Mother named the four sons of her womb North, South, East and West. And the winds took life.

But what of the fifth cherub? Mother’s only daughter was pink and fat with cheeks full of wind and tossing curls. This mischievous imp flittered from quarter to quarter bringing gales and whirlwind as she flew.

“What can we do?” her brothers cried.

Eventually, Father rose from the sea and called his errant daughter to him, his touch making her beauty so transcendent that even the waters followed her.

Selene took wing, and the crescent moon appeared to light the night sky.

©️jj 2019

Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard is Book 1 of a trilogy by Mike van Horn, followed by My Spaceship Calls Out to Me and Space Girl Yearning. Selena M is a popular singer who is feeling bored, burned out, and over the hill.

The music. I had to write lyrics for songs Selena sings. If I had lyrics, I needed music, so I got them composed and sung. I now have seven songs produced. Sci fi with a soundtrack! The songs are on Soundcloud.

Our remaining alien was shaking and trembling and drawing into a fetal position. Seemed to be shriveling. “She’s not long for this world,” I said softly, shaking my head. I gave her more water. What else could we do for her? Alas, not much.
Doc’s phone blurted out the beginning of Stars and Stripes Forever. “Gotta take this. Yeah, what’s up?” Frown, then, “I better go. Three goats got into some bad garbage. Belly aches. And that’s something for a goat. Communal farm up on the ridge, those damn hippies. I’ll bring some more stuff when I come back.”
 “I’m sticking here with you,” Clay said protectively.
 “I know you’ve got choir practice this evening, Clay. I’ll be all right here.” He protested, but I knew he had to go; he’s the choir director. I pushed him outside. “She probably won’t last out the night. I’m staying here with her so she doesn’t die utterly alone.”
 “I’ll be back afterward.” Then he added over his shoulder as he headed out, “It’s an it, not a she. Better not personalize it. Just a dying alien being. Don’t let yourself get attached.” Easy for a man to say.
I hurried back to my house and gathered up a few essentials. I hadn’t had anything to eat all day, so I made myself a humongous sandwich, and gulped it down with a beer. Not very ladylike, I know. But on my concert tours, hopping from city to city, sandwich gulping is what keeps me going.
What else would I need overnight? I brought back my down sleeping bag and an inflatable pad—my joints aren’t as limber as they used to be.
By the time I got back it was dusk, hardly twenty-four hours since the crash. I looked in. She hadn’t moved. I spread out my bag and curled up near her as the last light faded away.
Doc and Clay both got delayed, and ended up not returning, but they did check in by phone. You don’t suppose these two strong men were afraid of the dark, with alien ghosts rising from the ground?
Then Sheriff Jim called back. I dreaded his call. Even though he’s a good friend, I always get a bit nervous when I’m being questioned by The Law. Part of me assumes I’m guilty of dastardly crimes. Especially when he started out in his “Just the facts, Ma’am” voice. It was during this conversation that I first referred to my visitor as “Breadbox.” Sheriff’s deputies on this coastline get to see a lot of weird stuff, so hearing about an alien in a flying saucer didn’t faze him as much as I expected.
I lay there in the dark talking to her. I asked her questions. Where are you from? Why did you come here? What happened? What was your life like? How old are you? I got no response, of course. Wasn’t sure she was still alive.
I told her my entire life story. I confessed many things that I’d never revealed to anyone else. Including myself.
How I was strong and self-assured on the outside, but inside? Not so much. How I’d come to the road less traveled, but had stayed on the freeway.
How I had dumped the only guy I’d ever truly loved because of my stupid music career, and all my tours. How I often studied myself in the mirror, standing sideways, wondering if I should bother trying to keep myself slim and in shape, or whether I should let it all go and enjoy my cheeseburgers. How I knew I could never go for Clay, even though I knew he had a big crush on me, and he’d be a damn good catch for an aging chick like me.
How I’d never even tried to publish the songs that were the most important to me because I didn’t think they were marketable, and instead churned out all these maudlin ballads. Which of course made me a shitload of money, and allowed me to buy my dream property here on the coast, psychically as far as possible from La La Land. But which left me with this empty hole here near the core of my being.
I began to hum this one melody I’d written years before, and had never performed in public. It was my internal anthem—the music for my secret self.
My alien companion, lying in the dark covered by a horse blanket, in a tiny, squeaky voice, hummed along with me.

 A Bite of... Mike van Horn

Q1: Why do you write?

I don’t need to pay the rent with royalties, but money is acknowledgment and energy. People liking my stories energize me to write all the more.
I write because story ideas bubble up constantly, especially at night. My rule is, when creativity happens, capture it! So I have to write them down—or dictate them. Characters begin inventing themselves, then they tell me what’s going to happen. I have to keep up.
I enjoy reading my own stories.
I have always written. Not just fiction; I’ve written a number of non-fiction books. I’ve done technical reports for organizations. I have journals full of social philosophy I’ve never published. I constantly answer questions on Quora, Medium, and other forums.
But sci fi is the most fun by far!

Q2: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

My MC is a jaded singer; I’m a jaded writer. She’s trying to recapture the passion for her singing and get up the nerve to sing her most meaningful songs; I’m doing that with my writing.
I think I’ve outlived my demons. I’m more concerned with letting my angels show through. I was totally amazed when I started writing lyrics. I, who can’t sing a note! I found a composer and a vocalist, and now I’m a dang lyricist! Who knew? This is therapy of the very best kind.

Q3: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

All my main characters capture a slice of me. My MC, who’s an out-there singer but unsure of herself and an introvert. The tattered country singer gets to say all my smart-ass, corny things. The elegant, professorial scientist. The hyper entrepreneur. The logical, levelheaded astronaut. The nerdy but loyal high school teacher. The ineffectual government agent who plays both sides.
Then there’s the alien! Abandoning responsibility and heading into the unknown.
And the robot. Striving to excel beyond its capabilities.

 I write science fiction, but my day job is advising small business owners how to “grow their business without driving themselves crazy”®. I’ve written over a dozen how-to books and workbooks for small business. For years this kept me from completing the sci fi stories I started. Finally I said, “If I’m ever going to finish these stories in this lifetime, it has to be now!” Since then I’ve written three novels plus several short stories, and have another series drafted.
My wife and daughter are also writers. We live just north of San Francisco in one of the best places in the world.
I have an MBA (UCLA) but no training in writing except one class. The only thing I remember from it is this beautiful long-legged blond who sat behind me, to whom I’ve been married for 40+ years.

You can find  Mike van Horn on his own website and his blog.

It was by any standards an ugly picture, and the little guy mending clocks by the light of a single lantern might just have been the ugliest thing in it.

But the household children loved him, bidding him goodnight before they tumbled into their beds and wishing him good morning when they rose.

Then the sickness came. 

Mother sat by her babes watching and praying in the darkest hour. Even as despair brought her to tears, the old man from the picture appeared at her elbow, stooping to caress each perspiring head. 

The children fell instantly into a healing sleep.

©️jj 2019

Jim went over to where Patsy waited and lifted her hand to his cheek. He turned his mouth to kiss her palm.
“Your house that you love so much, Pats. Well it’s…” He broke off and looked at her.
“You trying to tell me that they have trashed our home!”
“No love. They have destroyed it.”
For a long moment nobody spoke. Patsy stood up and cuddled into Jim’s comforting bulk. She sniffed a couple of times, then made a visible effort to straighten her spine.
“In the end it was just a house. And we’re okay. And the kids are okay. And the animals are here or with your Mam. So it don’t matter.”
But then it all got too much for her and the tears fell in earnest. Jim held her closely while she cried.
“I’m sorry love,” he said softly.
“Don’t be stupid Jimbo. You got nothing to be sorry for.”
“If I hadn’t been so stubborn.”
Patsy took his broad good natured face in her two hands and looked straight into his eyes.
“If you never stood up for what you know is right you wouldn’t be the love of my life.” She turned her astoundingly blue eyes on Sam. “Yeah. I do know. A lot of fuss about house. But you see Jim had it built for me as a surprise present for our tenth wedding anniversary and it was exactly the house of my dreams. Aside from loving the house, it was that he knew. Down to the tiniest detail.”
Sam smiled gently. “Never mind Pats. They can’t take that from you.”
For a moment she frowned then her face cleared. “You are only right. They can’t. Thanks Sam.”
Anna burrowed into Sam’s willing embrace and put her face up to be kissed.
“You are so right my loved one.”
He grinned.
“I know. But that doesn’t remove the need for retribution.”
Jim’s head came up like a hunting dog. “Indeed it doesn’t.”
Rod spoke in a voice about as dangerous as the growl of a man eating tiger. “I find myself pissed off. And I’m up for retribution. Whatever form that might take.”
“First things first.” Jim had control of his voice now. “We have to talk to the boys.”
“You mind if we do that in private?” Patsy was humble.
“Don’t be silly, course you have to be private,” Anna said. “You want us to clear off, or will you talk in the sitting room?”
“Sitting room. Please.”
Patsy and Jim went towards the door, but Sam stopped them with an upraised hand.
“If the little men are worried about where they are going to live, you can tell them you are staying here.”
“You sure Sam? You have to understand it could be dangerous.”
Sam made a very rude noise. “Go tell them.”

They went and Anna put a hand up to Sam’s determined chin. “Thank you my darling.”
He grinned a tight grin. “Why don’t you see if your magic fingers can dig up any clues as to who precisely needs a spanking.”
“As if we didn’t know,” Rod sounded right on the edge of losing control.
“Cool it,” Sam said firmly. “You are of no use to anybody if you can’t keep a lid on your temper.”
Rod made a noise deep in his chest that had the dogs out of their baskets glaring at him. Their reaction served to calm Rod more than any human intervention could have. He bent down and smoothed one silky and one rough head.
“Sorry dogs.”
They wagged forgivingly and returned to their beds.  
Sam headed for the office he and Anna shared and returned with a couple of disreputable looking laptops and a blue toolbox in his hands. He put them down on the table and Anna flexed her fingers.
“Coffee,” she murmured and that was the last sound in the big kitchen for a very long time.

By the time Jim and Patsy came back into the kitchen, with Jim carrying Bill and Charlie and the other boys clustered around their mother, Anna was making pleased little noises in her throat.
“Got you, you double-dealing bastard,” she said with some satisfaction, then realised there were children in the room. “Oops. Sorry”
Jamie gave her a taut grin. “We’ve heard swearing before. And if that means what I think it means…”
“It does.”
Jim was across the room in two strides. “How the fuck?”
For once Patsy didn’t bother to correct his lapse into profanity, being too busy trying to look round his bulk. Sensing an imminent meltdown if Anna got too crowded, Sam took a hand.
“Stand back everyone and let Anna explain.”
“Yes. Give me room to breathe.”
Jim stepped back and grinned apologetically.
“Okay. Better. Right. It all circles back to a certain Glaswegian gent that Jim threatened to brain with a baseball bat. Or, to be more precise, to his phone. The gizmo I plugged his call into gave me access to his phone’s memory. I mined it a bit and found some strands linking him to a certain Armenian gentleman who met an unpleasant end in Edinburgh. But the dead don’t rise from the grave to arrange firebombing. However, when dead men turn out to have brothers. Very wealthy brothers…”
Rod looked at Bill and Charlie. “Fingers in your ears little men.”
The boys obliged, and Rod swore for several minutes. When he had relieved his feelings somewhat he smiled grimly and cracked the knuckles on his big hands.
“Don’t do that,” Patsy slapped him quite hard. “It sets my teeth on edge.”
The little ones cautiously removed their hands from their ears.
“Is it going to be all right now?” Bill sounded scared and Sam hunkered down to his level.
“I reckon it will, now we know who and why. Just a matter of straightening a few things out. In the meantime you get to stay here if you wouldn’t mind that.”
“We wouldn’t indeed. But what about school?”
“You get some time off while we sort ourselves out.” Patsy smiled reassuringly. “Those who want can maybe go to Montana for a few weeks. But they get to be homeschooled while they are there.”
If he had thought about it Sam might have expected the twins to grasp such a chance and hold on for dear life, but that wasn’t the case at all.
As usual it was Cy who acted as spokestwin. “Thanks Mum, but no. That would be running away. No Cracksman runs away. We can’t do much in the retribution stakes. But we can help to keep the little men safe.”
Patsy said nothing simply holding out her arms. She was quickly wrapped in a three-way hug.
“Love you, Mum,” Matt’s voice hovered between a growl and a squeak.

Jane Jago

They walked together with Ayuba trying to replicate Mother’s stride.

When they reached the place of recognition, she tensed her muscles, ready to fight if He deemed her cub unworthy. 

Ayuba looked up with eyes brightly shining.

“It will be well unina. I am strong.”

He stood four square in the clearing and his voice was melodious as he called The Father. 

The huge cat bestrode the earth like a god.

“Who calls?”

Ayuba did not falter, facing his fate with all four paws firmly in the earth.

The great cat nodded.

They walked together with Ayuba matching Mother’s stride.

©️jj 2019

The temperature rose and it rained all the night
Wreaking its vengeance on virginal white
Ripping aside winter’s delicate gown
And filling the rivers with thick foaming brown
Where there was ice just a moment ago
Now puddles are swollen by fast melted snow
And under our feet where we crunched yesterday 
The mud is a thick mess of boot-clogging clay
The sky now is blue and the fickle sun glows
As if to say “Really? You’re sure you saw snow?”
The temperature rose and the sky gave us rain
But who knows, tomorrow it might snow again.

©️jj 2019

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – ”
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -”
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -”
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”
“Let me get this right,” Charis said, incredulous. “You are telling me that because I took a break from the freight shunts to help a friend with their new business I am – ” It felt surreal and for a moment Charis had to close her eyes.
“No longer a citizen.” the official finished for her. “That is indeed so, Var Sweetling.”
She opened her eyes again and tried to deal with the situation in a calm and logical way.
“Look, if the Coalition needs me on the cargo runs so badly, I’ll go back to Rota tomorrow. They will be happy to have me back. They told me they would.”
The official’s face wore an expression which might even have held some trace of regret.
“I am sure you would and I am sure they would. But, I am sorry to say there is an issue with your doing so. Those posts are only open to those who are citizens of the Coalition. And, as you have now confirmed all the details which underlie the ruling of the committee, the status of your non-citizenship has already been confirmed.”
Charis felt her mouth dry up as her throat became suddenly constricted and sore.
“I want a lawyer,” she said, snapping out the words and without even waiting for permission she sent a link out to her mother. It failed to connect and dropped away.
“You are welcome to seek legal representation if you wish to re-apply for asylum, appeal the decision or seek citizenship, but only once you have been deported. As a non-citizen, you have no right to residency in any of the Central or other Coalition worlds, so whatever legal steps you feel you need to take will have to be conducted from outside them.”
The full horror of her situation impacted then and left Charis feeling weak, as though her muscles could not support her body. She felt herself slump back into the chair.
“I need to go home if you are going to deport me, I need my things. I -”
“That is not going to be possible. You will leave here for a detention facility where you will be informed as to what options may be open to you. I do suggest you co-operate as it makes the process less unpleasant for everyone, but most of all for yourself.”
“But – you don’t understand. I am a citizen of Central – raised here, educated here, my parents live here, all my friends are here, I don’t know any other life. I couldn’t survive a day on half the Middle World protectorates I’ve shunted cargo to, let alone on some below low-tech Periphery hell hole. I won’t know the culture, the way of life, the people. Why take me in and teach me, nurture me, make this my home – then throw me out? What was the point? It’s beyond pointless – it’s – it’s cruel.”
Her voice broke a little on the last word and she had to stop talking or risk allowing the tears of anger and frustration, which pricked in her eyes, from showing.
The official looked a little weary as if he found himself dealing with this situation one time too often.
“The Coalition always takes the cases of displaced minors, children who need asylum, very seriously and the Protected Children Program has been long established as a humane and fair way of treating unaccompanied or orphaned children who come to us in need. Those, such as yourself, who are accepted under Amendment D are required to repay the community through military service, which you did. After which you may be accorded rights of citizenship if you are working in reserved employment – as you were for many years. There is nothing unfair, pointless or cruel about it.”
Charis heard the door open behind her and, still in denial when her arm was taken in an iron grip, she felt as if the end of her life had begun.

From a Fortune's Fools book, Trust A Few, which is the first part of Haruspex trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Eyub’s eyes were drawn to her beauty as a needle to a lodestone, but he kept his face respectful and his mouth shut.

When the others twitted him, he answered them shortly.

“The lady guides us through dangerous terrain. Does that not merit respect?”

All but one of the mercenary band saw his point. The one who didn’t, died for his arrogance.

On the last night of the trip, with The City in sight, she came to his blankets. Afterwards, as she lay in his arms he felt her smile against his skin.

“Respect,” she murmured, “carries its own reward.”

©️jj 2019

Don’t choose your friends by the colour of their hair
The texture of their skin, the clothes they like to wear
Don’t choose your friends by the money they make
The job that they do. Or because they eat steak
Don’t choose your friends by the label on the box
It doesn’t really matter if they wear funny socks
Don’t think that politics makes for friendship strong
And dietary prejudice is just plain wrong
You might choose a friend for the book beside their bed
For their hopes and their fears, and the thoughts in their head
You might choose a friend by the things that you share
Or because they are kindly and truly seem to care
In the end choose your friend from the bottom of your heart
And because they don’t mind if you are a silly tart 
In the end choosing friends should not be down to rumour
It’s all about connections, and a shared sense of humour.

©️jane jago 2018

One is often asked to do reviews of other aspiring authors literary endeavours and after over a dozen forays into those depths, one has now made it very clear that only books of Outstanding Quality will be reviewed. Everything else appears on one’s annual ‘Did Not Finish’ record – a scroll of shame where many who have thought themselves worthy now lie banished, with a brief sentence to explain their failing.
There you will find people like JK Rowling (‘a puerile effigy of urban fantasy, masquerading as a morality tale, but in drag’) and JRR Tolkien (‘anyone who has to make up their own language to cover their poor literacy skills is truly execrable!’) and Tolstoy (‘the summum-bonum of Russian over-saccharine emotional indulgence.’)
So you may imagine one’s complete consternation when deep in the throes of composition, the door to one’s inner sanctum was thrown open and the vision of loveliness that is Mumsie threw herself on the chaise in the corner of the room. She was breathing heavily and the bluish Gauloise smoke from her nostrils reminded me of some delicate mythical creature.
“Moonie,” she said with some determination evident in her tones, “Moonie you are at best a poor excuse for a son. At worst you are a complete fucking waste of fresh air.” She paused for breath, leaving me hanging on her words like a delicate bushbaby in the darkest woods. Mumsie continued portentously, “I have just come from the pub where I have had to endure the complete embarrassment of hearing other people reading the utter crap you post on those females’ book blog, and pissing themselves laughing. I was tempted to put my foot down and stop it altogether, but if you are going to teach you need to learn.”
She extracted a dogeared paperback from her pocket.
“Read this, you deluded bastard, and perhaps it will give you half an idea what proper science fiction is all about.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind her the aroma of Pernod and cigarette smoke.
One was about to consign the horribly insanitary book to the waste bin when her fiercely moustachioed face reappeared around the panel of the door.
“You better fucking read it Moons. There will be questions.”
And so I read it. From cover to cover.
And I am still none the wiser.

My review of ‘The Midwich Cuckoos’ by John Wyndham

To summarise:  Something happens in a very uninteresting English village. Then some women get pregnant. Then they have some strange children. In the end, things blow up.

The writing is absolutely plain, plain and black. The characters are rendered with such mundane realism as to make them even less interesting than the locality. I did not find myself transported in any way and the necessary immersion in the author’s world never occurred. The dour realism, the lack of magic, and a story whose point passed me by completely, all of these meant that in a normal situation I would have cast aside the shabby little volume after a dozen pages. But Mumsie must be obeyed. So finished it was, and reviewed it is.

All one can say is that if that is a science fiction classic one has no idea why. One reached the end as unimpressed as one was at the beginning.

No stars.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.