The crater was perfectly circular, and the thing that sat in it was white metal and as featureless as a lump of rock.

Sightseers were disappointed as it did nothing except creak and groan as it slowly cooled.

In the end, even the army left, certain this was no more than an unusually smooth meteor.

A thousand miles away they finished building their land bridge and swarmed the defenceless city.

Of course the thing in the desert looked nothing like a spaceship. Because it wasn’t one.

It was a diversion which allowed the invaders to take us without a fight.

©️jj 2020

Take a peek into The Lizard Lords of Jupiter by the self-proclaimed queen of exotic sci-fi Venus N. Uranus.

It seemed that they were only just in time as the doors opened fully. The round-faced woman entered, and bowed all but double.
“The Mushir Szzrt.”
Cyrus bowed and Clea curtseyed.
Kerenza kept her eyes on the floor.
“Look at me,” the voice was oddly sibilant, but commanding.
She lifted her eyes and had her first sight of a lizard soldier. Her mouth went dry with fear. He was about seven feet tall with blue scaly skin and a thick muscular neck supporting a narrow reptilian head. He was dressed from neck to ankles in black silk bound with gold, and twin sword hilts were visible over the massive width of his shoulders. The eyes that regarded her with cold antipathy were so light as to be almost white, with vertical pupils and nictating membranes that constantly moved across their surface. He stared at her in silence and she felt a blush rise from her neck to her forehead. After what seemed a very long time the mushir turned his attention to Cyrus.
“Have the high lord’s instructions been obeyed?”
“To the letter, Mushir.”
“And what are your observations, flesh trader?”
“She is a ripe little thing. It would be an honour and a pleasure to break that one to harness.”
“Ssskrrt,” the lizard made a strange noise in his throat. “Indeed.” The sibilant voice was dry. “Is it intact?”
“Yes lord.”
“Display it. I am ordered to ascertain its condition.”
Cyrus snapped his fingers…

A Bite Of… Venus N. Uranus 

We had three questions only to learn a little more of this enigmatic lady.

Question one: How much of yourself is in the heroines of your so-loved books?

Very little. But had you asked how much of my villains lives in my own breast the answer might have been more illuminating.

Question two: What is your favourite indulgence?

Ah. Champagne, I guess. Or possibly silken underwear.

Question three: Chips or doughnuts?

Neither child. One has an aversion to calorific snacks. The figure is above all importances.

At which point we had to retreat to the door as she began throwing shoes at us – shoes with sharpened six-inch stiletto heels…

Other works by Venus:

Animal Passions on the Ark
As the Ark flees a dying earth Captain Twerk and his crew are sucked into a dark sensual vortex from which only the prayers of a thousand virgins can rescue them. As far as we know they are still there… 

Boinking for Freedom
Captain Tumescent Schlong and his Martian sidekick Wan Ka Dribblefloop save the universe with nothing more than KY Jelly and a swivelling hip action

Candles for Callisto 
Two nuns and a redundant space cowboy carry the Candles of Callisto from their hiding place on earth to the Venusian temple where their ignition begins a multiverse-wide orgy that lasts a thousand years

Dominant Destroyer 
Captain Selfie the Daandehoopian Dom and his faithful retainer Whippin’ Winnie beat the universe into submission with the aid of a bullwhip and a large silicone appliance

Katie the Qlingon Kleptomaniac 
Aboard the prison cruiser Thrust, the only way Katie can avoid the attentions of Big Brenda and her blue banana is if she can become the prey of Captain Rutt Bigthong and his dog Sniffa

Marianna and the Testicles of Mars
How a silicone-enhanced glamour model saved the known universe using only the power of her ‘mind’ and a secondhand toothbrush

Neptune’s Nymphos
When the good ship Sphincta lands on Neptune, the male crew members quickly find themselves sold as sex slaves. Heaven? Or Hell? You decide…

Pulling Poseidon 
The starship Donkey Parts is pulled into the orbit of a dark planet. Only the pulchritudinous Petunia Petals and her Venusian nose flute can save the day

Saturnalia on Saturn
Space explorer Thea Throbscuttle may have bitten off more than she can chew when she crash lands her flitter in the middle of a very rowdy midsummer party. Only the satyr Longtongue can save her, but what can she offer him to secure his aid?

The Virgins of Venus
Deep underground in the Caverns of Hi’Men live a thousand young women who have never seen a male in their lives. When the tunnelling machine breaks through the wall of their prison even the prodigious Throb Loverage is forced to flee for his life

Venus is a retired pole dancer and rectal explorer who now earns a living by writing, and knitting decorative merkins for ladies who are bored of their Brazilian. You won’t find her on social media because she is too busy penning her next exotic sci-fi bestseller or participating in the SETI program…

((WTB Ed. Note – We think the underling who put this piece together might have made a repeated typo in their use of  ‘exotic’))

We are small, and they find us unappealing so they subject us to hurts in the name of their science. 

When we die they write it down, but care not that they have killed us.

We are pacifist at heart, and even when they kill some of us and spread us on others we do not retaliate.

But we will not help them. 

We will not chase and eat the virus that is killing their young.

Why should we?

They kill us without a thought as the virus kills them.

Some days we wonder whether or not they will survive…

©️jj 2020

Built upon an asteroid, these mighty habitation towers are the final stronghold of humanity in a star system ravaged by a long-ago war. Now, centuries after the apocalyptic conflict, the city thrives — a utopia for the rich who live at the top, built on the labours of the poor stuck below…

Home was her sanctuary — their sanctuary. It had been hers alone for so long that Joah could never have imagined sharing it. Then she’d met Zarshay and the naturalness of the sharing had been something she still found strange. It was beautiful, wonderful, amazing, but very, very strange. Their lives enlaced in many sweet ways, enhancing each aspect: work, leisure, friendship, sex.
“You know Heila has been for lunch with a guy from Undergrove Promotions?” Zarshay murmured.
It was so not the kind of topic Joah would have chosen for post-sex warmth and cuddles. She heaved a sigh and sat up, reaching for a throw-on wrap. “All right, if you want to talk about it now. I really don’t mind.”
She heard a snort of amusement from behind her on the bed.
“You are the very worst liar I know. You can’t act worth a thing.”
Warm arms embraced her and for a moment she considered giving in and lying back down again. But it felt wrong to be bringing the stress of day-to-day life into their bedroom.
“If we need to talk work,” she said, turning, “I’d rather do so with a strong drink in my hand.”
Zarshay grinned, her face suddenly that of the mischievous teen she had been when they met.
“Always,” she agreed.

They sat in the windowed alcove of the apartment, on a cushioned couch, taking in the glorious vista of graceful towers and the spans between them, small vehicles dipping like living creatures in the air between.
“Is it serious?” Joah asked.
“For Heila, everything is serious: everything is a melodrama and everything is always on the edge of catastrophe.”
It was, Joah thought, a pretty astute assessment.
“So, we may lose her?”
Zarshay wrinkled her nose in doubt.
“Maybe. But you can’t forget about the Dog factor. There is the huge Hengast and Heila thing all over social media. She loves that and—”
A soft buzz broke into their conversation. Heila looked at the unfamiliar contact details on her phone, then accepted it. It came from the upper floors, which meant it was unlikely to be any kind of time waster. She flashed the screen at Zarshay as she answered, and the other woman’s eyebrows rose.
“Joah Meer Productions, how can I help you?”
“You the people who make Starways Pathfinders? Good. I’m Dain Strand, a personal aide to Toros Strand, and I want to talk to you about a very special project we have in mind.”

Star Dust by E.M. Swift-Hook, originally appeared in The Last City, a shared-universe anthology. This version is the ‘Author’s Cut’ and differs, very slightly, from that original. Next week – Episode 0101

It’s been a funny old year
When all is said and done
There’s been too much of Covid
And not so much of fun

There’s been a world turned upside down
By powers beyond our ken
And yet there’s been a lot to love
As people rise again

There may have been a lockdown
There may even have been two
But we’ve found ways to keep in touch
To reach out, me and you.

We discovered that this world
Of which we are so fond
Is smaller than you’d think, you know
We’ve Zoomed accross the Pond

We’ve made the best of making do
And tried in every weather
To care for those who needed care
To get through this together

So if you are now reading this
At 2020’s end
Remember that you should be proud
You’ve made it this far, my friend.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived allwheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the allwheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the allwheel back onto the road as the cliffedge approached at a frightening speed.

From the latest addition to the The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Dying for a Present, a novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

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.

©️jane jago

You can listen to this on YouTube too!

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook wish you and yours a truly festive day however you may celebrate!

Thank you for supporting the Working Title Blog.

(Poem by Jane Jago)

It had been six months since Bea went to live with Papa’s sister. Now it was Christmas time and her cousins were writing their letters to Santa. 

In her mind’s ear Bea heard Papa’s laugh and felt his hand on her brown curls.

“Be careful who you write to, my love. Santa is no more than a fairytale, but Satan is alive and real.”

She thought it worth a try and wrote carefully, kissing the screw of paper before throwing it into the hottest part of the fire. 

Her aunt sighed, but said nothing, knowing how hard this must be for one lonely little girl.

Christmas morning, while it was still dark, Bea felt icy fingers at her brow. She opened her eyes to see a narrow, cold sort of a gentleman sitting on the side of her bed.

“You wrote to me.”

“I did, sir. Can you make my wish come true?”

“Do you know what you are asking for?”

Bea nodded and reached for Papa’s hand across the divide.

Later that same morning, her aunt found her quite cold in her bed but with a smile that lit her plain little face and made her beautiful in death.

©jj 2020

It is Christmas time and Joss Becket with her beloved husband Ben, the co-owners of The Fair Maid and Falcon, one of the busiest pubs in the south of England, take their twin daughters on a walking Nativity…

Of course there was still a certain amount of work attached to the production of what seemed to have grown from a village event into something with rather more ‘reach’, but at least I was spared the organisational details. By mid-December the village had grown used to the presence of a camera crew and even a little blasé about the whole affair. For myself, I kept my head below the parapet as much as possible, only emerging to discuss such matters as ticketed suppers, hot mulled cider, and commemorative mugs. As to the actual event I was carefully incurious, feeling that if I wasn’t prepared to get fully involved the best thing I could do was keep my nose right out.
Then the big day came. It was the Sunday before Christmas. We were right in the middle of the countdown to the big day itself, and the weather was bloody freezing although that didn’t seem to be acting as a deterrent to the hundreds of people who poured into the village to,see the spectacle.
The play was to begin with the Announciation which would be enacted in the church, and then Mary and Joseph would progress through the streets, stopping to be turned away at door after door until they reached the Fair Maid where they would be directed to the barn for the climax of the story.
After a tea of soup and sandwiches I dressed the twins in their warmest clothing and the whole family, plus our head chef and his family, went along to see the fun.
There were crowds of people gathered outside the church, where two huge screens would relay the action from inside. As the crowd waited the speakers beside the screens played Christmas Carols into the cold air. We were among those select few admitted to the church where we were guided to our places by dark clad figures bearing torches. Promptly at six o’clock the church fell dark and a single bell tolled the hour. As the last bong sounded a light seeming to come from nowhere illuminated a young girl at a spinning wheel. She seemed unaware of our presence, singing a little song as the thread grew between her fingers. Then the light grew dazzling and a great voice filled the church. The angel dropped out of the sky on invisible wires and the oldest story of all begun to unfold. I will say it was brilliantly done and the villagers had been coached in their parts very well. So well, in fact, that it was hard to recognise them as anything other than Mary, Joseph, and assorted angels etcetera.
The crowd that followed ‘Mary and Joseph’ was surprisingly silent and even though it was many hundreds strong it somehow failed to impinge on the magic of this cold starlit night. When we arrived at the pub, most of the crowd was kept in the car park where more huge screens had appeared as if by magic.
In the yard fronting the huge barn where our Winnebago normally lives, we found there were straw bales to sit on as the sky clouded over and snow began to sift down onto our heads. As the first flakes fell the barn doors opened and we saw Mary and Joseph and the baby, and the patient donkey, and a few early lambs, and a couple of pygmy goats. It was beautifully staged, and we all awaited the shepherds and the magi with bated breath. Suddenly we could smell the smells of upland meadows and hear the melodious chime of cow bells as the humble shepherds came from the west. Mary looked at them and smiled, but instead of the ‘actors’ speaking the air was suddenly full of music.
Where Danilo had come by a gospel choir I knew not, but they were the real deal, and their voices told of the visitors and how they brought gifts to the infant king far better than speech could ever have done. Even I so far forgot my cynicism as to lean forward and listen enchanted. All too soon, it seemed to me, the barn doors rolled closed and it was over.
For a moment the lights dimmed to darkness and I could hear a rustling in the straw around me which I dearly hoped wasn’t mice. Then the lights came on – slowly getting brighter and brighter until it was almost daylight. All around me I could hear children’s voices and I looked at Roz and Ali each of whom had a tissue paper wrapped parcel in her lap. Lifting my eyes from their happy wonderment I looked about me to see every child in the yard had a gift and every child wore an identical expression of bemused delight.
Roz turned a face of binding joy to me. “Look Mummy,” she said, “a Christmas miracle.”

©️Jane Jago