Out today Haruspex: The Entire Fortune's Fools Second Trilogy in one ebook. A Fortune's Fools release from E.M. Swift-Hook.

“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. He glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else.
“Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?”
The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice.
“Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal.
Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it also made the responsibility heavier, weighing up all the factors to consider if he should be discharged. Vane prided himself on his thorough professionalism and had no intention of giving in to any pressure over a decision of such significance.
That thought made him glance across to where a holofacade wall concealed a watcher from the other two men in the room. The reclined chair, slouched body and movement of the head suggested listening to music, or watching a show on a VR screen, rather than focusing on the interview. But perhaps not, for fingers lifted in a brief acknowledgement. The Commodore ignored the wave and looked back to study his own screens, checking the notes he had been given on Revid.
“Well you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger. A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities. The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.
Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.
Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.To date, those few up before him for release, fell into one of two categories: those who were ruthless and brutal in pursuit of their self-preservation, and those who were high functioning socially, surviving as much through their ability to engage with others as by their own prowess. He thought of them as the ‘Lone Wolves’ and the ‘Socialites’. The ones he passed fit to leave were of the latter type. Yet so far this man seemed to defy both categories and until he could fit him into one or the other it would be difficult to make a call.
He looked back from the screens to the man himself.
“How do you feel about becoming a civilian?”
The green eyes showed no expression.
“I have been informed it can be very rewarding, sir. I see it as an opportunity to serve the community of the Coalition and the chance for my own self-development and personal fulfilment – sir.”
Lines from a manual. The last individual he cleared for release, which must be over a year ago, said much the same: words any ex-criminal would have engraved into their psyche before being passed fit to rejoin society.
“You were arrested for perpetrating numerous acts of terrorism against the Coalition. How do you feel about that now?”
From beyond the holofacade, Vane noticed the lounging figure stir and pull the chair upright, leaning forward with sudden interest, staring a little to the side where, no doubt, screens were showing selected close-up angles and readings taken from the Lattice. But from Vane’s own perspective, there was little reaction to see. The soldier’s face remained impassive as he spoke:
“Although I acknowledge my guilt in many terrible crimes against humanity, due to my amnesia I have no memory of committing them. The Coalition is a just and compassionate association of free, democratic people. I cannot understand why I would ever have wished to commit such heinous acts.”
It sounded rehearsed, not at all the language of a ranker in the Legion and Vane noticed a frown forming on the face of the observer as their fingers moved, recording notes. The Commodore, feeling himself as much observed in this as Revid, pressed the point.
“Do you understand the nature of the crimes you committed?”
“I do, sir.”
The burly Sergeant Hynas standing behind Revid, had been glaring in silent protest for some time. Now he cleared his throat. Vane suppressed a momentary irritation and nodded his permission for the man to speak.
“With respect, sir, this man has been wired to the Lattice for the last five years, he has no real idea of what anything means except obeying orders and killing. He’s just a killer,” the Sergeant said, spitting the word, “and all he did before his arrest were killing, so it’s natural he would see nothing wrong with it now. I don’t care what the neurocologists say about it, I know this man and that’s the simple truth. That’s why it’s taken them so long to even consider clearing him for discharge, sir.”
For the first time since the interview began, Vane saw a spark of animation in Revid’s eyes. The fixed gaze shifted to meet his own, it’s intensity disconcerting.
“Permission to speak, sir.”
“He’s a – ”
Vane silenced the protesting Sergeant with a curt gesture.
“Permission granted, soldier.”
“Sergeant Hynas is under the impression I am unable to judge the moral difference between unjust murder and just warfare, between mindless terrorism and the well-considered use of force. I would like it to be on my record I am very much aware of the difference between the two. I made a public statement renouncing my previous criminal activities, some years ago, activities for which I have the deepest disgust.” It was his longest speech so far and for once his tone held a bite of emotion. Vane felt very sure Sergeant Hynas had been tormenting this man for a long time. “I have been given numerous additional tests to ascertain this and despite my application being rejected and returned for review four times, each time I have been cleared for release. I would like to vindicate the wisdom of the Coalition’s system of justice, offer service to the community as a civilian and take this chance to recommence my life. Sir.”
Vane sat still for a moment, shocked into silence. He had never heard any of his Legionaries speak like that. Coming from the mouth of the scarred, adapted creature before him, with an ugly direct brain-linked data port visible behind one ear, the incongruity of it left him feeling profoundly unsettled. The language sounded far from anything heard in the ranks and this did not seem like a well-rehearsed speech, which made it increasingly difficult to line up such fluent expression with the idea of total amnesia.

Keep reading and enjoy the rest of Haruspex by E.M. Swift-Hook cover by Bristow Design.

Count Ichu Yanippelov rode into the village on his tall white horse. The villagers brought out their daughters and he tutted disappointedly until his eye fell on the white throat of the miller’s only child. He beckoned and she came to his stirrup.

“She will do.”

Somebody lifted her onto the rump of the count’s steed and he set spur to the animal’s sides. They set off at a frenzied gallop with the girl clinging on behind.

When the autumn winds began to blow, Lady Donya Chumanippelov rode into the village of her birth on a tall, black horse.

©️jj 2019

It was ten times ten years since the day when the oasis ran red with blood, and an exquisite woman sat in a red silk tent out on the white shining sands. She was a realist, for all her transcendent beauty, and she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that this was the last sunset she would ever see.

Fayruzi, named for her remarkable turquoise eyes, stared unseeingly out at the cruel whiteness of the sands and carefully considered her options. She was surrounded by the various means by which she could take her life, and all that remained for her was to choose the one she found least repugnant. There was poison, there were sharp blades, there was even a tiny decorative pistol taken from some long-forgotten ajnabi who had fallen foul of the desert, and there were the sands themselves. The killing sands. The unforgiving mistress of every creature that ran, crawled, swam or flew on her breast.

But wait. Do I hear you ask why such loveliness would choose to die? Of course she did not so choose, it was simply her ill luck to be the jewel of the zenana in a year when sacrifice was called for to propitiate the god and in remembrance of those whose blood stained the waters of the oasis all those years ago. It had been an easy choice for her husband, having no love for women, to give that which another man might have prized beyond his own life as his gift to the pitiless sands.

Fayruzi studied her own white hands and thought about the last possible choice: to simply do nothing. To sit and watch the moon on the face of the desert and await the coming of the dawn and the death priests in their blood-red robes. To await those who would slit her nose before dragging her by the hair to the oasis where they would stone her to death.

She sighed. Just once. And determined to await moonrise before making any decision.

As the moon lifted over the dunes, turning white to silver, Fayruzi lifted the pistol in one pale hand. It would, she reasoned, be the least painful and degrading way to meet her end.

She thought herself fantasising when the sound of hoofbeats came to her ear, and hallucinating when she saw a tall, black horse coming across the sand towards her. Unthinking she stood, and walked out onto the sand to meet her fate. The rider of the horse reached down a hand and she grasped it in both of hers, making a graceful leap onto the saddle in front of the burnous clad figure.

He smiled down at her and she saw his eyes were as black and lightless as the night sky.

As the bedou wheeled his horse and galloped back from whence he had come, it would have been apparent, had there been anyone left behind to see, that the horse left no footprints in the soft shifting sand.

It was ten times ten, and one more, years since the day when the oasis ran red. It was dawn, and the red tent once more stood on the white sand where the desert wind ruffled its silken walls. This year there was no sacrifice but the priests still came as tradition demanded.

The chief among them bent his head and entered the empty tent, except it wasn’t empty. An exquisite woman sat on a pile of cushions in the centre of the floor. She had a babe at her breast.

The old priest felt his heart leap into his throat as he recognised Fayruzi.
“Lady,” he said respectfully.
She turned her face to him, and he saw her eyes – as black and lightless as a desert night.

©️jane jago

Wan Blat O was the God of Unconsidered Trifles. It was a feeble gig, but at least it kept him immortal. His more powerful peers dwelt in marble halls and were waited upon hand and foot by beautiful nymphets and smooth-skinned demons. Wan inhabited an unconsidered temple right at the edge of the Kingdom of the Dead, where he was vaguely looked after by an elderly woman called Ethel, who had no teeth and painful bunions.

Sometimes, though, fate has a peculiar sense of humour – and when the mountain exploded Wan Blat O was the only god to survive.

©️jj 2019

The Mole groaned and farted and belched noxious fumes as its diamond edged teeth ground their way slowly through the sandy subsoil. As it dug, a series of precisely placed nozzles sprayed a sticky mixture of polymers and ground rock onto the walls of the freshly-made tunnel stabilising it an inch at a time. As the monster inched its way forward, a rattling, clanging conveyer belt shot surplus material into a closely following fleet of lorries.
Up high, in what would have been the head if the Mole was a living animal, a strangely-conformed man plied the controls with the virtuosity of a maestro. He was thick necked and heavy chested, with almost unnaturally long, muscular arms. His legs, on the other hand, were thin and twisted and would certainly not support his weight should he need to walk anywhere. But he never walked. He never left the Mole. He was Driver, symbiotically linked to the great metal digging machine and as incapable of living outside the confines of the behemoth as it was incapable of functioning without him.
They were the most successful of the dozen experiments in symbiosis that had been carried out a decade previously, and were the only partnership left in existence. If that partnership caused ethical worries in some quarters, those voices were soon hushed by those who appreciated the profitability of the gigantic earth mover.
As the present digging conditions were easy, Driver and Mole were entertaining themselves by playing chess. This would very probably have been frowned on by their masters, but neither man nor machine ever saw fit to mention it. Nor did they mention their musical evenings, or the books they read together. Some things, they reasoned, were just nobody’s business but their own.
For most of the morning, progress continued to be excellent and the giant machine chewed its way through the earth at a comfortable five miles an hour whilst beating its operator at chess for the nth time in their partnership. Right about lunchtime, things changed. Driver was shovelling a doorstep of bread and cheese between his busy teeth when the note from the engines changed and the Mole slowed.
The driver picked up his communicator.
“Rock,” he grunted “speed cut by four fifths.”
He cut off the protesting squawk from five miles above his head and carried on with his sandwich. When he had finished his lunch, he toggled his communicator.
“It’s rock. Hard rock. Ain’t a thing anybody can do. Just send the water bowsers we need to cool the cutters.”
“There’s no rock down there.”
The driver sighed and switched on the powerful lights that formed the Mole’s ‘eyes’.
“Video on,” he said grumpily.
The watchers in the office on the surface were treated to a view of the Mole’s teeth biting into a solid rock face.
“Okay. Water bowsers ordered.”
“Good.”

Some five hours later, as Driver was considering his options for supper, the engine note changed again. He toggled his communicator.
“We’re through. Speed increase to two miles per hour. Putting Mole on auto. Signing out for night.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, shutting communications down and swinging to the floor. As his stomach started to rumble, he heard a knock on the Mole’s metallic outer skin far below him. He opened the door and stuck his head out. Down at ground level he could see a foreshortened figure standing on the bottom step of the ladder that led to his cabin. He whistled. The figure looked up, and he recognised the homely features of his own brother.
“Chu want bro?”
“Nuffink. I got a pot of Mam’s rabbit stew for ya. Chuck down the rope.”
Driver grinned toothily and dropped a thick rope with a hook on the end. His brother ducked and then attached a large bucket to the hook before stepping back. Driver flicked a switch and a small motor purred into life, gently hauling in the rope and its savoury burden up the fifty feet to the cab door. When the bucket reached his feet he lifted it in gently. Ma’s rabbit stew wasn’t to be treated with contempt. His brother gave him a thumbs-up and stepped away from the rumbling, grumbling monster.
Driver went arm-over-arm into his cramped living quarters and tenderly removed the lid from the big enamel pail. It contained several carefully packed items. First there was a brown crock of butter and a loaf of soft, fresh bread. Then he lifted out a heroically sized hunk of fruit cake and a pot of clotted cream. The bottom of the bucket yielded a lidded dish of thick, savoury stew and a letter in his mother’s careful printing.
He inhaled a lungful of savoury steam and reached for a spoon. After about half the bowl, he leaned back in his chair and gave a replete sigh.
“Ma,” he said reverently “I love you”.
A deeply feminine, and richly amused, contralto voice, which seemed to emanate from the very air around him, chuckled appreciatively before speaking.
“What’s it worth not to tell Ma you only love her when your belly is full?”
“She knows already, Mole. You can’t never pull the wool over Ma’s eyes.”
The laughter in the ether went on for quite some time, and it cheered Driver as he went about clearing up after himself and storing the bounty from the bucket.
“And now,” he said contentedly “we got a letter from Ma to read. Will I read aloud or will you read over my shoulder?”
Driver could all but hear Mole thinking.
“Read aloud please.”

And that was how they spent the evening, a misshapen man and an artificial intelligence enjoying each other’s company as they read the homely tidings from the woman they both called Ma.

©️jane jago

For the rest of this story, and more tales of hope and despair, you can pick up a copy of Pulling the Rug II.

It was a slow afternoon in the health food store. Bluebell on till three was keeping up a relentlessly cheerful monologue as she rung up the purchases of a woman with a long, dark braid, and a very rude t-shirt.

When a darkly handsome man ambled in from the street looking vaguely uncomfortable, he immediately became the cynosure of all eyes.

Cinnamon rushed to his side.

“Can I help you,” she chimed in a voice like silver bells. 

He smiled down at the wispy figure and she shivered so her bangles jangled.

“I’ve just come to collect my wife.”

©️jj 2019

Theana came through with a place to stay — Rota property, kept for use when visitors or stop-over staff needed — a lovely little apartment in an upmarket complex called Riverside. The apartment was designed for a single person with a busy life and the whole complex included its own retail and entertainment zone. Everything you might want or need was provided on the doorstep with some style and elegance. It might not be full on luxury living but it was aspirational and very comfortable. As a quiet and low-profile holiday home in the ‘City, it was pretty perfect.

Charis could stay in and enjoy the views over the river from her window, or wander out to sit on the banks in the local bar or take in a live show from the best local talent in the open-air venue in the heart of the complex. Within a couple of days, she had begun to feel relaxed. Theana was in touch every day and updating her, even if only to say there was no news. If anything bad happened to Foss, Charis was pretty sure Theana would hear about it too and let her know.

A few more days went by and she got to know a couple of the locals, who she used her ‘Charlie Sweet’ ID with and told she was on a rest break from a heavy schedule with Rota. They were good companions for her evenings and the days she spent linked out or with screens, catching up on current affairs, the latest releases and celebrity gossip. Sometimes sitting by the river or on her private balcony or, on dark days, staying in.

One evening — on a light day — she had been out to see a talented dance group with her new friends and went back with one of them for a drink and a chat. When she left to go back to her own apartment, the sun was warm and bright and she took the more scenic route along one of the higher walkways, looking down over the plaza by the river.

The ‘City had its own beauty spots and this view was one of them. The river was wide at this point and had a small chain of islets where some of the graceful bridges that linked the two halves of the metropolis, alighted briefly before taking off in curving parabolas to the other bank. Even when the walkway moved into the residential area, the river view was still there, although at times it vanished from sight behind the elegant blocks of housing.

It was because she was looking ahead to where the next view of the river would appear that she saw him — walking quite quickly and with purpose, and her heart moved from her chest into her throat. Jazatar Baldrik. She had just turned a corner, so unless he looked up and to the side he wouldn’t see her. Instinct made her keep still to avoid triggering his peripheral vision, but she comforted herself that even if he did look up he might well not know it was her. She was in shadow, so not recognisable from that distance. Her first thought was that he must be there looking for her — but that made no sense as her apartment was not even in this section of the complex — she still had a good walk to get back to it.

It was then she saw the other man. He was below her and half concealed by the walkway she was on. What made her notice him was he had just produced an energy snub. His gaze was fixed in the direction hers was, but from where he stood, lower than her, Jaz was no longer in his field of vision and the route the dark haired man was taking wouldn’t bring him back far enough out to be in this man’s range. Without even thinking about it Charis found she had her own energy snub in one hand as she watched the two men below her.

Then the situation suddenly changed. Instead of keeping along his previous route, Jaz crossed the roadway towards the service entrance of one of the residential blocks. He was still invisible to the man with the gun, but would be a perfect target once he reached the service door.

Charis felt her lungs adhere to her ribs.

This was a setup. An ambush. Or in ‘City speak  — a street drop.

There were only a couple of moments to think. She could do nothing and let whatever was going to happen go ahead. That would be the safest path. If she tried to intervene she would draw attention to herself from people she would much rather didn’t notice her. There was also the slight issue of whatever security surveillance the complex had — which was extensive. But not to act would mean letting the man Vitos held to be his closest friend most likely die.

The thought of Vitos conjured him into existence. There he was, moving along a parallel walkway where it looped ahead of her, checking the ground, covering for Jaz. But the angle of the walkway made both Vitos and the man with the gun invisible to each other for a few more vital moments.

She could do nothing, stay safe and Vitos might still see the man and act in time. Or she could place herself at risk and be sure Jaz lived.

She had her own weapon trained on the man below her. She saw him move to adjust his aim as Jaz entered his field of vision and in the same instant, she fired. The man gave a loud gasp and Charis heard the clatter as his weapon fell from his fingers. She had no idea if she had killed him or if he still lived and she had no intention of staying to find out. As soon as she had fired she had stepped back behind the corner. Vitos might have seen her, but with the concealing shadow, should not recognise her. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to explain herself to Jaz Baldrik.

Even as she was thinking through that possibility, she was walking quickly back along the walkway, acutely aware of where the security monitors might observe her. She tried to choose a path that would disguise where she had come from and then changed course a few times after that until she was as sure as she could be that no one was physically following her. Then she called up one of the mini-taxis to run her back to her own apartment block.

Her heart was still hammering when she got through the door and locked it. That was an illusion of sanctuary, of course. If she had been recognised by Vitos or if any interested parties checked the available security surveillance — well, there were too many ‘ifs’ which went against her. There was nothing she could do about any of them so she made herself a mild sedative drink and did her best to get to sleep.

She woke early and over breakfast, a local newslink arrived from the management of the complex. They wished to apologise to anyone affected by the disturbance the previous night outside the Riverwatch Heights apartments. They were still investigating what had happened but, unfortunately, the security surveillance drones and monitors for that sector of the complex had been temporarily offline due to circumstances beyond their control. Any witnesses or those who had relevant information were asked to come forward.

The impact of that was just sinking in when Theana linked her.

“Charity? Sorry to wake you so early but I just got told we are in the clear. Your friend and mine Halkom Dugsdall even came by to apologise in person, but I told him there was no need and I would pass it on to you.”

Charis felt as if she had just broken the surface having been underwater too long.

From ‘Edge of Doom‘ by E.M. Swift-Hook.

In a minute, Martha thought, I’m gonna lose my shit altogether. 

The patronising clerk looked over her designer spectacles at the shabby elderly lady and sighed. 

“These security questions are…” then her voice was drowned out by klaxons and the crash of falling steel barriers.

Martha felt an arm across her throat, and something cold pressed to her temple.

“Back off, or the old dear gets it.”

‘Old dear’ was the final straw – and Martha did lose her shit. 

It’s not a good idea to take a hostage with a Glock in her pocket and no compunction about using it.

©️jj 2019

An Extra Topping of Horror by Darrell B Nelson is a comedy for those raised on cheap horror movies. It takes all the horror tropes and puts a weird twist on them.

This description comes from Stephanie Flores’s review:

‘An Extra Topping of Horror’ is a B-horror movie written out in novel form. Brian is a pizza-delivery man who does not let aliens, demons, etc, faze him and teams up with a time-traveling physicists through countless adventures that are extremely reminiscent of pop-culture and horror movies from the past.’

Brian looked to his right to see an enormous orchid with a stem over 6 feet tall, the flower bulb on top was larger than Brian’s head.
Brian was too shocked to move as the orchid wrapped a root around his shoulders and the enormous flower bulb shot towards his head. It moved towards him too quickly for him to react and all he could think was that becoming plant food was a fitting end to his strange life.
Brian took a deep breath so that at least he could die with some dignity when the menacing bulb slowed at the last minute to gently rub against Brian’s cheek. He could have sworn the plant was purring.
Brian used his free hand to reach up and softly stroke the flower. It responded by wiggling back and forth and rubbing up against Brian. It was definitely purring now although Brian couldn’t see where the purr was coming from.
“Well, That didn’t go as planned,” the owner of the greenhouse said.
“You figured the plant would eat me, didn’t you?” Brian asked.
“Well, um.” The owner stared at the ground. “She likes meat.”
“You’ve been too afraid of her to get close enough to know she loves attention?” Brian slowly stroked the attention-starved plant, the old real estate agent in him noticed that there was a phone right next to Audrey, a plus for an outbuilding.
“I thought she’d swallow me whole,” the owner confessed. “I was planning on using a stray cat or dog to test, but I couldn’t do that to a poor defenseless animal.”
“So you thought you’d try a delivery driver first.” Brain grinned as he stroked Audrey’s bulb.
“I figured no one would miss a pizza boy,” the old man said, “I mean they are easy to replace.”
“Oh, She’s too loving to do that.” He turned to address the purring plant, “Aren’t you?”
“Look this was just a…” The owner started.
“The pizza is $15.85 and under the circumstances I think a good tip is order, don’t you?” Brian told him pulling out the pizza.
“Okay,” the owner said sheepishly, “Here’s forty is that good enough?”
“Yeah,” Brian said disentangling himself from Audrey’s loving roots, “That’s fine, Just give her a good petting from time to time.”
“You’d better appreciate this, boy.” The old man growled, “I warn you if you mention this to anyone I can make your life a living hell.”
“Maybe.” Brian handed him the Pizza and took his money, being careful to avoid Audrey’s affectionate roots. “But my life has been shot to hell so many times that I could be hell’s tour guide.”
As he was walking back to his car Brian could hear the old man saying, “Sorry Audrey I didn’t know you liked to be petted, there, there…Audrey your roots have me awful tight… Audrey what are you doing?? Audrey stop that…”
Brian stopped on the path and briefly debated turning around to see if everything was all right, but he figured if Audrey had decided to eat the man it served him right. Not paying attention to a sweet plant like that, also he hated the fact that he was leaving Kyle to clean up for him so he needed to get back to the Pizza Joint.

A Bite of... Darrell B Nelson

Q1: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

An An Extra Topping of Horror was my most “out there” book, and at the same time very autobiographical. My main character, Brian, had lost everything and had to take a job delivering Pizzas in a small American town. At the time I had gone from making six figures to delivering Pizzas in a small American town. So not a stretch.
Brian goes through the journey of self-discovery, finding out what is really important in life, while saving the Earth. I went through the same journey, didn’t save the Earth though.
90% of the customers were inspired by my actual customers, in a carnival caricature type way.

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

Writing is definitely a way of staying sane, for me. I can work out my thoughts and emotions in a safe place. Sometimes find gruesome ways to kill people, something that is frowned upon in real life. I like to think the difference between being crazy and being a writer is a crazy person has voices in their head talking to them, a writer has voices in their head talking to each other.

Q3: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

Not every book. In An Extra Topping of Horror, only a few of the character’s sexual orientation were mentioned.
Mind Thief on the other hand was set in college. Students are more open of what their orientation is, so 9 of the characters and side characters had their orientation revealed. Only 2 were straight. The funny thing is I had a reviewer say LGBQTI weren’t represented because I didn’t label them as such, and my heroine wasn’t bi, just really bad at being straight.
The thing is, I’ve only had one guy ever “tell” me he was gay, that was on our third date and he was wondering why I didn’t put out. BTW:His technique would have been better if he took me to a nice dinner, not just stopped by my room with a six-pack. My friends give me subtle clues, like when a guy introduces me to their husband or long term boyfriend, I hope they are gay. When I’m with guys talking about our wives and a girl joins and talks about her wife, I think she just might be gay. Subtle clues like that.
In my writing I take the same approach. Unless you are dating them, sexual orientation is the least important thing to know about a person. They will reveal themselves to you with subtle clues, like introducing you to their spouse.

Darrell in his own words

Darrell B. Nelson is a former Securities Broker and Insurance Agent who has decided to use the total meltdown of his former industry, and the total destruction of any illusions of personal financial security the meltdown caused, as an opportunity to pursue a writing career.
His passion for writing was encouraged at a young age by his mother, who would read to him every night. Fueling his dreams in ways only books can. As he got older she took him to the library every week. Letting his imagination soar.
While other children his age were dealing with where they were and what they were doing, he was flying through space helping to build Asimov’s Foundation, Make way for Clarke’s Star Child, or living on Bova’s Selene. Needless to say, he tripped over things a lot.
When he started writing he knew in the future his works would be of great importance, as time travelers arrived and started watching his every move. Or, maybe they were cats, wondering if he would pet them and rub their ears. Time Travelers have whiskers and like to curl up in your lap, right?

You can find Darrell B Nelson on Goodreads, Twitter or his own website.

The fat boy rode into town on a Fat Boy. After wrestling his pride and joy onto its stand, he ambled into the shade of the store. Two teenagers who leaned against the dirty wall of the boarded-up saloon grinned.

The smaller of the duo reached into one of his cracked boots and withdrew a screwdriver.

While his friend kept watch, he approached the machine.

The wail of an alarm split the air and the thief lay twitching in the dirt with a blackened tool in his hand.

The fat boy rode out of town on his Fat Boy.

©️jj 2019