Cherie wanted a dog with every fibre of her being, but the doctors wouldn’t countenance the hair or the drool, so her loneliness grew and each day she faded a little more.

Schnitzel started life as a poster on Cherie’s bedroom wall, his face made her laugh and she seemed to take comfort from him.

When money is no object very little is impossible and Cherie awoke from a fitful slumber to find her favourite poster made ‘flesh’. 

“Schnitzel,” she whispered. 

Who knew that a million dollar artificial dog could give a precious child the impetus to try and live.

©jj 2019

From Transgressor Trilogy: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook.

“Have you known Avilon long?”
The Vavasor seemed not to notice the intense interest which underlay her casually phrased question.
“Since the Alfor Fair – although we met in less than sociable circumstances. Qabal Vyazin paid fifty-thousand reynar for him – left him to rot for the best part of a half-moon then gave him to me to look after.”
“He was your slave?”
“Hardly. Qabal doesn’t part with a fifty-thousand reynar investment that easily. A keeper is not the same thing as an owner.”
“Then you must have liked Avilon a lot to take him with you when you left the Warlord,” Aisha observed thoughtfully.
The Vavasor looked uncomfortable for a moment.
“Sore point – I wasn’t thinking too clearly right then and if I had been given the choice I’d not have opted to drag a Kashlihk fighting-slave across the countryside whilst playing tag with Qabal Vyazin for my life. Fortunately, although I thought it far from fortunate at the time, the gods intervened in the person of that famed humanitarian and liberator of slaves, Durban Chola.”
“Durban Chola?” Aisha echoed with amazement. “What in the world would Durban Chola want with Avilon?”
“Ah, I see you know the selfless man,” the Vavasor sounded ironic.
“Well enough to know that there isn’t a bone in his body that is selfless nor one that isn’t as devious as a sneak-thief. I’ve had a few dealings with him in the past.”
“That I would like to have seen,” the Vavasor said reverently. “The thought of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object springs to mind.”
It was a compliment and he delivered it with a gallant smile that almost made Aisha forget she was an old woman with a son and two daughters grown and five other children buried.
“We drove a hard bargain between us,” she agreed, but was unwilling to be diverted from her objective. “So why did he want Avilon?”
The Vavasor shrugged.
“Who knows? Spite, perhaps. But it has been exercising my brain for the past fifteen days on and off.”
“Has Avilon no idea to it?”
“If he knows he’s not said so – not to me at any rate.”
“He seems to care for you, a lot.”
The Vavasor glanced at her slightly puzzled.
“Who does? Durban?”
“No. Avilon. He hardly left your side when you were ill.” Almost immediately Aisha regretted her words as a tangible cloud settled between them.
“I didn’t know that,” he said softly and then, in a strange tone. “I am afraid that the Kashlihk has made something of a habit of saving my neck.” Then he smiled suddenly. “It seems a popular hobby for people. At this rate, I will be indebted to half of Temsevar before the year’s out.”

E.M. Swift-Hook.

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

I am old now, and as my days pass
I find I can no longer be arsed
To try to conform
And act uniform
Might as well be a sheep and eat grass

© jane jago

A new sci-fi novel Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow is now available.

When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival….

An interactive projection of Nova Vita’s terrain flickered to life as he switched on his helmet’s COM.
“Madelyn—Charlene, move into position on the eastern flank and wait. Markus and I will flush out Chiara and Mitzu; that will teach them to take up the same position for more than one round.”
“On it.”
Madelyn’s voice responded as he pointed to the place he wanted Markus to move, holding up three fingers to signal the count down.
But shots from his left lit up Markus and took him out of the game, several nearly hitting Alexander as well. He jumped back, trying to sight the direction of shots fired. Whoever took them had done so from cover and moved on because he saw no one. 
“New plan. I’m going to make a mad dash for that huge tree near the center of the room. I think someone is trying to pick us off from a distance.”
“So when you make the run, we figure out where they’re shooting from?” Madelyn asked.
“Exactly. It’s a risk, but I’m fast and won’t be running in a straight line, so it would need to be one hell of a shot to lead me.”
“Ready when you are,” Charlene chimed in.
With a deep breath he was sprinting, his body blending through the projected grass and bushes. Shots rained down at him, but he was always a few steps ahead. Return fire came from the position he guessed Madelyn and Charlene had taken up as he jumped behind the tree and fought to regain his breath, but a footstep behind him ended the opportunity. 
He trained his weapon toward the sound and sidestepped, moving quietly to avoid giving away his position in the same way his target had.
 A single shot to the chest took Peter out of the game, which was confirmed on the top left interior of Alexander’s visor. He took cover and waited to make sure no one had tracked his shot, then reached out to see if his other teammates were still in the game.
“Madelyn—Charlene, do you copy?”
Nothing.
“Do you copy?”
“I’m here,” Madelyn said. “Charlene was just eliminated.”
“Okay, link me your position. I’ll come to you.”
“Not a good idea.”
“They’ve got the area covered then.”
“Yep. And I took Denton and Lexi out of the game, so I think it’s got to be Chiara. She’s playing smart, relying on her shot accuracy and avoiding the close combat that got her knocked out of the last game.”
“Agreed. Let’s make her pay for holding position.”
“I’m locked in over here, so whatever you do, I won’t be much help.”
“Just hold tight. When I say ‘now’, light up the last area you saw weapon fire from.”
“Copy.”
Not positive how many were left on the north side of the map, Alexander made sure he moved carefully from one area of cover to the next, keeping his footsteps silent. Someone crouched behind a tree became his next target. A headshot ended Nolan’s game.
Alexander reached the far wall and crept in an easterly direction, saying ‘now’ as he went.
Laser fire from Madelyn’s position baited return fire. He seized his chance and closed in at pace, waiting for a clear headshot before pulling the trigger.
Chiara Carli has been eliminated.

A bite of… Ian Bristow

Q1: This is the first sci-fi you have written, what was the biggest difference between that and fantasy writing you are more familiar with?

Great question. In many ways it was similar because I put characters first and the genre I’ve placed them in second. But probably the biggest difference I noticed was in the use of more technical means to bring the story to life, rather than magical elements. But I did get to play with some of the elements of fantasy I love in small ways as the crew explore a new world. So it was really a fun blend of something new with a bit of something I know I already love.

Q2: What did you find the best and worst moments in writing the book?

Another great question. I’ll be candid here, this book pushed me to the outer reaches of my willpower and self-confidence. It was immensely difficult to write at times. Some of the content was not anywhere near my wheelhouse, so it wasn’t just research that I needed to do—I needed to gain an understanding of certain things, like character archetypes I’ve never gravitated towards, etc. I had a small critique/support group that I can’t thank enough for all their hard work.

Q3: Coffee or chocolate? Or something else…?

Well, beer really… LOL! But I’m trying not to drink as much these days, so my second favourite is coffee. Love a good cup of tea as well.

Ian C. Bristow is a freelance artist and the author of Contact (Instinct Theory #1), Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on the second and final instalment of the Instinct Theory duology. When he isn’t writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends. You can visit him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter. 

I had shiny red shoes, with buckles, for my cousin’s wedding. I remember it was cold and holding Dad’s hand tight. 

The church smelled mouldy and old, and the organ sounded wheezy and off key.

Nothing happened for a very long time. Then a man in a white dress came from somewhere and started to talk in a voice that came through his sharp blade of a nose.

I didn’t understand what he said, but Dad looked down at me.

“We can go home now.”

It was ten years before I understood that that wasn’t what weddings were usually like.

©jj 2019

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

Another tap came on the door and a sentry stuck his head in.
“Bryn Cartivel, dominus.”
“Who?”
“My decanus,” Dai provided.
“Send him in then.”
Bryn came in looking, Julia thought, a bit nervous. Dai obviously agreed with her because he barked out a laugh, which he covered quickly.
“What is it?” Decimus shot a disapproving frown at Dai as he asked the question, but from the way the decanus’s face froze and he straightened up, Julia realised Bryn thought the frown was aimed at himself.
“It’s them toughs we apprehended, dominus. We’ve been talking to them nicely and they decided to come clean, in the interests of furthering justice, you understand. But I don’t really want to repeat what they said.”
Decimus looked at the decanus and then smiled – the one Julia recognised as his nice smile, the one without wolffish overtones.
“I don’t shoot messengers,” he said mildly.
Bryn took a run at it. 
“It’s all very well to say that, but I never expected to ever be in the same room as you even, dominus. And now I am, I have to tell you that the street toughs who attacked my boss and domina Julia were paid by your lady wife and another woman. A veiled woman with two of them little pompom dogs.”
At which point Julia got up and stomped around the room kicking furniture.
“I’m guessing that those two women didn’t want us investigating the murders.”
“No domina,” Bryn was polite, “it doesn’t seem like they did. According to the vigiles we are also talking nicely to, they expected Titillicus to be in charge of the case. And they had him precisely where they wanted him.”
“They did. Thank you, Bryn,” Dai spoke softly.
Instead of subsiding, Bryn stuck out his chin.
“That’s not all. Them Vigiles reckon that the woman with the dogs paid a couple of junior investigators to pass on details of which Game players were in trouble with the big betting syndicate in Rome.”
Dai swore and he met Julia’s fulminating eye with some embarrassment.
“Now I feel responsible too. I’ve been blaming it all on Rome, but now…”
Julia decided not to belabour the point, just shrugging eloquently.
“This smells very bad. We should all be very careful.”
Decimus rang the bell at his elbow and when the sentry poked his head around the door frame he spoke briskly.
“I think we will double the guard for a while.”
The sentry saluted and could be heard outside relaying the order. Decimus turned to Bryn.
“Thank you, decanus. I would prefer it if you and your men remained here until we smoke out the last of the rats. I hope that isn’t a trouble to you.”
Bryn’s face and voice were wooden.
“No sir. Thank you, sir.”
He saluted awkwardly, as if he had not had much practice at making the gesture, and backed out of the room.
Julia looked at Dai to see him battling some powerful emotion. He managed to keep a straight face for a few seconds then started to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “but Bryn has been my decanus since I was promoted, and I’ve never managed to get the better of him. Not once. It’s probably petty, and entirely out of place in a murder investigation, but I did so enjoy watching him squirm.”
Decimus actually forgot his woes sufficiently to snort out a laugh. Julia looked at the pair of them with at least an attempt at proper Roman dignity and gravitas.
“Behave, you two.”
Dai went so far as to poke his tongue out at her, so she gave up trying to bring them to a sense of decency and went to look out of the window into the parade ground. That proved too much for her hard-won composure as Bryn was standing in the middle of Dai’s posse, waving his arms and mugging frantically as he related what had transpired in the Tribune’s office.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I brought my love a golden ring and on it I did write
Words that spoke of love so true and bonded spirits bright
I gave my love that golden ring and with it gave my heart
And we exchanged our soul-sworn vows that never would we part.
And as the winter turned to spring and summer fell to fall,
We wove our hearts as lovers do and answered Cupid’s call.
And as the spring to summer changed and autumn passed to chill
We held each other in our clasp and love grew stronger still.
When summer faded with the leaves my love he faded too
And as the gold gave way to white my love slept ‘neath the yew.
And when the snowdrops pierced the snow, their cold grief pierced my heart
And when the bluebells ‘gan to grow they tore my soul apart.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“So, run this past me again, Drew – you want me to join a unit that does not exist to help babysit a group of the Vanguard’s freaks and failures? I am sure you have held back the bad news until last.”
Drew felt himself wince at the cutting tone. Prudence Armitage was not one to mince her words – it was more usual for her words to mince those she spoke with.
“Purdie, Purdie…”
“Don’t you ‘Purdie’ me, Andrew Gilroy! I have just got back from a reconnaissance mission and my mood is foul.”
He loved the way her slightly upper-class accent lingered over the last word, making it sound almost onomatopoeic. But then he adored almost everything about her and had as long as he knew her. Seeing her sitting in her mahogany and glass office, her back straight and her head slightly tilted up so the chisel sharpness of her profile was accentuated, he was irresistibly reminded of their first meeting in Rome. Then she had coal-black hair framing those amazing grey-blue eyes and a gloriously athletic body. She still had the body, but now her choppily short hair was steel, as if it had finally come to match every other aspect of her. For maybe the thousandth time he wondered why he had never asked her to marry him. Now it was twenty years and a hundred encounters too late.
Sighing slightly, Drew turned away from the piercing iron gaze which made him begin to feel uncomfortable like being under the twin barrels of a shotgun. He picked up something, anything, from her desk and looked at it without seeing.
“Silver medal. European Junior Gymnastics Championships. I was 13 years old and trying not to be seen as an overachiever. Even at Roedean that could lose you street cred. Coming second was my social salvation.”
He put the framed medal down quickly and pulled his attention back to the matter in hand. With Prudence, honesty and straight delivery were always the best policy.
“The thing is Purdie, we really are in a bit of a jam. The whole notion of apprentices and preparation for initiation, filtering out the unsuitable as we go is being made redundant by the present crisis. There has been nothing like it in centuries. Sanctorum was not designed to be a – mainstream operation unit. It was set up to be what its name suggests – an asylum for those we couldn’t risk in the open.”
“More like a semi-secure unit for the crazies who can’t adjust to being able to see demons.”
“That is an exaggeration. It has just managed those with adjustment issues. But the numbers recently…” he broke off. Then working to keep the slight trace of his near desperation from his voice, said: “It is getting very bad. You will have heard they opened a new training facility on the Perthshire Estate – already there is talk of a third being needed. And Sanctorum…”
“Sanctorum is being overrun by maladjusted post-millennials who think they are at Hogwarts?”
“Not quite.”
“But close enough?”
Drew just looked at her. He knew she was being deliberately difficult, but as always he had no idea why. The neat grey outfit gave away nothing of her personality. She wore it like armour. 
Sometimes he wondered how she felt when most of her peers – those she had been in training with and who had become her friends – and others much younger than herself, were now in the upper echelons of the Vanguard’s ranks and she was still a lowly commander. It was not that Purdie had ever lacked ability, but as Gita Sharma had read out of from Purdie’s psychological profile at the selection board for this post, she was not suited to take on the responsibility of an independent command. She was, Gita had observed, simply the best lieutenant – fiercely loyal, well able to give orders and run field-missions, so long as the ultimate authority was not herself. 
If Purdie was consciously aware of that aspect of her nature and the degree to which it defined her prospects, he had no idea. But she had never shown any sign of resentment even at the promotions of others who had once served under her – or any particular desire to seek a place higher than the one she had held now. Secretly, he suspected she had no wish to leave active service and trade her weapons for a desk and computer terminal.
“Really Drew, you know I have all the maternal instincts of a seahorse. Is a baby-sitting job the best use of my abilities? We are being overrun – what happened in Penrith is just the tip of a very ugly iceberg. We need every capable initiate in the field twenty-four seven. It is not the time for me to be sitting on my bum in a glorified…”
“Sanctorum is a fully operational unit within the Vanguard.” Drew spoke more sharply than he had intended “It has had the highest proportion of mission losses of any active unit in the Vanguard over the last year. They get sent in where anyone more…”
“You mean they are seen as disposable cannon-fodder? Or is their commander a useless wanker?”
“No. I mean it has stood where others would have run. Its CO is a highly competent woman, Janice Roslaird. She has been doing an incredible job with people that no one else can handle. Sanctorum is…”
Purdie lifted a hand to silence him.
“It’s alright Drew, you don’t need to give me the full heart-wringing oration – I have already heard the sound-byte.”
Gods, the woman could be so damn cold! Drew felt his anger rising, then saw the slightly mocking look in Purdie’s expression and bit back his intended retort.
“It’s an assignment, not a volunteer position,” he heard himself say tightly. “I didn’t come here to persuade you – only to inform you. A courtesy between old friends.”
She looked away then, for once perhaps shamed. He could only hope.
“Who put me up for this?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.
“It’s not like we have many options. Roslaird needs a rottweiler – but she gets you instead.”
“She asked for support?”
“Of course not. She may even resent you – I am sure you would love that.”
Purdie shook her head briefly, but whether in denial or resignation, he could not tell. Then she got up and moved around the desk to stand with him. For the first time he noticed the gouges on her neck and the patch of naked scalp where a row of stitches ran into her hair. Close up he could see etched into her face the marks of exhaustion together with contained physical pain and…
“We lost Nish in the Penrith thing,” she said, as though reporting the loss of a cricket match rather than of her most trusted Sergeant for the last five years. Possibly, rumour had it, something more. “He was torn apart by demons – literally. Bits and pieces. Nothing left.”
Andrew swallowed, unsure now.
I’m s-sorry. I was not informed.”
“It’s alright, you are in good company. His twin sister can never be told and his parents will have no body to bury and be left to wonder forever why he didn’t come home.” She sounded almost offhand, but the storm-sky eyes were unfocused. “Still, you know what they say – the war must go on.”
“Purdie, I…” 
She moved her body slightly in easy evasion so his comforting hand reached only into air and he withdrew it quickly.
“So. Who? Who do I have to blame for this? Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you that. You know I can’t.”
“Karl? Christa? Josh?”
Drew shook his head. His silence determined and final. Purdie closed her eyes in resignation, head slightly bowed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow – unless you need medical attention? No? You are sure? Then you’ll get the orders tomorrow to report to Karl at HQ. He’s to brief you formally, after which you will be removed from our active files and transferred to Sanctorum.”
She nodded once, then managed to recapture a brief waspishness which Drew felt was almost entirely for his benefit.
“Does it have to be Karl? He is such an adolescent with attitude, and his cynicism…”
“…matches yours?”
It was always hard to know with Purdie, but it was just possible that the warmth in the smile she gave him then was more than just acknowledgement of his attempt at humour. Whilst he was still trying to decide if that was so, she reached over the desk and swept her grey jacket from the back of her chair.
“Take me for a drink, Drew, and I might even forgive you.”
Following her from the office, he wondered if Karl and Gita really knew what they were doing in pushing for Purdie to be given this assignment and wondered again if he had been wise to let himself be persuaded into supporting the notion…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Please do not offer me one of those books
That promises ways of improving my looks
That says if I only restricted my diet
I’d live to one hundred. I ain’t gonna try it
Please don’t expect me to read your advice
About how I could be much more slender, or nice
I don’t want to stare at my own little poos
As they lie like dead dolphins abeach in the loo
And I have no idea what your jargon proposes
To make you consider me smelling of roses
You can take your improvement wherever it comes
And stick your pretensions inside of your bum
You won’t understand and I don’t think you can
That I’m happy with being the way that I am 

©️Jane Jago 2019

Jane Jago is at it again! Advertised as a Handbook for trainee pensioners, Growing Old (Dis)Gracefully is a slim volume of limericks (many limericks), verse and short fiction whose sole function is to stick two fingers up at growing old and the world around us as we grow old.

BEING OLD

I have just seen my backside in shorts
And it’s almost as bad as I thought
It’s as broad is a ship
And my bum cheeks have slipped 
Those are hips built for sitting, not sport

FESTIVE ELD

Deck the house with chains of paper
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah
Clout the kids and cut a caper
Nah, nah etc 
Fill the socks up
Drain the money
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah
January isn’t funny 
Nah, nah etc

ENLIGHTENMENT 

She sat outside her cave. Her face was as seamed as the striated rocks behind her, and grime was ingrained into every crusty crack.
But still they came.
The rich, the famous, the desperate, all seeking enlightened words. To some she vouchsafed nothing and they crept away, ashamed. To others she gave but one word of hope. The third group bathed in the almost sightless seeming whiteness of her eyes and heard her words of wisdom. 
When the last named supplicant backed away, she plugged her iPhone into its solar charger and offered a silent prayer of thanks for Google.

You can snag your copy now!

Discover some more awesome new books out this month in the SciFi Roundtable Newsletter.