I am old, and I don’t give a shit
About gravity’s work on my bits
I’m not some humble dame
Who can be ‘body shamed’
By a halfwit with silicone tits

© jane jago 2017

From…The Seeds of Dissolution by William C Tracy

In the Dissolutionverse, maji can alter the Symphony of the universe with their notes to create physical changes. Only rarely do they fight this way…

Rilan plunged her fist down, but it hit nothing. She blinked, realizing she was tumbling to the ground. Her notes came back with a snap that almost made her eyes cross. The edge of a dark cloak brushed past her vision.
She rolled, coming up on her heels, hands out. Vethis was on the ground, cradling an elbow out of joint, pale white and deep blue misting around the fingers of his other hand, his face pasty. In front of him was a smaller figure, clothed all in black, with its cowl pulled down. The figure raised its head enough for Rilan to catch a flash of light on predatory teeth.
“I look forward to dancing against you,” the figure said, sibilant. “This, I have long been waiting for, to show the Nether maji their weakness.”
Rilan flicked her eyes once more to Vethis, and then all her attention was on the newcomer. “So be it, Snake,” she said, trying to goad the Sathssn.
It didn’t work. She feinted forward with a wrist strike to the cloaked head, intending to follow up with a reverse punch augmented by her song. Neither strike landed. Arcs of sapphire blue and a dark, bruised purple swirled around the Sathssn’s feet and he was out of her range. She moved again and he was behind her, slipping past in a waltz-step. A strike to her kidney staggered her and she grunted.
Rilan whirled, barely catching Nakan’s arm with her fingers before he could slip away. Shiv’s dagger, he’s fast. She added notes to the melody of her fingers, turning major chords to minor, fixing her fingers in claws, dragging herself along with the Sathssn.
He moved a step, then spun, tilting her off balance. She felt a knee buckle when he kicked, and turned piano to forte, strengthening the tendons.
Must get on the offensive.
No time for her mental tricks. This would all be physical, and she had to make changes to Nakan, not herself. She recognized some of his steps, had fought against them before.
“Zsaana can’t have taught you all his tricks,” she said. Her fingers were still on his arm, giving her a connection, and she burrowed into his music, turning solid measures into trills, loosening his tendons in a flush of white and olive. Nakan stumbled, but his aura pulsed against hers, blue and purple against white and olive.
“Old Zsaana, he was my teacher as he was yours,” Nakan said. His movement was drunken with his loose tendons, but he used one arm as a whip, flicking the fingers of his glove out to her temple. She stepped back, looping an arm around his attack, but he stepped in with a strike from the other side. “He recounted your matches many times. This, I have been excited to see for myself.”
Rilan countered with a double arm block, and muted notes, intending both his arms to go numb. Not enough time to grab my knife. Something went wrong when she did and Nakan snapped upright, stable again. She shook tingling fingers, eyes wide. There were extra notes in her song. He had made her reverse her change to his tendons. She didn’t know the House of Grace could do that.
Her foot came up to knee Nakan in the gut, but the Sathssn moved fluidly around it in a flash of blue and purple, flipping over her head. His hands caught her shoulders, pulling her backwards. She made quarter notes into eighth notes, then sixteenth notes, adjusting the curvature of her spine. She accelerated his motion and slammed him into the floor with a crash. Rilan rolled over, pinning his arms across his neck, choking. The majus growled as blue and purple fought against her white and olive, but she locked the joints in her elbows, shoulders, and fingers, pressing down.
“How’s Zsaana’s training going for you? The old bigot must have forgotten a few things.” She breathed into Nakan’s face.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/spacewizard/the-seeds-of-dissolution-a-dissolutionverse-novel/

Q1: The world is about to end but you can be sent back in time to live out your life in any era before the 20th Century. When and why?

Hard question. My first choice would be somewhere I didn’t get killed too quickly! But pre-20th century, your chances were pretty bad wherever you were, dying from disease, infection, or war. That said, I’d love to meet the great minds of the Renaissance, when a person could actually know everything there was to know about a subject of study. One of my “have to meets” Would be Leonardo da Vinci.

Q2: What do you think is the biggest ‘What if…?’ of history and why?

For recent western history, probably the crusades. If they hadn’t happened, our civilisation since then would have been vastly different. There was a massive loss of life and confusion as noble people and commoners alike traveled, got lost, resettled, and died. They were also responsible for bringing back the bubonic plague. However, they brought new ideas about trade and commerce from the more technologically advanced middle eastern regions. They also consolidated control from the Catholic church. One could explore this question for a long time, as to whether the centers of modern power would be in different areas, or whether more people would be alive today, whether some advances would have come earlier, or later… It’s a huge factor in our history today.

Q3: Which three historical figures would you most want to invite to a dinner party and why?

Well, I’ve already said I want to meet him, so Leonardo da Vinci would be one pick. For the other two I’d pick Benjamin Franklin and Socrates. I’d throw a topic out there like “what makes a perfect society,” let them argue about it, and take notes. I’d also love to find out what they thought about modern technology, and see how long it would take Franklin to figure out how to use a smartphone!

Bill’s novel, The Seeds of Dissolution, is raising funds on Kickstarter

The King now old and paper thin
With marching wrinkles in his skin
Who on his deathbed silent lies
With failing breath and fading eyes
His son, the prince, is pink and smug
And quite as charming as a slug
Inside he smiles, but hides his eyes
While outwardly he cries and sighs
The tall princess in silence stands
And carefully regards her hands
The doctor looks and shakes his head
Then baldly states ‘the King is dead’
The prince looks up with gladsome face
At last he gets to rule the place
His sister pours him golden wine
He savours it and takes his time
‘This truly is a wine of note’
But then he coughs and grabs his throat
The princess laughs and makes no bones
‘That’s how you play the game of thrones’

© jane jago 2016

Father brought Alib to the Temple, where the boy sat cross-legged on the floor and watched a procession of sweet-faced young nuns making their obeisance to the Idol. As each passed she dropped something into a huge glass jar.

Alib felt the torment of the girls as they dropped their offerings into the shining vessel. Each gift made a high, sweet note as it passed the neck of the glass.

He touched Father’s sleeve.
“What do they offer?”
“Time, my son, each offers a moment of her life.”
“And why do they look so sad?”
“The pain of rending a moment from yourself.”
Alib nodded.
“May anyone make such an offering?”
“They may.”
“Then may I?”
“If you will. I cannot say no.”
Alib made his obeisance to his father and joined the line of worshippers.

He looked very small, but his back was straight, and his eyes were clear, and the priests let him pass. As he approached the bottle of time his lips could be seen to be moving as if in prayer.

Instead of dropping something into the bottle, Alib threw himself through the wide neck of the glass. For a nanosecond nothing happened, and then the vessel burst, filling The Temple with shards of glass and high keening music.

A voice from the very earth lamented. And then there was silence. Alib walked back to his father, with glass sparkling in his hair and the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes filling his eyes.

Enemy of my Enemy:  Present Your Gift

The High-Mother of the Libta-Thra clan emerged from her tent clenching her fists, her face twisting with anger evident even through the tattoos around her eyes, nose, and mouth.  Her clan, sitting outside of the firepits eating their dinner talking about the day’s events and the following day’s chores, fell silent in respect.

I tapped my foot in the shadows, bowing my head, holding Weelin’s bridle, calming him by stroking his nose and whispering in his ear, my arm aching, wrapped in bandages, my stomach fluttering. Two other prospective grooms, Laja and Ukana, waited with me in the dark, clearing their throats, their breaths quivering.

The High-Mother, alone, without the High-Father by her side, stomped down the path between the firepits, scrabbling up into her dragonbone throne without the High-Father’s assistance, grunting with the effort.  Straightening her beads and clothing, regaining her regal attitude, she lifted her hands.  “We will receive the gifts of Betrothal.”

“Without the High-Father?” someone whispered, the whisper shushed to silence by the rest of the clan who shifted in their seats, readying themselves for the ceremony to begin, hoping to celebrate after.

“Laja the Saddler, present your gift.”  The High-Mother sat down, her face grim.

Laja limped forward hunching his shoulders, his horse by his side, a white ceremonial sheet laying over the horse’s back.  He knelt before the High-Mother.  “Forgive me, High-Mother. I killed three pheasants for your people, but as I dressed the carcasses, a ferocious warrior attacked and subdued me.  The thief stole my kills.”

Beyond the firepit, the clan hooted at him, laughing and mocking him.  I swallowed.

“If you cannot protect yourself and your kill, how can you protect my clan?”  The High-Mother shook her head, sighing in disgust.  She leaned forward, pointing at him.  “Begone, useless man.”

Laja took his horse and skulked away.

The High-Mother said, “Ukana the Fisher, present your gift.”

Ukana stepped forward walking beside his horse, his bandaged head hanging low, his arm in a sling, a white sheet laying over his horse’s back.  He knelt before the High-Mother.  “Forgive me, High-Mother. I caught a great perch as tall as yourself, but as I cleaned it, a cunning warrior ambushed me.  The thief took my catch and left me by the river to die.”

The clan’s laughter rose, people stomping their feet, clapping their hands.

“Great Father in the Sky, why do you punish me so?  Do my daughters not deserve strong men?”  The High-Mother gazed skyward, raising her hands in supplication.  She sighed once more, glaring down at Ukana.  “You are of no use to me, little man.”

Ukana took his horse and slinked away.

The High-Mother said, “Neeko the Woodsman, present your gift.”

Head bowed, I marched forward leading Weelin, my heart pounding.  The clan, sitting on their seats beyond the firepit, grew quiet, their murmuring fading with each step.  I knelt before the High-Mother.

“What have you under your sheet, Woodsman?” the High-Mother asked.

“High-Mother, I killed for you a prong buck, but as I cleaned my kill, a warrior attacked me.”  I gulped, my throat dry.  “I killed the man and took the fish and the pheasant from his horse, adding it to my gift.”  I stood, whipping the ceremonial sheet from Weelin’s back revealing the meats there along with the human corpse.  I shoved the corpse off Weelin’s back, letting it fall to the ground, to bounce.

The clan gasped, muttering, “The High-Father?”

One hand on my sword, I peeked up at the High-Mother.

She smiled, and said, ”Gift accepted.”

Q1: What should take priority duty or friendship and why?

I guess, it depends?

When someone is your friend, you have certain duties and responsibilities to them and they have certain duties and responsibilities to you.  Depending on how close a friend they are and your history with them, those obligations may be quite different from friend to friend and may change over time even for a single friend.

For example, I have a friend who is a recovering drug addict.  I have, at times, gone out of my way to get this guy clothes and food, to help him try to find a job and move , and other things.  At a certain point, I had to draw the line and stop helping him, because I wasn’t helping him anymore, I was enabling him.  I still consider him my friend and I think he’s gotten back around to thinking of me as his friend even though he considered me a traitor for a few years.  I don’t feel the same about what my duties to him are as I do to some of my other friends, or what I thought those duties were before I dedicated my time, energy, and money to trying to help him.

Every person prioritizes their duties and obligations depending on what is important to them, and not just what is important to them now, but what is important to them at the time they have to make the decision.

Personally, my highest priorities are to my wife and myself and our marriage.  If I had children, I have no doubts they would be my highest priorities.  After that come my duties and responsibilities to other things, my friends, my work, organizations I belong to, promises I’ve made, etc.

So when you ask about prioritizing “duty” or “friendship”, I interpret that as prioritizing duties.  I have some friends I would give my life for but for most, I wouldn’t.  I have some ideals I would give my life for but for most, I wouldn’t.  Whether I give priority to my duty to some institution or to some friend, depends on too many factors to easily say.

Q2: What bends your mind every time you think about it and why?

Almost everything is nothing.

Take the solar system.  You’ve got this ball of mostly hydrogen blazing away and then all these little specs caught in its orbit.  And in between and around all this is almost entirely empty space, and there’s a lot of that empty space and the gaps between things are mind-bogglingly vast.

Democritus, the first philosopher we know of that hypothesized that all matter was composed of atoms, but he expected them to be little solid balls of stuff, not little bits of geometric probability full of not much of anything.

But atoms are mostly nothing, interacting internally and externally on a quantum level so small that the human mind really can’t conceive of it according to laws that frequently make no sense on the non-quantum level.

Whether you’re thinking about very large scales or very small scales or very medium scales, almost everything and everywhere is empty space.

I was a teenager when I first thought about that and it seriously weirded me out and made me feel very small and insignificant.  Now that I’m older, I realize just how amazing and special it is that any of this exists.

Q3: What would you most like to have named after you and why?

I had never thought about this before.

I’d love to have some pithy observation about people or society named after me and I’d like for it to be a quote from one of my books that becomes viral, something like Murphy’s Law although I’d be happy with a Pascal’s Wager or a Zeno’s Paradox even though those are intrinsically flawed concepts.  Watson’s Law or the Davis Dilemma would be awesome.

And now, it’s my life’s goal.

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

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.

Edge of Doom is released today as an ebook.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

Or dare one call you RWW as we are such chums now. To those few who still may not know who I am, I bid you welcome. My name is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – that’s Ivy to my friends, of which number one is sure you will soon count yourself. You will no doubt have acquainted yourself with my brilliant and inventive novel, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”. It is, one feels, a book that speaks to the very soul of humanity and artistry.

But quietly now my children, while one picks for you the finest flowers of one’s exceptional mind…

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 4. The Write Writual – Part I

There is a myth among one’s less stellarly talented detractors that to write is but to be seated in front of the writing machine. Ah, would that it were so simple. Would that one could summon the Muse from her flowery bower by the simple application of the buttocks to a suitably cushioned chaise.

The facts are rather more heartrending, residing as they do in the depths to which creativity can drag the artist in search of the mot juste. Our forefathers placed their faith in the inspirational qualities of the demons that are alcohol and addictive substances. Do not tread that route my pupils, for therein lies the route to perichondriation. The body of a genius is a temple to the goddesses of beauty and truth, and the divine Calliope may only be summoned to enter such a plot of fertile soil by the twin stratagems of aromatherapy and meditation.

My own secret recipe of essential oils and the contemplation of my perfectly white and clean toeshells seldom fails to bring the lady of letters to stand at my shoulder and sprinkle the stardust of genius upon my words.

However, one must caution you against certain verboten fragrances, aromas known to congest the senses and impede the ingress of inspiration. Patchouli, that siren of psychedelia, is one such unfriend as is everything with ‘musk’ in the name. That word itself is descended from the Sanskrit for ‘testicle’ which is sufficient reason of itself to delete this foul precursor of sexual depravity from your lexicon of preparatory perfumes. Also to be avoided is anything that belongs in the department culinaire which, by virtue of close affinity to victuals, bestirs the stomach and curdles creativity – cinnamon and ginger, vanilla, basil or bay – unless one is writing a recipe book, of course.

So, as the siren song of the Muse fills the exquisitely receptive, virgin marble temple of my mind, I must leave you, my RWW chums. I shall ease this parting with a little homework for your starved and tiny souls. Seek your perfect writing aroma and have it by your side when I return to pontificate upon the correct orchestral accompaniment to the mental struggle of bringing your vision of the ultimate histoire to the blank screen affront your eyes.

Until soon my disciples. Ecrit Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

The Dragon

The mist covered everything in sight. The snow and rocky terrain of the mountains didn’t help either. Unable to see where his feet were taking him, Meddhi felt blind and unprepared.

With a careful step, and then another, he drew shallow breaths as tension rose in his golden-armored chest.

Then, he heard its giant wings flapping in the brisk air. He couldn’t see the creature, but felt it was close.

Readying his long sword toward the sky, Meddhi knew the infamous dark dragon would soon appear.

“Come out, you coward!” he yelled, taunting his invisible foe.

There was only silence. However, Meddhi could have sworn he heard a sound like snarling.

“I know you’re there!” he once again shouted into the mist. It was too quiet for his liking; it felt wrong somehow. “Show yourself!” Suddenly pouncing in front of him

It was too quiet for his liking; it felt wrong somehow. “Show yourself!” Suddenly pouncing in front of him

“Show yourself!”

Suddenly pouncing in front of him came the enormous being with its dark purple wings and black-scaled body. It lunged at Meddhi and pushed him down with its long claws.

“You dare wake me?!” it growled, knocking the sword away from his opponent.

Face to face with the raging dragon of legend, Meddhi could see its eyes. They were deep violet, and hauntingly beautiful. Yet, the fierce pain inside them gave him reason to fear. In a single moment, Meddhi knew that this was a creature who had lost everything, and it would not hesitate to destroy anyone who gave it cause to remember the past.

“Please… forgive me!” Meddhi shouted as he closed his eyes, praying to the Gods for survival.

The dragon slowly shook its gigantic head, then replied, “No, I think not. You are one of those dragon hunters, aren’t you? Did you believe you could take my hide and parade my claws around your village, showing everyone your supposed power? Who do you think you are?!”

About to rip Meddhi in half with its magnificent teeth, the dragon stopped short when he heard, “I am not a hunter!”

Cocking its head in curiosity, it slowly replied, “What are you then?”

Meddhi opened his eyes and said, “I… I don’t know anymore. I used to be a priest, but now… I’m not sure.”

The dragon laughed into the misty snowfall, then squinted its violet eyes. “I don’t believe you. No one comes to this mountain without intent to kill. You, my sad excuse for a man, are a terrible liar! Now, make amends with your Gods, for you are about to meet them!”

In a flash, Meddhi saw only one face before his eminent death, and she was crying tears of regret.

If only I had told her what was in my heart…

Extract from The Dragon Warrior of Kri: A Shiva XIV Story by Lyra Shanti. You can find Lyra on Facebook and Twitter too.