Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…
Dear Reader Who Writes,
I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”
The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.
So, to business. The new year is upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.
It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.
I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.
Resolve to study all of The Thinking Quill lessons.
Buy some pens with glittery pastel-coloured ink so your writing looks like unicorn faeces. This will add magic to those moments when you look in blank incomprehension at the notes you wrote in the depths of the night.
Start each morning with a free dance expressing the joy of being alive.
Take up yoga or pilates – whichever you did not plan to do last year but never started.
Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT –A classic song for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…
I came upon a crate of beer Left out behind a bar And as t’was closed cos t’was New Year I shoved it in my car Police were out in strength that night With breathalyzer bags But I was sober as a judge And got through all their tags.
I took the booze to my best mate’s place And there we had some cheer Invited round the blokes we know And shared out all that beer ‘Peace on the earth, goodwill to men’ I told my drunken crew We sang the verse of Auld Lang Syne And then began to spew.
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
Caer sat on his pony looking at the dead body on the ground and wondering if he should send more scouts back towards the road, almost a day’s trek behind the caravan. This man had been alone, half-mad and no threat to the caravan, but others might even now be following the same path that they had taken from the road and for the same reason they had taken it: others who were scouts for brigands, bandits or bigger caravans than his own. He spat in the dirt and narrowed his eyes as he looked past the file of wagons, ponies and people. It was late afternoon and his breath misted slightly in the air. The long cold winter was over, but in the barren Wastelands, spring was always slow to come. The air still carried a biting chill, even in the heat of the day and the distant peaks kept their mantle of snow and ice, tinged with crimson by the light of the huge red sun. Spring was having to claw its way free of winter’s greedy clutches so that Temsevar could bask in an all too brief season of warmth and growth. The Wastelands were vast and magnificent. Here and there, standing proud and alone in the plain, like the lost sentinels of a forgotten age, were towering flat-topped mountains of rock, some so massive they were too big to cross in a day on foot. It was as though at some point in the distant past the ground had simply dropped away, leaving the high plateaux stranded above, like giant stepping stones, creating a two-tier terrain. If in the winter, these high grounds were the coldest and most exposed, in the spring they seemed always flushed with new vegetation before any managed to creep out of the more parched stones below. Caer made his decision. With the work to be done, the four men he already had out scouting their back trail were all he could spare for the moment. He called to one of the mounted men who was riding with the caravan. “Shevek, we are camping here.” The man he spoke to wheeled his pony away and rode at a brisk pace towards the front of the train of wagons and animals, issuing sharp orders to make the night’s camp around the rocky debris beneath the steep cliff face of one of the high monoliths. Caer felt a familiar sense of satisfaction as those orders turned the straggling ranks of moving people, ponies and wagons into a brief flurry of chaos, before brightly coloured awnings, tents and pavilions sprung up from the chaos, like strange blossoms. Caer and his men rode through the quickly forming encampment, shouting instructions, solving problems, helping secure ropes and encouraging any who were slow to respond with the whips they carried curled in their belts. In a remarkably short time, the caravan resembled a miniature town with streets and open spaces, stables, and pens. Fires were being kindled, children tending the animals as women kneaded dough and cut the vegetables for the evening meal. Toddlers screamed and got underfoot or rolled like puppies amongst the big, sharp-toothed dogs, which ignored them and begged for scraps with soulful eyes and then turned on each other snapping and snarling when an unsavoury morsel was cast their way. Once the familiar routine was well established, Caer’s men guided their mounts towards the middle of the camp. The ponies’ short stubby ears, thick coats, wall-eyed glares and powerful necks, made them far from beautiful to look upon, but their split hooves could splay to grip surefooted even on snow and ice or could run fast on firmer ground. It was their broad backs which carried the burden of human traffic in both trade and war with a sturdy strength and agility which, for Caer, had a beauty all of its own. The men who rode were as tough as their ponies. The older ones amongst them wore their hair long, stained red and tied back into a heavy braid, the greater length of the braid telling of ever greater age and experience. The youngest men had their hair shaved so close to the scalp as to seem bald. They were not even allowed to begin to grow a braid until they had served a year of apprenticeship with the caravans. All the men wore coats made from a brightly coloured heavy-felt cloth, over shirts with billowing sleeves, patterned skirted jerkins made from fleeced hides and plain felt britches which gathered loosely into calf-high boots. All were armed: every man wore a bandolier of wooden cartridge boxes over one shoulder and carried a crude pistol; one or two had a long-barrelled musket or rifled carbine, on their backs and each wore a long-bladed knife with an ornately carved hilt and whips hung looped at their belts. These men were of the Zoukai, a brotherhood of warrior guardians, hiring themselves to protect the caravans which carried the trade of Temsevar. Named after the swift and ruthless, red-plumed predatory birds which hunted from the skies in these very wastes, they were bound by a strict code of honour which placed loyalty to their captain and their caravan above all else.
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT –Granny offers some great advice on throwing a New Year’s Eve Party!
With Christmas over you might assume it safe to stick your face back up over the parapet.
Wrong.
When your finances are at their lowest ebb, and your face and figure are showing the ravages of Asti and chocolates the new year and its attendant horrors sneers at you from the pages of the calendar emblazoned with inspirational quotes that his mother bought – meaning you can neither throw it in the bin nor deface it horribly.
However. I digress.
The best advice is to be anywhere but at home. Sadly that isn’t going to happen. And when your dearly beloved suggested inviting a ‘few’ folks around for New Year’s Eve you should really have pinned him down on the word few.
So – you have just discovered that ‘a few folks’ consists of the rugby club, the darts team, his running buddies and most of the local Young Farmers. Unfortunately, this doesn’t constitute grounds for justifiable homicide (or divorce)…
What to do.
After you finish kicking his ass, make him empty the garage and borrow his Aunty Betty’s caravan awning. This party is coming nowhere inside your house. Get straw bales for seating. Hire a couple of horrible portable toilets and some space heaters. Get the ancient ghetto blaster out of the attic. And dress warmly
Catering should be basic.
Booze wise offer only beer. Anybody wanting anything else can effing well buy it themselves.
Food? Tempting though it is to go down the route of crisps, nuts and the sweets nobody likes from the selection boxes this is a dangerous way to go .
Better by far is to construct a huge vat of stew with the leftover turkey and as much root veg as you can blackmail the husband into peeling. Vegetarians can be catered for with a bean pot of equally large proportions. Serve in paper bowls with plastic spoons and huge chunks of bread.
Job done. Zero washing up and enough stomach lining to prevent alcoholic poisoning, drunken orgiastic behaviour, or the annual drunken brawl…
A final word of warning.
Let nobody in the house or you will discover said person asleep under the stairs on about January 5…
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
“The thing you have to ask yourself is who is going to stop these people if we don’t, Grim?”
In the criminal jungle that is his turf, Grim is the apex predator. Now the Coalition Security Force is assigning him to the most lethal hunt he has yet faced. On this hunt, the predator may become the prey…
Defeat was always a bitter cup from which to have to swallow, but Kahina Sarava determined from the first that it should not define her. True, she now had to endure exile in the grand house she liked the least of all she owned. It was a sprawling, over-ornate residence built in the heart of great natural beauty and originally intended as a place where she could entertain and impress the powers of Central. It suited her political enemies to have her there, isolated and cut off from any place of influence. But, it was not entirely without benefit. Freed from the endless need to joust for political advantage, she had considerably more time for some of the other things that mattered. Such as pursuing her lifetime’s work: Future Data. So she stood, back straight, defying her age as the fussily dressed man climbed from his vehicle and walked the short distance to where she waited in front of the main door to her house. The security people who flanked her on either side, guards set to both protect and contain her, stiffened visibly as her visitor approached. “Garn, what a delight to see you.” She had been expecting him. Though when the brief message informing her of a visitor had come through earlier that day, his name had not been mentioned. “I think this must be the first time we’ve had a get together since you arrested me. What would bring you all the way from Central to visit me in person? I am sure you could gloat quite adequately over link.” He was a big man in many uses of the word, and it amused her to make him feel uncomfortable. There was little enough by way of human entertainment for her here and no small responsibility for her incarceration rested on his shoulders. “Right,” he said, and she could see he was sweating despite the temperature being pleasantly cool. “Maybe we could go in and talk somewhere a little more private.” “I can offer you anything here, except privacy.” She made an elegant gesture with her hands, unfolding them to indicate the attentive security detail. “I am not permitted that even when I sleep. My link connections are watched and my conversations monitored.” Garn Jecks seemed unperturbed, but then his mind was not very flexible. If he had arrived with a fixed idea of some objective he wished to achieve, that would be both the full extent and narrow focus of his thinking. Laser like — if a laser were some solid substance and not fluid photons. Such inability to embrace the broadest view whilst still keeping the details in sight irritated Kahina. Her own mind suffered no such limitations, and she tolerated it poorly in others. “I will make the necessary arrangements,” he told her. Matching actions to words, he turned to issue brief orders to the security detail, then added more by link to the invisible watchers who controlled the remote monitoring of her residence. They all moved quickly to obey, but then he was their supreme commander, the man in charge of the Coalition Security Force. A short time later, Kahina found herself sitting in her favourite room, ambianced to remind her of her mother’s study with shelves of books and curios, heavy looping curtains at the windows and the antique wooden desk. She had chosen not to occupy the desk, Jecks wasn’t someone who would be in the slightest bit intimidated by her doing so. Instead, she sat in one of the comfortable, deep-cushioned chairs set either side of a beautifully carved and inlaid table. Jecks sat opposite her having just dismissed the last of his entourage. He was visibly discomfited. Kahina played the perfect hostess. “Can I offer you any refreshments? It’s not the shortest of hops here from Central.” “Right. It’s not. But thank you, no. I’m a bit pressed for time.” She couldn’t resist another dig. “I am fully accessible by link, you know.” Jecks didn’t trouble to answer that. His preoccupation was blinding him and Kahina wondered if the poor man was even aware how much that showed. “There has been a — a development.” “A development?” He almost squirmed. “I have just received some information which has brought into question our previous conclusions regarding the Future Data project.” Kahina considered feigning surprise. “Oh?” Jecks looked as if he had swallowed something that settled ill in his stomach. For a moment, he glared at her. “So you already knew.” She didn’t trouble to reply, instead allowing her expression to reflect the untroubled confidence she was feeling. Jecks muttered something under his breath then started pulling up a remote screen of what appeared to be some security surveillance. Not the best quality and from a static camera, but when he zoomed the image and froze it, the result was perfectly clear. “Oh dear,” Kahina said gently. “How very embarrassing for you. I wonder what you plan to do about that?” Jecks pulled at his neckline as if it were too close about his throat. “It’s not what you…” “Oh, but I rather think it is.” The first taste of victory after such a bitter defeat and three years of exile was so sweet. She leaned forward, unable to suppress her delight and not caring that it showed. “I rather think you need me again.” Jecks physically recoiled from her. “Kahina, I — “ “Var Sarava,” she corrected him. He looked as though she had slapped him hard across the face and Kahina smiled. “You are of course quite right. I knew already. Or should I be more accurate and say that Future Data informed me of there being a high probability that those two would resurface in this timeframe.” “Then you know why I came.” Jecks sounded defeated now, resigned to some inevitable and inescapable fate. Which, Kahina supposed, was not too far from the truth of things. “Of course I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m not a mind reader. Future Data may inform me what is likely to occur, but it’s not yet capable of attributing motive to the behaviours it predicts. Why did you come?” “It wasn’t my first choice, but Ilke Dray suggested…” Jecks stopped himself and took a breath instead. Wise man. Kahina could feel the pressure of her fingers closing into tight claws. “How is dear Ilke these days?” Then she lifted a forbidding hand, forcing the fingers to uncurl, as Jecks opened his mouth to tell her. “No. I really don’t want to know. I’m sure she will be going about her busy little life in her busy little way. And of course you don’t need to tell me why you are here, that much is obvious. What I want to know is what do you have to offer me in exchange for my assistance at this time?” Jecks wore the look of a man being asked to sell his mother. “Var Sarava, you can’t seriously intend to turn the security of the Coalition into an auction?” “Why not? I have what you need, and you can procure it nowhere else. That would seem to me the basis of a price negotiation. I am sure you have authorisation to offer me something or you wouldn’t have come.” “I can’t reverse the decision of the courts. I can’t turn back the clock and restore your good name. I can’t undo what has happened.” He sounded quite upset about it too. Kahina got to her feet as gracefully as her age allowed and crossed the room to the antique desk. She loved the smooth feel of the polished wood as she slid her hand beneath it to release a secret catch. It was a wonderfully archaic hiding place. She slipped the data stick into her hand and turned back to Jecks, holding it up for him to see. “This is everything you need to know to deal with them — if you are willing to pay the price I ask.” “I’m not authorised to offer you anything.” He sounded in pain. “Then it’s good that I’m not asking you for any ‘thing’. I have only one demand to make.” “The head of Ilke Dray?” Jecks suggested, his voice slightly strangled. And, for a moment, Kahina had to wonder if he was being serious. Perhaps he was. “I have no idea what I might do with such a completely vacuous item,” she told him. “No. I couldn’t care less about Ilke. And the price I’m going to ask isn’t unduly expensive. I merely need to know you will pay it when the time comes.” “What is it?” “I want Durban Chola.” She wasn’t sure if it was relief or appalled amusement that motivated his response. “Chola? What the…? I mean, why?” “I really rather think that’s my business, don’t you?” Jecks looked as though he was being forced to swallow a large, irregularly shaped solid object. “Right. Yes. Of course. I think we can do that.” It was that easy. Crossing back to the chairs, she settled herself comfortably again before holding out the data stick to Jecks. He took it as if it were a sacred relic, then busied himself with his links for a few moments as he prepared it to read. She could tell when he had done so. His expression shifted. Hardened. “This contains nothing. Just two names.” “That is more than enough for now, I assure you. If you were intelligent enough it would be all you needed, but I am quite aware you will be returning to ask me for further guidance.” It was why she felt so confident that he would pay her price in the end. Jecks was frowning as if trying to read some deeper meaning into what he had been given. “One is someone I know quite well and I can see the sense in it, they’ve worked on this before — but who in the name of all sanity is Halkom Dugsdall?” Kahina, her objective achieved, sat back serenely and smiled.
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT –A Giveaway!
In A Cold Frame by Jane Jago, Grace finds herself caught up in murder, mystery and mid-life romance in the beautiful Cornish coastal countryside…
It takes a certain sort of courage to change your life at fifty-five. But Grace had never lacked chutzpah, so she took redundancy as a sign from on high. Within a month of the factory closing she had rented out her house, bought a campervan, and acquired an oversized shaggy mutt called Jeremy. Bright and early on one of those April mornings where the sky is pale blue and the world looks washed clean, she engaged first gear and set out to find adventure. The first couple of weeks of campervan life was interesting, as Grace learned the ropes and Jeremy learned acceptable behaviour. However, by the time May poked its nose over the horizon they felt like a proper team. As the weather was unseasonably warm, they settled into a shady pitch on a tidy little campsite in north Cornwall and sat back to watch the surfers, and walk the coastal path. On day two of their stay, they acquired neighbours, who had a big orange muscle truck and a silver bullet of a caravan. Geoff and Mona were large, loud and friendly and they had a French Bulldog who adored Jeremy, even if she did bully him. Most of the rest of the campsite was filled with youngsters, in tents and beat-up vee dubs, whose only interests appeared to be surfing and getting laid. Grace wasn’t surprised that most of these youngsters chose to ignore her, though she was always pleased to chat to any polite enough to pass the time of day with a middle-aged woman and her ugly dog. This wary politeness changed to something warmer the day a group of lads discovered that Jeremy could play football. It happened like this. The waves weren’t cooperating and a dozen boys were playing what Grace mentally described as mini Australian Rules when one of them kicked the ball too enthusiastically and it bulleted towards a newly-arrived, very shiny, very white caravan. None of the lads were close enough to stop the inevitable, but Jeremy was “Catch boy.” The ball was just passing over his head when the big dog jumped, catching it in his powerful jaws. He brought the ball to Grace and dropped it at her feet. “Who’s a clever boy,” she said, as she rubbed his rough head. By this time the surfers had jogged over and were standing in a rough line about six feet from Grace. “You can come and get your ball,” she said. “He doesn’t bite.” The boys crowded forwards. They seemed to have elected the skinniest of them as spokesperson. Because he hitched up his colourful shorts and gave Grace a sort of a half salute. “That was some catch. I reckon Buffon here saved our bacon.” He indicated the red-faced and bristling caravanner with a rueful thumb. “Thanks buddy.” Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she nodded he went over the the group of lads and indicated that they might make much of him. When he knocked two over in his enthusiasm, Grace whistled sharply. “Gently Jeremy.” He wagged his tail frantically, but moderated his behaviour enough to stop knocking people over. When even he had had enough attention he ambled back to the camper for a long drink of water. “That’s some dog missis, what is he?” “Nobody knows. I adopted him from a shelter because he and me seemed to suit.” The boys thought that one over for a minute. “Is he really called Jeremy? That’s kinda cool.” “He was called it when I got him. The kennel-maid thought he looked like her uncle Jeremy.” Grace threw them their ball. “You lot have a game to play, but I don’t recommend playing near here.” “No. We can’t expect Jeremy here to save us twice. We’ll get him a bone to say thanks next time we go into town.” “He’d rather join in your game of football. He’s a mean goalie.” “Yay. Keen. Coming boy?” Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she agreed he went gladly to the games field at the bottom of the valley. Predictably enough, mister shiny caravan bustled over – only he didn’t come to thank Grace for saving his pride and joy from a football. Instead he chose to stand over her as she sat in her comfortable chair and loudly berate her for ‘encouraging rowdyism’. She put up with him and his bristling moustache for a couple of minutes before standing up so he was no longer looming over her. “Go away,” she said quietly. “You are on my pitch, uninvited, and you are being rude. I have no desire to listen to you.”
A Cold Frame by Jane Jago is free today and tomorrow so you can snag your copy and keep reading!
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT –A classic song for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…
All the family’s sparked out Now the feast is eaten Roast ‘taties and brussel sprouts Left in heaps uneven Brightly burned the brandy flame When the pud was served up But although I can’t complain I’m so stuffed I could throw up.
‘One more mince pie, help yourself’ That was my undoing Now I can’t see my feet no more ‘Cos of all that chewing Washed it down with cherry schnapps And some fine prosecco Now I need a good long nap As the carols e-echo.
Now its least an hour past Since we all were dining Memories of that repast Rapidly declining Then someone brings in the cake And we all have slices Oh yes, a second piece I’ll take Or maybe three suffices…
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S EXTRA SPECIAL FESTIVE DELIGHT –Fozzies’ First Christmas!
Fozzie doesn’t understand hoomans. They is very strange. They tells Fozzie this is Krissmuss. But Fozzie doesn’t know what Krissmuss is. He does know that his hoomans is acting very strange. First they puts up a thing in the evenings room. It’s green and fuzzy and it has red shiny dangles and teeny weeny stars. They says it is a tree. Fozzie knows it is not. But they doesn’t lissen to him. Then the nice lady with the red van and the gravy bones keeps bringing things with squiggles on. Same like for hoomum’s barkday, but much more many. They shows them to Fozzie and he is not interested, until there is one that smells of Fozzie’s Scotland family and his dog mummy and his favourite litter sister. Fozzie wants to have that thing for his own self, but hoodad says no. Fozzie may have has a sulk… Anyhoo, hoodad tells The Foz that a fat hooman in a red suit comes down the chimbelow to bring treatoes for good dogs. Fozzie says not on his watch. He isn’t having no strange man near his hoomum. Nohow. Contrariwise. Hoodad says not to worry, but Fozzie is on his guard, There is much good foods being made and Fozzie has to do lots of kitchen helping. Fozzie likes kitchen helping. And he specially likes the look of the biggest chimkun you has ever seen. Hoomum says we shall roast it for Krissmuss dinner. Fozzie can hardly wait. Tonight hoodad hangs three socks on the fireplace. They has squiggles on them and hoodad points Fozzie the squiggles. Hoomum, he says. Hoodad. And Fozzie! He tells Fozzie that the socks is where the fat man leaves treatoes for good hoomans and good dogs. Fozzie isn’t sure about that, but he supposes hoodad knows what he is telling. Bedtime has come and the house is as quiet as a mouses. Fozzie sits up and has a think. He isn’t having no strange man near his hoomum, big horse protection is his duty. He sneaks onto the big bed quiet, quiet and lays down beside hoomum. She nearly wakes up, but in the end only puts her front paw on Fozzie’s back. She’s safe now and Fozzie can sleep, maybe he will dream of a sock full of treatoes just for him…
Fozzie Jago Now aged seven months and fourteen and half-ish days!
Gifts Galore (well FIVE of them) for you to enjoy!
If you need to entertain the children or the grand-children today, why not snag A Christmas Tail by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook with illustrations by Ian Bristow. A charming story set into rhyme as a mouse teaches a spoilt little girl the true meaning of Christmas…
Definitely for the grown-ups – a seasonal story of obsession, Team Holly by Jane Jago.
Or maybe you fancy a bit of escapism into a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left. Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises… for those who enjoy whodunnits and alternate history! Here are two Dai and Julia adventures free for you – Dying for a Vacation and Dying to be Fathers by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.
All can be downloaded for free today (or tomorrow). Hoping these help you and yours have a fabulous day whether you are celebrating or not!
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT – A poem for the season!
It was just past midnight, though the sky seemed extra dark And all the little steam engines were gathered in the park Then something broke the silence with a rattle and a creak The oldest engine cleared his tubes, and he began to speak
“There are not many nights”, he said, “when we are gathered near So I would tell a tale if you might have the will to hear” The wheezing and the whistling was no louder than a breeze And yet a tiny engine whispered, “Will you tell us please?”
“It happened very long ago, my father’s father’s story When Owen Owen rode the rails to fame and shining glory He was just an engine, and his livery quite worn He pulled the ore from down the mine and worked from night to morn
But then one day in winter, he was give a big surprise His driver and an engineer they fitted him with eyes Clear and shining brass they were and bright to light the way And driver said they made the mine as bright as any day
What Owen engine thought of them was never very clear But those bright eyes they lit the miners way throughout the year For two days every winter the pit was put to bed And Owen Owen engine was left peaceful in his shed
He quite enjoyed the rest he felt his heavy toil had bought And closing down his brassy eyes he sat in happy thought Until one night when all around the fog was thick and yellow His rest was interrupted by a fat and jolly fellow
‘Owen Owen’, said the man, ‘I’ve come to ask your aid I’ve toys to take to children but the reindeer are afraid They cannot see through this thick murk and fear to break their legs Will you help us out dear chap? Or do I have to beg?’
And Owen Owen smiled a smile as wide as wide could be ‘Open up the shed’ he said, ‘that’s just the job for me’ And so it came about upon that darkling winter’s night That Owen Owen guided Santa with his eyes so bright.”
And every engine in the park gave a quiet beep Before they closed their iron minds and tumbled back to sleep.
It is the festive season, The time December sees in And that’s our very reason, To grant each day for you Something that’s old or new Perhaps a gift or two!
TODAY’S DELIGHT – Listen in – and a Giveaway!
The Night Library at Christmas by Jane Jago on Tall Tales TV.
It was Christmas Eve and the darkness of the library was alive with twinkling lights as children, and small creatures carrying glow worm lanterns, climbed the stacks to the floor and joined an ever-growing procession to where a noble Norway Spruce speared the darkness with its scented branches. As the crowd around its feet grew thicker, the Christmas tree seemed to grow ever taller and more majestic, then, one by one, the candles on its branches took light. A dumpy little human female stepped into the light and immediately a clamour went up around her. “Miss. Miss. Read us the story. Read us about the baby in the stable. Please miss.” The librarian smiled and went to the place where Holy Books of many callings were shelved. A heavy, hand tooled volume leapt into her arms and for a second she staggered under its weight. She smoothed its tooled leather, reflecting on how the stories within its covers had conquered the world with more effectiveness than all the guns, and all the bombs, and all the wars…
From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jagothat is free to download today and tomorrow.
Working Title Blogspot 