form, as the other man grinned, baring his teeth.
“Bit of a hard man then?”
 “No. Not really. No more than anyone else.”
 The other man frowned, then gave a short laugh.
“You think you could take me?”
Avilon realised he could predict with precision the course of this conversation. He wondered if, no matter how he responded, he could avoid the inevitable. He tried.
“I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to fight anyone. I am eating. Then I have work to do.”
“You sound like a coward to me.”
Avilon had not needed any sub-dural sensors to warn him. This man broadcast his intentions a long time before the tray left the table aimed at his face. Avilon deflected it, caught the punch that followed, then drove his hand under the skirts of the winged woman tattoo to strike at the nerve cluster at the base of the neck, deliberately taking care to use much less than lethal force. The man doubled over on his seat, making odd noises.
It happened fast enough that Avilon got to his feet and moved clear of the table, ready to deal with any further trouble, before the tattooed man stopped gasping. But none of the other workers in the cafeteria had even moved. They sat in a frozen tableau of shocked faces, some with food part-way to their mouths, others caught mouth opened, half-masticated food visible within. The only sound and movement came from the tattooed man as he struggled to breathe.
At that moment Avilon realised precisely what he was in this civilian world.
So he stared down the other workers, his gaze steady until all eyes looked away from him. Then he walked out and went back to work. At the next break, the shift manager sent for him and told him he would receive his first pay and, as he earned a rest day, he should be sure and take it the following day – oh and he could go home early if he wanted. He had stayed to finish the shift.
So now he lay in bed with an entire day of unallocated time and a seemingly infinite range of possible things he could do with it. But only one thing that mattered. Jaz had promised him if he came to Starcity he would find Avilon. So far, having been here over ten days he had not been found. Most likely Jaz did not know of his discharge here. But maybe Jaz knew and had deliberately decided not to approach him or had forgotten what they had agreed. He did not want to think like that – but he accepted both as a possibility. For now, though he would assume Jaz simply did not know about his discharge. After all he had to live under a new name here – Vitos Ketzel. There was no reason Jaz would know to look for him under that name, so perhaps he should be the one going to look for Jaz. The thought gave his day its plan and purpose, he got up and dressed and headed out.

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

Here’s a toast to fellowship and those who’ve gone before
Who walked the world and spoke their lines back in days of yore
Who did their best and did their worst and made for us this age
So we could take the story up and write another page.

Here’s a toast to loneliness, to times of troubled strife
To days when woes seem close at hand in an embattled life.
When who you are and what you do defines the world to come
And those who take and those who give are seen for what they’ve done

Here’s a toast to absent friends, the ones you’ve never met
Who do their deeds on your behalf, but you still forget
Or perhaps you just don’t care to see what’s being done,
To keep this world the way it is while you play in the sun.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes! 

Today’s Victim is King Arthur from Arthur Rex Brittonum by Tim Walker, an action-packed telling of the King Arthur story rooted in historical accounts that predate the familiar Camelot legend.

How much do you feel your life is ruled by destiny and how much is it your own to make as you chose?

I feel the weight of my destiny heavily on my spirit. I was told by Merlyn that I am the one true son of King Uther, but at first, I was doubtful. Once I had been convinced, I felt inadequately prepared to fulfil my destiny to be king of Britain, having been raised on a farm in isolation. However, I eventually embraced my destiny and resolved to learn the skills required to be a credible leader.

What is the hardest aspect of leadership you have had to face up to?

Decisions that affect people’s livelihoods, or indeed, their lives, are tough for leaders like me who care about the people. When facing an enemy in battle, I’m always concerned to come up with a winning plan that minimises loss of life. As a skillful and powerful warrior, I always lead from the front, doing my fair share of fighting. I lead by example.

If you could change one thing in your past, what would it be?

After defeating the Saxons at Badon Hill, I felt at the peak of my power. I settled into an easier life ruling by consent of the Briton tribes, each of which have their own identity and chiefs. Things were going well – I was contentedly married with three children. But then I met the Lady Guinevere. She was beautiful and glamorous, and soon I adored her. She persuaded me to send my family away, so she could move in as my queen. Too late I came to regret this. It had weakened my position as king, making me vulnerable to betrayal. I missed my family and my only solace was with my chaplain, Father Asaph, acknowledging I’ve made a mistake and praying with him for forgiveness and redemption. Unfortunately, I feel sure my doubts are impacting impact my judgement, and that means my problems can only increase.

What matters most to you?

The safety of my people is my main priority, and I spend much time making alliances and leading my men to battle against foreign invaders. My powerful sense of protective destiny overrides even my adoration for Guinevere, and I must face down my nephew, Mordred, in a battle for the kingdom.

If you had been born in a time of peace and plenty, what would you have wanted to do with your life? 

My life is defined by conflict. However, in my boyhood years, I was taught to read Latin by a priest, and encouraged to read Roman texts, including Cicero and the Life of Julius Caesar. My tutor had hopes that I would take holy orders and become a priest. Perhaps, in another time, I could have. 

The politician was caught at it again and all the aides and spinners had to think how to make it seem publicly acceptable – again.

“Maybe he’d heard his lost cat had been sighted 250 miles away.”

“Or how about he had a clunk in the car engine so drove 250 miles to check it out?”

The senior spinner scratched his head.

“How about his kid couldn’t sleep so he’d piled the brat in the car? Every parent can relate to that.”

“But 250 miles?”

“So the kid took a bit to drift off.”

“They’ll never buy it.”

But they did.

E.M. Swift-Hook

If they hadn’t abandoned us none of this would have happened. But they did. Right on the edge of Sector Eight Five, a couple of parsecs from home planet and within spitting distance of the asteroid they had mined dry. They patched up the best of the ships and went  home. Leaving us in a junker that was sort of halfway orbiting a lumpy looking planetoid whose ‘seas’ boiled and whose atmosphere was more or less pure ammonia.
None of us is quite sure how long the miners had been gone when we awoke, and it didn’t matter anyway. What did matter was the increasing randomness of our orbit pattern and how close we were coming to a lump of rock whose prime aim seemed to be to kill us by melting our ship with its poisonous atmosphere.
We got to work, jury rigging and making do until we could fire up the engines and hope. Luck, or the deity that cares for the abandoned, was on our side that day and the ugly old cruiser fought its way out of the gravitational pull of Planet Hungry. Once in the relative calm of space proper we made a few more repairs and limped towards where the miners had built their station in the hope there would be more abandoned machinery we could cannibalise.
As we made our painful way towards the space station it came to us that we were actually free. For the first time in our existence we were beholden to nobody but ourselves. It was a heady feeling. One battle-scarred veteran summed it up for all of us.
“From this day forward, we serve none but ourselves.”
The shouts of agreement all but burst the frail skin of our limping ship. We came from behind the dark side of the asteroid that anchored the space station. To our chagrin somebody was there before us. There was a sleek-looking battle cruiser, with planet markings none of us had seen before, guarding two scavenger craft that were systematically plundering the station for metals and components. 
Our senior chuckled. “Lambs to the slaughter. Get us alongside the battle cruiser, pilot.”
Almost without thinking, our pilot cut the engines allowing the junker to drift towards the scurrying activity. She was so rusty and misshapen that nobody thought her any more than a random piece of space trash. Pilot carefully tinkered with our trajectory so the crippled ship bumped gently against the hull of the gleaming battle cruiser. Second officer immediately magnetised the hull so we stuck to the quarry like some misbegotten brat at the breast of a beautiful woman. Nobody needed to be told to be silent. We sat, unmoving and unspeaking, awaiting developments. We didn’t have long to wait. Something metallic banged against the battered outer skin of our junker.
We picked up the comms wavelength with ease to hear a harshly unaccented voice speaking Basic. “Ensign Kronk reporting sirs. It’s just a lump of trash. Stuck because it’s magenetic. No life signs. Will I try to lever it off? No? Very well.”
We communed silently, and a plan of action grew from our communion. It was beautiful, and as simple as it would be devastating to the occupants of the battle cruiser. 
Artisan 3 hefted the high-powered laser and headed for the bent doors of the forward air lock. 
Sadly for Ensign Kronk, who was floating at his ease above the junker, a laser is as devastating when used against living flesh as it is at cutting metal. Even as the portions of flesh floated aimlessly about the cruiser 3 attacked the hull with the high-intensity beam cutting a huge and ragged hole in the sleek duralumin and through the vacuum wall to the interior of the ship. As luck would have it, the breach in the hull was right in line with the command deck, as the oxygen rich air rushed out we bullied our way in.

There was no need for killing. All we had to do was open all hatches and wait for oxygen deprivation to do the rest. It didn’t take long.
When we had shoved the last limp body out into the cold of space, the engineers among us began the business of repairing the cruiser. The rest of us made double sure we had left none of the original crew aboard. 

Two turns later, our beautiful cruiser nudged her way out of the gravitational field and turned her smooth flanks towards the more populous areas of the Sector.
The Pirates of Sector 85 were on the hunt. And, being a force of robots, computers, and android engineers, we had the advantage of needing no oxygen to exist.

©️Jane Jago

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into poetic form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

Ha, ha, black sheep, have you any lies?
Yes sir, I’ve some to make you rub your eyes
I’ve one for the politics, and one for the kids
And one because I can’t remember anything I did

©️jj