Rise and Rescue – Volume 1 is an anthology of LitRPG stories is being sold to benefit WIRES, which is an organisation working desperately hard to rescue Australian wildlife caught in the current bushfire crisis. There are twenty-one stories for you to enjoy, with a second volume to follow soon. The book was the brainchild of Stephen Landry, and he has been the driving force behind its creation…

An excerpt from one of the stories in the anthology, Star Divers Burst and Bloom, by Stephen Landry

…When I was young I fell hard against a sharp piece of broken asphalt that splintered upward and into my knee. My father picked me up into his arms and carried me inside while my mother took a small pair of tweezers and picked out the small pebbles that had embedded themselves in my flesh. In that moment I thought the bleeding would never stop. My mother stitched it up with the last first-aid kit they had brought with them from the raft. After it was all said and done, my leg scarred over and to this day I carry the scar with me.

When I created my avatar I copied all of the scars. Surface details. Small things that meant something that I carried forward into the virtual world. My memory of falling has since faded but not the memory of my mother and father taking the time to care for me to carry me through the mud and darkness and put me back together. Their reassurance that I was going to be alright. My scars, new and old, and those to come, all of them carry me, a reminder that even in a cold world there is still hope.

It was the beginning of spring and for the most part there were dozens of events taking place across all 76 quadrants. Each event varied, from gathering resources, racing, arena-beast battles, to hunting large alien monsters as each world held their own different celebration. Flowers, sunshine. The real world wasn’t what it use to be but the seasons had started to return to normal. Even in a world as cold as Bane this was something of a surprise. Many players called it the Spring Festival while others called it ‘the Gathering’. Celebrations were to be held on the streets with fireworks in the sky. Even the Corpse Divers were planning to gather for a large festival near the Spire. A short armistice had been called between many of the major guilds though that didn’t stop raiders from preying on the weak. Many guilds were taking extra security work to defend the less fortunate and guard high traffic areas in Quads 1-5.

It would have been nice. Taking a break from the action. Damien had been right. After the new year began and the Winter Festival ended I was leveling up faster, taking higher risk missions, and gathering more loot quicker than ever. After a few trips to the black market on the Spire, I even made a few extra scrip for myself. The black market wasn’t quite what I thought it would be. There were no guards planning to crack down on us and most of our business was held in shops or by vendors on the street. Overpriced artifacts and weapons. I bought a few mods the first time we went and some small cosmetic items I thought looked cool. A chalice with a skull that I kept in my room on the Ibanez. I also bought a kendo stick and began training in melee again. I also bought a baritone guitar. It provided a nice break from hunting, gathering, etc. I had been playing Bane for almost two years and was not a stranger anymore. I even started to feel like I had really started to make friends. Never sure if I liked all of them or not but I had become a part of a family. I was a professional player and this spring that meant no breaks, no shortcuts, no easy way out. When we got an SOS and reports of an echo in an unexplored area of Quad 6 I was one of the first called up….

Stephen Landry

This excerpt from Stephen’s afterword explains rather neatly why you should stop reading this and go buy the anthology:

I have three rescue animals in my home. One of them is completely blind with severe medical problems. I remember when she was given to us as a hospice foster. Staying awake long into the night, helping her become familiar with the house. Training her to respond to the sound of my voice. They told us she only had six months to live. It’s been over two years now and she’s alive, healthy, and happy. Sometimes the small things you do make a huge difference.

When I started this project a lot of people told me that I was wasting my time, that this wasn’t going to make a difference. Between work and writing my own stories when would I have time to put together an entire anthology? Together we are stronger. Myself and over twenty other authors answered the call and have come together to give back.

You can pick up Rise and Rescue – Volume 1 now and help support Australian wildlife as it recovers from the fires – and enjoy some thundering good GameLit stories too!

He took the ring from the dying finger of she who made him and carried it always close to his heart.

The day he lost it was beyond horror, and he felt himself diminishing as he searched. He had lost hope when a voice spoke from behind him.

“Lost something?”

He turned, quick as a whip, to see a woman with floating auburn hair holding the ring in the palm of her hand.

He snarled at her and snatched it.

She laughed, like cracked silver bells, and a hot wind roared about him as the Master took back his own. 

©️jj 2020

Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook . Sometimes we walk the edges of realty…

His skin looked grey in the stroboscopic brilliance and his eyes were sunk deep into his skull, mere points of reflected light, flickering like a candle just before it might gutter and blow out. And his skull itself seemed to be barely covered by flesh at all. The soft parts of the face, like the cheeks which connected the jaw to the rest of the skull, were fallen in. The outline of his teeth could be seen. His lips had blackened and looked withered, his nose sharp and beak-like. Only his hair seemed to retain its magnificence, long and lustrous.

Jessica felt her mouth open into a silent O. The same sense of paralysis that had gripped her when she encountered the youths by their fire, now seemed to seize her again. As if knowing she would not move, Annis let go of her hand and stepped in front of her. For a moment she thought Roald was actually recoiling from the child. Then he seemed to gather himself and stood his ground.

“There is a human woman here, she is mine. Have you seen her?”

Annis shook her head.

“Not yours.

“Well, she’s not much use to you, is she?” Roald sounded almost contemptuous. “This place is very clever, I’ll give you that.But -”

“You go. Old One smell you. Blood Eater comes.”

Roald looked sharply to one side as if he had heard a specific sound over the noise of the fairground rides. Then he laughed, only it sounded more like the grating of sandpaper than his usual rich baritone laugh.

“You are lying. That thing is just a myth to scare the neonates. The Old Ones are long gone, or hiding deep in the earth. And you have seen the woman I can smell her on you. She is not what she seems – don’t be fooled by her looks, she has an ancient power rooted in her soul, enough to flambe you and your unfunny friends here.”

It was obvious, then, to Jess that in this dream, she was invisible to Roald. It made no sense, but then what dreamlogic ever did?

“Then why you want?” Annis was asking.

The creature called Roald smiled and a row of shark-sharp fangs could be seen as the withered. Black lips pulled back.

“I have an old debt to repay,” he said, the breath condensing from his mouth as if it was clouding into freezing air. One bony hand reached out and grabbed at Annis.“Now, tell me where – “

The cats had not been there and then they were, ears flattened, low growls and calls. Roald stepped back quickly.

“I don’t need your help anyway. She’s only human, she can’t hide in a place like this for long.”

“You go,” Annis said again, almost sounding urgent, as if she truly feared for him. “Old One find you. Blood Eater comes.”

“There is no -”

Somewhere below the earth something moved. Jessica could feel it through her feet, like a shock wave passing up through her body.

“No!” Roald said again, only this time in a very different tone, like a man waking from nightmare to find he’d dreamed true.

Then the world erupted around her and Jessica found herself falling.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Part 10 of Maybe will be here next week…

There’s poems writ and paeans praising
A lover’s eyes or deeds amazing
Songs have been sung or chants recited
For landscapes that have souls delighted
And here and there a verse may tell
Of a flower that is blooming well
But no extolling words before
Addressed a slug on a kitchen floor.
No hymns do clamour to acclaim
This refugee from the garden’s domain
The dappled flanks and saddled back,
That somehow slip through any crack
The gentle way it tastes the air
Stalks aloft, and not eliding 
The silence of its graceful gliding
And silver path it trails behind
That glitters in the morn’s sunshine
Revealing where the night before
A slug did grace my kitchen floor.

E.M. Swift-Hook

At the edge of the carefully cultivated parkland which surrounded the summer palace of the rulers of Harkera, just outside the white-walled city of Cressida, lay a huge expanse of woodland in which nature was given great freedom of expression in return for allowing the monarchs of Harkera and their chosen guests, the privilege of hunting there. Not that the privilege was granted freely – it had to be earned. It was a playground for those whose reactions were fast and whose sinews were strong – those who wished to be tested against the wild.
Karlynne knew that it was not a proper wild forest because there were men who took care of it – vergers and warders, gamekeepers and huntsmen, employed to make sure that the main paths were always kept clear and that there were always plenty of wild game to be hunted by the monarch’s noble visitors. But it was almost a proper forest, such as the ones she had read about in her books where winged ponies and talking animals lived. She had been told never to go there because it was home to dangerous animals, tizarts, therloons and seminarls and dangerous men – land-pirates Turla called them – men who would come to steal the animals and who would be just as happy to steal young girls who were foolish enough to wander into the hunting park alone.
But today the forest did not look at all menacing or dangerous and it would not be the first time Karlynne had ridden there alone with no one any the wiser. It beckoned to her, mysterious and inviting beneath the early summer sky and Turla was sitting in her room resting her aching bones having told Karlynne she should do as she pleased for the afternoon.
With a brief and ephemeral flash of guilt, she reminded herself that was not strictly true. Turla had told her to take one of the grooms if she went riding, but when she had got to the stables to find her favourite pony, Mischief, all the grooms had been busy. Being far too considerate to interrupt their work for her own pleasure, she had sent one of the boys for Mischief’s tack and had saddled him herself, riding out unnoticed.
It was a glorious feeling to canter across the park alone, she who was never allowed anywhere unescorted, and the simple joy of freedom made her laugh aloud. In truth, she had not really intended to go into the forest at all that day, but once she had reached the edge of the open parkland, the fringe of trees with its inviting paths had beckoned her in. Now, she rode beneath the canopy of leaves, thrilling at her own daring and filled with a delicious excitement. Her books and Turla’s tales from nursery days onwards, had always been full of enchanted forests, with magicians, talking animals and handsome young men who always turned out to be the long-lost son of some noble who invariably needed rescue from a dire enchantment, by the hands of a beautiful princess. After which they would fall in love and live happily ever after.
Karlynne decided that she was the perfect heroine for such a romance. Turla had often told her that she looked just like her mother, who everyone said was beautiful, so she must be beautiful too and at nearly twelve years old she was certainly young. Every credential met, she was bound to find adventure, romance and true love sooner or later – and where better to look than in the forest? Not that she expected talking animals and magicians here, of course, they were only in stories – but you never knew and the forest certainly seemed a place for adventure.
She had been riding for quite a while when she found the path had narrowed on either side so the trees and bushes seemed to press in on her and in places Mischief had to push past springy undergrowth and waving tendrils of grasping plant life. Karlynne realised it was getting towards the time she would normally share a small afternoon treat with Turla and began to wish she had thought to bring some food with her: adventuring seemed to make one feel hungry.
She was just wondering whether she ought not to turn back and see if Old Peddy in the kitchens had baked a seed cake for her today, when a bird flew up from immediately under Mischief’s front legs. The pony shied back, its stubby ears flattening and Karlynne, using all the horsemanship she had learned, took several moments to get him back under control with a firm hand and a soothing voice.
It was then she heard the noise – a sound in the bushes to one side, as if something were pushing through the undergrowth towards her – something big and heavy. For a moment she sat frozen in the saddle, scarcely daring to breathe, her mind full of every tale she had ever heard about ferocious monsters which lived in wild forests. In her mind, it transformed in rapid succession from a fire-breathing dragon, to a towering giant, to a hideous five-headed serpent. The silence that followed the sounds seemed to last forever and Karlynne heard the pounding of her own heart which seemed, suddenly so loud that she was convinced it must echo through the trees.
She was just beginning to reassure herself that whatever was there must have gone, when something erupted from the bushes close behind Mischief – something huge and dark, with long fangs that glittered yellow against its open black mouth.
Screaming with terror, she raked her heels into Mischief’s glossy flank, but there was no need. The pony had already sprung forward like an arrow released from a bow and was thundering down the path with the monster slavering at his heels. Karlynne clung on to the saddle, flattening her body along the pony’s broad neck to avoid the low branches that threatened to sweep her from his back. She did not dare to look back to see the reality of the dark horror she had so briefly glimpsed, but she could hear its rasping breath and the soft thump of its paws upon the hard earth track.
Mischief plunged over a stream and as he landed, Karlynne nearly fell, another scream forming in her throat, but she choked on it and all that emerged was a sob of pure terror. She closed her eyes and prayed to the gods with all her heart, willing the pony to run faster.

From Times of Change, book two of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

What shines so greenly through the glass?
What magic does it hold?
If you drink, what comes to pass?
Does it stop you growing old?
Is it poison? 
Is it food? 
What is in suspension?
Is it frozen?
Is it hot?
Is it in this dimension?
You’ll never know unless you drink it just what it will do
You may find it lifts your mind, or rips the life from you

©️jj

Friday the Thirteenth! 

Who’s afraid of Freddy Krueger then? Lights a fag from the stub of the last one and sneers. 

Look at yourselves will you. Frightening yourselves shitless about a random date and a fictional monster. 

Get a grip!

Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day. 

To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….

So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.

Stop watching horror films if you don’t have the balls to realise they are fiction. 

Don’t be looking for lucky items of clothing, just put your adult panties on and get on with the day.

Do not walk around with your fingers crossed. You will only wind up hurting yourself.

Put the bloody rabbit foot down. It isn’t lucky for f***’s sake. The poor bloody rabbit is dead.

To cut a possibly very long rant a little shorter here is the bottom line.

Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.

Again I say crap.

If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

Piss off. I’ve said all I’m going to say and you are annoying me now.

Happy Friday suckers!

There are so many gods on Olympus that the odd falling out isn’t surprising…

Trevor was the god of typos and he burned with hatred for Andreas Autocorrect. 

But Trevor was skinny and plain, while Andreas was handsome and muscular, and, gaining followers daily, constantly grew bigger and more obnoxious.

That was where matters stood. 

Until. 

Andreas was the lover of Kira Keyboard. But he left her for Charis Chip. 

Kira found comfort in Trevor’s bony embrace and he was happy. 

Until. 

Andreas crooked a finger.

It doesn’t pay to underestimate skinny gods. As Andrea Autocorrect discovered to her cost.

©️jj 2020

It was a real shame that the company who had accepted the contract on Leo’s life already had a team of two men in Devon who were sure they could rub out a bloke who drew dogs for a living on the way back to headquarters. Sitting astride a Triumph Speed Triple in the village street, they were a little bit put out by the level of security at the house, but cheered up when they saw their target, and another man, bowl out of the drive in a bright red Morgan Roadster.
‘Easy enough to follow.’
‘Yeah, and I got the Glock with me.’
‘Shall we then?’
‘Yeah. Don’t look like it’ll be too difficult.’
‘Need to do it quiet. Don’t want to be dodging the filth all the way back home.’
‘Yeah. Gotta find a nice isolated stretch of country road.’
They followed the red car at a discreet distance, only closing up a little when they reached the A38.

In the Morgan, Clay shifted uneasily. ‘We seem’ he said tautly ‘to have picked up a tail.’
‘Yellow Speed Triple?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not precisely discreet, is it?’
‘Oh. I dunno. Around seventy per cent of people don’t see motorcycles at all. And of those that do it’s only aficionados who would recognise the make and model.’
‘True. So what do we do? I don’t reckon we’ll easily lose him. And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come again?’
‘This wants dealing with. Here and now. How ruthless are you?’
‘That’ Clay announced with some dignity ‘is my line. But since you are asking, I’m up for whatever. Although they will have a gun.’
‘I rather assumed that. A fast bike is ideal for a drive by.’
‘You are a cool customer ain’t you?’
‘My wife’s phrase is ‘hard bastard’. Now fish around in the glovebox in front of you. There’s a paintball pistol in there and it needs loading.’
Clay found the pistol and the paintballs. ‘Any particular colour?’ he asked facetiously.
‘How about red?’
Leo changed down and upped his speed to just shy of a hundred.
‘We’re about to turn off.’
‘Into the forest?’
‘Yep. I know it like the back of my hand. If those buggers come in after us you can be pretty sure they don’t. You’ll need to hold on tight for the first five minutes or so, because we can’t afford for them to come level with us until we’re further in.’
The red car swung off the dual carriageway onto what was little more than a single track. Leo gunned the engine and the Morgan sprang forward. He wrestled the car around a series of tight bends and kept the accelerator floored as they hit a long straight.
‘They coming?’
‘Yeah. But the twisty bit is holding them up.’
‘Good. We need to be around the next hairpin and climbing the hill before they catch us.’
The motorcycle was gaining on them, but not quickly enough, and the Morgan made it around a tight hairpin bend with about two layers of paint to spare. Then it turned sharp left up a steep drag.
‘Christ Johnson, that was fucking close. I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘Me too. Get your gun ready. I’m going to slow enough for them to get alongside us. Try for the driver’s visor.’
The Morgan slowed its impetuous rate and Clay watched the Triumph getting bigger and bigger in the mirror. It pulled alongside and he could see the business end of a big pistol. Leo touched the throttle and the Morgan surged forwards. Clay discharged two balls of red paint and had the satisfaction of seeing them burst across the visor of the driver’s helmet.
He was later to swear that the next fifteen seconds took place in slow motion. Leo took his foot off the gas and the Morgan dropped behind the struggling motorbike just as they reached the apex of the hill. With another deft touch of the throttle the front wing of the Morgan just touched the leg of the pillion passenger, ensuring that the bike went straight on. The road didn’t. Leo wrestled the sports car almost ninety degrees to the right before stopping the engine and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it. That was close. I nearly scratched the paintwork.’

From: Shall We Gather At The River

© jane jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old, which I have noticed means
I no longer look good in tight jeans
But if fifty can be
The new twenty-three
Why can’t seventy be seventeen?

© jane jago