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…

George was a gentle creature, slow moving even for one of his kind and deliberate of thought and speech.

When Mabel was introduced to the group, all the males hustled around her puffing out their cheeks and making their most macho grunting noises.

She ignored them, choosing instead to come and munch some fresh greens at George’s side.

When Alfred attempted to mount her she flipped him over onto his back and continued munching.

“A girl likes to be asked,” she said quietly.

It was many days before George did ask, shyly.

Mabel nodded, and they tended the eggs together.

©jj 2019

George’s portrait was painted by the talented and lovely Ian Bristow of Bristow Design.

Flash fiction from Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The God-Emperor was playing knuckle bones with his friends in the peaceful fountain garden when the conquistadors burst into the palace. There were many of them, armed and armoured in steel, and they systematically swept every chamber, leaving nothing living in their wake. When the last room was cleared a group made its way along the paved walkways to the place by the largest fountain of all where the children continued to play their game.
The soldiers brought with them the smell of blood, and their booted feet left reddish splotches on the white stone paving. The last soldier pulled a skinny old woman, in the dress of slave behind him. He held her by her bound wrists, dragging her cruelly, careless of whether or not she remained on her feet. The God-Emperor wrinkled his nose but said nothing.
The only adult in the garden was a young priest, and one of the soldiers grasped him by his braided scalplock.
“Where is your accursed God-Emperor?”
The young priest was braver than he looked.
“He is not here. He and his tutor fled the palace at first light.”
The old woman who they dragged along in their wake shook her head. “He lies,” she spat, “nobody has left the palace all this moon.” The priest gave her a look of such loathing that anybody less in fear of their life would have been abashed, but the old crone met his eyes contemptuously. Then she spat on his feet.
The troop commander, one Don Hermano Gonthalez, marched into the cool of the garden. He carried his helmet under one arm and his floridly handsome face was flushed with bloodlust.
“Well,” he said coldly. “We now know it’s one of the brats. Which one is it?”
“Nobody is telling.”
“Kill the lot then.”
The God-Emperor stood up and faced the tall European.
“There is no need to kill any more. I am he who you seek.”
The soldier looked down at the unimpressive little figure and laughed harshly.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you know I speak the truth.”
“Then you will know your life is forfeit.”
“Kill the God, Kill the faith?”
Hermano nodded brusquely then looked into the lightless depths of the child’s eyes, for a moment he knew the true meaning of love and compassion, but he shrugged his shoulders, pushing those feelings to one side. He took a pace forwards and grasped the topknot in one large fist. The gaze of the God-Emperor did not waver from his face, even when a sword of the finest Toledo steel severed the thin neck and the conquistador was left with a disembodied head hanging from his hand.
“And what of your God-Emperor now?” Don Hermano demanded harshly.
The young priest shrugged. “I know not.” Then he laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, before deliberately impaling himself on the long dagger of the soldier who held him by his hair.
“What is so funny?” The soldier who held the old crone’s wrists shook her brutally.
“I know not.” She said in a voice of resignation. “How should a slave know the thought of the great ones?”
One of the other children lifted frightened eyes from the ground. It was a girl of some ten or so summers, who was as fair as the garden in which she sat. She looked at the conquistador.
“He meant that once the God-Emperor’s soul left his body it will have found another host. Once you killed our brother he lost his divinity. What you hold in your hand now is only the head of an ordinary child.”
Don Hermano dropped the severed head and grasped the shrinking girl.
“Who?” He demanded. “Who? Who?”
She lifted her great dark eyes to his face. “We do not know. Nobody knows. Yet.”
Understanding dawned, and the conquistador gave a great cry of rage as he dragged the girl’s face closer. His blade moved almost of its own volition, all but cutting her in half.

© jane jago

The townsmen tied her to the post, then left. She wriggled until her hands were free, then it was the work of a moment to untie her feet.

Sitting on a convenient rock she regarded the bright silk of her dress with some disfavour. It was neither practical nor warm.

The knight rode up on a tall horse.

“Errrr… Weren’t you supposed to be tied up?”

“Yeah, but somebody needs to learn better knots.”

“And the dragon?”

“He won’t be along. I’m not qualified.”

When the penny dropped the knight grinned. “Want a lift then?”

They called their son Dragonbane.

©jj 2019

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

“What’s this one?” Shaldre picked up one of the vials of genetic material which had rolled out of the old storage cylinder and ended up by her feet.
Hepestin shrugged. “Just because I’m a researcher in ancient genetics doesn’t grant me magical powers to read ancient DNA.”
Shaldre picked up the vial in her servo-gauntlet. Of all the things they had found in this long-abandoned human colony, this collection of genetic samples which the labels hinted might even come from Earth itself, was the most exciting discovery her archaeological team had yet uncovered.
Churn Hepestin had been assigned to the team at the last minute to explore any interesting genetic variants in the traces they might discover from the crops these colonists had been growing. Which considering this find of a sealed cache of genetic samples, was serendipity. Originally, Shaldre had not really expected to have much use for her.
“Might they be viable?” she asked, still peering into the vial.
Hepestin was packing the other vials into a secure portable containment chamber and held out her claw for the one Shaldre was studying.
“Unlikely.”
“But you could try?” Shaldre asked, as she parted with the vial despite an odd reluctance to do so.
“The funding could stretch to that.”
Some rotations later Shaldre was looking into the eyes of the sweetest creature she had ever seen, holding it carefully in two of her arms. They had done some research in the colony database so she had some idea of what this was and what its kind had meant to long lost humanity.
“Hello Dog,” Shaldre said gently. “I think you and I are going to be good friends.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

In line with some sort of convoluted idea of feminism, Princess Jocasta got to choose her husband.

From a selected shortlist.

Within twenty-four hours. 

The first discards were easy. Too old. Not rich. Not handsome enough.

Then there were three.

One had broken off his betrothal to court her.

That left two.

Each had a picture of his home to show. Walliam’s house was nice, but Aiden’s castle atop its conical hill fed her fantasies.

She said ‘yes’.

They married joyfully. 

But she argued with him every day, so he threw her down the mountain into the killing sea. 

©jj 2019

From Transgressor: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face.
Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing.
But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road.
“Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of Qabal Vyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?”
If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.”
Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.”
Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle.
“And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost.
The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile.
“I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.”
Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear.
“I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is undoubtedly Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner.
Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.

E.M. Swift-Hook.