You can listen to this being read on YouTube.

It was still dark when the tiny clock in the wall beside Ig’s face bleeped. He wished he could ignore it, but he knew from bitter experience that he had five minutes maximum to be out of bed and dressed or face the consequences.
“Lights on fifty percent.”
Light filled his cell making him blink owlishly. If that was fifty percent, he was a sewer rat, but at least the fragging lights had come on.
He rolled out of bed and turned on the tap in his chipped wash basin. Good. There was water, and it was even warm. Ig briskly sluiced his hands and face before scrambling into his clothes.
He was just adjusting the braces on his coverall when the door banged open with so much force that it bounced off the wall. One of the new intake of sergeants stood in the doorway eyeing him suspiciously. The man’s hard little eyes roamed the cell looking for violations. Ig stood wooden-faced and quiet, looking at a point somewhere between the sergeant’s red face and the twin belts of rank that held up a big, jutting belly. The non-com stalked away, allowing Ig to join the queue for the latrines.
Our hero’s day went downhill from there. The breakfast oatmeal was garnished with burnt bits, and then he found himself under the command of a new intake corporal. It wasn’t good. Corporal Legolas had about as much idea of guard detail as Ig had of the world above ground. First of all they had almost left without the gas rats in their cage, and then the man had attempted to stroke one of the Wardens. Okay, Wardens looked like dogs, he’d give the corporal that much, but not knowing the difference had cost more than one man a hand or arm. Finally he wanted his men to march into the fragging tunnels. Ig got the distinct impression that the explanation of harmonics and echoes had passed over the man’s head, but once the Guard Captain made it a direct order they were okay. Or as okay as a detail under the command of a complete greenhorn was ever going to be.
The attack came as they were almost at the tunnel exit. Twenty or so humanoids rose from their place of concealment among a jumbled pile of rocks. Ig and his companions drew their battle sticks and began the methodical process of beating their assailants about the heads and shoulders to force them back from whence they came. Then Legolas panicked and started shooting – he had a sidearm in either hand and he just let rip. The men in his detail cursed pungently and threw themselves to the ground.
A while later, guard detail AlphaZero exited the tunnel dragging the body of their corporal behind them. He was so full of holes as to resemble one of cookie’s colanders. Ig poked the body with one booted foot.
“Ricochet,” he grunted.

© jane jago

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung cheerily and heartily to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells‘)

Dashing through the snow
In a very dangerous way
Oe’r the road I go, sliding all the way
Horns in cars all sound
Give me such a fright
Oh why did I come out to do
My Christmas shop tonight?

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

First I tried for toys,
Gifts for girls and boys,
All were too expensive
And made a lot of noise
So I thought of treats
Stuff them up with sweets
But then I past the dentists
And thought about their teeth.

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

So what can I get
In the slush and wet?
Tonight is my last try
To find some gifts to buy
Oh, I’m giving up
This is just too hard
They can all have gift tokens
Shoved in a stoopid card!

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

Listen in to Tall Tale TV for the whole story

The spirits of the woodland felt the pain of their holy places dwindling under the assault of the human machines, but they were patient beings who bided their time and watched. They saw the rise of the arrogant ones with their fat bellies and careless cruelty, and they also foresaw the fall from grace engendered by such greed and stupidity.

Knowing that the end game was afoot and with the feeling in their souls that their children had a part to play in the plans of Mother Earth, they sent one of their own precious young ones to the place where the wealthiest of the humans raised their own younglings. Flora cast down her eyes and did as the spirits commanded, even knowing her own chance of motherhood was taken from her by the needs of of the forest beneath her feet.

She was ‘welcomed’ at the place and given the dirtiest and most menial of tasks to do. Working only for her bed and board she became the most trusted of all those whose destiny was to care for the young whose parents found those tasks beneath their greatness. She was a quiet creature, but one who listened and understood more than the untroubled brown eyes ever showed. She heard the pontifications of the ‘doctors’ and the priests as the fertility of the human race fell away. She kept her face calm when the silverbacks in their expensive suits declared this to be a punishment of god on women who no longer knew their place. She smiled inwardly when the scientists explained that this could not be the case, citing the deformity of the male seed as the primary cause. But she could not hold back the tears of  pity when the soldiers came and took the foremost scientist of all from his office in the nursery. They burned that venerable old man alive, and his screams sounded to Flora like the first death cries of the human race. 

Some days, when she looked at the innocent younglings in her care and she saw how sickly they were becoming, she cursed those who sent her to witness the end. Of course, she didn’t live long enough to see the game through (even forest folk do not live that long), and when she became too old to work her place was taken by a sturdy youngster with broad shoulders and a plain face. The humans named this person Bessie – thinking Salicis Arbore far too fanciful a name for a servant. 

Bessie wasn’t as amenable as Flora and the humans feared her a little so that when she announced that she was taking Flora home to die nobody argued. Only the oldest among the matrons even daring to ask if she would return. 

“I will. If you will get out of my way now.”

Jane Jago

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung brightly and enthusiastically to the tune of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town‘)

We’re having a dance, right down the street
Feeling like we, got wings on our feet
Secret Santa’s coming to town

We’ve been to the pound shop, got us some shite
Wrapped it up shiny, giggled all night
Secret Santa’s coming to town

Everything we purchased inappropriate and silly
From socks with individual toes to a tiny dancing willy

We’re hiding our smiles, keeping our face
Inside we’re proud to be a disgrace
Secret Santa’s coming to town

We’re waiting for the boss man to open his big box
He’s gonna get an awful shock, coz he’ll be expecting socks

We’re having a dance, right down the street
Feeling like we got wings on our feet
Secret Santa’s coming to town

From Times of Change the second part of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The expression of compassion on her companion’s face made her realise that she was not dissembling with her usual skill and that her thoughts must be plain on her face. Fortunately, he was her friend as well as the most senior member of her council. Her hand was still clenched tightly on the letter he had given her, its heavy seals broken, neatly splitting the arrogant emblem of Qabal Vyazin – a fist in a plate-metal gauntlet, holding aloft a sword on which had been speared a crown. Harkera’s crown, she had thought, when reading the domineering demands within.
“I am sorry, Morvyn,” she said sincerely. “There has been so much happening over these last few days and now this.”
The man nodded with understanding.
“It has been a testing time for us all and so much more for you as Regent,” he agreed. “In eight generations nothing like this has been received by any Harkeran ruler. And yet now it is you, a widow, someone who has no blood-claim to the crown in your own right, who is being called upon to deal with a declaration of war.”
She knew he said it to show he felt it was unfair, not to suggest he had no faith in her ability and looked away from him, her eyes dropping demurely as if in agreement. He could not know that she had been trained from birth to deal with this day. She unfolded the vellum in her hands and read the text again.
His most excellent and puissant Highness, the Most Honoured Qabal Vyazin, Overlord of the Western Continent and protector of all the Free Cities of Temsevar, demanded the submission of his loyal vassal, the Lady Karlynne Roussal, Princess of the Realm of Harkera and all her family, together with all the Castellans and Vavasors of Harkera. She was required to present herself within one moon at the Overlord’s loyal city of Tabruth, together with all the nobles of Harkera, to make due submission to the Overlord and to affirm their loyalty and vassalage to him by blood-oath. In addition, she was required to bring with her in chains, the rebellious traitor Jariq Zarengor, who was known to be sheltering in Harkera under false pretences. She was also required to bring an appropriate bridal train and the Harkeran regalia of office and prepare herself for the honour of marriage with the Most Honoured Nariz Vyazin, Castellan of Telpus, the only son and sole heir of the Most Honoured Overlord…
“How old is Nariz?” she asked quietly.
“Four or five summers I believe – and is reportedly a sickly child. For all his potency as a warrior, Qabal has not proved so capable of fathering offspring – there are even rumours that the child is not his but was sired by one of his commanders.” Morvyn tactfully refrained from mentioning which one, but Jaelya had heard the same stories.
“A child of five and Karlynne more than twice his age.” With an angry gesture, she flung the vile letter down. In a matter of days her whole world had changed. Lynaz was taken and Tabruth, for all the Castellan had spoken fine words of resistance and alliance, had surrendered without a fight as soon as Vyazin’s army appeared on the horizon, whilst Kharzabad had accommodated before it was even threatened. Their reward was being allowed to keep power with client status to Qabal. The cities of the Tanist alliance were fighting amongst themselves and now Harkera stood alone.
For a moment Jaelya felt the weight of the burden upon her shoulders as something physical. What hope was there for Harkera against such power? But the image in her mind was of Karlynne, gently reared into the free-thinking, liberal Harkeran high-culture, alone and at the mercy of the harsh, barbaric court of Qabal Vyazin.
Morvyn might have read her thoughts.
“The wedding won’t happen. The Dewan will support you in refusing to allow it. I promise you that.” His voice dropped a little. “It will mean war of course, but we have expected that all along.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung mournfully and with feeling to the tune of ‘Silent Night‘)

Saturday night, ends in a fight
Nobody cares who’s in the right
Round the corner outside of the bar
Somebody’s over the boot of a car
Getting a jolly good smaaaack
Getting a jolly good smack

Saturday night, rarely polite
Bill takes out his teeth to bite
We hear sirens as they split the air
All of a sudden there’s nobody there
And the car park’s forloooorn
All of the fighters have gorn

Saturday night, ends in a fight
Nobody cares who’s in the right
In the gutter beneath the street light
When it’s over we don’t give a shite
We’ll go home when we’re doooone
Fighting is bloody good fun

The Christmas Cake

Conventional wisdom will tell you that you should have baked a fruit cake of the size and consistency of a breeze block sometime last January and that you should have been feeding it brandy weekly ever since. That you should have handcrafted marzipan from ground almonds and other ingredients too numerous to mention. That you should have spent many hours making Holly Leaves and Christmas Roses from sugar paste. And that your icing should be as smooth and hard as a frozen pond.

Pfft, I say. And again pfft.

Number one. Nobody eats Christmas Cake.

Number two. If they did it’s fattening.

Number three. Whatever…

But:

If you must make a cake, just chuck together whatever is your usual fruit cake recipe and shove a quarter bottle of rum in the mix. Buy a slab of ready rolled marzipan, ditto icing. Shove on cake. Sprinkle Maltesers, chocolate raisins, and dark chocolate buttons. Job done. If you can be arsed.

More sensibly, pop along to Waitrose and buy a (insert name of famous chef here)  thing. It will taste like shite but the neighbours will be impressed….

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung with bravado to the tune of ‘The Holly and The Ivy‘)

The blogger and the model
Are dancing on TV
And one will be the champion
But which one will it be?

The doing of the tango
The jiving double time
The spray tan dripping off your nose
Plus stuff that doesn’t rhyme

The pros are full of muscle
With thighs like iron bars
The blogger drowns her sorrows down
With booze and chocolate bars

The doing of the tango
The jiving double time
The spray tan dripping off your nose
Plus stuff that doesn’t rhyme

As the day grows closer
There’s many cease to play
While costumes show a bit more skin
As the inches drop away

The dancing very closely
Starts the rumours of whose next
While winning pretty glitterballs
Comes second to the sex

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

Mary shrugged and looked sternly at Jack, who was thinking so hard there was a small cloud over his head.
“Now what?”
Jack give her a fierce smile. “Now many things. First I gotta get the girl to safety. After that? Well, that’s the bit I got to figure out.”
Mary looked at him in dawning comprehension, and with growing respect. “You ain’t a bit scared are you?”
“No. I guess not. That’s probably the dwarf in me. Them buggers are afraid of nothing.”
“Seems like you’re the same. Makes you the first man I’ve met who wasn’t a coward at the roots.”
Jack snorted. “Surely not. What about Gobshite?”
“Gobshite ain’t a man.”
“Neither am I.”
“Maybe not, but you’re a fuck of a lot closer.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And. Jack. I owe you too. So me and the girls are in. Mates rates.”
“You sure? People could end up dead.”
“Better dead than bored.”
Some while later, Jack and Mary were walking along the quayside towards where their ships were anchored alongside the mole that reached out into the deep blue water of the bay.
Jack looked up at his companion. “Sven made you an offer? And it’s still open? Mind if I ask what sort of an offer?”
“What makes it any of your business?”
He frowned. “Nothing. Except if it wasn’t an honourable offer I have to kill him.”
Mary stared for a moment then smiled her nice smile. The one than showed a furtive dimple in her left cheek. “You’d get into a fight with that great dollop for my sake?”
Jack nodded.
Mary swallowed as if there was suddenly a lump in her throat before speaking very quietly. “You’re okay my friend. He offered marriage.”
“But you refused him.”
“Yeah. I don’t fancy him. And anyway he’s a berserker. One of them in any family is more than enough.”
Jack thought that through for a moment. “You ain’t a berserker, Mary. You’re just a bit excitable. But I’m glad you never accepted him. He ain’t good enough for you.”
Before Mary had chance to formulate an appropriate response, there came the sound of wings and the parrot who had been Sam’s companion through life landed on Jack’s shoulder.
“Drink and the devil they did for the rest…” If a bird could sound plaintive Gravel managed it. Jack put up a hand and scratched the yellow feathers on the back of its head.
Mary laughed. “Now you look like a proper pirate.”
Jack made a very rude noise.

Mary’s ship, The Pink Pig, set sail at sunup – with a young woman to extract from harm’s way and a cargo of saltwater grog to pay for the voyage.

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

Most all of my furniture it comes from China
It’s far better travelled than I’ll ever be
My clothing, my laptop, my fixtures and fittings
Have all come from China across the wide sea.

And when I go shopping the label of origin
That does declare where the journey began
Almost invariably it does say ‘China’
Their goods they are good and I am a fan.

Perhaps there are products made to be finer
That come from South Africa or from Belize
But value for money it seems ‘made in China’
Is the only brand label that a product needs

I want to say thanks to the people of China
Who give to the world a bounty undreamed
More items well priced than we can imagine
I only ask that you please make them green…

E.M. Swift-Hook