A powerful flash fiction from Ian Bristow. You can listen to this on YouTube.
A stiff ocean breeze swept past me, carrying with it the delighted chirps of those couples who had already been reunited. Their affection drove my gaze back to the sky, where I was desperate to find any sign of my beloved.
After several hours, the sprawling form of a female with her wings at full stretch glided towards the rocky shoreline. Could this be? Had my dearest, survived the hardships of a year at sea to return to the place we had professed our love so long ago?
She landed, and I started toward her. But I had only taken a few steps forward before I realized the patterns on her wings were not those of my love. I watched as she strode up the shore, her lover meeting her halfway in a foot-pattering show of affection.
The sky grew darker as several more hours drifted past with the prevailing coastal wind. The others were now nestling in for the night, tucking their heads into one another’s breasts.
Still I looked to the sky, but as the light faded, so did my chance of being reunited with my beloved. Survival out at sea was a challenge not every Albatross managed to overcome. I knew that to be true. Each year that I left this island, I knew it might be the last time I would ever see the love of my life. But each year, she had returned to me.
Until now.
Devastated, I tucked my head into my wing and tried to put the images of her returning out of my head. But the memories were powerful and my longing for her touch was insatiable. It was almost as if I could hear her calling to me–chirping her love in the tones unique to her alone. Her voice was beautiful. And the memory of it was so real I had to look, feeling like a hopeful fool for doing so.
She had already traversed half of the cragged shoreline by the time I looked up. I flapped my wings to move to her more quickly than my feet could carry me. All the fear and anxiety melted away as we clacked our beaks together in greeting. Against all of nature’s odds, she had come back to me.
Knowing in my heart I was the luckiest being alive, I led her back to the place I had prepared for us. She moved close and rubbed her head against my neck and breast, settling in to rest after her long flight.
It was for this moment that we lived. For this moment that we answered nature’s call to survive.
Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…
(To be sung eagerly and with passion to the tune of ‘Wassail Wassail‘)
There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town And all of the players are now dirty brown Their clothes are a mess and they all stink of dung As they argue about which one is best hung
Here’s a health to the goalie And to his big hands He saved twenty goals And he feels pretty grand But when he gets home And his wife him sees He’ll be out in the street Again on his knees
There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town And all of the players are now dirty brown Their clothes are a mess and they all stink of dung As they argue about which one is best hung
Here’s a health to the striker And to his left boot When he sees a net Well he just has to shoot Which goes without hitch When he’s on the pitch But breaking shop windows Is rather a bitch
There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town And all of the players are now dirty brown Just for a joke they threw Sid in the fire And they’re now going jailwards in a Black Maria
The music started up again and there was a tap at the door. Distracted, he turned smiling, knowing who it would be. “I grabbed a drink. Thought you’d like one too.” This was the reason he had taken that retirement two years ago. Vexana. Nearly sixteen years old now, Legacy raised and the perfect age to become willing cannon-fodder for them. He was trying hard to convince her that there were other, better, ways to serve the cause, ways that could achieve just as much — more — and not cost you your life. So far he wasn’t sure he had succeeded, but it was a work in progress. Torbalen hoped she would, one day, be able to learn the kind of skills needed to do his job here, or maybe she would move on to something different, better and safer. It would be folly to assume he could ever persuade her to step away from The Legacy. Much as he wanted her to do exactly that, he couldn’t deny her the same right as he had to serve the cause for which her parents had died. But he could, and would, do his best to ensure the way she served that cause was one that would never place her in the same kind of extreme hazard her parents had so willingly undertaken. He accepted the drink she offered and sipped at it as Vexana dropped into the only other chair available. “So you think these two are any good?” She gestured vaguely in the direction the music was coming from. “Not bad. They have that raw edge you kids seem to like.” The girl rolled her eyes. “You kids? Sheesh!” Torbalen hid his smile. “Sorry. You young adults. Let me try it again. This duo has the kind of unconstrained spontaneity that young adults seem to find inspiring. Is that better?” The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly. He felt she was judging his very soul and finding it wanting. It was a court with no facility for appeal, but it was also a judge who could be merciful and accept age as a mitigating factor. She looked away and glanced at a screen, firing off a couple of quick, texted, messages before deigning to give him her attention again. “She was back there today.” Torbalen tried to make that comment fit into the landscape of the world he shared with his granddaughter. He failed. “Who was back where?” The slight impatient sigh told him he had made some mistake by not knowing. “At the dojo? That new girl I told you about? She’s good. You should come see her. She was talking politics with some of the others too.” He felt a lurch of concern at those last few words. He owned the building the dojo occupied, it was one of the main places he had people keeping an eye out for potential recruits. One of the first things many of those angry and hate-filled kids wanted to do when they got here from whatever war zone hell-hole they had fled, was to learn how to defend themselves. They believed if they did they would never feel so vulnerable again. So, it made good sense to have his people there ready to listen to their woes and alert him to any who might be more useful. In terms of recruitment, it was right on the front-line and the people he had doing it there were all well trained and experienced. His grand-daughter didn’t know any of that. She was simply passionate about martial arts as a sport. Vexana trained there and she also helped out a couple of hours each day after school assisting in teaching the children’s classes. Torbalen had complete trust that his people would watch over her there with as much care as he did himself. Although of course, Vexana had no idea of his real role here on Skapandir. She knew he owned the dojo and maybe even believed she was the only one bringing him word of what happened there. But she was also not naive and would have worked out by now that there was some kind of Legacy connection with the place. “Vexy, you know you mustn’t get into that kind of conversation with anyone.” She glared at him. “I just said she was talking with some of the others.” “Good. Because it is really not — “ “Not what?” Vexana snapped. “Not appropriate? Not my business? My parents died because of it so I think that makes it my business.” She was brittle and defensive. He said the wrong thing, as he always did. “My son and daughter-in-law died because of it, Vexy, and I would rather my granddaughter did not and I have the suspicion that they would’ve felt the same.” “They died. You didn’t.” He sighed heavily. It was an old argument and he had never yet won. “I have given my life to The Leg— “ “Really? How is that? You were just running a shipping business.” The girl almost spat with contempt. “How did that help anyone?” “I was doing other things too.” “Like what? Making a donation now and then? How very noble and heroic.” “It wasn’t like that. We’ve been over this before. You know I can’t tell you exactly what I was — “ Vexana made a sound that was a half-growl, half-groan of frustration and threw herself out of the chair, back towards the door. In a moment she would slam it hard and he would hear her feet thump down the small staircase. He hated that. Each time it happened he was left with the chill of fear that this might be the time it had gone too far and she might do something rash. “Tell me then,” he said quickly, breaking the usual script of their ongoing melodrama. “Tell me about this new girl.”
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…
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…
A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…
Jack smiled at her. “Thanks Mary,” he said softly. Mary looked suddenly shy. “I done nothing.” “You had my back.” She mumbled something and Jack put his hand over hers where it was busily pleating the stained tablecloth. “What’s that you say?” “I said I’ll always have your back. If you want.” He looked at her soberly for a couple of heartbeats. “Do you know what you are offering?” “I’m offering to have your back.” She sounded irritable and glared at him, but he noticed she was making no effort to remove her hand from his grasp. “Mary. Mary. Mary. In the world of the dwarf offering to have someone’s back is tantamount to an offer of marriage…” She looked at him in dawning horror. He laughed, but it wasn’t a sound of mockery or even real amusement. It was more complex than that. Almost of its own volition Mary’s hand turned underneath his and their fingers meshed. She swallowed once, before finally finding enough voice to reply. “And what if it is an offer?” He looked at their joined hands. “I say why would we not give it a try. Unless you object to being handfast to a man whose head just about reaches your waist.” “I give up noticing that years ago. So. Shall we?” “Indeed we shall, Mary mine. Indeed we shall.” Something hot danced in his eyes and Mary blushed again. This time he picked up her hand and kissed it. “Eat,” he said fondly. “I better. There’s plenty of me to keep up.” One of the bunkhouse ‘housekeepers’ sidled up to Jack. “That knife really poisoned?” “Yup.” The wizened little man nodded briskly and took a thick wad of oily cloth from one of his capacious pockets. Picking the knife up in the soiled cloth he threw both items into the heart of the roaring log fire. The flames around the bundle leapt and danced – green and lilac and fiercely hot. The housekeeper grinned sourly. “I’ll get the girl out to swab the deck,” he muttered before disappearing. The girl turned out to be wrinkled and toothless and probably about a hundred years old, but she mopped with brisk efficiency and caught the small coin Jack threw her with practiced skill. “Seawater grog,” she said, “they hasn’t made the poison what can live in that.” Jack and Mary finished their meal without further interruption. As they walked back along the mole to where their ships were berthed side by side, Mary asked the question that was right at the front of her mind. “Did you know that was a Jinje from the start?” “Soon as I turned around and looked at it. My dwarf half sees runes.” “But you never turned around until that wowzer tapped your shoulder. Why not?” It was Jack’s turn to blush. “I have always been taught it ain’t polite to be staring at somebody else when you are having supper with a girl. And besides, I was looking at you. Who else do I need to look at?” Mary absorbed that for a moment, then she sighed a contented sort of a sigh. “That’s all right then.” In Jack’s cabin it was warm and dark, and what the two pirates did to seal their pact is nobody’s business but theirs. Although we did hear that the parrot covered his eyes with his wings and muttered darkly throughout.
I have a muse It’s the rain on the window And the thunder on the hill I have a muse It’s the wind in the pine trees And the lightning’s blue thrill I have a muse It’s the cold unfairness Of the world as a whole I have a muse It’s the broken glass of charity And the anger in my soul I have a muse…
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. Back beneath the tree an overstuffed armchair had materialised. It smiled and beckoned her into its wide lap. As she sat and opened the huge Book, there came a loud bang and a furious face appeared. “No,” the creature cried in a voice like thunder. “No. You shall not read this lie.” “And is it any more of a lie than that which your children purvey on Walpurgisnacht? Or at any sabbat in any sacred grove?” It lifted its insubstantial muzzle and howled defiance and misery. “I will drag that book from your hands and rend it to pieces with my bare claws. I will make it burn as it sits on your frail human legs. I will…” The creatures around the Christmas tree began to be afraid and the librarian held up a hand to stop the enraged grumbling of the shadow demon. “You will,” she said firmly, “do nothing. You can do nothing. You are a creature of smoke and mirrors not even as substantial as the book children gathered at my knee. Now begone with you before you make me angry.” The demon attempted a sneer, but it was of very little consequence when faced with the strong will and common sense that defined the straight backed little human who faced him without a shred of fear. Even as he made an effort to draw in his will she pointed a finger. “Did I not just tell you to go away?” It seemed as if the sending would defy her and she frowned, muttering a brief incantation under her breath. There was a strong smell of sulphur then the face collapsed into itself leaving only a momentary pool of blackness before even that disappeared. The Night Librarian stood up. She put the Book on the soft chair and smiled at the little ones. “I just need to make sure there are no interruptions to your story. I shall not be a moment. You all can sing the candle song while you wait.” A chorus of small, and it has to be said mostly tuneless, voices followed her as she crossed the shadowed stacks. When she reached the section devoted to dark magicks she clapped her hands sharply. “Who was responsible for that little outburst?” There was no answer, only a feeling of oppression in the air. The librarian sighed and took a small knobbly stick from her pocket. She held it in both hands whilst turning a careful three-sixty degree circle. Widdershins. “Now then. I asked a question.” Two figures materialised behind the locked gates of the shelves where the grimoires squatted. “Oh. I might have known it was you two. You may come out to explain your actions.” Beelzebub and Dambala Ouedo shouldered their way out from behind the grating and came to tower over the small human. “It isn’t fair,” Beelzebub said, and his voice sounded surprisingly like a toddler whining. “This place is for all faiths. You should not read them that thing.” “You never,” his companion by contrast was both smooth and insinuating, “tell the children our stories. We are here to demand our moment in the candlelight.” The librarian sighed. “Did we not burn candles to you on All Hallows Night? Were there not stories enough for you then?” “But you did not read them.” “You did not come from your warm bed in the dead of night, on a day when even you are not needed here, just to read our stories.” “No. I did not.” “And what if we demand that you do?” Beelzebub drew himself up to his full seven feet and reached out a burning and cicatrised claw to grab the librarian’s upper arm. There was a smell of burning flesh, but it was the demon who flinched. The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.” Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?” “If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.” The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces. “Very well. You may come.” They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd. The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read. “And it came to pass…” As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it. All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling. A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.” There was a wave of laughter, and the audience settled back with an aura of expectation that almost broke the librarian’s heart. And now, she thought sadly, we wait and eventually the little ones will go to bed disappointed. I wish he would come. Just once. Just for the little ones. The silence was stretching a little thin when, from somewhere and nowhere, there came the sound of silver bells. The librarian clasped her small square hands, hardly daring to believe, as the bells came closer and hearty laughter filled the air. They came with a rush and the smell of snow: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. They came with the sound of bells and his laughter warming the hearts of the tinies around the librarian’s warmly slippered feet. He turned his ruddy cheeked, snowy bearded face towards her and smiled. “Have your charges been good children?” She nodded, hardly trusting her voice, but it seemed he understood because he thrust a hand into his sack and broadcast shiny wrapped presents with seemingly no regard for what went where. But he must have known as each creature and each child got a gift suitable to themselves. Nothing was ostentatious but nobody was missed. Even the dragons got chocolate wrapped in gold paper. The librarian watched them play for a while before getting up from her chair and returning a slightly disapproving Book to its place on the shelves. She turned her back on the happy children and made her way up the worn stone stairs to her tower room where she fell into bed smiling. As she slept, a gnarled hand smoothed the sandy hair from her broad brow before placing a hand knitted sock bulging with treats at the foot of her prim little bed.
Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook would like to thank personally each and every one who has dropped by the Working Title Blog over the last year. We hope we have added some delight to your days!
Have a fabulous festive season and a great New Year!
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