An extract from Santabot a short story by LN Denison and one of the stories you can find in Sparkly Badgers' Christmas Anthology All profits go to help the Avon Riding Centre for the Disabled, helping disabled people to learn to ride.

After about ten minutes, Christopher began to calm himself, taking in longer, normal breaths as the silence engulfed him, but it was too early to lift his head from underneath the covers. There was still that little niggle of doubt in his mind as to what he might find if he dared to peer into the darkness of his room, and the feeling that he might not be alone also played on his mind. He thought of the prospect of finally coming face to face with the bearded man after all those disappointing years of trying to wait up for a glimpse. slowly, the covers came down, and his eyes glimpsed over the rim of the cotton fabric of his sheet.
For a moment, a sense of disappointment replaced what remained of Christopher’s fear as he looked into the stark emptiness of his room. But the fear that gripped him returned anew as the sound of heavy clanging could be heard coming along the landing that led to his bedroom. Christopher’s eyes widened as a bright light shone through the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from shaking.
He held his breath, but this time he refused to cower under his covers. It had to be his mum, surely? Was she finally ready to read him a story?
There came three raps on the door, which made Christopher jump out of his skin.
“Mummy?” The frightened seven-year-old whispered.
Again, three knocks on the door, but this time the scared little boy tugged the sheet over his head.
“Go away!” Came the muffled cry from under the covers.
Christopher sobbed with fear as the door knob squeaked, and the door pushed open, hitting the side wall hard.
“Leave me alone!”
Eerie shadows floated above the sheet, reflected by the light on the landing. Through the thin cotton that covered him, Christopher could make out the silhouette of a large, bulbous object hovering over his bed. In an instant, he curled up into a ball. He could feel the sheet being dragged, then found himself exposed to the temperature of his room. The coldness of metal wrapped itself around one of his arms and pulled him up to his feet.
Christopher’s eyes widened further and his mouth flopped open as he looked on the shiny, red and white, Santa-looking thing, which just stood in silence. Curiosity more than anything else, now took hold of Christopher’s mind as he tilted his head and knotted his brows.
“What are you?”
Christopher felt his voice tremble as the words fell from his mouth.
The Santa-looking metallic object whirred, readying itself to respond. With a couple of little surges of energy, the bot finally spoke.
“I am Santabot One, and I have been sent to re-educate you on the myth of Santa Claus.” It’s voice sounded tinny, but not robotic – almost human.
The bot regarded the little boy.
“Oh, Christopher! Do you want to know the real secret behind Santa?” The bot tilted his head slightly, and watched as the child considered the offer.
The Santabot led Christopher from his bedroom, across the landing and down the
stairs, where they had to pass the living room to get to the front door. Christopher looked over at the seating area, where his mum, dad and their guests were sitting frozen. For a moment he wondered if they were playing a game of Musical Statues. The Santabot saw him looking.
“They will be fine. It’s just a gas induced sleep. We had to make it so.”

Dont forget to grab your copy of the anthology!

LN Denison is a usually  a writer of near-future dystopian sci-fi. You can catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.

Mightiness and his children watched intently as the woman laboured to bring The One into the world. She clenched her muscles, and gave vent to an animalistic groan.

Rafaela winced sympathetically. 

“How is putting the mother through this going to make the child any more human than if we had just dropped it in the cradle?” she demanded with some asperity.

Mightiness actually looked a little shamefaced, but Gabe stepped in.

“You wouldn’t understand.” 

“There is nothing to understand.”

“Man is born through the travails of woman,” he intoned piously.

“Travail this, buster.”

Gabe only limped for about a millennium…

©️jj 2018

Once upon a time, the world was covered in water, and the overlord sat on a smooth rock overlooking his domain. All was well and he smiled into the blueness of the sky. The merpeople sang and the fishes swam, and every creature lived in its appointed place. But then a strange thing began to happen, dry green pieces could be seen poking out of the oceans, and creatures that should have been swimming began crawling in the greensward and flying in the clouded blue. The overlord looked up towards the heavens and cried to the creators for help, but no help came.

Those who made the blue planet had turned their attentions elsewhere and the green and the brown slowly took over the blue and the silver.

Once upon a time, man crawled out of the water and set his foot on dusty land, thinking himself master of all he surveyed. But the world took against him as he plundered and purloined her treasure. The waters started to rise and man cried to the creators for help. But no help came.

The blue and silver slowly took over the brown and green and the overlord’s rocky throne slowly rose from the waves. The merpeople sang and the fishes swam, and once again every creature lived in its appointed place…

©️ Jane Jago

Normally, Lawyer Ducco really enjoyed dragonback riding. The speed and manoeuvrability was exhilarating, and it usually beat any other means of transport talons down. But today he felt as if his body had been beaten with sticks and his head was ringing as if his long-dead mother had boxed his ears.

He walked into the Hall of Judgement with his robes and wig askew and his hands shaking. His clerk looked in amazement.

“Sir. What happened to you? Are you all right?”

Ducco wagged his head.

“Take my advice, lad. Never hitch a lift on a dragon with PMT.”

©️jj 2018

.... or 'How To Speak Typo' by Jane Jago

abyssmal (adjective) very craggy and deep usually used to describe wrinkles or bum cracks

acorss (slang) – as a matter of fact old chap

ahewad (noun) conspicuously large male genitalia

ancinet (noun) – medieval forerunner of the Internet involving running men carrying scrolls

bo liek (slang) – diarrhoea

bearst (noun) – feminine chest hair

cintip (adjective) – of hairdressers unreliable with scissors 

dregde (adjective) – looking as if one has seen the ghost of one’s ex-husband staring out of the lavatory pan

ewrror (noun) – a mistake made when describing something disgusting

finsing (indefinite form of the verb to finse) – finding oneself in the window of a department store naked but for a bucket on one’s head

mena – (noun) the postmenopausal thoughts of a small lavender elephant

pis hood (noun) a garment for exceptionally inclement weather

scrathing (verb to scrath) – placing one’s nether regions on the platen of a photocopier for a jolly jape

thta (noun) – small marsupial with orange buttocks and purple furry ears

wevy (adjective) of hair having the tendency to point in all directions

woudl (noun) – Cornish nose flute music best heard from a very great distance

yest (noun) – sludgy stuff in the bottom of drip trays behind the bar in a not particularly hygienic pub

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

He had served the city for forty years, and he was a shoe-into be re-elected. 

Only one problem. Polling day, the guy is found dead in the bed of a seventeen-year-old ho.

What to do?

His grieving wife pulled her panties up tight and suggested a corpse could do as much in the way of civic duties as the old goat had managed in the last two decades.

This eminently sensible point of view was endorsed by his political bosses.

The election went as planned, and the cityfolk became quite fond of their mayor’s embalmed body.

©️jj 2018

From 'Dying for a Home' a short story in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

Early November MDCCLXXVII

The golden autumnal weather had given way to a chilly November. Dai Llewellyn sat at his desk by the broad window that looked out over the walled garden of his residence. He still struggled to think of it as ‘home’. Maybe it was the eagle over the door that sneered at him every time he crossed the threshold with its silent message that this was a villa designated sub aquila – Roman only. He wondered if he could arrange to get the facade remodelled on some excuse so above the name of the house, the poppies of its name were wreathed there instead.

He had been absently playing with the silver band around his index finger as he thought these near treasonous thoughts. Then he looked at the ring, it’s intricate blend of Celtic knots and Roman letters and symbols. It marked him out as a citizen – as Roman as his beloved wife Julia and without it she could not be his. She had given him this ring to remind him that their worlds were enriched by each other, not diminished.

Days like this he had to be reminded of that. Sighing, he tried to focus again on the information in front of him. A breakdown of the tenancy of a group of insulae on the rougher edge of Viriconium’s expanding commercial area. The buildings were owned by a Britannia wide property agency – Titus Holdings. They provided housing for over four hundred families – most were single-parent households or impoverished elderly folk who either had no family or whose sons and daughters lacked the space and resources to take them in. It was one of the poorest communities in the city and Dai knew that Titus Holdings did little for its tenants except ensure the structural integrity of the building was maintained. And that was only to avoid facing criminal charges if they should collapse.

He had not visited the estate himself since his return to Viriconium after almost a decade living in Londinium, but his Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had done so and his account had been harrowing.

“I’m not saying I’ve not seen as bad – we both have. Think the dreg ends of the Caligula, but that was Londinium and most there were unregistered and criminals. These people are just desperately poor. Most do seasonal work in the farms around or go begging even. Half the kids look like they’ve not had a decent meal in their lives and most all the old folk are ill from the mould and damp. I was told there is a local joke that the estate has to restock each spring ‘cos so many don’t make it through the winter.” Bryn shook his head at the thought. “It’s grim, Bard.”

“Grim – but not illegal.” Dai had a bitter taste in his mouth as he spoke. “The law says no one forces those people to live there, they choose to do so. That means they choose to accept the conditions the owner offers. After all, if they don’t like it they can always leave.”

“I can see it now you put it that way. They are spoiled for choice with alternatives – sleep on the streets, or under a bridge by the river – or maybe in a nice comfy hedgerow.”

Dai sighed.

“Roman logic. People who can’t imagine what it is like to be so poor the very concept of ‘choice’ about anything in life is meaningless.”

“Not all Romans are rich – your Julia was born in a place not so very different, from what my Gwen tells me.”

“That’s true, but it’s the rich ones that make the laws.”

E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

“We gonna have us a vote.”

Sammy’s bullhorn tones split the air.

“What we gonna vote about?”

“We gonna elect us a leader.”

“But ain’t you him?”

“I is, but I ain’t been democratically elected.”

“Oh…”

“We needs another candidate. Who’s gonna stand agin me?”

Sammy’s Glock discouraged pretension so nobody came forward. 

Then Hoppy’s grandmother’s billy goat got nominated.

Being as how most people couldn’t read, a vote was a pebble in a bucket. White for Sammy. Black for the goat.

Somebody must have misunderstood. Badly.

The Slashers’ new leader had yellow eyes and made Sammy look kinda nice.

©️jj 2018

A taste of The Dragons of Andromeda, sequel to The Arks of Andromeda, by W.H. Mitchell which is out today.

On the planet Aldorus, outside the city of Regalis, a sanitation robot roamed the grounds after the park had closed for the night, emptying the rubbish bins of trash left by people during the day. On a set of six wheels, the trashbot rambled along from one bin to another, lifting each with a pair of robotic arms and dumping it into a hopper.

Near midnight, the trashbot was checking bins by the lake when sounds began drifting from the dark somewhere off the main trail. Unlike the animal noises common during the night, these were different, faint and rhythmical.

As the compactor in his body pressed a clump of paper cups and a small raccoon into a tidy cube, the robot rambled over the carefully cropped grass to a cluster of bushes. Peering through the branches, he noticed an outcrop of rock and the entrance to a cave. The drumming clearly was coming from inside.

Organics, the robot thought, are always up to mischief.

He entered the cave.

Inside, a group of seven people sat around a fire, the flickering light casting shadows on the walls.

This doesn’t look like a picnic, the robot thought.

In sackcloth robes and with hoods over their heads, each person also wore an amulet in the shape of an eight-pointed star, a black pearl in the center. 

One of them pounded a large drum in his lap while the others chanted:

FROM THE VOID

THE OLD ONES COME.

THE END IS NEAR,

AS HEARTBEATS DRUM.

BOW YOUR HEADS;

RECEIVE YOUR FATE.

CHAOS REIGNS;

THEIR LOVE IS HATE.

BURNING FIRE

FROM SKY WILL FALL.

PRAISE THE GODS!

THE END FOR ALL!

A Bite of... W.H. Mitchell

Q1: What do you most enjoy about writing your books and why?

Bringing the “world” of the Imperium Chronicles, with its landscapes and characters, is my favorite. Building an ecosystem has taken a lot of time and populating it with people who are interesting is a lot of fun. 

Q2: If you had to choose which character you are most like in your books, who would it be and why?

In some ways I identify with Henry Riff, the hapless romantic in love with someone who doesn’t love him. That reflects how I was for much of my younger life (prior to getting married), when I felt out of my league most of the time. I also like my robots. They too are outsiders in a lot of ways.  

Q3: Are you more of a cat person or a dog person and why?

Although I pretty much love all animals (except humans), most people would probably say I’m a cat person. I’m both highly curious and skeptical of the world around me, and spend a lot of time sleeping. On the other hand, I hardly ever use the litter box except in emergencies.

W.H. Mitchell in his own words

Born and raised in Omaha, NE, W. H. Mitchell has called Kansas City his home for more than a decade. With a degree in English from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Mitchell’s writing has been compared to “Frank Herbert through the eyes and voice of Douglas Adams.” He currently lives in Olathe, KS with his wife and two cats.

You can follow W.H. Mitchell on Facebook, Twitter and his own website.

The soldiers had taken him. Strapped like a beast across the hindquarters of one of their snorting horses. Their leader looked down his prodigious nose at her. 

“Just be thankful we have no orders for you.”

Then he spat in her face.

She kept that face blank until they were over the hill, then fell to her knees with the sobs racking her whole body.

But that was seven whole months ago, and the secret she had kept hidden since that day was now at her breast suckling greedily.

She gave him his father’s name and taught him to hate.

©️jj 2018