Forsake the dawn and seek the deeper night,
The dark of midnight’s cool, moon-soft caress
Which sets a dusk-kissed breeze against your face.
He weaves wild diamonds from the gem strewn skies
Into a worthy crown of silvered light,
With gentle beams, braids stars in every tress.
From the very vault of deepest space
The last vestige of golden sunlight flies
Gleaming to his hand, so that he might
Reach out and gild with beauty. Then, to bless
The final sacrament of destined grace,
A slender cloud-ribbon enveils your eyes.
Long hidden in the rolling wastes of time
His touch unlocks the reason for your rhyme.

E.M. Swift-Hook

A sneak peek inside Mistrust and Treason, the first book in the new Iconoclast Trilogy which will complete E.M. Swift-Hook's Fortune's Fools series of books.

Torbalen found his fingers tapping the staccato beat of the music, which suddenly dropped into silence but his fingers kept drumming. It was easy to tell himself to ignore it, but much harder to make himself do so. There were things around it that he could never forget. Things he wouldn’t want to forget.
His mind slipped back in time to a cold warehouse on another Periphery world very different from this one. He’d never met Avilon Revid in person before, the man who was viewed with awe by most of the youngsters back then and with a wary respect by the High Council. Revid was the man who made miracles. The man who had brought the Coalition to its knees in some parts of the galaxy and had liberated entire planets from corporate domination. Meeting him was the kind of event that stuck in your mind.
Torbalen’s first thought had been how little like a figure of legend he really was in the flesh. There was nothing exceptional in the man’s appearance. His face was familiar to anyone who watched the newscasts. He was something over average height, but not dramatically so, with straight brown hair and unremarkable features. Revid hadn’t been alone, he was speaking with a slightly shorter man, sharp-faced, dark eyed, and dark haired, who was watching Torbalen approach them with suspicion. Then Revid had stopped talking to the man beside him and turned to look directly at Torbalen, revealing the incredible brilliance of his eyes, an almost luminous green.
“It seems I have a lot to thank you for,” Revid said, making a quick gesture to the contents of the warehouse.
Torbalen gave a small nod of acknowledgement.
“Just doing my job — the job I should be doing, not the one where they drown me in administration first.”
The other man had spoken then. He was holding one of the weapons and seemed to be admiring it.
“This,” he said, “is good kit. Quality.”
“And that is high praise, coming from an elite mercenary,” Revid added.
The dark haired man grinned. So he would be the mercenary commander Revid had insisted on taking on for the military side of this strike. There had been disquiet in the High Council around that, with plenty of objections. The concept of including someone who wasn’t personally committed to their ideals had made a number of the Councillors extremely agitated. Revid’s famously pithy reply had been that he considered they were being selfish to allow only members of The Legacy the chance to die for the cause. Torbalen had been one of those supporting Revid, even though he had refused to offer any other details about the mercenary, except when pressed, said he was known as ‘Jaz’.
“It should be quality,” Torbalen told them, unable to resist a small boast. “It came from the military. It was part of a shipment being made to resupply an offensive.”
“You stole from the Marines?” The one called Jaz sounded both impressed and disbelieving.
“You would be amazed how easy it is sometimes. Those who live by bureaucracy find themselves willing to surrender anything if presented with an appropriate looking form.”
That had made the dark haired man laugh.
“You don’t need those, brother,” he said, gesturing to the crates. “You only need a few more men like him.” He had nodded towards Torbalen. “Then the whole fucking Coalition would sign itself over to your Legacy.”
Even Revid had smiled, ironically, at that.
“If only it could be that simple.”
He’d sounded as if he meant it and perhaps he had. Perhaps he hadn’t been one of the typical ‘death or glory’ merchants who formed the majority in the ranks he led. Torbalen had met too many of them, most little more than children, all young people full of hate and hurt and anger, wanting to strike back and not caring if they died in the process. Not surprising when they believed all they had to live for had been crushed out of existence by the blind and remorseless advance of the Coalition. People like his own son.
Maybe something of that showed on Torbalen’s face. Perhaps there wasn’t quite enough of the uncritical adulation Revid was used to, because he frowned slightly when Torbalen didn’t respond. The dark haired man had used the silence, nodding a brief farewell and moving off quickly, to check the various crates and packs, leaving the two of them alone.
“You have my personal thanks, for what that is worth,” Revid told him. “When this is done you’ll have the gratitude of an entire Sector of free people too. I could never have set this up without your being willing to work with me outside the lines. This will be your victory as much as mine.”
Torbalen felt flattered as he assumed was intended. He’d also felt awkward in the moment, not sure what he should say. None of the usual platitudes seemed to fit. It was nothing? That would have been a huge untruth, getting this shipment together had taken him days with no sleep. You’re welcome? That made it sound like a small, formal favour had been delivered and would have diminished both the scale of his own achievement and the praise he was being offered for it. So he said what was on his mind:
“I just hope it’s enough.”
Revid had nodded, there was a shift in the intense green gaze as if he was reassessing something. Then he’d stepped forward and gripped Torbalen’s arm briefly.
“We need to be moving. But when I get back I’d like the chance to talk with you some more, if you are willing?”
For a moment, Torbalen understood the magic hold this man had on others. The sudden rush of tight emotion he experienced almost choked him back from replying and when he did, it was only with the trite, stock phrases of polite convention that came easily to mind.
“I’d be happy to. Let me know when you are back around. Hope to see you soon.”
Afterwards, he felt embarrassed that he’d spoken that way, but in truth, he was glad he’d managed to find any words at all. At least he hadn’t stood there, mouth slack and starry-eyed. He had also been furious with himself. He never thought he might be someone to be affected by celebrity or wowed by charisma. Mercifully, Revid had either not noticed or perhaps was simply so used to such reactions in the people he spoke to, he didn’t consider it worthy of note or response. He’d simply released Torbalen’s arm and stepped away with a brief nod, freeing Car to take his leave and leaving Revid and his people to free the Varn Sector.
Except that was not how it had worked out.

Iconoclast I: Mistrust and Treason will be out on 21 September. Watch the booktrailer and follow on my Author Page, Twitter or Facebook to keep updated.

The no-feathers captured him and kept him tethered on their belching, stinking ship. He didn’t understand that, or why the sky turned first black then red before the rains rained without mercy. By their lights, his captors were not unkind – but they would not let him fly.

Then one day, when it seemed to him that the rain had been gone a long time, they came to him and untied his tether.

“Fly,” the smallest one said, “and come back to guide us when you find land.”

He stretched his wings. “Caw,” he said harshly, “Return? I think not.”

©️jj 2018

Walk a while with me, my friend,
Along the far byways that wend
And wind deep in philosophy,
Where wisdom’s always said to be.

This world may seem a foreign place
Where we pass through and leave no trace
A moment now, my friend and I,
Will take before our passing by.

And we will share the tales and tears,
We’ll share the joys and halve the fears,
We’ll take the moments as they rise,
Sorrows bear and happiness prize.

So step out bravely on the road,
Forget you bear a heavy load.
A friend beside you makes this life seem
A sweeter world than you might now dream.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Today one visited Delphi and the Temple of Apollo. One feels closer to the primal essence of human civilisation in such a place and the enigmatic words spoken by the Pythia remind one much of the purity of concept expressed in Haiku.

Haiku -1

The white purity
Of my poetical soul
Illuminatus

Haiku -2

A flower petal
Weighted down under raindrops
Visceral delight

Haiku -3

I despicable
Fighting hourly temptation
Scratching succubus

Heavenly Host

I wondered, lonely and so proud
My thoughts so high, oe’r window sills
When all at once I was endowed
With views through neighbour’s curtain frills.

I glimpsed the barest hint of skin
As through my bedroom blinds I’d peek.
To speculate who was within
The electoral roll didst seek.

I glimpsed again and flesh did see
That lofted oe’r sleek curves and tan
But then Mama did answer me:
“Moons? That new neighbour? It’s a man.”

So yet I peer the blinds between
And linger on the vision there
The secret seer, sight unseen
So it’s a man? I could not care!

Scream

The primal scream in my Underpants
As I caress my own Pomposity
Can be heard Echoing
In the emptiness that is My Cranium
I speak of the Mythologies as the Harpies
Gather their dead Syllable by Syllable
Where is your
Dragon
Now?

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join Ivy’s Fan Club!

Dying might not be so bad. It was living that had broken him. Taken from his family at eight years old, vowed to celibacy before he understood what the word meant, and sold to the highest bidder time after time. His sword had eaten the blood of so many enemies that he felt today was no more than reparation. As the hooded figure came to his side he looked into its compassionate eyes.
“Am I dead?”
“Nearly. Say farewell to your loved ones.”
The Knight spoke the saddest three words under all the stars.
“I have nobody.”
Then he died.

A Drabble by Jane Jago inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow.

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

Apble (noun) fruit that is a cross between an apple and an overripe banana

Blosh (adjective) a strangely washed out shade of pink commonly found in elderly ladies’ corsets

Crete (verb) to make something so slipshod that it falls over very quickly

Diffle coat (noun) an oversized coat (the sleeves of which usually brush the ground) bought by the mother of a seven-year-old on the theory that he/she will grow into it

Ho about (noun/adjective combo) indicative that a lady of dubious virtue is in the vicinity

Grubble (verb) to make strange moaning noises while asleep 

Interbalise (verb) to write absolute bollocks and think it literature

Sillock (noun) a blue fur ball commonly found in the navel

Snaggledoof (noun) a buck-toothed dog often found on instagram wearing unsuitable headgear

Sork (verb) to lick ones dinner plate with noisy enjoyment

Unack (verb) to be unable to cough up whatever is making your throat tickle

Wee-see (noun) the first successful use of the potty by a toddler

Wrek (noun) the corpse of a nerd killed by the snaggledoof for putting stupid hats on his head and posting pictures of same all across the Internet

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

The small round tent with it’s stippled canvas sat under the spread of an oak tree on the edge of the showground. All around rural folk talked rural patter about lambing and brewing, the price of rape by the acre and the eroding of environmental subsidies.
I didn’t feel as though I could bear another hail-fellow-well-met conversation with another farmer, which would begin with a friendly smile and end with a polite one, painted on just as they beat a rapid retreat back to the beer tent or the show ring.
The conversations followed an unavoidable and inevitable pattern.
“So what you going to do with those acres up on Claw Moor now you’ve bought them? Farm sheep?”
“Farm wind.”
A moment of confusion which would change to a quickly hidden hostility.
“The Moor is a beauty spot you know.”
“So is the world.”
A puzzled frown.
“I don’t see -”
“No. Very few do. I quite understand.”
Then the choice between rancour and retreat. Retreat winning most often, to my relief.
So the fortune teller’s tent seemed to me as much a place of temporary respite from all that as a possible entertainment for a few minutes. Besides, I could do with the promise of a tall, dark stranger – especially one who didn’t run away as soon as I started talking about my farm.
Inside it was cool and dim, the scent of verdigris and sandalwood gentling the air. The fortune teller was young, not the wise old woman I had expected. She said nothing, nodding regally to the chair opposite her and then lifting a crystal ball from the table between us and holding it in her hands. Silence spread into the sounds outside and absorbed them as my gaze became fixed on the young woman’s dark eyes.
Was it vision or speech? I will never now know, but for a moment reality was banished to the sidelines and something happened. I saw a barren earth devoured by her children, embraced beneath the sleeping flood of rising oceans and the moon riding the skies as sole witness to the coming of a time that did not know humanity.
Then I was standing under the oak tree in the shade that cast me apart from the sun-soaked showground, the jollity of ice cream vans and warm real ale, with the announcer telling us the winner of the Waggiest Tail contest…

E.M. Swift-Hook

A what-if story of symbiosis, and more by Jane Jago is being presented by Tall Tale TV

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.

Want more? Listen in to www.talltaletv.com

CHAPTER EIGHT

Almost before Sam and Anna had time to collect their thoughts it was the day before their wedding. Danny and Paul turned up in the afternoon looking hugely pleased with themselves.
“We are going to buy us a camper,” Danny announced. “It has been brill.”

They were all busy for the rest of the day and by the time they sat down to shepherd’s pie and vegetables, the house was ready for Sunday’s onslaught. Danny grinned down at his heaped plate.
“My favourite. If she cooks for you every day you really are going to get fat” he said to Sam.
“Not with the hours he puts in in the gym,” Anna grinned.
“Aha. A fitness bastard?”
“Afraid so. I just don’t want to be another one of those healthcare professionals who sits on his arse watching his belly grow. And you look pretty fit yourself.”
“I am. But mine’s the result of honest toil. When I get fed up
I build a wall, or dig a hole, or…”
Sam laughed. “Ever work with wood?”
“No, but my respect for chippies knows no bounds.”
“Sam built this kitchen,” Anna said proudly.
“Did he indeed? Got good hands then.”
“In more ways than one,” Anna murmured wickedly.
Paul sniggered and raised an eyebrow.

“Not so much with the eyebrows,” Anna said severely. “He also built the table you have been covetously eyeing and stroking.”
“Well fuck me. What’s the wood?”
“Elm. From an old tree that had to be felled because it was leaning on the house.”
After that Anna sat back and just listened as the three men talked wood and finishes and techniques. She felt blissfully content and understood that it was because some of her favourite people in the world had found so much common ground.

When the meal was finished, she shooed them away.
“Just this once I’ll clear up. You three go caress some wood in Sam’s workshop.”
They went with Bonnie at Sam’s heels and Anna sung tunelessly to herself as she loaded the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen. She found herself stroking the satiny smooth wood of the kitchen table lovingly and had a quiet chuckle as she remembered the use she and Sam had put it to on a few occasions.
“Good job there’s no splinters” she chuckled.

Sam, Danny and Paul walked to the end of the garden and turned to look at the rear elevation of the house.
“It is a very nice old house,” Paul said appreciatively.
“It is, but it was a shite heap when I bought it. Poorly maintained, and running to seed. The last three occupants were real holy Joes who didn’t seem to mind living in squalor. That’s how I got it so cheap, but I put in some hours.”
“I’ll bet. Did you hand finish all the wood yourself?”
“Yup. And did a lot of labouring for the three-man building firm who were doing the heavy renovations.”
“Worth it though.”
“Yes. Though I wasn’t sure until Anna came into my life. I was about halfway ready to sell the old girl and look for another project.”
He turned and unlocked the workshop door. Danny raised his eyebrows at the lock.
“I’ve got some expensive equipment in here. Don’t want it nicked.”
He switched on the overhead lights and Danny and Paul looked about them with growing appreciation.
“You have got some good stuff. A lathe as well. Are you any good with that?”
“Yeah. It was my dad’s and he taught me to use it. Along with everything else I know about carpentry.”
“Was your dad a professional?”
“God. No. He was a psychiatrist. Reckoned everyone should have a hobby though. Thought sitting in front of a screen was the root of a lot of society’s problems.”
“Shrewd man.”

Paul sat on Sam’s work chair, while Danny strolled around the tidy workshop, then went and smoothed the planks and blocks of seasoned wood stored in the rear half of the building on metal racks.
“You have some lovely stuff here. Any plans for it?”
“Not really. Most came out of the house, salvaged from the restoration. A lot of it was just chucked in heaps in one of the bedrooms. I dunno why it was there, but I hung onto it. My builder wanted to buy it, but I said no. Let him have a lot of very ugly marble and several rusty cast iron baths though. Made quite a hole in the bill.”
As Sam was talking, he was nervously fingering a piece of white cloth covering something at the end of one of the two benches.
“So what’s under there?” Paul asked.
“I made this thing for Anna. Wedding present. Now I’m scared to give it to her in case she hates it. Made a thing for wife number one and she threw it on a skip. Wasn’t shiny.”
“You know Anna’s not like that. Why don’t you show Danny and me what you’ve done? We know her pretty well.”
“You do. So.”
Sam gently drew off the cloth to disclose a beautifully crafted wooden box about a foot wide, by eighteen inches long, by nine high. Paul got up and stood with his mouth open.
“Can I touch it?”
“Yeah.”
Paul smoothed the wood, feeling its perfect surface with his long, rather knobbly fingers.
“What wood is this?”
“Olive. And it’s a real fucker to work.”
Paul opened the lid to find a lift-out tray and under that a sectioned area.
“What’s at the bottom?”
Sam grinned and slid the front wall of the box upwards to disclose two drawers.
“It’s fucking marvellous. You can’t have done all this in the time Anna has been living here.”
“No. Though it has always been for her. I started it after about our third date. She was so much on my mind, and making something for her seemed to bring her close when I was feeling lonely.”
Paul found a strange lump in his throat and spoke around it  with difficulty. “Right. Now I know you really love her. Which is good. And she’ll love this. Probably cry. When you going to give it to her?”
“I dunno. I thought tomorrow. But.”
“If I was you I’d wrap it up and sneak it indoors tonight. Give it to her early in the morning. Give her time to get over it before the ceremony.”
“Good thinking. I’ve got paper, but I wish I was better at wrapping.”
“Gimme the wrapping stuff. That box deserves a proper parcel.”
Sam handed over paper and sticky tape and ribbon and watched in something like awe as Paul made an elegant job of the wrapping and tied the ribbon in a beautiful bow.
“Okay,” Paul stood back to admire his handiwork, “that’s good. Now me Bonnie, and Danny will go distract Anna while you sneak it indoors.”

Jane Jago