“Captain’s Log update. Further to the recent encounter with the last human colony in the Calamarti Sector, The Golden Strand is currently moving into uncharted space. We are following up on reports of the existence of a mythical and demonic alien race. The Kyruku.”
Captain Gervain’s elegant and poised outline could be seen silhouetted in profile against the receding planet as she finished recording her log.
“Do you believe the colonists, Captain?”
The youthful-looking science officer lacked expression in both her voice and her face. Despite the question, she displayed zero curiosity. It was as if the captain’s response, whatever it might be, was of no more than academic interest to her.
“I don’t know,” Gervain admitted after a moment of reflection. “Sub-Commander Stude seems to think the colonists have some genuine grounds to believe they do exist. He says the landing team he led met too many who had stories to tell about them for it to be a complete myth. But all I really heard from him was wild stories of the curse they are supposed to carry.”
“It is completely irrational to believe such accounts,” Science Officer Chay agreed, her tone clipped. “To accord any credence to the entire concept of a curse requires an irrational and superstitious mindset.”
The captain lifted one eyebrow and leaned closer to her colleague, lowering her voice so the rest of the crew wouldn’t hear. “Between you and me, I think you have Arlan Stude pinned, Xexe. You don’t get much more irrational and superstitious than he is.” She smiled knowingly at her science officer, who blinked and tilted her head.
“I am not sure I can agree with you, Captain. In my experience, Sub-Commander Stude makes highly rational decisions.”
The captain drew a sharp breath, but whatever she had been going to say next was silenced on her tongue. The lights on the flight deck suddenly flickered and a siren began blaring the “High Alert” warning. Both women turned and looked towards the huge viewing screen, just as a brick-shaped vessel shimmered into view against the backdrop of stars. It looked ugly, with the rusted colour of its hull and the alien technology appearing to human eyes like protruding pincers, needles and claw shapes.
“Will you look at that?” The expression on Captain Gervain’s face was a well-crafted blend of wonder and horror. Beside her, the deadpan of the science officer was a brilliant counterpoint. High emotion set against pure mentation.
“I see it, Captain. It is there. The Kyruku. Do. Exist.”
Two such different female faces, one shot. Perfect.

Joah Meer glanced from the monitor view back to the studio where the two women stood in an empty room staring, rapt, at a blank wall. They really were very good. She had them hold their pose for a few seconds longer than was strictly needed, stopped the recording and smiled.
“Nice work. Take five and then we’ll be setting up to get the fight scene recorded.”
Heila, whose role as captain of The Golden Strand had lasted three seasons so far, stretched slowly as if she had been cramped, and glared at Joah.
“I’m not doing that hurling myself around on the floor thing again, so don’t ask.”
“Never, darling,” Joah said, soothingly. “You might get another bruise, and you have a full-exposure publicity shoot tomorrow.”
Beside her, no longer stone-faced, Zarshay snorted and broke into a grin. Heila scowled at her.
“So funny?”
“Full exposure? Oh my, the life of a leading lady.”
Which was enough to send Heila stalking out in high dudgeon. Zarshay was still grinning as she navigated through the two tech-droids and their human keeper, Wilf, to reach Joah’s console. Joah opened her arms and hugged her tight, lifting her off her feet as they kissed.
“Seriously? You have booked Heila for a skin shoot?”
Joah shook her head.
“Of course not, it’s just a usual media thing, but she has been getting so precious recently, I’ve been tempted. It’s like she thinks we should change Starways Pathfinders to The Heila Camarthy Show.”
Zarshay made a rude noise and laughed.
But something of the tension was still there when they were adding the space-battle scenes.

From ‘Star Dust’ by E.M.Swift-Hook one of the stories set in The Last City a shared-world science fiction anthology.

Edgar knew himself to be the matrimonial catch of the season, and he wasn’t about to be hurried into anything.

All winter, the marriageable women flirted and pouted and many allowed themselves to be caught and kissed in the moonlight. Edgar made no promises, but one girl, more determined than the rest, emerged as front runner.

The day of decision came and Edgar looked into the icy complaisance of her eyes. She was wealthy, beautiful, suitable and icecold. 

He passed her by, and offered for the hand of a plain girl with a smile as warm as a June morning.

©️jj 2020

Torwyn watched the cold eyes behind the high Vyazin nose and found himself thinking of the last time he had been in such a room with the man who had then been just a Warlord.
It had been in Alfor two summers before at the time of the Fair and he had been left chained so the Warlord could talk with him alone. For the longest time, Qabal Vyazin had just walked around his naked, freshly oiled body and said nothing, examining him from every angle.
Trained to such display from an early age, Torwyn kept himself still. He had been uncertain what to expect from such a man as this. Some nobles were quick to make their desires known and wanted a response to feed their egos. But this man seemed to study him from another perspective altogether.
At last, he had stood in front of Torwyn, and held his gaze with a vice-like stare which had been cold and dispassionate. Torwyn had lowered his own eyes after a short time and it was then Qabal had spoken, his voice enquiring.
“Tell me how it is you have such power?”
Torwyn had struggled with that, uncertain what he was being asked or how he could please this man with an answer.
“I have no power, Most Honoured One,” he had said at last, aware of the burden of the unemotional eyes upon him. “I am just a fighting-slave. I cannot command others.”
Qabal had stood very still and given a sharp upward nod.
“You know your place well,” he said softly. “But you also underestimate yourself. Each time you walk onto the sand you have more power than any man – the power of death over another human being. How does that feel?”
Most who paid for private time with the Sabre were interested in only one aspect of his anatomy: that which he kept between his legs. Qabal was clearly equally obsessed, but with another part of his body: that which lay between his ears.
Torwyn stared at the Warlord and hoped the sudden rush of contempt was not visible on his face. How could he ever explain the sick sense of fatality? How to describe the gut-churning fear? How to express the burn of adrenaline which had to push you further than thought? What possible way could he put into words the sense of intense self-disgust which choked the soul each time he had to kill? Standing before Qabal he had struggled to find anything in that which had to do with power. Eventually what he had said was what he thought Qabal had wanted to hear: a simple lie.
“It feels as though I am the ruler of the world – in that moment with my opponent’s life in my hand.”
Qabal had stared at him for a long time and then given that same odd upward nod.
“Then you and I are men of the same cast. Except that my arena is all Temsevar.”

From Dues of Blood the final part of Transgressor Trilogy in the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

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

When it’s raining just sit by the fire
And dream of the things you desire
Like brandy, and sweets 
And a man with big ‘feet’
The thought of whom makes you perspire

©️jj

What if Dickens went steampunk? A Twist in Time by Brent A. Harris  published by Inklings Press, follows an older Oliver as he investigates the disappearance of orphans across London. He sets out to save them, with help from tinkerer, Nell Trent, and a slew of fantastical contraptions – including a mysterious pocket watch that allows its bearer to bend the rules of time. With Oliver’s childhood nemesis, the Artful Dodger and her lethal bag of tricks dogging their steps, he discovers that there is more at stake than his own life and the missing orphans. Can he save London from the flames?

I raced down the macadam road, toward the flames, the storm breaking on my heels. The wind had picked up, the barometer had dropped, and flurries chased me. I shivered without my coat, having shed it in a rubbish bin at the club. I would have given thanks for the warmth of the fire, but those same flames meant that I’d arrived too late.
The door to the Curiosity Shop had fallen from its hinges by the time I entered the building. Already, the smoke was thick enough to send me coughing. I searched in vain for Nell. A stout wooden beam blocked my path. The wall to the training room had begun to crumble. And the roof threatened to cave in.
“Nell?”
Flaming debris fell around me. Clothing, tinker-toys, automaton birds were all just kindling for the fire. A copy of Oliver Twist went to ash before me. I implored Nell, “Tell me what to do.”
Silence fell but for the roar of flames and the bells from the fire-carriage outside. The very same carriage sat unmoving when I’d come in. All anyone could do was to watch the old building burn, ensuring that the flames didn’t spread.
“Where are you?”
“I’m still here, for now. But there’s nothing you can do,” Nell’s voice returned. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“There must be something to save you, to keep you here.”
I could sense her shaking her head, but it was probably just how I knew her in my mind. “Take your cane. I’ve kept it safe from the flames. It’s by your case. Take it, get to the steam mill.”
“No.” I was so tired of losing. Of failing. I wanted to put my past behind me, I wanted to be someone different, but every time I did, someone suffered, from Farley in the street, to Edward. Now… Nell. This was going to end. I was going to save Nell or die in the attempt. “I need you.”
“I can’t stay. The store is gone.”
Another beam fell from the ceiling. I flew deeper into the store, my choice made. I saw the case Nell mentioned. I could have saved it. I might even have escaped the store alive. Instead, I watched as flames licked it, then tasted the case and cane… then consumed them.
My cough increased. My eyes shut in tears. It was too late now anyway to escape.
“No, Oliver—” Her voice grew distant, a fading echo.
I took the watch and held it out. “No gear twists back time. It knows my soul. It knows where I must go.” The timepiece didn’t work for me earlier. But it had to now. I wanted nothing more in this world.
The second hand ticked on as the flames grew.
Take me back to before the fire. Before the club.
Seconds ticked on.
Take me back far enough to save Nell.
Swirls of copper surrounded me as orange flame entangled the light. I could hear Nell’s faint voice echoing, “Don’t do this, Oliver. Let the watch guide you, or you could make it worse…”
I shut the voice out of my head. White and blue currents of electric energy crackled and shot from the copper ball of light entombing me.
Everything went white—
The storm was gone.

A Bite of… Brent A. Harris 

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

Villain. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a villain, as every Big Bad is technically the hero of their own story. Therefore, you can never be the villain. Thanos just wanted to make the universe a better place. Darth Vader wished to bring peace and order to the galaxy. They would never call themselves anything but a hero.

Q2: Would you rather be James Bond or Batman?

James Bond. Batman is cool but he’s a small fish in a world of Supers always hunted by the police, tormented by a clown, and imprisoned by his own moral code. James Bond lives in a world where he’s the only one with super cool gadgets, cars, women, and a license to thrill. His only semi-super-powered nemeses are a guy with metal teeth and a guy who can throw his hat. Although I’d possibly take the Batmobile over the Aston Martin, but I’m not terribly picky.

Q3: Would you rather live in this world or the one you create in your books?

Well, the problem with that is I’ve yet to write a book where I’d have any chance at survival. I’d die of dysentery, smallpox, or a musket ball during the American Revolution in A Time of Need. Victorian London isn’t regal at all; life is nasty, brutish, and short in A Twist in Time. And dinosaurs are literally fighting for survival in “Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon.”
I guess the only thing to do is to make this world the best it can be, and that takes all of us working together. The problem is, we all view ourselves as the heroes, even people who are tearing the world down. Either we start agreeing on a way forward or the next book I write needs to feature me living on an island paradise called Brentlandia.

Brent A. Harris is most known for writing alternate history. His most notable work is Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon, co-written with Ricardo Victoria, where evolved dinosaurs travel back in time to save their dying world, was nominated for a Sidewise Award 2016. He considers Southern California his home but currently lives in Italy. You can follow him on Facebook and Twitter or find him on his website.

He was the most malicious of the minor gods. He curdled milk,  put holes in condoms, punctured tyres and set fire alarms off randomly. But he was bored. Nothing gave him a buzz. Nobody screamed loud enough. He could inconvenience people a few at a time, but that wasn’t what he wanted. It didn’t assuage his craving for power.

He pouted and sulked.

And then somebody invented a computer cheap enough to put in every home and a method of connecting all computers together.

The Glitch sat up straight and gleefully stretched his hands. 

This was going to be fun.

©️jj 2020

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

Six Months Earlier…

Em scowled at the knitting pattern. How was any right-thinking person supposed to make head or tail of such a load of gibberish? Screwing up the photocopied sheet she lobbed it into the fire. The wool and the knitting sticks barely escaped the same fate.
“Vanderbilts don’t knit,” she said firmly before going to the kitchen and picking up the phone. She dialled three digits.
“Agnes. How are you getting on with the knitting?”
She listened intently for a moment then laughed a deep belly laugh.
“I’m rather glad it isn’t just me. Do we know anybody who can knit?”
She listened some more.
“You can’t be serious. Arnold the gravedigger is a competitive knitter?”
The tinny voice at the other end of the line gabbled on and on. Em listened patiently for a while before gently replacing the receiver in its cradle. Agnes wouldn’t even know she had gone.
It was a bright sort of a spring day, and in theory ideal for cycling. But Em had never been one for uselessly expending energy. She carefully closed the wood burner, patted Erasmus on his head as he swung from his favourite beam and picked up the car keys in one hand.
Bowling down the badly-maintained tarmac she couldn’t help noticing the ‘sold’ sign on what had been Florence Maybush’s cottage until the meddlesome old bat got herself run over by a tractor she was stalking with the speed gun she had ordered from Amazon. 
Her family had no need of a tumbledown thatched monstrosity that squatted at the end of a huge and totally undomesticated garden. Consequently, they had been delighted to accept an offer from the local builder, only to descend into foetid sulks when that canny individual obtained planning permission for ten neat little homes on the garden. Rumour had it that when the houses were built and sold at a tidy profit, old Fred Maybush ground his teeth so hard he went through a new set of dentures.
Once the Maybush estate was all sold, the builder turned his attention to the cottage, gutting it and carefully rebuilding it so it was even more inconveniently twee than it had ever been. If now weathertight and electrically sound. He then put it on the market at a ridiculously elevated price.
It sold in three days.
Rumour had it that the buyer was a ‘lifestyle blogger’ from London, who was running away from her menopause. Em ground her teeth at the very thought.
But for now she dismissed the whole Maybush situation as being something to deal with later and concentrated on piloting her piss-yellow Citroen Dyan around the potholes and up the rutted lane to the house Arnold shared with his mother.
Em knocked and the old lady came to the door. Her forehead creased in an unwelcoming frown and her hands made various signs against enchantment, but she bobbed a sort of a curtsey.
“Come you right in mistress.”
Em went right on in but showed her teeth to the cringing woman.
“It’s all right you silly old bat, I’ve come to talk to Arnold about knitting.”
“Got a week to spare, have you?”
Arnold came into the cramped hallway, just about filling it with his muscular bulk.
“Go and put the kettle on Ma.”
She went, and he ushered Em into a spotlessly clean sitting room where a small fire burned in the gleaming hearth. The cat that lounged on the hearth rug took one look at Em and ran, hissing and spitting from the room. Em sat down.
“They tell me you are something of a knitter.”
He grinned. “You could say that.”
“And do you knit to commission?”
“Not normally. But I could be persuaded.”
“By what?”
Em was normally wary of being asked for favours, but Arnold had always seemed as stolid and unimaginative as a block wall so she guessed his wants would be as mundane as his face.
“It’s the bats. The ones in the belfry. They hate the vicar, which is fair enough. Everybody hates the vicar. But not everybody is having a dirty protest by crapping all over the church. Only it ain’t the vicar who has to clean up after them. It’s me.”
“Oh. Right. I see. But why now?”
“He reckons he’s getting the exterminator in.”
“Stupid little man. He could go to prison for that. The bats are a protected species.”
“Yeah. He knows that but he reckons nobody will find out what he’s up to.”
Em sighed. 
“I’ll speak to the council, and get Erasmus to have a word with the bats. Will that do you?”
“That seems more than fair. Now what do you want knitting?”
“A toy.”
He raised his fair brows. “A toy?’
“Yes.” Em said snippily. “A toy. For the agricultural show. The basket of crafts. Great Snoringham Ladies have won it so often they are thinking of just giving them the trophy. And we can’t have that now. Can we?”
He smiled a slow smile of complete understanding.
“No. We can’t. Is there a specific pattern?”
Em dragged a piece of crumpled paper out of her cardigan pocket. “Doesn’t seem to be, just says a knitted toy of between six and twelve inches in height.”
“Oh well. Come you into my knitting room and we’ll see what I have.”
Two hours later, and sick to the back teeth of knitting, Em left the cottage with a bulging carrier bag in her hand. 
Driving home, she was amused to see a large removal lorry trying to reverse into Maybush Cottage. It was being directed by a wispy looking female dressed in what looked to Em to be rather a lot of unconnected bits of hand-printed cotton. She also appeared to have beads around her ankles. Em made a disgusted noise in her throat and went home to phone the council about bats.

Part 3 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

I saw him before
Once in a dream
Or was it a nightmare 
That made me scream 
I knew his face
I knew his voice
He took my hand
I had no choice
He smiled at me
But I could see
His coming meant 
No good to me
I saw him before 
That fateful day
So I picked up my skirts
And ran away

©️Jane Jago 2020

Hanna stood barefoot in the centre of the ring, her hands hung empty at her sides and she looked at nobody. ‘Breathe’ she reminded herself ‘breathe and focus.’ She held herself quietly quiescent, wondering who or what they would send against her this time. Being the champion held its own dangers and she knew the crowd was currently inimical. She was lean and scarred, and carefully emotionless. She had no glamour, and she didn’t know how to get the people on her side. All she knew how to do was survive. This was her seventh bout, and if she didn’t get killed this time they more or less had to let her go.
But that was for the future, for now she couldn’t afford even that glimmer of hope; she had to focus on the job at hand.
There came the sound of a brassy horn, and she heard the chain rattle of a lowering cage. She turned to see what she had to kill. It was no surprise to see a mythical beast, as a human fighter might be affected by her reputation. It was a Minotaur, and he shook the bars of his cage while roaring wordless threats at the small human female in the arena. He stood about eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and shortish bandy legs. His horns were tipped with cruel brazen spikes and he carried a Morningstar and a length of chain. She turned her back on him and looked to the Master of Ceremonies.
‘Choose your weapons.’
‘I choose a short sword and a net.’
A soldier trotted out of the tunnel carrying a short sword with a thick crosspiece and a very sharp blade. He also brought her a rope net about two metres square. Standing in front of her he passed her the net. Hanna was surprised to feel something hard in it, but she’d take any advantage, and with the bewildering speed of hand that was part of her armoury, she secreted a tiny knife in the thick braid of hair that ran down her back. As the soldier handed her the heavy sword he spoke. His lips didn’t move, but his message was clear. ‘Left handed. Watch the chain.’ Then he bowed formally and withdrew.
The Master of Ceremonies raised his voice and silence fell around the arena.
‘The Champion Hanna fights for her life. This is her seventh bout. The fight with which she seeks to buy her freedom.’
The crowd roared its approval, inexplicably warming to the tiny figure in the centre of the arena as the disparity between her and the gigantic Minotaur dawned on them.
‘Han-na, Han-na, Han-na’ the guttural chant filled the air.
Hanna switched off everything except for the necessity to listen for the unlocking of the Minotaur’s cage. Ah. There was the quiet snick of the meticulously oiled lock. She ran as swiftly as her legs would carry her, so that she was just to the right of the doorway as the portcullis lifted. The beast wasn’t fast enough to avoid a debilitating cut to his left arm, he snarled and tried to toss the Morningstar into his right hand. But he missed the catch, and Hanna danced in for another slash of her sword, this time cutting the right bicep. With his arms weakened, Hanna had to bet that her adversary would try to bring his razor-sharp horns into play. She danced back, careful not to trip over the fallen spiked mace and the Minotaur howled his defiance before dropping his head for the charge. Hanna knew she she dare not let him get close enough to gore her with the poison-coated tips of his horns so she moved with speed and caution until she could approach the beast from his left hand side. He turned to meet her, shaking his great horned head in bewilderment, and she knew a moment of pity for the half beast. She hardened her heart, knowing that the creature was incapable of feeling pity for her, and in full awareness that he would kill her without blinking one muddy brown eye.
The Minotaur dropped his head even further for a second charge and Hanna stood her ground for a second, before dodging to one side and making a leap onto the creature’s shoulders. Being behind the horns gave her the only chance she was likely to get and she reached around his brawny neck to slash the throat with her sword. She dropped to the ground with her chest heaving, warily keeping her distance as the blood poured from her opponent’s throat. He didn’t die quickly, but he was too strong for her to chance getting close enough for the coup de grace. As he finally dropped to his knees she looked into his lightless eyes before saluting him with her sword in the manner of warriors the world over. He raised his own fist to his forehead before falling on one side and breathing his last.
Hanna waited as the crowd chanted her name. For the first time since she was taken captive as a teenager she had hope. She lifted her head and met the eye of the Master of Ceremonies. He saluted her with his fist to his forehead and she allowed herself to smile.
She held her head high as she walked slowly through the Victors’ Gate. As soon as the gate closed behind her, a rain of crossbow bolts took her, flinging her around the empty corridor as if she was no more than a rag doll.
The Master of Ceremonies turned to look down at her broken body. He shrugged: the life of a slave meant less than his loss of face if he freed her.
‘Call my bluff, fighter’ he said softly ‘call my bluff’.

© Jane Jago

One of the stories in pulling the rug: a sideways glance at life in short fiction and verse

The night is still young
But no longer am I
The music’s still loud
But I no longer try
To keep up until dawn
To watch the sunrise
To dance in the dew,
Life’s sweetness to prize.

Long gone are the days
I’d let my hair down
And kick off my shoes
And wear a slight frown
Should someone suggest
I should settle down
And stop misbehaving
My way around town.

Then you take my hand
And ask if I’ll dance
I smile that you ask
And leap at the chance.
I kick off my shoes
Though you look askance
Bare feet in the grass
A last fling romance.

E.M. Swift-Hook