I has no time for peeps today
I wish that they would go away
They interrupt me when I’m thinking
Their presence makes me think of drinking
I may have time for peeps tomorrow
If some patience I can borrow
People
Weekend Wind Down – A Flash of Red
Being the ‘Undead Liaison Officer’ of the city police isn’t exactly how I had planned to spend my year of Community Service. I only got the gig because I’m a mixed-blood – and because nobody else wanted it. Be that as it may, I hadn’t made to bad a fist of it. Until now. Two weeks of my secondment left an I hafta cop for this.
What did I ever do? But I digress…
The Chief called me into his office and stood looking down his impressive nose at me. When he thought I had squirmed enough spoke.
“Ah. Cadman. Got a job for you. Woman dead. Up there,” he indicated the posh end of town with jerk of one thick thumb. “Her family is screaming murder, but she died alone in a locked room. You cut along and look into it.”
Which left me walking up streets that got steeper and steeper, past houses that got bigger and bigger. I glanced at the ageing, and wooden-faced constable they had sent with me to see that even he was beginning to look concerned.
“Fraggit,” he mumbled. “What’re we doing here.”
“Praying,” I said shortly.
He grinned tautly. “On it.”
There were two smartly uniformed watchmen outside our destination. They knew my companion, and let us in without hindrance.
“Watch the son,” one murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s an asshole with attitude.”
We had barely got into the house when a tall guy, whose handsome hawklike countenance was marred by a sulky pout, bore down on us with his brocaded soutane flapping behind him like a sail. He pointed a dramatic finger.
“I demanded the best that the city has to offer, and this is what they send me!”
“Undead Liaison,” I kept my tone neutral, “they have to send me, then I call out the big guns. It’s procedure.”
“Oh well. If it’s procedure.” His voice just about dripped sarcasm. “Come this way then.”
He stalked ahead of us, and I had to run to keep up. Being half-dwarf and half-elf, I ain’t the longest in the leg. But we got to the room. Also guarded.
“Thank you maestre.” I’m always scrupulously polite to assholes.
He didn’t deign to reply.
“Nice,” one of the door guards muttered.
I shrugged and opened the door, finding myself in what was obviously the boudoir of a very wealthy and spoilt woman. It was all done out in shades of pink, from the palest mother of pearl to screaming fuchsia. The only false note came in the form of a vase of flowers on a side table. They were roses, red as blood, and as out of place as myself and the constable in this room of decadent beauty, and as soon as I saw the roses, I knew who did it. Or I thought I did. I stuck my head out of the door.
“Does anybody know who was responsible for the floral decorations in here?”
“No.”
Fortunately for the state of my temper the second door guard was either brighter or just less lazy. “I’ll just go find out.”
He was back pretty quick. “The deceased ordered them her own self from Mattie’s in the Pantheon.”
I gave him the thumb, before shutting the door and sitting down, plump, on the floor.
“Oh fraggit,” I said bitterly.
“What?”
“I know who killed her. The kicker is gonna be finding the proof.”
“So. Who? And. Howja know?”
“She done herself. And the clue is in that vase over there.”
He looked at me like I’d flipped, but I kept my cool.
“You notice anything odd about them flowers?”
He scratched his head. “Well. I guess they are the wrong colour. But so what?”
“Well. Did you know roses have names?”
“What. Like Eric and Sid?”
“No. Not quite. Them roses is a variety called ‘Suicide’. Seems telling to me.”
“You sure about the name?”
“Ninety per cent. But I guess I should check.”
I dragged out my telecaster and called father. He answered as grumpily as ever.
“What do you want, child?”
“Can you identify a rose for me?”
He pricked up his ears. “Show me.”
I panned over to the vase.
“Suicide,” he snapped. “Where?”
“From Mattie’s in the Pantheon.”
“Okay.”
He cut the connection.
“That’s my dear old dad.” I managed to hide the hurt under a jaunty grin. Or so I thought.
The middle-aged constable patted my head. “Now what?”
I had one of them thunderbolt inspirations.
“Search the room for roses.”
I’ll give it to him, he was a better searcher than me. I’d have never even thought of the marquetry roses on the table that held the vase. But he lifted the cut glass and looked down.
“I seen one of these tables once before. It had a hidden drawer.”
“So does my mother’s table.” It was mister sarcastic. He strolled over and pressed three rose petals simultaneously. A tiny drawer flew open disclosing a cream parchment envelope. He opened it with one overlong fingernail. When he had finished reading his face was the colour of old ivory. To do him justice he pulled himself together and bowed to me.
“My thanks. Liaison Officer. This explains much.”
Me and the Constable buggered off quick, but the financial bonus, when it come through, was enough to set both of us up for life. Me? I’m a housewife now and my partner is a retired City Constable of phlegmatic temperament and quiet humour.
And all because my absent father breeds roses.
My Generation Revisted
People always put us down
Just because we’re st-still around
The things we did don’t get extolled
Hope I die when I’m v-very old
They want us to just f-f-fade away
Young folk blame us every day
We tried to make this world a b-better place
But we’re told we’re a disgrace
My generation, my generation’s still here today.
Why don’t you all f-f-face the truth?
We did our best with all the proof
Where we fucked up, so would’ve you
Now stop the blame game, you know it’s true.
We tried to make the world a b-better place
But now we’re told we’re a d-disgrace
The things we did don’t get extolled
Hope I die when I’m very old…
Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Four Hundred and Five
It wasn’t going to be enough. He had spent all his life creating the drugs that fought the superbugs, and had always told himself that he would win. Only now it seemed he was to be the victim of his own hubris.
He lay on the narrow hospital bed – determined not to toss and turn as his body waged a losing battle against the invasive bacterium that had already cost him his right arm.
The nurses watched him in pity.
Who would have thought that a paper cut could prove the undoing of the most famous scientist of his generation?
Protagonist in the Hotseat of Truth – Ling Sa
Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth a device in which your protagonist is trapped and the only way to escape is to answer six searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes!
Ling Sa is a Taoist priest, living alone in a remote temple in Ancient China. He’s also been dead for hundreds of years. So why is Sam dreaming about him night after night? Is it because there’s something familiar about the hotel she’s staying at in Beijing? In Promise of the Opal by Lyra Shanti, we take a journey through time with Sam as she discovers the truth about her identity and the forbidden love she once promised never to forget.
Question 1: What is the most important principle you adhere to in life?
Ling Sa: Truth, or the pursuit of it, is the most valuable treasure there is. Without truth, both inner and outer, we are but lost souls in the ocean of despair.
Question 2: Have you ever concealed a truth from a loved one? If so, what truth?
Ling Sa: Unfortunately, some truths are nearly impossible to share with those who do not want the burden of knowledge. For example, I was born different from others: my hair is white as snow, my eyes are uniquely green, and I have… gifts of the mind, which frighten many who do not understand. As a child, I was thrown out of my own village, forced to live in exile at the White Dragon temple. Luckily, I found a master to teach me in the ways of balance, which has helped me to keep my abilities a secret to the stray villagers who come to the temple to pray. But is keeping a secret the same as telling a lie? I am unsure.
Question 3: What decision do you most regret?
Ling Sa: I have many regrets. But my biggest regret is hurting the people I love, even if I didn’t intend to do so.
Question 4: If you could change one thing about your story would it be?
Ling Sa: I would hold onto the opal ring and never let it go. It is my responsibility to contain its power.
Question 5: Who do you most need to apologise to for your actions?
Ling Sa: All those who were innocent when I… No, I cannot talk about that just yet. I suppose I should apologise to Li Gan, who simply wanted healing. Instead, I gave him my long suppressed desire. It was perhaps too much for him to bear.
Question 6: How does it feel to know your love story reverberates through the ages?
Ling Sa: I am quite surprised, to be honest. I thought I would remain a ghost – a forgotten priest whose philosophies never quite made it into the history books. I never suspected that my life, or my relationship with Gan, would be remembered at all, let alone reverberate with anyone. I can only hope that our story is a lesson about what it means to unconditionally love someone with all your heart.
Coffee Break Read – The Night Bus
The midnight bus across town. Nobody’s idea of fun. But beggars can’t be choosers and without her job Louise would have been a literal beggar as well as a metaphorical one. Accordingly, five nights a week found her crouched in a corner of the upper deck making herself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
Fridays were the worst. At the end of the week it was all an exhausted Louise could do to endure the scent of vomit and the sting of routine abuse from drunks and tired whores.
This particular Friday, the bus was full to groaning and she was squashed in next to a huge woman with pendulous breasts and galloping halitosis. Five youths in hoodies erupted up the stairs brandishing knives. Louise’s companion screamed before throwing herself to the ground and rolling around as if in a fit. The would-be steamers stared
“Woss wrong wiv ‘er?”
One stepped in for a closer look and the jerking woman set her teeth in his calf, gnawing on him as if he were a chicken drumstick. He screamed and dropped his knife, too shocked to even kick out at her. His mates stared round-eyed.
“I’d watch that if I was you,” Louise ventured. “She probably has rabies.”
They turned and ran, falling over each other in their haste to be elsewhere.
The fat woman sat up and winked at Louise.
“Well done, love. I usually has to bite at least two…”
Life in Limericks – Thirty-One
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
When Sunday inspires you not
When you can be arsed not a lot
If your brain’s feeling queer
Just sip on a beer
And flick the computer with snot
Coffee Break Read – The Sacrifice
A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook inspired by a picture from Gabrielle Finch.
Kela looked at the babe lying peacefully asleep in the wooden cradle. Today had been the worst day. The villagers had come to her cottage and threatened to kill this innocent one because of her grey-green skin and long projecting ears.
“She’s demon spawn,” they said. “Cursed. Born cursed. And she’ll curse the whole village.”
If Kela hadn’t been the one who had brought so many of their own babes safely into this world and that they feared her reputation for magic, they might have set the place on fire. As it was they gave her a month to get rid of the child.
She had found the babe all alone in a small nest, lovingly woven by someone who clearly wanted to keep the infant safe from the creatures of the forest. A blanket of fur patches, scraps that had been sewn together in haste, her only covering from the elements, and an obsidian trinket on a piece of thong around her neck.
She knew what this child was and something of why it was left there. This was one of the Undermountain People, those her fellow humans deemed demons for their strange looks, incomprehensible language and inability to endure sunlight. She knew very little of their secretive ways, but she had seen their abandoned girl-babies sometimes, half-devoured by wild animals. Always girls. Perhaps some of their daughters were sacrificed to placate a heartless deity or rejected for some unknown imperfection.
It was a ten-day walk to the nearest entrance to their realm and in her mind, Kela could picture a young woman running alone through the dark and hiding in the day to find a place she could leave her beloved daughter where she might have the slightest chance of life. A chance she now indeed had. But not as she was.
Sighing, Kela lifted the babe in her arms and held her close. She could feel in her a future of greatness, a future in which she would lead and teach, a future she could never have if she remained as she was.
Summoning her magic, Kela shared her life-seared soul with the purity and innocence of the child’s and for a time nothing seemed to happen. Then she looked down and saw the human infant in her arms and the grey-green talons her own fingers had become.
She took very little before she set the cottage alight herself. Her life there was over. Walking all night, she left the human baby on the steps of a loving home for foundlings, before vanishing into the forest.
With thanks to Gabrielle Finch for both the inspiration and the permission to use her picture. You can find more of her art on her Facebook Page.
Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Four Hundred and Four
The world woke up one Monday morning to find its orbiting sentinels had all died: no GPS, no satellite television, no spy in the sky.
The biggest inconvenience? Satnav.
Older drivers got out their maps.
But the young.
In one hour the world lost sight of 100 bicycle couriers, a thousand Uber drivers, and more fast food delivery operatives than you could count.
Within a week governments started printing up to date atlases.
Within a month the world had mostly learned to cope.
Within a year nobody cared.
Except the mothers of the pizza delivery boys who never came home…
Coffee Break Read – An Uncivilised Cesspit
The very worst thing about Tabruth was the smell.
The city was nothing more than a squalid collection of unsanitary slums, huddled together in tightly packed rows and crushed around by restraining walls, which were more effective at keeping the garbage and disease in than any enemy out – and smelt worse than a fresh batch of organically produced fertiliser. Even in the allegedly luxurious rooms which he had been assigned in Tabruth’s castle – it’s most superior dwelling – Elias Bazath found the sewer stench of the place was insidious and inescapable. From a distance, Tabruth might look like a picturesque, historical reconstruction in a theme park, but close to it stank like a rotting corpse.
If the stench was the worst aspect of the place so far, there was a lot more besides that which conspired to turn Bazath’s visit into a trial of endurance. In terms of providing physical necessities and fundamental comforts, Temsevar did not even score on the baseline. If one wished to be clean – a state to which it seemed to him that few of the natives seriously aspired – it was necessary to parade naked through the castle’s very public bathhouse. The clothing was ridiculously impractical, seldom laundered and usually infested with parasites. The food was served so highly spiced as to be almost unpalatable to disguise the fact that much of what was served up was already half rotten. Fresh water was drawn from a well, swimming with so many impurities such that all who could afford to do so chose to drink the wine in preference. Bazath, careful of his health, simply refused to drink anything he had not treated first.
Temsevar, he decided, was an uncivilised cesspit which had managed to maintain itself somehow by planting one foot firmly and with grim determination in pre-history and the other, more precariously in a barbaric slave economy and feudal system. The people he had met so far had done little to improve his opinion of the place. The soldiers, craftsmen and above all slaves, which seemed to form the vast majority of the population in the castle, were complete non-entities and seemed even to regard themselves as such. The Castellan was obsequious and weak, cowering behind a thin charade of haughty pride. The Warlord’s man, Commander Caer, was a surly, ill-mannered lout, and unintelligent enough to make no attempt to hide his hatred for Bazath. The Castellan’s nephew, Keshalgis, had the most to recommend him – he was almost intelligent and something of a diplomat, but even he seemed not to realise the importance and urgency of Bazath’s visit and displayed an infuriating lack of concern about the slow progress of negotiations.
He stood there now, wearing a supercilious, almost patronising, expression as he explained, through the interpreter, for the third time that the Castellan could not possibly fit in another audience with the Honoured Lord from the Stars until the following afternoon at the earliest. And would not the Honoured One prefer to spend the day hunting with himself and the Castellan’s charming lady wife instead?
It was at moments like these that Bazath realised, to his great chagrin, that he had far more in common with the filthy terrorist in the dungeons than with any of these posturing morons who considered themselves the nobility of Temsevar. He despised their immense ignorance, barbarism and over-inflated self-importance. Put any one of them on a half-way civilised planet and they would be lucky to find work as a refuse processor. But here they gave themselves grand titles and lorded it over their peers, behaving as if they were the equal of a delegate in the Coalition’s Legislature.
From Transgressor Trilogy: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook
Working Title Blogspot 