📖 Blog Tour ~ Extracting Humanity and Other Stories by Stephen Oram

 

Orchid's Lantern Press
2023

My thanks to Isabelle Kenyon for the invitation to the blog tour

In this remarkably perceptive collection, Stephen Oram blends cutting-edge science and tech with everyday emotions and values to create 20 thought experiments with heart.

Extracting Humanity is a skilful exploration of smart currencies, memorials, medical care, treatment of refugees, social networks, data monitoring, and justice systems. Always without prescription or reprimand, these stories are simply the beginning of the conversation.

From an eerie haptic suit that Tommy must call Father, to a protective, nutritious bubble that allows Feng Mian to survive on a colonised Moon; from tattoos that will earn their wearers a mini-break in a sensory chamber, to Harrie anxiously awaiting AI feedback on her unborn child… These startling, diverse narratives map all-too-real possibilities for our future and the things that might ultimately divide or unite us.

I'm delighted to be able to share this short story today from Extracting Humanity 

FAILING FATHERS

“I don’t want to beg, but we are best mates ‘n all that.”

“You have to be kidding. They’ll trace it so easily, and then where will we be?”

I shrugged and carried on tinkering with the code of the car that had been brought in to have its latest patches installed. I wasn’t paying proper attention to what I was doing, but then if they couldn’t pay me a decent wage, why should I?

I tried again, speaking loudly but not directly to him. “I have to buy food and heat the house and it’s the wife’s birthday. All I want is for you to do some shopping for me. I’ll pay you back straight away. I don’t see how they’ll know it’s for me and not you.”

“You’ve heard the rumours. Anything that smacks of reparation avoidance is swiftly dealt with. Shame laundering, isn’t that what they call it?”

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the screen in front of me, trying not to make a big deal out of it.

“It’s only one weekly food shop.”

“Apart from the illegal bit, your lineage owes my lineage and until that’s done…”

He had a point, but he was wrong. It wasn’t my forefathers who stole stuff from other countries and locked it away in the British Museum.

I stared at him. “That genetic profiling is crap. Completely ignores the fact those elite fuckers were stealing from my sort at the same time as robbing the heritage of yours.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“It’s too generic. It should be a class thing, not a country thing. No way does it trace those who were really responsible.”

Another mumble.

I looked away. “Still, we are where we are as my mother used to say. For better or worse we have programmable money, and it has rules.”

He came and stood next to me. “You’re my friend. I get that. And that’s why I know we’ll rise above this whole reparation thing. It only lasts until it’s all paid back.”

I nodded, unable to reply. He just didn’t get it.

“Not the sins of my fathers,” I muttered under my breath. I was innocent. My whole family line was innocent, and yet my Heritage Pound was worth less than his because the cost of re-balancing the abuses of other people’s ancestors fell to me and mine.

I continued talking while working. “I wasn’t asked about the British Museum being privatised. I wasn’t consulted about the contents becoming the asset behind the most widely used private currency. It wasn’t my decision to give it favourable interest rates and lower tax rates than the other currencies. It’s those bastards in charge of the Bank of England’s digital currency.”

I rubbed my temples and sighed. “I agree with the government offsetting the reparation obligations of its colonial past, but there’s a world of difference between agreeing with the what and agreeing with the how.”

He tutted and went back to his bench.

We ignored each other for the rest of the day, but as he left he called across. “I’ll see if the kids have any ideas.”

My teenage daughter met me outside, determined that I should buy her mother a birthday present.

“Just a small one,” she said.

I told her we couldn’t afford it and that her mother understood, but she insisted.

“Why don’t we use a different currency? One that works for us, not against us. Then we could afford it,” she said.

I explained as best I could how difficult it was to be accepted by any other currency. Their rules of interaction with the CBDC were predicated on how risky their customer base was, and we were in one of the highest risk brackets.

She pushed hard. “Why not do what Sasha’s dad does? He owns shares in art that’s worth more every day. Non. Fungible. Tokens. Get it?”

“Fine for him”, I explained, “but we don’t have any capital to begin with.” She huffed and puffed, throwing one superficially thought-through solution after another at me. It was as if she considered me to be stupid. As if she thought I’d not explored all these options.

She made that disgusting sound with her tongue.

“It’s crap.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re right. It’s the very people whose ancestors were responsible for the appalling past of our country who use the other currencies. They escape any consequences of the national reparation.”

She was fuming, and with the familiar cry of every teenager, she pointed out that it wasn’t fair. All I could do was agree with her. Replying with the age-old parental response that life just isn’t fair.

I told my mate about it the next day, and despite the seriousness of the situation, I found myself laughing along with him about the idealism of youth. We reminisced about our own teenage years and how we’d been certain that we knew how the world worked and how it could be a lot better. It was good to be back on jovial terms, and he was trying to tell me something his daughter had said, but talking about our kids behind their backs made me feel uncomfortable.

I ignored him until he stood by me, looking pleased with himself. “Here, give me your phone,” he said, grabbing it from my bench.

I frowned, but with curiosity. He swiped the screen and then held his own close to it.

“There,” he said. “You’ll never guess what. My daughter’s been using her Heritage Pound advantage to invest in that new youth currency. Know the one? She’s made a mint out of limited-edition skins in those games she’s fixated with. And… wait for it… she wants to gift your family some shares.” With a thumbs up he added, “It’s allowed.”

I was speechless. What a brilliant mate, and what a great father.

About the Author

X/Twitter @OramStephen

@kenyon_isabelle

Blog Tour ~ Butterfly in Frost by Sylvia Day

I'm delighted to hosting one of today's stops on this exciting

  blog tour  

Montlake Romance
27 August 2019

My thanks to Midas PR for my copy of this book
and the invitation to the blog tour

Teagan Ransom has finally settled in a place she can call home, spending time with new friends she adores, focusing on a fulfilling job, whilst reconciling the past and laying the groundwork for the future.

That is until Garrett Frost moves in next door. He’s obstinate and too bold, a raging and disruptive force of nature. Teagan recognizes the ghosts that haunt him, the torment driving him. Garrett would be risky in any form, but wounded, he’s far more dangerous. Tegan fears he could pull apart everything she has worked so hard to build, but Garret’s too determined…and too tempting.

Emotional and heartrending, Butterfly in Frost marks a brilliant return by global sensation Sylvia Day, the No.1 international multi-million bestselling author of the Crossfire saga.

✨✨

Thanks to the author and publishers 

I am thrilled to be able to share this tantalising extract from Butterfly In Frost

There are too many things to register at once, so my mind attempts to absorb the whole man. Dressed only in black shorts and shoes, he is a visual feast of deeply tanned skin, intricate sleeves of tattooed art, and sweat-slicked, flexing musculature. And his face. Sculpted. Square-jawed. Brutally, breathlessly handsome. Roxy, now a few feet in front of me, gives a low whistle. “Hot damn.” The sound of her voice reminds me to breathe. My skin feels hot and damp with perspiration. My pulse has quickened beyond what I could blame on exertion. He doesn’t see us at first, even though he’s running in our direction. His mind is elsewhere, his body on autopilot. His long, strong legs devour the asphalt beneath his feet. His arms swing in a rhythmic, controlled tempo. It’s impressive how gracefully his body moves at such speed, aerodynamic and efficient. There’s both beauty and power in the effortlessness of his stride, and I. Can’t. Stop. Staring. I know I’m doing it and should look away, but I can’t.

“Are you seeing this?” Roxy asks, apparently unable to look away, either. Our trances are broken by frantic barking. Bella and Minnie have spotted the stranger running full tilt in our direction. “Hey,” Roxy corrects Bella, pulling her closer. “Knock it off.” But I’m still too absorbed to react in time. Minnie decides to run for it. Her leash slides out of my hand as if I didn’t have a grip on it at all. She’s gone before I can catch her, her stubby legs moving so fast that they’re a blur, on a collision course with him. “Damn it.” Now I’m running toward him, too, and he sees me. He shows no surprise when he’s pulled from his thoughts to find two gawking women and their out-of-control dogs. The hard line of his mouth tightens as he shifts from looking distracted to laser focused. And he doesn’t slow down. Primitive instinct spurs me to evade, escape. He’s like a raging cyclone hurtling toward me, and self-preservation demands retreat. “Minnie!” I shout, swiping a hand down toward the leash while running. I miss the target. “Damn it.” “Minnie Bear!” Roxy snaps, and the tiny dog instantly skids to a halt and pivots to run back to her human. I’m nearly as agile. I shift direction to dodge the man who’s charging at me, crossing to the other side of the street. “Teagan!”

Roxy’s panicked shout of my name turns my head . . . just in time to see the Chrysler 300 barreling straight for me. Adrenaline spurts, and I surge forward, the sound of squealing brakes raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I’m hit from behind with enough force to propel me off the road and onto my neighbor’s lawn. Winded and still terrified, it takes a few seconds to realize I’m okay. And that the hot, hard, sweaty hunk of a man I’d been running from is on top of me.

About the Author

Sylvia Day is the No.1 New York Times, No.1 USA Today & No.1 international bestselling author of over twenty award-winning novels translated into 41 languages. With tens of millions of copies of her books in print, she is a No.1 bestseller in 28 countries. Sylvia served as the 22nd President of Romance Writers of America and presently serves on the Authors Guild’s Board of Directors. Sylvia’s work has been coveredin Time, Variety, People, The Wall Street Journal, Cosmopolitan, Associated Press, USA Today, and Entertainment Weekly.

Twitter @SylDay #ButterflyInFrost

@midaspr

Review ~ The Smallest Things : On the Enduring Power of Family by Nick Duerden

 💖💖 Happy Publication Day 💖💖

Elliot&Thompson
14 February 2019

My thanks to the publishers and to Alison Menzies PR for my copy of this book
and the kind permission to share this extract from the book.

Nick Duerden’s grandparents were always just . . . there. A mysterious yet unchanging presence, a source of dutiful visits, birthday cards and carefully preserved rituals: lunches, dinners and endless card games.

But, as he enters midlife, and his 98-year-old grandmother enters a care home, he realises that, like so many of us, he should perhaps have paid more attention to her true worth years before.

As Nick goes in search of the secrets his late mother took to the grave, he finds it can be the smallest things that keep us together when so much is left unspoken. This is a memoir of the tiny dramas that fill all our lives, and a celebration of the special ties that can bind two intimately connected strangers. Tender and poignant, it captures the richness, and also the complexity, of family life.

Extract..

How to remember us

Before you go, I want to give you something to remember us by. It’s clear to me you need some clothes, because why else would you have worn the same pair of jeans all week, with the rips at the knees? You really should have let me fix them for you. It wouldn’t have been any trouble. Anyway, your grandfather has many trousers here, and he doesn’t wear most of them. Look at these ones. Corduroys! And brown is always fashionable. No matter if they are too long and too wide, I can take them up, and in. Try them on, let me see you in them.

For consecutive birthdays, we will buy you a wallet made from real Italian leather. You may well let them pile up in a drawer at home, each unused and still in their presentation boxes, but eventually you will use every one of them. Life is long. You will always need to keep your money somewhere.

Here, take these cups. They are made from china. For coffee. Every time you have your morning espresso, think of us. No, no. I will wrap them up so they won’t break in your luggage. You can have the saucers, too. Do you have spoons in London?

For your wife, this scarf. A coat, perhaps? The collar is real fur. Or these lace doilies, beautiful for decoration. This umbrella? For the plane, some sandwiches. Four, so you won’t go hungry. Ham, cheese, tomatoes. And for the fridge at home: tortellini, ravioli. Gnocchi. Do you know gnocchi? You do? Some sweets for the plane, so your ears won’t pop.

Take the sweets. Remember us, yes? Don’t forget.

My Thoughts..

Love comes in many guises and on ♡Valentine's Day♡ it is all too easy to focus on the romantic love between couples but as this lovely book reminds us, love is all around us, and it's often the smallest things which make all the difference.

In this memoir of tiny dramas the author focuses on the strength of family, of the need to belong, and of the values instilled into us by our relationships with our significant others, and not just in a romantic way but also in a familial way. And by using the example of his grand-parents, the author takes us through the recollections he has of staying with them, and how these visits affected his upbringing and yet, what really shines throughout the book is the the love he had for his grandparents, and of the gradual realisation that they wouldn't be around forever.

This is a beautifully written memoir, which struck quite a few chords with me as my own mother is  97 and in a nursing home. Some days she doesn't know who I am or of my association with her and  this really hurts as I feel like I have lost the person she once was, and yet, there are still lovely moments when she surprises me and I can see that beneath the mask of dementia, she loves and remembers who I am and what I mean to her.

We take for granted those who mean the most to us and yet as this book so beautifully describes they really do 'hold the keys to who we really are'...♡

About the Author

Nick lives in London with his Spanish wife and children. History is repeating itself as his two daughters have a Spanish grandmother. He is an experienced broadcaster appearing on national TV and radio, and writes regularly for the national press.

Website

Twitter @Nick_Duerden


@eandtbooks


@alisonmenziespr

Extract ~ Successio by Alison Morton

I am delighted to feature this extract from Alison Morton's latest book 

Successio continues the story 

of

Roma Nova

I

It was far too quiet. Only an occasional owl call, the odd flutter of feathers and pitter-patter of a small night creature. Sure, the training area was literally kilometres from anywhere, somewhere called Norfolk, but a hundred people couldn’t stay that quiet, not even – arguably – the best special forces in the world. Beside me, the two centurions, Livius and Paula Servla, were motionless; I couldn’t even hear them breathe. I peered through the face veil hanging from my helmet. My eyesight was still good at thirty-nine, but I didn’t see a thing in the dawn light. I relaxed; we had a full five minutes before we needed to move.

I’d been crazy to agree to take part in this exercise; I’d sat at a desk for too long. Commanding Operations did not mean taking part in every exercise. It’d been my vanity that made me put myself down for the ultimate – training with the British special forces. No, against them. Even more insane. I was no slouch and worked hard to keep my fitness up, but I really should have left it to the super-fit like Paula and Livius and, of course, Flavius. But a small country like ours didn’t refuse such invitations twice and the competition to be picked for this exercise had been near lethal.

Each year we invited a small number of allied countries’ special troops to Roma Nova to take part in our annual fitness-for-purpose exercise; thanks to our legate’s connections, there’d always been some British. Very effective and highly competent, they were reserved at first, like they’d swallowed some kind of ‘how to behave abroad’ manual, but by the end of the week, they’d usually relaxed. But this was a first for us to have an exclusive exercise with them, and on their ground.

The first night we’d arrived, we’d had all the ‘swords and sandals’ cracks in the bar from those who’d never met us. Sandwiched between New Austria and Italy, people thought Roma Nova was a cross between the Sound of Music and Gladiator with a dash of Ruritania thrown in. But when their commander welcomed us formally the next morning, he told the assembled host troops about our sixteen-hundred-year traditions and that the Praetorian Guard Special Forces were just as fearsome as they’d heard. And that Roma Nova had survived, clawing its way through the centuries, was in no small part down to the Praetorians. The British grunts tried not to appear impressed, but I saw a little more respect in their eyes after that.

Livius lifted his index finger a few millimetres from his rifle and glanced over at me. I gave a hint of a nod. Ahead of Paula and me by a body length, he started crawling forward. Using our elbows, we pulled ourselves behind and a little to each side of him across the forest floor covered in pine-needles. Three others, Allia, Gorlius and Pelo, followed in the same arrow formation. Reaching the crest of the washed-out shallow valley, we spread out behind it and froze.

After five minutes watching and listening, I nodded and Livius took Allia and Pelo into the trees behind us and set off for the other side of the depression. Raising my hand a couple of centimetres from the sandy ground, I signalled Paula to maintain position here. I grabbed my assault rifle and in a crouching run made my way to the dip twenty metres away at the entrance. I glanced up to see Gorlius scrambling up into one of the trees behind Paula to act as lookout. As he drew one of the new individual cam nets over himself, he disappeared. I pointed my pocket scope up at him. Even his heat signature was pretty near neutral. Expensive but impressive. Now we waited out ten minutes to let the wildlife settle back down.

‘Contact.’ That one word hissed in my earpiece told me Gorlius had spotted them. We’d tabbed to this location by forced march – an old Roman tradition – so we could surprise them. And there they were, walking single file, sweeping their route with their eyes and weapons, watchful, but not wary. Too professional to make any unnecessary noise, they were nevertheless a little over-relaxed.

Their commander sent two ahead to check. Now they concentrated, their weapons raised and arms and legs tensed. Just before they reached the edge of the depression, one turned back to the commander and shook his head.

Livius dropped the two of them in rapid succession. Allia and Pelo launched at the main group from the far point and downed another three between them. Paula slammed the radio operator to earth, pinioning his flailing arms and legs. Gorlius fell on two others. I tripped the last one as he tried to escape and jammed my weapon in his throat as he attempted to struggle up. I didn’t need to look at my watch to know we’d done it in under two minutes. Hm, slowing up.

We secured and tagged them. While Livius and Pelo swept the back area for a possible second patrol, Paula scanned their radio with an electronic logger.

‘Can’t see any transmission within the past ten,’ she said, looking up. ‘But I think they check in every thirty.’ She spoke in fast street Latin in case any of these clever boys turned out to be linguists.

I turned to their officer, Lieutenant Wilson, from his jacket tab. ‘Now, Lieutenant, I hope we’re not going to go formal here. I just need you to confirm the time of your next radio check.’

‘Not a chance in hell.’ His eyes half closed and he snorted.

I sighed and signalled Allia forward. From her sleeve pocket she extracted a slim tin containing two syringes and an ampoule, knelt down by the officer, prepared a needle and waited for my confirmation.

Wilson drew back. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘A fast acting relaxant that‘ll have you chirruping like a mongoose on holiday. No permanent effect, you may be a little disorientated for ten to fifteen minutes afterward. We need to move on now, so I can’t wait for you to have a mothers’ meeting about whether to tell me.’ I nodded and Allia pulled his sleeve up, jabbed the skin and depressed the tiny plunger.

I counted to twenty before I stood over him and asked again, ‘Time of next radio check?’

‘Get—no, not—’ Sweat broke out on his face with the effort of defying the chemical. ‘Twenty, no—, twenty-two. No—’. He dropped his head as if humiliated, but it wasn’t his fault.

We now had a generous margin before any alarm was given. Paula threw the opposition’s radio batteries into the woods. Allia checked out the other captives, but they only had hurt pride and a few bruises. We looped a line through their cable-tied hands, securing it to a tree and left with mildly obscene curses and promises of revenge behind us.

Setting off north at a fast march, we circled around after five minutes to parallel the trail for the exercise headquarters. We’d finished our tasks half a day early. Now we’d eliminated our closest rivals, I figured we’d be the first team back. After three days out in the field, we were looking forward to hot food and a chance to clean up properly.

Allia jogged beside me and I could see a question ready to burst out. She was very young, around twenty, and this was her first time on overseas exercise. I checked the proximity sensor; no biosignatures apart from ours for at least three kilometres.

‘What is it, Allia?’ I whispered. ‘It’s okay, just keep your voice down, though.’

‘Why are they all men, ma’am? I mean, I saw some women at the start, but only a very few and we haven’t come across any out in the field.’

‘Western forces don’t generally have women in front line combat units, and only a few in their special forces. You’ll probably see more in the American military, if you ever go there.’

I saw the disbelief on her face. I smiled at her, but said nothing. I wanted to conserve my strength and wind....

© All rights reserved.

Watch the Trailer

Do come back tomorrow to read an interview with Alison and the chance to win a signed copy of Successio

*~*~*

New Release ~ Dark Water by Jan Ruth

The tragedy and comedy that is Jack's life; is there a future for him and Anna, or is the past too destructive?

Jack Redman, estate agent to the Cheshire set and skilled juggler of complex relationships. Someone to break all the rules, or an unlikely hero? In this sequel to Wild Water Jack and Anna return to discover that history repeats itself. Anna's long-awaited success as a serious artist is poised to happen, but her joy, along with her relationship with Jack, is threatened by old scores.

Simon Banks is a depressed and unstable man with a plan. He wants to wipe out his past by buying a brighter future, but Jack Redman stands in his way. Will Jack ever escape the legacy of lies and deceit left by his ex-wife? Can Jack and Anna hold it all together, or will tragic repercussions from Jack's past blow them apart forever?

I already have my copy - if you want your copy go to :

 Amazon UK

 Amazon US

Extract from DARK WATER:

She knelt on the cold tiles and buried her face in his coat. It seemed cruel that it was still so vibrant and luxurious other than a light greying around his muzzle, and yet everything inside was breaking down. The top of his head smelt intoxicating, of grass and adventure, of selfless, unconditional love. Did love have a smell? And it smelt of home, faint traces of lavender from his newly washed blanket.

Jack was on the phone in the hall, his voice low, words indistinguishable.

It was a beautiful summer day, full of rolling clouds, light and shade. It was like the day he’d been born, she said. Jack carried him to the apple trees fluttering with white ribbons, horseshoes and hearts. As they neared the right spot, hundreds of crows took flight. She sat propped against one of the twisted trunks and Jack struggled to put the dog down on the ground next to her. Then he kissed her face and went to fetch her some coffee.

They settled together in the long grass and Benson’s nose twitched as she talked.

Presently, two vets arrived, one of them a young trainee, who kept staring at her soiled dressing gown and all the crazy decorations in the garden. They examined the dog and the older vet said he’d likely had a stroke and did she still want to go ahead with euthanasia? They were gentle without being sentimental. She nodded, Benson’s head in her lap, his useless limbs spread on the grass. Jack was silhouetted against the sky, chewing a nail. The trainee vet shaved a neat patch of hair from Benson’s foreleg, while the other one hunkered down next to her with some paperwork.

‘Miss Williams, I need you to understand that once I have administered this injection, your dog will be clinically dead.’

Jack muttered some expletive and turned away. She knew he was wiping his eyes.

‘I understand,’ she said, and signed somewhere in the indicated box.

One hand on his beating heart as the lethal drug seeped into his bloodstream, both eyes on his. He licked her hand, almost twice, and even then it seemed apologetic, as if he was trying to comfort her.

I’ll see you on another dappled lawn, or a bright sunlit mountain under a thousand cloudless skies.

His silent heart, his soulless eyes. Instant, the giving and taking of pain. Now, all the pain was hers, and weirdly, there was some comfort in that.....

© Jan Ruth all rights reserved.

If you haven't read book one then take advantage of its special price on Amazon but hurry as this price is only for a short time.

WILD WATER (Part One)

The tragedy and comedy that is Jack's life; secrets, lies and family ties.

Jack Redman, estate agent to the Cheshire set. An unlikely hero, or someone to break all the rules? Wild water is the story of forty-something estate agent, Jack, who is stressed out not only by work, bills and the approach of Christmas but by the feeling that he and his wife, Patsy are growing apart. His misgivings prove founded when he discovers Patsy is having an affair, and is pregnant. At the same time as his marriage begins to collapse around him, he becomes reacquainted with his childhood sweetheart, Anna, whom he left for Patsy twenty-five years before. His feelings towards Anna reawaken, but will life and family conflicts conspire to keep them apart again?

Buy it here :

Amazon UK
Amazon US

 My Review of Wild Water part one can be found here

About the Author

My thanks to the author for sharing her books with me.

*~*~*