Reynard sat in the sun. It lit his fur and warmed him to his bones. He had almost everything a fox could need. Except a mate. He half closed his eyes and saw her against his eyelids as svelte, and smooth, and subtle as a snake.

When he heard the voice, he thought himself dreaming at first, but the  he realised it was a real happening and he looked to where the sound came from.

She sat about two feet from him basking in the same sunbeam that warmed him.

When the sun went in they walked the night together.

©jj 2019

Picture by the multi-talented Ian Bristow of Bristow Design

Symphony Of Destruction by Ken Goudsward is released on 15 Aug.

Hannah has finally adjusted to life on board the Ventas-341, when a series of strangely catastrophic hull breaches and a devastating viral outbreak decimates the crew. Now she finds herself stranded in the shadows of the asteroid belt. Together with the only other surviving crew-members, Colin, and the robotic Brother Anderson, she must somehow overcome their chaotic relationships if they are to have any chance of escaping the doomed ship…
Hannah stared at a small dark spot on the grey wall. Perhaps dark was not really the right word though. It was a bit dark-ish. But certainly not dark. Not dark like the dead space through which she sailed. Not dark like the blackness eating a hole in her soul. Hardly dark at all, really.
Hannah barely noticed anymore. She barely noticed the constant whine that pummeled her eardrums. She barely noticed the glaring red emergency lighting. She barely noticed the dozens of corpses surrounding her, coated in clear spray epoxy. More accurately, it should be said that she barely noticed the clear epoxy, body-shaped shells, nearly empty now, save for what appeared to be a few handfuls of dirt, and, judging by the slight bulges of the shells, some pressurized gases whose identity she could only speculate at, having never had any inkling to study the sciences. Probably carbon dioxide though, she surmised. Wasn’t that the fate of all things? Being gradually overtaken by carbon dioxide? But what did she know?
The passage of time was one thing though that had gone far beyond barely noticing. Hannah was acutely aware that she had, in fact, ceased to be capable of sensing time in any way. This was natural I suppose, given that days and years had been abandoned along with earth, and given that the computer systems were mostly non-functioning and her access had been denied long long ago, and given that anyone who ever gave a shit about what time it was was also long gone. There was, of course, the shit itself. And the piss. These had become the most reliable markers for time. But that was a very dubious level indeed. And besides, what did it matter anymore. Time was a meaningless vestige of the past. How ironic. A past with people and lives, and planets, and suns. A past with mothers singing sweet little homemade lullabies to their young daughters. “Little babe, blessed babe, there’s nothing to fear, so sleep my dear.” But there were, she knew now, many things to fear.

A Bite of… Ken Goudsward 

Q1: How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

Yes. Life is therapy. Life is also trauma. Hopefully, the life that comes after trauma can be informed by that trauma, and both can become healing. For me, poetry has been important in slowly learning how to allow myself to BE. Switching over to fiction in the last couple of years has allowed me more space to explore some of these same concepts, in a less explicit way, which I feel has been very important. Somehow, there is a certain power that can be accessed only indirectly. You can’t attack it head-on. It refuses to be grasped intellectually. In story and in character we have additional degrees of freedom to move within these conceptual frameworks. To explore without the demands of understanding. We don’t expect our characters to be perfect. Perhaps some of us expect ourselves to attain, or at least strive for, some unreal level of some perceived perfection. We are ridiculous. We have to teach ourselves to unlearn. By becoming our own characters, we may fragment our own internal conflicts into more pure representations of our own self parts. This can be healthy in that it allows one to face these parts realistically and respectfully, setting aside judgement of the non-perfection. Plus, it’s sci-fi, so we get to blow some shit up!

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

It’s important to love each other and respect each person’s right to make their own choices and follow whatever cultural norms they choose to embrace. It’s important to learn to overcome our own assumptions and limitations. It’s important to learn to write from a wide variety of character perspectives. But is it actually possible to include literally all shades of belief and orientation, whether that be sexual, philosophical, political, religious, or whatever, into any book? Is it a good idea to try? It seems to me that would take a nearly infinite number of characters, causing the story to be unreadably convoluted. Aside from that, it would take an essentially omniscient author to understand and write from every possible perspective. As authors, we like to pretend we have an omniscient perspective, but no human ever has. Perhaps it is more important to concede that whatever we think we know is really a very limited and incomplete model of reality.

Q3: What is worse, ignorance or stupidity?

We are all stupid in some regard. Nothing wrong with that. Well, maybe it’s annoying. We are also incredibly ignorant. We have to ignore so much just to survive. But we can also grow, by shrinking our own ignorance. The thing that is the worst, is the rut that people fall into of refusal to grow, refusal to reject ignorance. I guess that is true stupidity.

Ken is an author, poet, musician, programmer, ontographer and game designer. He loves windy days and rainy nights, and dreams of vast deserts, ruined spaceships, and bubbles with lines in between them. Find him on  Amazon, his Blog, GoodReads and Facebook.

Draco leaned on the sticky wood of the bar.

“It’s not as much fun as it used to be.”

“What isn’t?” asked the bardragon. 

“The old eating virgins caper. If you can find one, chances are it has consumed so much takeaway food that it’ll give you indigestion!”

“I didn’t think you could still find them at all.”

“You can, but you have to know where to look.”

“Where’s that then?”

“Slimming clubs mostly.”

“Oh. Hence the indigestion.”

“Yeah.”

A bell rung and Draco sat up.

“Duty calls.”

“Virgin?”

“Nah. Knight in shining armour.”

As Draco flew away, he farted.

©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. You can listen to this on YouTube.

III

Annia Belonia Flavia was not at her place of work and it took a combination of Dai’s bardic charm and Julia’s patrician authority to learn her home address from her subadiuva, a woman who seemed either fiercely protective of her boss or frankly terrified of her. Dai found it hard to be sure which.
Flavia lived in a very posh apartment in one of the new towering insulae built on the edge of the Tamesis. They were loosely modelled on the tenements of Rome in their outer appearance, but the irony was that these were top class luxury all the way. Even the floors of the public areas had the soothing warmth of a built-in hypocaust. They were tiled with mosaics showing the Divine Diocletian defeating the rebellious self-proclaimed Restitutor Britanniae in the failed Carausian Revolt. It was a popular meme in all Britannia, especially here in Londinium where the final hope of British independence had fallen forever with the dying bodies of those last loyal men. The place it supposedly happened, was now marked by a tall pillar,  guarded by stone lions and topped by the Roman hero of the hour, Constantius.
Not that the bastard had even been there, but like all the Romans Dai had ever met, he was probably very good at taking the credit and burying the name of whichever Gallic auxiliary had actually achieved the victory for him.
The lift slid silently upwards and Dai wondered how much it must cost to live in this kind of place. Certainly far more than his humble salary. Not that he would have the option to live here even if the salary he earned ever reached that kind of level. He had seen the stone eagle above the main entrance, its wings outstretched to embrace the chosen few and the letters ‘SPQR’ clutched in its grasping talons. This was a place where only Citizens could live. Regular Britons, such as himself, were confined to the huddled suburbs of Londinium where concrete leviathans provided hutch-sized boxes for people to live in. Those who were licensed to do so, of course, which meant having a job that qualified as ‘essential’.
The door to Flavia’s apartment was open. Not so surprising when it had a foot lying over the threshold – bare, with toenails carefully manicured and painted. The foot was still attached to its owner, who lay with her bare buttocks on the face of the Divine Diocletian that was mosaiced into the floor. Dai could tell it had to be Diocletian by the inevitable wreath and halo which surrounded the image. It was obvious Flavia was quite dead. It was not at all obvious what had caused that. She was completely naked and her hair was in damp curls around her face, which wore a look of surprise.
Dai reached for his identipad so he could officially confirm her identity and log the death, but Julia’s small hand gripped his arm.
“No. We’ll leave that for the forensic team. I want to get back to the arena. If she has been killed to silence her, the sooner we can find out why, what she was being silenced for the better. Whoever did this is starting to panic.”
Dai opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. It was not his call to make. Julia had done such a good job of making him feel like a partner he had almost forgotten she was the one holding the nerve whip. He straightened up and forced a smile.
“Of course, domina. Whatever you say.”
Julia did not even seem to notice, she was speaking rapidly into her wrist phone to report the murder and call in the necessary forensic team. Before she finished she was leaving the apartment, still snapping brusque details as she went.
Dai stood beside her in the lift and felt his stomach plunge lower than the ground floor.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked down to see her small face, so like a child looking up at him.
“You have nothing to apologise for, domina.”
“Clearly I do or you would not be calling me that.” She studied his face for a moment then looked away. “I have to make executive decisions, Dai – and you may think you know this crime better than me, but this is a Roman crime, not a British one. I know the signs.”
Dai had no idea how to answer that, and the rest of their journey back to the Augusta Arena took place in a tense silence.

Part VII will be here next Sunday. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

After months of drought the rain came – a sudden blackness of sky and a single clap of thunder, then the heavens opened.

Mary ran out of the house and into the orchard’s smell of greenness.

Impelled by a rare moment of perfect happiness she bent to untie her shoes, before running barefoot onto the sweet grass.

When a pair of arms snaked around her she bent backwards, pliant as a willow.

Her husband tumbled her into the sodden grass with an urgency she seldom found in him.

The rain felt like cooling hands as it, too, caressed her bare skin…

©jj 2019

This poem was a runner up in The Working Title Blog Second Anniversary Poetry Competition.

By Selena M, in memory of Breadbox

A dog is a man’s best friend.
My best friend is an alien.

She dropped in on my house one day
I truly thought she was there to stay.
Funny looking, could not talk
She hooted and chimed and honked and squawked.
How could we two with nothing in common
Develop such a bond?

Two years ago my best friend died
I miss her so. I wept, I cried.
As we sang together in my home,
She passed so quickly. I was alone.
How could somebody I loved so much
In a moment just be gone?

It’s two years now to the very day
So much has happened, so much
I talk with her most every day.
She is my crutch, my crutch
How can a being who’s only a ghost
Be with me on and on?

She died on my world, far from home.
I’m trapped on her world, far from home.
Will I ever be able to return?
She never wanted to return.
How will I ever get back to Earth,
Not die here all alone?

I honor her in my memory
No matter whatever happens to me.
We helped each other recapture our song,
To the tribe of True Singers we both belong.
She bequeathed to me this magical ship
I’ve used to take a cosmic trip.

How could we two with nothing in common
Develop such a bond?

Mike van Horn.

Mike van Horn advises small business owners, and writes science fiction. He thinks sci fi is a lot more fun! His first science fiction novel Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard, is Book 1 of the Agate and Breadbox trilogy.

From Iconoclast: Not To Be by E.M. Swift-Hook, the eighth Fortune’s Fools book and the second in Iconoclast, the final trilogy, which will be published later this year. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A slight buzz told her someone was at the door of her apartment and she pulled up a screen to see who was there. It was one of her neighbours, Nilis par-Yorken. Not much older than her own body made her appear, mid-twenties perhaps, scruffy cut hair which seemed to be the fashion and a face that looked like it would smile a lot.
She had run a check on him the second time he tried to get her to stop and chat. A local. Newly qualified as a pilot and working relief for the planetary run freight company, ATG, which was the only organisation running regular shipping to Arca. Another attraction of the place for Avilon was that in order to protect its own merchant fleet, none of the big corporations were allowed on Arca and any freetraders had to purchase a license to operate there.
So she knew Nilis would have been trained locally, but the fact he’d been offworld left him open to having been recruited by the CSF or the Legacy. She let out a breath in a sigh. That was the kind of paranoia that could cripple her if she let it run unchecked. 
It was late and she could use that as an excuse for not responding, if he bumped into her again and asked why, but through some sense of wanting to dismiss a phantom, she opened the door and moved to grab another drink from the synth. 
“What are you drinking?” she asked as her visitor walked in. He stopped a couple of paces from the door, his way barred by the couch.
“Uhh… Mys jist jooze, plars. Narms Nylees.”
Avilon grimaced internally and began to filter out his accent. It was one of the worst aspects of living on Arca, the isolationism had led to the development of a very heavy dialect.
“Maris,” she told him, turning back to persuade the synth to produce something that approximated fruit juice. “Maris par-Kenten.”
“Really?” he seemed surprised. “You sound like you’re from Central.”
She picked up the freshly created chilled drink and handed it to him, aware his eyes were not restricting themselves to her face. She returned the compliment. He had a good body. One he clearly looked after.
“No. But I spent the last five years there studying.”
“Studying what?”
“My masters thesis was in Co-Regional Internexus Sub-Quantum Linkcast Technology.”
Nilis blinked.
“Uhh…?”
Avilon shook her head and chuckled.
“Mostly about how to optimise links from here to the main Coalition hubs.”
He smiled, slowly. “So, what do you do for a day job?” Avilon sipped her own drink and said nothing until Nilis looked uncomfortable. “Uhh yes, that’s a bit rude of me.”
“Not really, I just wanted to know why you were calling at my door this time of night before we got into the pleasantries too much.”
He hesitated so long she thought he’d not reply. Then he gave an embarrassed smile.
“Well, since you turned up here last cycle, I’ve been meaning to come round and ask if you needed anything, like a good neighbour should. I seen you in and out a lot so thought this time of day would work best.”
It was hard not to laugh. She put her drink down, feeling even older than her fifty-two years.
“You wanted to ask me out? Or were you just after a quick fuck?”
The sudden flood of colour into his face was comical.
“Uhh – I… Well, I mean-”
She put up both her hands in a gesture of contrition.
“Sorry. Central teaches you to cut to the chase in such things. I’m going to have to retune my sensibilities now I’m home.”
To his credit he didn’t retreat.
“I’m up for either. But I came round to ask if you’d like to come over to my place tomorrow. I got a few friends coming round, you might like to meet. Get to know some people.”
“That must be cosy,” she observed, gesturing with one hand to indicate the size of the room.
“Uhh, we won’t stay in, just meet up there and head out. Say yes? They’re all good people, most from this block. You’ll like them.”
She hesitated a moment then nodded. Better to accept one or two occasional invitations out with one young adult social group than wind up fending them all off with excuses. That would only make her stand out. This way she might be able to be accepted on the fringes of a group without needing to commit.
“Why not? I’m not busy far as I know.”
Nilis made a fist and hammered the air with it. 
“Yes! Kiss that! So can I ask where you work now?” 
Avilon had to laugh.
“Sure – it’s no secret. I’m doing some private consultancy work for the government.” No secret. Just a straight up lie, but one he’d find it very hard to check out. “What about you?”
“I work for the ATG – that’s the -”
“Arca Trading Group – what you do with them?”
She was regretting her earlier flippancy now, Nilis seemed to have taken it as an open invitation to hang around, he was lounging back in the seat as if taking root there.
“I’m flying shunts to some of the nearby Coalition places. Uhh, I mean, freighter runs. Works out well. I get a few days on then a few off.”
Avilon faked the start of a yawn and brought her hand up to her mouth. Then moved it away with a slight smile. “Sorry. Not you. Just been a long day.”
Nilis didn’t seem to take the hint.
“I can tell. So how did you get to Central? I mean I know a few who tried, but only one who succeeded and he got accepted on a virtual course. I mean just getting the visas and at that…”
“I got a scholarship to Central Main,” she told him, suddenly wondering if he was indeed the random neighbour being sociable or if her initial paranoia was merited.
“You did? Well kiss that! Impressive. Not just a gorgeous body, but an incredible mind.” Nilis smiled.
Avilon grimaced and turned it into another yawn
“Yeah. Well if you don’t mind, it is kind of late and I do have work tomorrow even if you’re on a break.”
She stood as she spoke and saw the reluctance in Nilis’ expression and posture, but under her insistent gaze he sighed, drained his drink and put the cup down before standing as well. 
“Of course. I shouldn’t keep you up. But don’t forget – we have a date tomorrow evening.”
 Avilon managed a smile and opened the door. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I could do with making a few more friends.”
After he had gone she disposed of the cups and headed for bed, shaking her head at her previous doubts. Nilis par-Yorken’s motives were very easy to read.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dora was crying, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“Leave me be.”

The hand was replaced by a proffered handkerchief.

Sensing that her visitor wasn’t going away, Dora blew her nose and looked around. She felt her jaw drop. The stranger had a mass of flaming red hair – and black feathered wings.

“Shall we make your husband suffer for what he did?” the voice and smile tried to sugarcoat visceral savagery.

Dora shook her head.

“Thank you but no. I can sort my own man out.”

“But he…”

“But he’s just a man. My man.” Dora walked away.

©jj 2019

This poem was a runner up in The Working Title Blog Second Anniversary Poetry Competition.

You rest silently,
waiting to cast your spell.
Always there,
to keep me feeling well.

Without my truest love,
life would be mundane.
I’d miss the part of me,
that’s always kept me sane.

For twenty long years,
you’ve filled my heart.
How could I have known,
I’d feel such for art?

Gears and strings and frets and pegs,
all bring joy to my face.
This amazing invention,
takes me to a special place.

My guitar is always there,
and I know it always will be.
Here’s to another twenty years,
filled by your beautiful music; all played lovingly.

Ian Bristow

Ian C. Bristow is the award-winning author of the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He has also written an urban fantasy novel, Hunting Darkness, and is working on another title. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys creating works of art and playing music (good food and a few beers with friends doesn’t hurt his feelings either).

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica… You can listen to this on YouTube.

Aries.

Aries needs a lot of cold fresh air to keep that prodigious brain and fiery temperament under control. Always live in a house with large opening windows and air conditioning.

Ideal Location

Halfway up a mountain preferably in the Andes, Alps or Appalachians.

 

Taurus.

Taureans dislike change and usually die in the same town – often the same house – where they were born.

Ideal Location

The Bull should avoid Spain for obvious reasons. If you can persuade one to move, try to make it somewhere the architecture has preservation orders on it.

 

Gemini.

Gemini is always in two minds about the best place to live. Their Mercurial natures are never satisfied with where they are and seek to move frequently to somewhere completely different.

Ideal Location

There is no such thing for a Gemini. I suggest having a home base in a large and populous city and several time-share holiday homes in many and varied environments around the globe.

 

Cancer.

Home loving Cancer carries their home with them wherever they go. It is Cancer who will tell you that home is a state of mind, not a place. Which only goes to show they are not the brightest bunch in the astrological bouquet.

Ideal Location

An island suits the crab.

 

Leo.

The lion needs sunshine and lots of it. Be sure to decorate your lair with primary shades and plenty of bright foliage. A large hearth for the winter is essential.

Ideal Location

Africa. Where else would you expect?

 

Virgo.

You can tell you have walked into the home of a Virgo because everything is in its place and there is a place for everything.  Spouses and children quickly learn where their place is and take care not to leave it – ever.

Ideal Location

An ultra-modern minimalist tower-block just about anywhere.

 

Libra.

Librans seek balance in all aspects of their life, so their homes will be both practical and creative, clean and messy, well-maintained and falling to pieces. Do check the furniture before you sit on it.

Ideal Location

Belgium

 

Scorpio.

Scorpians are children of the desert. Therefore they require sun and sand in equal measure. If those are lacking a house themed on the orange-through-yellow aspect of the spectrum might suffice – and access to a large bucket and spade.

Ideal Location

Scorpios are suckers for the exotic so their desert climate needs to come with romance attached. Marrakesh or Samarkand spring to mind.

 

Sagittarius.

The horse needs to run and wide open spaces are essential for Sagitarrian well being. Single-floor dwelling is best, hooves don’t so so well with stairs, so keep with a bungalow or a ground floor apartment.

Ideal Location

Somewhere in the middle of the Great Plains – North Dakota looks ideal. Failing that Cambridge.

 

Capricorn.

The goat has to have hills and high ground. Buy that house at the end of a precipitous, narrow, driveway or the one accessed only by five flights of steep stairs from the street and Capricorn is in heaven

Ideal Location

The very top of a mountain is best. If you can’t manage that, try Switzerland or Nepal.

 

Aquarius.

Aquarians need psychedelic decor, floor cushions and beanbags. They will probably have their walls plastered with posters of strange astrological symbols and views of sacred sites.

Ideal Location

Glastonbury or somewhere in Wiltshire not too far from Stonehenge.

 

Pisces.

A fish needs to swim. Wherever a Pisces might make home it must include a pool – or failing that a large bathtub.

Ideal Location

A beach hut.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…