The name’s Nero, Sam Nero. Private eye and augmented android. Me and my holographic sidekick, Sugar, operate out of an office on the fifty-fifth level of The Last City. We do okay. But some days are a bit bumpier than others…

When a dame whose everyday walk is as smooth and studiedly sexy as a big jungle cat, and whose make-up is as immaculate as a well-pressed designer suit, arrives in your office at a shambling run with her face all over tears and snot it’s a safe bet that something pretty bad is wrong.
I was lost in thought, with my feet propped on my desk and my hat tipped way down over my eyes, when my office door was thrown open in a dramatic fashion. I barely had long enough to wonder why in the hell my holographic door was now making an eldritch shriek, when Katie Scarlett O’Halleran and her exceptional bosom landed almost in my lap. She was crying, and her face was a mess.

She grabbed me by the lapels and tried to shake me.
“Sam. Sam. You have to come. Somebody has taken Daddy.”
I sat bolt upright and squared my shoulders. Anybody brave enough to mess with Mister Aitch was certainly a big fish, and I guessed I was about to go shark fishing. I grasped the sobbing girl by her slender shoulders.
“Calm down Katie Scarlett, and tell me what happened.”
“I already told you,” she all but screamed, “somebody has taken Daddy.”
“Details Katie, details.”

I gently compelled her to sit down, and held onto her until her chest stopped heaving and she took two steadying breaths. Then I got the bottle out of my drawer and poured her a stiff one. Her teeth chattered against the side of the glass, but the act of drinking calmed her almost as much as the bourbon.
“Daddy’s personal alarm sounded about an hour back. Me and the twins ran, but his office door was locked. When we broke the door down he was gone, and there was blood all over.”
“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t think anything was okay. “Where are the twins now?”
“Flirting with your holographic floozie. We set droids to watch on the office and came straight here.”
I decided now was not the time to react to the slur on Sugar’s character. Instead, I reached into the locked drawer of my desk and pulled out two extra weapons, a mini blaster that I stuck in my sock, and a weighted sap that slipped into my pocket.
“Let’s go then.”

The twins and Sugar were in animated sign language conversation.
“Sugar,” I said, “if anybody comes looking…”
“I don’t know where you are, and I certainly never saw these folks.” She flashed me that empty-headed smile that I knew hid a mind like a steel trap and wiggled her assets. I gave her the raised eyebrow and we left.

The trip down the glides was tense and silent. Katie had herself together but she was only holding by a thread, while the twins obviously looked to me for a lead. I’ll admit it. I was worried. So much so that I didn’t even bother to exchange words with the young chancer who thought it would be a good idea to put his hands on Katie Scarlett; I just broke his wrist before I threw him off the glide. Myk gave me the thumb, and Zig grinned a tight grin.

At Hood’s Bar, everything looked smooth on the surface, the booths were full, the bar droids were just about run off their feet, and the holographic pianist was playing that damned song. Again. The undertones of worry were there if you had the eyes to see them, though. The droids were jittery, and every security guy had a hand on his weapon. Oh yeah. It was tense and they were all looking to Sam Nero for a lead.

“Office,” I said and followed Katie Scarlett’s long legs down the familiar corridor. She signalled to a guard droid, who opened the door.
“You all wait here.”
I strode into the office then stopped in my tracks. The blood was wrong, it smelled wrong. I rolled back the plastic ‘skin’ from my fingertip and bent to touch the red fluid. It was blood all right, but not human blood. It was rat blood. Somebody had recently killed one of the rats that inhabit the tunnels that honeycomb The City. So why was that blood artistically splattered all over O’Halleran’s office?

I turned and closed the office door. I spoke softly.
“Okay Mister O’Halleran, what gives?”
A panel behind the desk opened and the big shark himself stepped out. He was a little dusty, but unharmed, and he held a blaster in one big fist. Seeing it was me, and I was alone, he pocketed the weapon. His flat, killer’s eyes regarded me unblinkingly for a second.
“You have just presented me with a problem, Nero.”
“How so?” I leaned one shoulder against a bit of door that wasn’t smeared with rat blood and lifted a brow at the hulking killer.
“I got information that you had taken money to kill me. And that Katie Scarlett was in on the deal.”
“So you decided to disappear?”
“I did. And I heard my little girl screaming. And now you come in here quiet, with your hands empty. And I don’t know what to think.”
I shrugged.
“Try thinking that you’ve been had.”
He regarded me for a long moment.
“Maybe I have. But what to do about it.”
I examined my fingernails for a long minute before giving him my blandest stare.
“Go back in that cubbyhole and await developments. Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or find out who set this up.”
“And how do you suggest I go about that?”
“Think for a start. Think about who would benefit if you thought Katie Scarlett had betrayed you.”
O’Halleran stared at me. His eyes were lightless and unreadable. Then he nodded.
“I’ve thought. And now we have to catch the bastard.”
“You narrowed it down to one?”
He shook his big head ruefully.
“Not that simple. Gotta be family. Nobody else benefits. Nearest is my sister and her slimy bastard of a husband. But it don’t quite fit.”
I waited as something came across his countenance, something he didn’t like too much by the looks of him. When he said nothing I pulled my brave together and spoke up.
“Okay, Mister Aitch, what does fit?”
He looked at me with something akin to loathing, but I gave him back stare for stare and in the end he dropped his eyes.
“I got a cousin, his mammy died when he was just a button and my ma and pa brung him up as their own. We was like brothers. He has a son, a smooth handsome son…”
He stopped speaking, and I kept my mouth shut too, knowing that this glimpse of O’Halleran’s humanity was a dangerous thing to have seen. He was quiet for a while, but when he did speak his voice was as coldly unemotional as it always was unless he was talking to Katie Scarlett.
“All right, Nero. You are supposed to be the best. Catch the bastard for me. I’ll pay whatever.”
“I’m working for Katie Scarlett right now.”
His face worked for a moment.
“I suppose you are. So now what?”
“That depends on you. Can you get out of here unseen?”
“I can.”
“Once you are out, where can you get to?”
“My private apartment, upstairs. You will need a key card to get in,”
“Doesn’t Katie Scarlett have one?”
“No. She has her own apartment and I don’t have a key to that.”
I thought he probably did have a key, but deemed it prudent not to voice that thought. He handed me a card and turned to go back through the panel.
“One hour,” I said to his retreating back, and he nodded.

To be continued…

©️Jane Jago 2018

You can find the first Sam Nero story in Dust Publishing's anthology The Last City together with other stories about his fellow Citizens...

He chose her because she was obviously drunk. Walking her home his mouth watered and he caressed the rope in his pocket.

Once in her modest apartment, he grasped her wrists and held them over her head. She giggled and nuzzled his neck. He smiled inwardly – this was going to be too easy.

Keeping her wrists in one hand he used the other to grope for his coil of oiled sisal.

He was so intent that he didn’t hear a heavy step behind him or feel the blow that stoved in his skull…

The leather-clad executioner spat. 

“One down.”

©️jj 2018

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is that time of year again when tinsel and fake snow are seen liberally strewn over windows and every house in the neighbourhood is illuminated by thousands of watts worth of multicoloured flashing bulbs. Giant inflatable Santas bend at the waist as they slowly prolapse onto the lawn and herds of plastic reindeer can be found grazing on every municipal greensward.

Ah yes, Christmas!

The time every writer remembers the magic as a child of seeing the Christmas tree lit up after hearing swearing coming from the front room for an hour. Or the apparently endless amounts of food on a groaning board, whilst relatives are sitting, groaning, bored and picking fights for the sake of it. Or the sound of carols through the shopping-mall loudspeakers being interrupted by non-sequitur advertisements and announcements. Or the excitement of unwrapping presents so quickly replaced by the despair as another Christmas jumper hand knitted by Great Aunt Tracey is revealed beneath the gaudy paper or a pair of thermal, odour-reducing socks in vibrant tartan from Mumsie.

This, dear RWW, is the very magic you need to ensure you capture on the tip of your quill and then spread in decorative loops and swirls of language to fill the pages of that essential for every aspiring author – the Seasonal Short.

How to Write A Seasonal Short Story.

To be honest, a wise beginner will start with the lesser festivals of the writing calendar. Maybe a little romantic flash fiction for Valentine’s, working through to a Halloween Horror so that by the time you reach the height of over-played, sentimentalism that is Christmas literature, you will have the technique somewhat practised.

But fear not, mes petites, even if you have not been preparing, even if you have never set pen to paper or finger to keyboard in a literary endeavour afore this moment, follow my three golden rules and you will be in with as much of a chance as the most famous author.

Rule One: Make it Maudlin.

Do not stop at soppy and sentimental, instead toboggan through the more flaccid emotions and pitch straight into the point where Merry marries Melancholy and keeps up an affair on the side with Nostalgia.

Rule Two: Make it Short.

This is Christmas. Your reader will be well sozzled, exhausted from family rows and trying to avoid the Queen’s speech. Their attention span will not be long. A novella is too long.

Rule Three: Make it Shiny.

Use lots of words like ‘sparkle’, ‘glitter’, ‘glow,’ ‘luminescence’, ‘coruscation’, ‘shimmer’, ‘gleam’ and ‘twinkle’.

So there, in a Nutcracker Suite, dear Reader Who Writes, is my Christmas gift to you. Use it wisely and every future festive season will bring you joyous prosperity from your literary endeavours.

Happy Christmas.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy's profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book, the worst ever 'how to write' book. Read IVy's advice with editorial comments on each blog piece by his mother, Jacintha. All courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

That spring we found out what hungry meant.

In desperation, Pa went over the hill and got work on the railroad gang. He left Ma with ten kids, and his old scatter gun. She never said much, but she cried at night.

It was getting on towards winter when a cart made its slow way up the track. It was Pa, and the stuff his railroad wages bought. Ma cooked up a feast, and we et till our bellies was drum tight.

Ma’s face glowed in the firelight as Pa took her hand in his.

“Welcome home, love,” she said.

©️jj 2018

A powerful flash fiction from Ian Bristow

A stiff ocean breeze swept past me, carrying with it the delighted chirps of those couples who had already been reunited. Their affection drove my gaze back to the sky, where I was desperate to find any sign of my beloved.

After several hours, the sprawling form of a female with her wings at full stretch glided towards the rocky shoreline. Could this be? Had my dearest, survived the hardships of a year at sea to return to the place we had professed our love so long ago?

She landed, and I started toward her. But I had only taken a few steps forward before I realized the patterns on her wings were not those of my love. I watched as she strode up the shore, her lover meeting her halfway in a foot-pattering show of affection.

The sky grew darker as several more hours drifted past with the prevailing coastal wind. The others were now nestling in for the night, tucking their heads into one another’s breasts.

Still I looked to the sky, but as the light faded, so did my chance of being reunited with my beloved. Survival out at sea was a challenge not every Albatross managed to overcome. I knew that to be true. Each year that I left this island, I knew it might be the last time I would ever see the love of my life. But each year, she had returned to me.

Until now.

Devastated, I tucked my head into my wing and tried to put the images of her returning out of my head. But the memories were powerful and my longing for her touch was insatiable. It was almost as if I could hear her calling to me–chirping her love in the tones unique to her alone. Her voice was beautiful. And the memory of it was so real I had to look, feeling like a hopeful fool for doing so.

She had already traversed half of the cragged shoreline by the time I looked up. I flapped my wings to move to her more quickly than my feet could carry me. All the fear and anxiety melted away as we clacked our beaks together in greeting. Against all of nature’s odds, she had come back to me.

Knowing in my heart I was the luckiest being alive, I led her back to the place I had prepared for us. She moved close and rubbed her head against my neck and breast, settling in to rest after her long flight.

It was for this moment that we lived. For this moment that we answered nature’s call to survive.

This moment.  

Ian Bristow is an author, artist and musician. You can follow him on Twitter

Donna was in the Dog and Scrotum when a posse from the posh end of town started in on a group of local girls.

“Bill,” she said to the barman, “call Big Eric, while I distract this lot.”

She weaved over to the dartboard. 

Her first dart landed between the ringleader’s big feet. He snarled, so arrow number two pinned him to the wall by the sleeve of his oversized hoodie.

“Go home,” she advised, as the room filled with stevedores.

They went.

Eric walked Donna home, and she found out for herself why ‘big’ was such a fitting epithet….

©️jj 2018

The opening of From A Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook a Fortune's Fools seasonal short story.

It was Midwinter.

Tegwyth reminded herself of that. A time for celebrating that the longest season had finally turned on its pivot and the warmth of summer, though short-lived, would come again. A time for gifts to be given and feasts to be eaten. In past years she had been given gifts by the owner of the caravan – her owner – trinkets to wear, bangles for her wrists and ankles, a fine scarf to protect her hair and pull over her face, keeping the dust from her nose and mouth, as it was thrown up by the caravan on the road. She had been pampered and cosseted, well treated and cared for. She had even believed she was loved.

Then last Midwinter she had become a gift.

She had seen it coming from the moment his true-born child had started speaking venom – one who would take no competition for her father’s affections. And he, in his turn, adored her and indulged her. Then the boy-child Tegwyth carried was born to live no more than a few gasping breaths, like all his sons before. She had failed him.

So at Midwinter she had been given away. A gift to seal a trading pledge with a merchant from across the ocean – a merchant from this city, from Keran. The merchant had taken her into his house and then taken almost all she cared about from her – even her hope. But when he threatened to take and sell the most precious thing in her life, she had risked everything and run away. It had been her Midwinter gift to herself.

So yes, Midwinter was about gifts and feasting, but sometimes, maybe, you had to take the gifts and help yourself to the food.

It sat on the table beside a smeared empty bowl with a lingering savoury smell of soup. Someone had bought it, eaten their fill and left half the loaf. Whoever it was did not want the bread and it had already been paid for, so it could not really be considered theft.

She had first seen it through the small window, as she stood, shivering, in the frozen white outside. Somebody had wiped away the condensation of the warmth within so they could look out, which had granted her a half-glimpse inside the tavern. That had been enough. Following a group of wealthy men and their whores through the briefly open door, then shrinking into the shadows to disguise the quality of her dress and the thin felt cloak that had been worn through in patches.

The loaf still sat unguarded. The boy clearing the tables did not seem to have noticed it yet. He was at the far side of the room, dodging between the patrons with their fine and fancy faces, plump from good eating. He ducked, avoiding a cuff aimed at his ear, as he picked up a jug someone had not yet deemed empty.

The loaf looked bigger than it had through the window. Tegwyth’s stomach called out to it and she was grateful for the sounds of raucous cheer. Without them the man standing with his back to her, close by the fire, might have heard. He was tall and even from behind she could see the wider whiskers of his beard as they spread from his chin.

She knew who he was, of course, all of Keran had heard of him. They called him Drum. He was someone special here and his arrival the previous day had been talked of everywhere as she hunted for food. Not many sons of Temsevar, as she knew well, made their way to other worlds and even fewer of those who did ever came back as he did. Even here in Keran, where the twin domes of the spaceport humped high with snow dominated the city, it still seemed strange beyond imagining for Tegwyth. She struggled to believe that anyone could come from worlds beyond the stars.

A Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook is available as an ebook, audiobook and paperback special edition with typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

The God of Small Creatures tried to hide his boredom as a tribe of harvest mice yammered on about barley, a praying mantis prayed long and loud, and a goldfish forgot where he was halfway through whatever he was going to say.

The god’s wife looked up from her knitting and pulled a face.

“I know it could be worse,” he grinned, “It could be my week to do geeks, or poets.”

“Hush. Don’t remind me. I never knew there were so many frustrated bards out there.”

He sniggered.

“It wasn’t bards you called them.”

“I only added three letters…”

©️jj 2018

Wizard of the North is the second book in the Soul Forge trilogy by Richard H Stephens. It picks up right where Soul Forge leaves off.

The new Emperor, Karvus, is shown the power of the Serpent’s Eye by Helleden, the sorcerer:

   Karvus made a meaty fist and held the ring before Helleden’s face—oh, how easy it would be to smash the sorcerer’s teeth in. Swallowing the idea, he said, “I hold it this close to you and nothing. What good is it that? I’ll pretty well have to make love to the wizard if I’m to make use of this.”
   “What you do with the wizard after you kill him is up to you.” Helleden’s dark eyes glowered. “That ring was forged during the onset of the wizard crusades to detect spellcasters. More importantly, it was used to locate the strongest wizards. It’s my understanding the Serpent’s Eye is triggered by the proximity of a notable wizard’s energy. The more adept the wizard, the easier it is for the Eye to locate them. Your ancestors used this ring to track down and eliminate the entire guild at Arcanium.”
   “Except one,” Karvus corrected him.
   “Except one.”
   “Then why doesn’t it react to your presence?”
   Helleden smirked. “Come now. You don’t honestly think I would allow a simple trinket to detect my presence.”
   The sorcerer did something with his fingers and lips so quickly that Karvus wasn’t sure he had done anything at all. The Serpent’s Eye flared to life, staring straight at Helleden.
   Pain shot through Karvus’ finger. He flailed the affected hand around to no avail. Clutching the ring, he pulled it off and threw it to the ground, its touch burning his fingertips. “For the love of hell!”
   The ring bounced and came to rest near Karvus’ feet. The eye stared up at Helleden.
   “You see? You will know when the wizard draws nigh. The closer you become, the stronger the sensation.”
   Karvus cupped his burning hand, afraid to see what the ring had done to his skin, but when he opened it and examined his finger, there were no signs that he had worn the talisman at all.
   Helleden plucked the ring from the ground. The eye had gone dormant. He wiped off the dirt it had gathered and handed it back to the reluctant emperor. “I suggest you wear it around your neck once the ring detects the wizard.”
   Karvus gaped. The sorcerer was mad if he thought he would entertain placing something as dangerous as the Serpent’s Eye around his neck.
   “Oh, not to worry, my emperor,” Helleden said, as if he had read Karvus’ thoughts.
   Karvus wasn’t certain the sorcerer hadn’t.
   “As I said, the ring’s reaction is proportionate to how adept the magic user is. I can assure you that you will not find one who is even remotely as powerful as I.”
   Karvus held the ring in his fist. The eye flared to life, for but a moment, its surface stinging his hand. He opened his fingers and jerked his hand away. The ring fell, the eye lifeless before it hit the ground.
   Helleden’s smug face spoke of mischief. “Do not forget, my emperor. Bring me back the wizard’s staff. It is the only thing that will prove you have completed your task.”

Watch the trailer for Wizard of the North!

A Bite of... Richard H Stephens

Q1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?

   I would say my hero is very much like how I would envision myself were I to live in his world. Silurian Mintaka is a quiet person when it comes to meeting new people but he opens up and likes to joke around with those he knows well.
   Silurian sticks up for the innocent and wronged people in society. Although never wishing to come to blows, when the gloves are dropped, Silurian is more than adept at opening a can of medieval whoop-ass.

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

   I read almost strictly, but not entirely, fantasy, so this answer is slanted with that proviso in mind.
   Is it important to include them all? No. If the story calls for any shade, that is perfectly fine. To purposely include as many shades as one can jam into a story is wrong, in my humble opinion, and actually belittles the causes the writer is trying to support. Writing about these shades without advancing the story serves two negative purposes.
   One, it creates a disjointed storyline that does nothing but pull the reader from the story they are trying to enjoy. 
   Two is a little more complex. To point out a shade just for the sake of championing one’s belief comes across to me as preaching. If I’m reading a fictional story, especially fantasy or science fiction, the last thing I want is for someone to stuff their beliefs down my throat, even if I agree 100% with their point of view. I read to escape the pressures, anxiety, and craziness that real life throws at me in the real world, I don’t need to be reminded of every single one of humanity’s shortcomings.
   If it is critical to the story, then have at it. Every story has some kind of underlying dilemma that people face—there has to be a conflict. If a writer wants to make a point, then pick one controversial subject and run with it. Show how the main character is affected by it and write an ending that profoundly demonstrates that the shade, at the end of the day, is just part of being human. Some people have black hair, some people have green eyes. We’re all unique. That’s what’s so special about each and every one of us.  

Q3: Have you ever invented a language?

   A language per se, not really, but I do have great fun writing characters like Olmar the giant who bastardizes the English language. Many experts say that a writer shouldn’t try to write, ‘dialect.’ I say, pfft. I believe when a reader reads Olmar’s speech, they will be endeared to him. Here is an example of how Olmar talks as a female archer gets impatient with his slow movement: 
   “Can’t you move any faster, Lunkhead? Sadyra’s probably dining with the king by now.”
   “Bah,” Olmar snorted. “That’s ‘er just up ahead. Don’t ye knot yer knickers, lassie. Ye’ll be movin’ quick like, soon enough.”

Richard H Stephens in his own words

Born in Simcoe, Ontario, in 1965, I began writing circa 1974, a bored child looking for something to while away the long, summertime days.  My penchant for reading The Hardy Boys led to an inspiration one sweltering summer afternoon when my best friend and I thought, “Hey, we could write one of those.” And so, I did.
​As my reading horizons broadened, so did my writing. Star Wars inspired me to write a 600-page novel about outer space that caught the attention of a special teacher, Mr. Woodley, who encouraged me to keep writing.
A trip to a local bookstore saw the proprietor introduce me to Stephen R. Donaldson and Terry Brooks. My writing life was forever changed.
At 17, I left high school to join the working world to support my first son. For the next twenty-two years I worked as a shipper at a local bakery. At the age of 36, I went back to high school to complete my education. After graduating with honours at the age of thirty-nine, I became a member of our local Police Service, and worked for 12 years in the provincial court system.
In early 2017, I resigned from the Police Service to pursue my love of writing full-time. With the help and support of my lovely wife Caroline and our five children, I have now realized my boyhood dream.

You can find Richard H Stephens on Twitter and his website.

Papa Dobo was in agony. His face was hugely swollen and felt like it was on fire.

“How much longer, Mama?” he groaned.

“Maybe hours, maybe only minutes. It’s gonna be soon.”

He leaned his throbbing forehead on his hands and a single tear leaked out from under one eyelid. Mama touched his shoulder and disappeared returning with a brimming cup.

“Here. I think you can drink this now.”

He grabbed the potion and drained it just as the pustule on the immensity that was his chin exploded – expelling a tiny spinning globe into space as another planet was born.

©️jj 2018