‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

To say The Crown and Sceptre was crowded was to understate the case. Em found herself wedged firmly between Agnes and Ishmael listening to Ginny with, she was very much afraid, her mouth half open.
“So. I was digging through my files on DumpCorp and I came across some allegations about the behaviour of company employees when they were in Scotland ‘negotiating’. Nothing, it seemed, could be proved, but I knew in my gut that DumpCorp was as guilty as hell. I sat and read them through again and I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be silenced.”
Agnes pushed a glass in Ginny’s hand.
“You sup up and explain properly missy.”
Ginny grinned. “Okay. In addition to the suggestion that at least one croft was torched, there were some complaints from the families of barely of age girls. And they concerned Dump and Schilling. Sadly it was the usual case of somebody’s word against somebody else’s. And it got swept under the carpet. Then there was the case I was involved in personally.”
She stopped speaking and Em thought tears were very close to the surface. But Ginny, as the sisterhood was beginning to learn, was made of stern stuff under the fluffy exterior and she pressed on.
“Okay. We had all the evidence and everything should have been on our side. But then Schilling took my ex-husband out to lunch and suddenly the bottom fell out of our case. It ended my marriage. And it took me five years to find out why the weak fool folded. I had always thought that Schilling paid him off. But he didn’t. Turns out my ex had another ‘wife’ and a child and he was simply told that the kid would disappear if he didn’t do as he was told. The rest, as they say, is history. But I did promise myself that I’d have my day with them two.”
Jamelia got up from her end of the table and managed to insert herself on the bench next to Ginny. She took Ginny’s hand in hers and Ginny’s smile grew stronger.
“Today seemed to me to be my only chance to face them so I made my plans.”
She was still wearing the ugly hat and put up her hand in a gesture that mirrored what she had done earlier in the day. When she opened her hand there was about six inches of needle sharp steel in the palm. It was an ornate Victorian hatpin.
“Old trick from when I was regularly attending protests. Wear a hat, then you have an excuse for a sharp weapon…”
Em leaned forward and picked the thing up. “That’s some weapon. Are you telling me you stabbed Dump with it?”
“Yup. Right in the fat bit under his thumb. I never thought I would be able to do that to another human being…”
She looked so shocked that Agnes laughed her most comfortable laugh. “I reckon you’re off the hook there, sister, whatever that thing may be biologically it isn’t a human being anywhere that counts.”
“That’s sophistry, and it shouldn’t make me feel any better. Although it does…”
Em put out a hand and touched Ginny’s shoulder. “You, my sister, have nothing to reproach yourself with. Your intervention may just have turned the day and stopped that madman blasting around him with his popgun.”
Ginny’s smile was so bright that it was all but blinding to look on. “Are we safe then? Have we really won?”
It was Jamelia who answered. “Oh yes. We’ve won right enough. And there is no wriggle room. The housing estate is safe.”
“And Dump?”
“Oh. Him? They hailed him away in a police van. Kicking and screaming. They were talking mental instability and asking for a doctor to be in attendance.”
Em took over. “His goose is cooked. Plus, of course, this is going viral online.”
She passed Ginny her phone and watched her sister’s face break into a delighted grin as she saw a grainy image of herself facing up to the two men and the close up of Schilling spitting in her face.
Jamelia put a finger on the screen. “And that, my brave friend, has just about put a huge nail in the coffin of DumpCorp’s plans for world domination.”
There didn’t seem to be much left to say when a huge pair of hands placed a tray of drinks on the centre of the table.
“Drink up ladies. I reckon you are owed a few drinks.”
Em looked into the eyes of one of the Saturday night fighters and he dropped her a huge wink.
“Wasn’t just us, you know.”
“Yeah. But you lot were like the bloke that stands in front of an orchestra waving a stick. We can all play our instruments, but we needed somebody to herd us together.”
Em supposed he had a point although she hadn’t a clue what to say to him, but it was okay – Agnes had her back.
“Just so long as everyone is safe,” she said. Then she chuckled fatly. “You and the Jocks made up your differences?”
The young giant gestured with his thumb and Em turned for a look. Almost all of the pub garden seemed to have been taken over for some sort of a congratulatory party involving the Saturday night boys, the older majorettes, the marching band, and the Scottish pipers. Someone had dragged in an electric piano from who knew where and the dancing was energetic if less than ballroom.
Em felt her grin grow wider as one of the majorettes came into the room and dragged a pair of rather rusty swords off the wall.
“It’s a challenge,” her speech was slurred and her eyes were bloodshot, but she was game for all that. “Them bliddy jocks has challenged us to have a bash as sword dancing.”
Agnes elbowed Em in the ribs.
“Get out there will you. The honour of the village is at stake.”
Em got up and toed off her shoes.
“Let the dog see the rabbit,” she said firmly.
As she formed the antlers with her fingers the Scottish pianist struck up Ghillie Callum. Em’s feet flew and the place fell silent around her save for one very pissed Caledonian.
“Well booger me backwards with a haggis. The old sassenach bird can bludy sword dance.”

Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will return to The Working Title Blog in 2021.

Now comes the day of fire and a knight of courage rare
Who bears the blade of Dragon’s Bane and braves the dragon’s lair
Who fights upon the bones of all who’ve been devoured there
Who fights the ancient dragon, where none before would dare. 

The clouds above are sundered, shedding endless, saltless, tears
As lightning cleaves the sky across and strikes our very fears
And mighty roars the thunder, as the echo fills our ears
The dragon’s doom has come after a thousand tortured years.

The ocean deeps are riven as the chasms break apart
And lift the land that’s living forth from the seas that part
As massive waves are driven on far shores no one can chart
For Dragon’s Bane has sunk into the dragon’s very heart.

The earth itself bears witness to the moment of the deed
The gems and precious metals, plundered by draconic greed
Reclaimed by chthonic forces that had been made to cede
As on the stony ground, the dragon now doth bleed.

And in the mists of evening, when once the blood is shed,
People come a dancing, who would have been dragon’s bread
Had Dragon’s Bane not pierced scale or severed dragon’s head
And now there is rejoicing for the dragon’s surely dead.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The door-flap of her pavilion was thrust back and the Black Vavasor strode in without any ceremony. He was dressed magnificently in a cream shirt with luxuriantly embroidered sleeves, a black jerkin spangled with tiny beads of jet and panels which touched the knee-high gleaming boots. Instead of the sombre riding cloak she had seen him wear before, he had chosen a dark red cape, in some shimmering offworld fabric, also embroidered with gems. His head was unadorned apart from the long, dark, locks of his hair.
This time when he looked at her he did see her. Alexa, who always noticed such things, watched the pupils of his eyes expand and was satisfied. He gave a courtly bow and moved to take her hand.
“Lady,” he said, “you are truly beautiful. I see now why the cities ring with songs about Alexa the Fair.”
It was a pretty enough speech, but disappointingly unoriginal. If that was the best he could manage she was in for a rather dull evening. Alexa let him draw her to her feet, feeling his eyes sweep over her body in mute appreciation.
“I have heard songs sung about the Black Vavasor too,” she observed sweetly and was rewarded by a tightening of his grip and a curious look which became a smile.
“But my songs are not so beautiful, I know.”
Alexa was determined to get her entertainment somehow.
“I am not so sure, Honoured One, the songs they sing about Terzibrand bring tears to the eyes of all those who hear them.”
He had been guiding her towards the entrance but her words brought him to a standstill. Alexa was tall and could meet the gaze of most men as an equal, but she found her head tilting back to meet the Vavasor’s dark eyes. If they held any expression at all, it was one of mild amusement, as he said: “Lady, if you feel we are already familiar enough to trade insults, you should call me Jariq – unless of course, you prefer one of the other names they give me in the songs. But then you might find it just a little embarrassing calling me ‘Baby-Slaying Bastard’ across the Castellan’s dinner table.”
Alexa let her lips curve up into a smile.
“I am sure ‘Jariq’ will suffice – at least for the first two courses.”
“Then may the gods make the third course a dessert dish to keep your tongue sweet,” he said reverently and led her out of the tent, helping her into the palanquin.

She was borne up to the Castle to cries of: ‘Make way for the Vavasor of Reva and the Caravansi Alexa’, for the night of the Bride’s Banquet was also a night of carnival for the common people and the streets were crowded with a festive throng. Peering between the drapes of her palanquin, Alexa was glad that she had a good guard. In places, the soldiers had to ride forward and beat people away with the flats of their swords and once she saw the Vavasor on his black pony, threaten a group of rowdy youths with his pistol before they drew back and let the small cavalcade pass through.
As they began the climb to the castle the noise of music and shouting died away below. Soon after, they passed through the gates and the palanquin was set down in the torch-lit courtyard near where a long carpet, finely woven with scenes picturing dancing and festival, had been placed over the steps that led up to the Great Hall. The sounds from within were of revelry little less restrained than that of the city. The drapes were pulled back and the Vavasor smiled down at her offering his arm. She returned the smile and accepted the arm, rising gracefully to step out onto the carpet.
“You have never attended the Bride’s Banquet before?” he asked as they walked together up the steps.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not at all. But I had better warn you that it is not an event for those of delicate sensibilities. Towards the end, it can get quite – um -“
“Interesting? Entertaining?” she suggested, her eyebrows arching interrogatively.
The tall man laughed.
“I was going to say ‘hazardous’ but perhaps you are right. We can leave once the Castellan’s family have withdrawn if you like. It should remain relatively civilised until then.”
“I do hope not,” Alexa said with great sincerity and the Vavasor looked at her with an obvious amusement.
They were given seats next to the High Table as befitted the Vavasor’s noble status and Alexa was frankly delighted to find herself seated above the rest of Alfor’s merchant community. She also quickly realised that her concern of being overshadowed in such a glittering company had been unfounded.
Without a doubt, it was she who drew the marvelling eyes of the men and envious glances from the women, particularly when they recognised her escort. Even the Castellan’s wife, in her magnificent costume, still looked plump and dowdy by comparison, together with her plump, dowdy daughters. The Bride was very pretty indeed, but in this company, her youth and freshness were hidden beneath an air of nervous awe.
Alexa looked around the room, recognising many of the merchants and acknowledging them by the slightest tilt of her head. At the high table, apart from the Castellan’s family and the Bride, she recognised by sight only one other figure and that was Qabal Vyazin himself, who was already looking bored, as he made polite conversation with the young lady sitting to his left.
The table opposite where she sat was obviously set aside for the family of the Bride. They sat stiffly, as if ill at ease, dressed in their sadly inadequate best clothes and talking together in whispers. Only the girl’s mother seemed happy and she kept bestowing proud and adoring glances on her favoured daughter, who sat beside the Castellan. The father looked utterly miserable as if he were already regretting the high cost of seeing that his daughter secured this prize. If they were lucky their investment might be repaid through the girl making a good marriage to some minor noble. They were not a poor family, but from their dress and demeanour, Alexa guessed that they could ill-afford to waste money on such a gamble.

Then the doors of the hall were closed as the last arrivals took their seats and the Banquet began in earnest. The noise was, of course, tumultuous: the hubbub of voices, the clatter of plates and goblets and the drone of the inevitable musicians made it very difficult to talk even to your neighbour at times. But Alexa was quite content to sit quietly and observe. She noticed that the Vavasor, too, seemed little inclined to conversation. He was diligent in seeing that she lacked for nothing, but his mind was clearly elsewhere and occasionally she would catch him in an unguarded moment looking strangely pensive. Although he kept her platter and goblet filled he ate sparingly himself and only sipped at his wine.
At one point his expression hardened and she followed his gaze to where it was resting on a curly blond head. Its owner had his back to them and was drawing the undivided attention of several tables at the lower end of the room, as he was playing on the thirteen-stringed lysigal and singing. Although the musicians nearer at hand made it impossible to hear what he sang, the reactions of those who could hear seemed to suggest it was humorous in the extreme, most were laughing – some uncontrollably.
The third course came and went and Alexa found that she had as yet encountered no opportunity to use the Vavasor’s given name or any other. She decided that it was mildly insulting to be escorted by one of the most notorious and desirable men in the Western Continent and not be the sole object of his thoughts. With malicious intent, she leant towards him.
“Would the Baby-Slaying Bastard care for some more wine?” Her voice was deliberately pitched to be just loud enough to make heads nearby turn towards them.
The Vavasor glanced at her with distant dark eyes as though scarcely aware she was there and then seemed to come to himself and gave a crooked smile.
“Lady, you take your revenge unfairly,” he said softly so only she could hear.

Taken from The Fated Sky – which is free to download today (28 Dec) and is the first book in Fortune’s Fools and volume one of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Two friends I met along the way,
Both wishing my companionship
One dark as night one fair as day
One I could keep, one to let slip
Each with his own of charm and wit
Each with a subtle tale to tell
Which one would be the better fit
Which with to walk would fare most well
I looked at each one eye to eye
I felt their beating heart’s desires
To part with either made me cry
To lose the ice, or keep the fire
And at the crossroads there we stood
Each offered different ways
Then all at once I understood
The portent of my days
I took the road where neither stood
And walked, my bear and me
For in the end the only good
Is strength to wander free
I took the road less travelled by
I took the greater chance
And as we walked, my bear and I
Spared not a backward glance

©️jj 2020

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy again the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid than the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

They had stood, silent sentinels of a lost age. Their origins buried deeper than the foundations that braced each colossus. Those who came later saw the monstrous forms, and blessing their fortune they had not lived in the time of such titans. Their descendents laughed at such fears, declaring the size was egoism. Undoubtedly the real beings had been smaller. The children of those folk isolated the place so no damage might come to the historical relics.

Which was a shame as it meant they were unprepared when the ‘monuments’ opened hungry eyes, stretched and moved to reclaim their own…

E.M. Swift-Hook

We rocked up at the Fair Maid and Falcon at about four in the afternoon of a filthy early October day. Two humans and two dogs, in a big American motorhome, come to run the business while the owners went on holiday. The rain was streaming, it was blowing a gale, and the pub certainly wasn’t appearing to its best advantage.
‘You and the dogs stop in the dry’ Ben said. ‘I’ll go find out where they want us to park.’
I did as he suggested, and he came back about fifteen minutes later looking cross.
‘What?’
‘Oh, the stupid buggers want us to park on the other side of the road in a very muddy field with no water and no lekky hook-up. They don’t want their customers to see the Winnie. He says they have a select clientele who might think the New Age Travellers had moved in.’
‘And what did you say to him, love of my life?’
He grinned. ‘The second word was ‘off’. I’ve left them having a bit of a think.’
I looked at the long, low, flint-walled building squatting moodily at the edge of its sodden beer garden and found myself shivering. ‘I don’t much care for this place’ I said slowly ‘so if the incumbents aren’t prepared to be reasonable I vote for giving them back their deposit and going home. Let them find somebody else to run their fucking gastro pub while they piss off the the Caribbean.’
Ben laughed. ‘Do you think there is anybody else?’
I laughed ruefully. ‘No. I guess not. And I find I don’t much care.’
He patted me companionably ‘Got the willies have you?’
‘Yup. And that’s normally your job…’
‘Yeah. It is. I’ve actually got a few myself. The atmosphere has changed greatly since I came here in June.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t put my finger on precisely what it is, but they seem to be losing it. He’s chain-smoking and his skin is hanging on him. And her? She looks like something the cat brought in and didn’t want. They are also extremely edgy. When I was inside, a door banged somewhere and she jumped about ten feet in the air.’
‘Odd. Marital problems do you think?’
His forehead creased as he considered that idea. ‘No. Doesn’t feel like that. I mean they aren’t exactly playing happy families, but they weren’t in June. This feels new… and nasty.’
Our conversation was interrupted by a timid knock on the door of the camper. Stan and Ollie growled softly and Ben got up to open the door. A skinny young girl in a waitress uniform stood out in the rain.
‘Come in.’
She did as she was told and stood dripping on the floor. ‘They want you to go back in’ she almost whispered. ‘He’s in a terrible temper and threatening all sorts if you don’t. She’s crying. Again.’
Ben looked at the girl from under his blonde eyebrows. ‘Would you go back in there if you were me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s them two. They’ve gone mad. They used to be OK to work for. Hard. But fair. But now they are both completely nuts. He shouts all the time and drinks, and she drinks and cries. This is my last shift. Got a job in Lymington. It’s a drop in pay. But. Told myself it was because its nearer to home. It isn’t though. It’s this place. It has started to give me the serious creeps.’
‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll now go see the charm twins.’
He got up and pulled on his parka. I watched them splashing their way across the car park, with Ben holding our huge red umbrella over the shivering girl, then sat on the rug with the dogs. ‘Well’ I said. ‘What do you two reckon? Stay? Or go?’
They looked solemn, then lay one either side of me and promptly fell asleep.
Ben was gone ages, and I was almost asleep myself when he returned. He looked a bit grim.
‘Problem, love?’
‘I dunno. When I went back inside all was sweetness and light. But I have the willies now. The volte face was too complete. We get to park wherever suits us. Would we like a meal with them in the restaurant tonight? The dogs can use the private garden. There was even the offer of more money.’
‘Shit Ben. They must be desperate. We’re overcharging them now, because you didn’t really want to take the job.’
‘True. But that was different. I just thought he was an asshole. Now he’s a worried asshole.’
‘So? What do we do? We probably have to stay, don’t we?’
‘Yup. Or have the asshole mouthing off all over Facebook and Twitter if we don’t.’
‘Okay then. We do it. But I want it on record that I have the willies.’

You can keep reading by picking up Who Put Her In? by Jane Jago for free this Thanksgiving and until 28 November and continue Joss and Ben’s adventures in Who Pulled her Out? for 0.99.

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Thanksgiving 

I don’t feel myself qualified to comment on Thanksgiving. It’s a noble sentiment – eat until you almost explode to give thanks for staying alive for another year – and one I applaud.

Is it like British Bank Holidays? Slightly outmoded by the number of days people get off work now? Or does it retain real meaning?

I don’t pretend to know. And neither can I pretend to like pumpkin pie.

In the spirit of friendship I’ll see your Thanksgiving and  raise you British Boxing Day, wherein one lays about groaning and recovering from the Xmas excess.

Happy Thanksgiving and may your turkey be succulent….

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

apprecaite (verb) – to cover oneself in apricot jam and offer specialised sexual services

coruse (adjective) – having the colour and texture of rusty wire wool

misisng – (adjective) with no idea what the fuck is going on

missign (verb) – to employ the wrong rude gesture in the heat of an argument

paberbok (noun) – antipodean antelope which subsides on used pornography

rund (verb past – participle) – having no room left on one’s hard drive and thus being reduced to wax crayon on the bedroom window

snawer (noun) – one who can swear in more than one language

steampink (noun) – steampunk writings with erotic overtones 

sufficnet (noun) – fishing net big enough for a day’s catch

tefforthan (noun –  proper) – famous welsh tenor with tattoos and a big ‘personality’

ypou (noun) – virulent yellow stuff found in nappies

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

The last day of the world was scheduled for the following Tuesday.

After a lot of heated discussion as to what should be the exact date, a compromise was reached between the scientists, the religious communities and the politicians. Next Tuesday it was.

Despite some panic,Tuesday came and went. People carried on working, playing, learning, loving – living.There was outrage, of course. The scientists said it had been a political decision, the religious leaders praised their gods for saving us all. The politicians were heard to observe, acidly, that they had not specified which ‘next’ Tuesday they had meant.

E.M. Swift-Hook