The ant was a hard worker, spent every waking moment pretty much working hard to earn money to feed himself and his family and to save for retirement. He’d see the grasshopper getting all dressed up and going out with his friends every night and shake his head sadly, knowing what was to come.

Years went by. The ant worked ever harder and the grasshopper socialised and had a grand time.

Then one day the ant’s wife left him saying he never had any time for her and was so obsessed with work and money he had no idea how to relax and enjoy life. The grasshopper, however, had made so many friends that even when he fell on hard times they all rallied around to help him out.

Moral of the story: Always make time for your spouse.

Waldo sent his video and CV, and waited to be laughed out of court. But to his surprise the radio station took him seriously enough to give him a single slot on a Tuesday morning when the regular guy was off with a hangover.

He rocked it.

The rest is history.

Waldo’s Weekdays became the most popular show on Radio Crumple. 

It was all going well until Rocky Mouthpiece, previously the most popular presenter, noticed Waldo had overtaken him.

His response? A video of Waldo arriving for work, which went viral.

Waldo is now the only cool ghoul in town…

©️jj 2019

The downside was that living on Invercallus was like living in a furnace.
Jaz hated that you couldn’t go out in the daytime without wearing full on protective gear to shield from the heat and solar radiation. But at night it was very different. The air was cool and clear and the red rocky landscape looked beautiful. Even so the only habitable zone was at one of the poles – it was the only place water didn’t all evaporate away and the only place some stubby plants had managed to put the odd splash of colour on the dull ochre-grey background.
Jaz had never figured why they didn’t go full dome for the settlements here. Instead people shifted their way of life and spent the days sleeping and the nights transacting whatever of business or labour they needed to do. Maybe that was because many here came from Thuringen and were well used to days that were nights.
There were plenty of domes. But not connected in any proper way. The entire settlement was pretty much a huge spaceport and nothing else. Except unlike most spaceports, each bay had its own attached residential mini-dome. Maybe some of the privately owner-occupied ones had lavish fixtures and fittings, but as the Tarams didn’t even really live in theirs it was pretty basic. Jaz could compare it with the kind of comfort level he’d endured in barracks during his time with the Specials – except the food here was a lot better.
Much of the time, Jaz had the place to himself. Thuringen was a short hopper ride away and, like most else of the people who called Invercallus home, the Tarams preferred to be there, or anywhere else, as much as they could. He wasn’t surprised. Going over what they had was depressing enough. The bulk of their finances were tied up to pay for the bay. The ship, such as it was, belonged to them. And that had been the first big row – Day One of the new plan.
“Sell it. We need something newer, faster. Something that you don’t need to worry if it’s going to break up from gravity stress each time you hit into FTL.”
He had been sitting with Marche going over the team’s resources. Big lists on remote screens all over the walls. She shot up, her face snarling like he’d said something to insult her.
“It’s my ship. It’s all I got. If I sell we’d have to lease a ship and that’d eat more than we can raise from the work we got offering.”
Jaz ignored her snarling tone.
“The work you had offering. You might recall we agreed you’re not taking that kind of thing anymore.”
Marche had her fists tight and for a moment Jaz was calculating where he’d need to go to put her on the ground without hurting her too bad or damaging anything. But she didn’t attack. Just stood there glaring.
“So,, we spend out on a lease ship and pay for it with what?” She gestured to the bleak land beyond the dome. “Sand? ‘Cos that’s all we’d be left with. We’d not even be able to pay the rent on this place.”
“You would. Even at breakers’ prices your flying scrapheap’s going to be worth enough to keep this place and pay the lease on a decent ship for half a year – and get you some specialist gear. But, I’m thinking you’ll likely find some scrimping freetrader willing to pay over that base. Besides, you got no choice. That deathtrap is getting to the point it’s going to cost you more to run it for a year than it’s worth. It’s holding you back, like a fucking great stone.”
Marche looked like she’d run into a wall. “Specialist gear? You mean more than standard stuff?”
Jaz nodded, trying to put as much conviction as he could into his words. “That’s what you need. Something you can offer others can’t. Something you can make a name for. The big mistake most teams make starting up is doing what you’ve been doing – taking whatever’s on offer and not thinking strategically.”
She was gawping at him now, like she wasn’t sure if he was looped or genius.
“And if we don’t make enough money in them six cycles?”
Jaz shrugged.
“Then you know you’re not good enough to cut it, and you go find a decent team that’s already established and sign up with them instead.”
“But if we still had the ship -”
“You could turn freetrader instead. ‘Cos by that time, with the big advantage you got in having me along on this, if you can’t make it as a team you’ll never make it.”
He could see she was unhappy. Chewing it over like the remains from a day old synth-meal.
“And if I say no?”
Jaz shook his head.
“If you say no, I’ll still give you some basic training. But won’t bring you much. Maybe get you the chance to tag on some mediocre commander’s reserve list in the long run. That’s the closest you’ll get to what you want to be.”
She’d still baulked.
“I need to think. Ask the others. It’s not just my future.”
“Take the time you need. Just not too much of it.”
She hadn’t needed much. He’d still been going over the lists, checking prices, juggling figures and looking into what kind of work was most in demand – or at least most in demand and not going to get them all stint in the Specials if they got caught doing it.
Marche came back with the others close behind, looking like school kids being up for misbehaviour in front of the class. Jaz wiped off the screens and stared at them expectantly. Shit. Just standing there, freshfaced, they made him feel ancient.
“Well?”
“We’re in. We’ll sell the ship.”
Result.

From Iconoclast: Not To Be, the penultimate book in the Fortune's Fools series, by E.M. Swift-Hook, due to be released later this year.

Everyone said Sal was crazy taking in a critter she found scavenging in the bins, and nobody ever trusted that dawg one bit.

Then little Lacey Portman went missing – while Injun Joe the tracker was out of town.

Nobody knew what to do, but Sal says why not give Coyote a try. 

Lacey’s momma fetched her teddy bear and Coyote had him a long sniff.

We was surprised when he headed back into town with his nose down and his tail high.

Everybody knew lawyer Smithson loved little kids. We just never knew how much.

Now Coyote is a hero…

©️jj 2019

Ben Curtis is a new author whose first science fiction novel Inventa will be out this summer.

It felt as though every cell of her body was being simultaneously pierced by hot, barbed needles. Her fingers and toes were burning. Her back attempted to spasm, but was held in check by the cramping of her stomach. She tried to scream, but all that came was high pitched screech, followed by uncontrollable coughing as her lungs filled with air for the first time in nearly four centuries. The primal scream she sought came soon after, as her body twitched and contorted as though being electrocuted.
It wasn’t her first time, of course, dealing with the aftermath of hypersleep. She wasn’t former military, unlike most of the bridge crew, but she had captained multiple vessels along numerous routes for nearly two decades before being tapped as captain of Inventa.
Her father had started a modest but successful freight company based out of one of the minor stations orbiting Mars. Any time he would allow it, she would come along and pester everyone she could come across, asking questions about everything from substations and engine radiation to why the grates in the mess hall were big enough to let forks fall through. Most ignored her, or gave her a mix of sighs and shrugs, but occasionally a kind technician or engineer would humor her inquisitive nature.
She had always been entranced by space, and space travel. The only thing that she didn’t like, the only thing that she hated, was waking up from hypersleep.
After what seemed like an eternity, her muscles began to relax, and she curled up into the closest thing she could to the fetal position inside the hypersleep chamber. The queasiness started to set in, and it felt as though she were spinning inside her mind.
As the ringing in her ears began to subside, she began to hear a voice. Muted at first, after a few loops of the program, she was able to recognize the unnecessarily upbeat voice of the ship’s V.I. program.
“Captain Muri, you have just awoken from hypersleep. Remain calm. You are aboard the Inventa. The year is 3043. You have arrived in Kepler-452. Once you are able, please acknowledge this message by saying ‘Acknowledge.’ … Captain Muri, you have just awoken …”
“God … God damn it, I’ve shit myself.” Muri’s voice seemed foreign to her. Her throat felt like it was being rubbed down with sandpaper.
“I’m sorry, I did not recognize that. Please acknowledge this message by …”
“Acknowledge!” The scream dislodged some stubborn phlegm that rocketed out onto the digital display above her. The sight of the loogy being backlit by the screen mixed with the scent of her soiled jumpsuit sent her into dry heaves.

A Bite of... Ben Curtis

(Q1) What is your biggest inspiration as a writer?

I always struggle to answer this question. As someone who has dabbled in a handful of different genres, short stories, reviews, critiques and the like, it always changes. If we’re getting down to brass tacks, to the constant, I’d have to say corporations and unions. About four years ago, I was working for a large grocery retailer. I had five different managers, at different store levels, along with the everpresent corporate overlords. We were numbers. Cogs. I don’t ever want to go back to that, and it drives me to write.

(Q2) Which three famous authors (living or not) would you most want to invite to a dinner party?

Samuel Clemens. It might be cliché, but I mean, Mark Twain is THE American author to much of the world, and for good reason. However, I’m inviting SPECIFICALLY Samuel Clemens. Before the fame and bravado, before he became Mark Twain. Preferably he’d be laughably drunk. Then, perhaps, just maybe, there can be the illusion of us being compeers. Alongside Sam would be Christopher Moore, my favorite author. He is always my go-to when someone asks me for a recommendation, and I consider ‘Fool’ and ‘Lamb’ as must reads for everyone. Stephenie Me – stay with me, come back – Stephenie Meyer would also be there. Her success cannot be ignored, and people are still riding the wave of young adult fantasy romance she created. I’d love to get those three people around a table, booze flowing, and just quietly sit there with a notepad.

(Q3) You are stranded on a desert island with a working dvd player and a boxed set of the complete series of which sci-fi series? 

Mystery Science Theater 3000, the original ten seasons. This one was simple, at least for me. Amazing wit, great humor, and a wonderfully over-the-top premise that is truly relatable to me. I was, Hell, I still am THAT GUY. The one who sits in nearly empty theaters at 11am watching notably bad movies, cracking jokes to his friends while deriving great pleasure from the failure of others. I even loved the movie, which I believe solidifies my position as ‘Super Fan Boy’ quite nicely. As far as picking only one episode, wow, I mean, how? How can you just pick one? There are several true classics. I’ve actually been sitting here, staring at my keyboard, for a solid ten minutes, weighing the pros and cons of episode after episode, trying to figure out what I would consider the definitive episode. Ready for the cop-out? There’s two. I know, I know it’s cheating, but come on, there are ten seasons to consider. Both ‘Final Sacrifice’ and ‘Space Mutiny’ are brilliant, and after much internal debate, I feel represent the best of the series. You can watch them, for free, on YouTube, right now. Go. Seriously. Go watch. Right now. This interview will still be here when you’re done. You’re welcome.

About Ben...

In the arid deserts of western Colorado, a man sits in front of a keyboard. A failed comedian, unaccomplished writer, and undistinguished film and music critic, he struggled to adequately describe himself well enough to satisfy the basics of a biography. Perhaps it was nerves. Perhaps it was humility. Perhaps he was distracted by the rugged, yet classically handsome face being reflected by the dimly lit monitor before him. He did have an amazing chin.

You can find Ben on Twitter where you can follow his random ramblings about life the universe and everything!

Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. But he listened anyway…

The first female voice was laced with casual malice. “My dear, you are under no obligation to be faithful to him.”

A man chuckled. “Indeed you are not. May I offer my services?”

He recognised the third voice and his heart leapt into his throat.

It was his young and lovely wife. Who laughed as he waited for her to betray him.

“You fools. Of course I am under an obligation. He is a kind and faithful husband. And fidelity is all I have to give him.”

He breathed again.

©️jj 2019

Sam took the jug from Jim’s unresisting hand. “Right, cappuccino for Patsy. What for you?”
“Oh, can I get cappuccino too?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Sam took two jumbo-sized cappuccino cups from the cupboard and dialled up two measures of espresso for each cup before adding the hot frothy milk. He fetched a smallish tray and put a plate of assorted biscuits and the two cappuccinos on it.
“There you go, mate. Sustenance for Patsy.”
“Yeah, and she’ll scarcely be out of the shower, so my stock will be so high.”

He went off, and Sam found himself chuckling at Jim whistling a merry tune. He grabbed a big umbrella from the boot room and dashed outside to check the postbox. It seemed to be bulging and he grabbed the contents before running back indoors. As usual, it was mostly circulars, with a sprinkling of business stuff, and by the time he had binned the circulars and shoved the business mail in the office for Anna to deal with he was left with four letters: one typewritten envelope and one handwritten for him and two handwritten for Anna. He got himself a coffee and sat at the table. The typewritten envelope turned out to be bumf from a holiday company, which he lobbed into the bin. The handwritten envelope was much more interesting, being from a young anaesthetist he had befriended several years before who was now working with Medicins sans Frontiers, and who had heard of Sam’s marriage. The young woman wrote her congratulations, and sent a picture of herself with a man on whose leg Sam had operated when he was working at the very same hospital. The man was now a husband and father, but he had never forgotten Sam and sent his blessings. Sam smiled. It felt good to have helped somebody. He was just finishing the letter when Anna came in.
“Sit. Have another coffee. Read your mail” he said. “I have a feeling our guests may be busy for a while.”
She grinned, and sat. Sam went to make her second cappuccino of the morning.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Anna said. “It’s from Bonnie’s breeder. She writes about twice a year. This time she has sent a picture of Bonnie’s sister and a litter of puppies.”
“Show me.”
Anna obliged.
“Oh my aren’t they just cute. Did you see Bon Bon when she was that small.”
“No. She was a present from Patsy, and I didn’t meet her till she was sixteen weeks, by which time Pats had house and lead trained her. You were grinning at your post too.”
Sam handed it over and Anna read it quickly.
“Oh Sam,” she said. “What a nice thing to know. You changed that man’s life.”
“Maybe. But it does feel good.”
“I’ll bet. I don’t recognise this handwriting… Oh. It’s from Tariq. Oh my goodness. This is a bit odd.”
“What love?”
“He says he didn’t call because he isn’t sure how secure his phone is. But there’s a Russian gent – name unpronounceable – frequents the S&M clubs who is asking around for info about Jim and his family. Also says the Russian has an unhealthy interest in underage boys. That’s too close to home, that is!”
“It is. And. Coincidence? No. I don’t believe in coincidences. Give Jim the info. It’s somewhere to start looking.”
“You’re right, love. It bears checking. And Jim has the tools and the friends to check it out thoroughly. Now. Do you think our guests will have finished whatever it is they have been doing? If they have, I reckon breakfast omelettes.”
“Good thinking wife. I’ll be a brave man and go find out…”

While Sam made his ostentatiously loud way upstairs, Anna assembled ingredients for four breakfast omelettes. Sam came back, gave her thumbs up  and started to lay the table. She smiled at him and they worked in happy harmony until Jim and Patsy appeared. Patsy was carrying the coffee tray and her cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink.

Anna laughed out loud before giving her friend a big hug. “Silly moo. Be proud. Your man loves you, and you love him. As to owt else, Sam’s heard sex noises before and he’s even been known to make one or two.”
Patsy sniggered.
“Oh I missed you when we weren’t talking. Nobody else quite understands like you.”
“Probably because nobody has known us as long as we’ve known us. Now. Sit. Omelette?”
“Lovely.”
Sam brought toast to the table. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Cappuccino please,” Patsy said.
“Tea for me if it ain’t too much trouble,” Jim rumbled.
“No prob.”

Jane Jago

She was accounted a plain woman, plain and overweight. Not worth a second glance. None of the wispy nipped, tucked and botoxed women around could begin to understand how she had caught herself  fascinating husband, or how she kept him having caught him.

It would have shocked them to the depths of their shallow souls had they known that how she laughed at their naivety.

She lay in her rumpled bed and looked at the portrait that hung between the windows. Her husband looked too, before he laid an affectionate hand on her ample hip.

“Still as lovely as ever…”

©️jj 2019

The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of summer breeze
The sound of a skein of geese in flight
The movement of leaves on a tree
The dance of a barefoot child at play
The tears of the sorrowful and strong
The piper greeting the close of day
Are all notes in my lady’s song
Where hands on strings make music bright
Where nightingales serenade the light
Where unseen orchestras play
Where dancing demons skitter by
Where eagles dip their wings and fly
Where the goddess has feet of clay
The whisper of breath across my cheek
The touch of a sound like a bell
Is my lady strong or is she weak
Is this heaven or is it hell
I no longer know and I no longer care
As the song in the winter wind ruffles my hair
And I follow my lady so bright and so fair
And the sound of her singing strips my soul bare
The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of breeze in July
Her song is why I stand and fight
The reason I live or I die

© Jane Jago 2017

It wanted but ten minutes to midnight when Matthias stepped out of his door and sniffed the starlit air. His dogs, Florence and Fido, came out too and sat at his feet regarding the quiet dark landscape through round, intelligent eyes. Matthias lit up his long, clay pipe and smoked  in ruminative quiet for a moment before bending to place one hand on each soft furry head.
“I wonder how many we can expect tonight?”
By way of an answer Florence wagged her tail briefly, and Fido gave a small wuff.
Their master smiled.
“Good dogs.”
It was, he thought, a pleasant night to be standing in the well manicured grass, smoking a pipe, and listening to the small sounds of the night creatures in the trees and the crevices in the dry stone wall that surrounded his demesne.
Somewhere across the silent valley a bell rung, tolling the midnight hour with its melodious chimes. Florence and Fido stiffened, and Matthias knocked the dottle out of his pipe on a convenient stone.
He turned to watch the well-worn path that led uphill from the town and his eyes caught the gleam of a pale light coming his way. What was at first one light, became two, then three, then a dozen, until finally a score or more of the pallid glimmers progressed across the springy grass and through the tall trees to where Matthias stood.
As the first reached him, it changed from an insubstantial mote of light to the figure of an elderly man, bent and soured with age. The dogs barred his way and he looked down vaguely.
Matthias called through the open doorway.
“Who comes to meet Archibald Smith.”
A dozen or so voices replied, so the dogs parted allowing the old man to pass into his new home.
The ritual repeated for each of those who sought entry and it gladdened Matthias’ heart that all had someone to speak for them – meaning he had not any to turn away into the unforgiving sky.
He looked down at the dogs.
“Time to turn in.”
But Fido growled and Florence pointed to where one glimmer of light, paler and more frightened than any that had been before seemed to be trying to hide itself among the tall grass that bordered the wall. Matthias beckoned and it came reluctantly to where he stood beside the square of warm light that marked his door. As the light touched down in front of him it became a very old woman, a woman with no teeth and precious little hair, a woman so wrinkled and wizened and diminished by age that it was difficult to tell what she might have looked like under her loose and greyish skin. But then she looked at Matthias, and the sheer beauty of her grass-green eyes stabbed him in the breast like a sword.
“Why do you try to hide, sister. Is there no one awaiting you beyond the veil?”
“I do not know, sir doorkeeper. I only know that I tremble to think that he who was my husband may see me as I am now and regret awaiting me at the portal for sixty years.”
Matthias smiled his understanding.
“Who comes to meet Grace Sandling?”
“I do,” a great voice from beyond the doorway stirred the air and set the scent of honeysuckle tickling the noses of the dogs.
“Come forth then. It is permitted.”
A tall, strong auburn-haired figure with a neatly trimmed beard and big strong hands walked out into the night.
“My Grace,” he said tenderly and fell to his knees on the award in front of the old woman. “My Grace, come to me at last.”
The woman shook like an aspen tree in the winter and covered her face with her insubstantial hands.
“I am not as you remember me. Cruel eld has robbed me of both beauty and strength. I am ashamed to let you see me thus.”
The man reached out and removed her hands from in front of her face. He looked into her eyes.
“You are exactly as I remember you. Brave and beautiful and kind.”
He carried both her hands to his lips and as Matthias watched the years fell from her, until she stood sword-straight and as lovely as a spring morning. The man offered her his arm and they walked through the doorway together.
Matthias swallowed a lump in his throat before whistling the dogs and walking through the door with them at his heels.
The door closed behind them and the garden and the dry stone walls folded onto themselves leaving only a bare hillside in the cold moonlight.

©️Jane Jago