This is the Amazon brought in a van
Drove by a grumpy and greasy young man
Parcels for Eeyore and Tigger and Pooh
And maybe a present for our baby Roo
The boxes are brown and of similar size
And sometimes the contents are quite a surprise
The van farts and grumbles and drives through the wood
Its engine is shot and its tyres are no good
But still it continues delivering joy
To lavender ladies and geeky small boys
Past houses where breakfasters crouch round the telly
Belching exhaust smoke increasingly smelly
This is the Amazon tracked on computer
That never arrives at a time that will suit ya

©jj 2020

My dear Readers Who Write,

You will know of me as the renowned author Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and have no doubt heard of the wisdom and erudition I have been putting forth in this highly enlightening series ‘The Thinking Quill’.

It is one’s intention today to depart from the pathways of rectitude and face squarely the chimera that is the erudite composition of a review.

“Now what,” I hear you ask, “has led our Ivy into these shark-filled shoals?” The answer, mes petits, is a review one recently received for that epitome of literary elegance that is the science-fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Some ignorant pensioner posted her abusive opinion and graded my magnum opus with a solitary gold-star. Her supposed ‘review’ was a single sentence in length: “This is the worst pile of crap masquerading as sci-fi I have read in over forty years.” One realised instantly the poor deluded female must be both menopausal, thus in her dotage, and also clearly the victim of dementia, so generously forgave her on the moment.

But it awoke me to the imperative of inducting the future generations of Readers Who Write into the subtle nemeton of the reviewers craft. No student of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV should be reduced to the single sentence, no matter how pithy when they are casting supreme judgement upon the literary ejaculations of fellow authors. So, it falls upon me to ensure you are equipped with the knowledge and skill to dissect the entrails of another’s corpus.

Now, there will be those misguided souls among you who have, until now, seen it as their deity-sent duty to encourage the writer and coddle his artistic soul with warming and conspicuously kindly rumination on the opus before them.

I rail against such foolishness. Nay, I cry. Nay, nay and thrice nay. The very existence of the reviewer demands a harsher task. Armour yourself with erudition, take up the sword of experience and the bows and arrows of superior lexicography, and sally forth to slay the mythical monsters of pusillanimous prose, insufficiently exquisite world building, flat ‘realistic’ characterisation, and unimaginative, ‘logical’ plot lines.

Take up your weapons and do battle.

Let your words and wit be as a scalpel with which you excise the necrotising flesh of mediocrity from the bones of boredom, the tendons of tedium, and the entrails of excruciating entropy.

Should any work not meet the most stringent demands of taste, texture and testicular terpsichory, one must be not afraid to consign the script to the dungeons known as ‘did not finish’ and to expostulate one’s redaction as coolly as a surgeon whose sharpened scalpel removes disease to save life.

Take as your talisman the words of that divine dame whose perfect pinkness and portentous prose shows all lesser mortals the direction in which the glorious Muse may be cajoled by an author of superlative talent and all superseding sensibility. Consider the exquisite gentility of her delicately virginal heroines and the craggy, all-embracing masculinity of her manly heroes. It matters not what the genre, take the advice of one upon whose knowledge you may safely depend and use the words of the divine dame as the yardstick by which you judge all literary pretensions.

Once you find a manuscript worthy of your attention, husband your gilded heavenly bodies with care, awarding each and every one as parsimoniously as if it were a child of your own bosom. Let not the spirit of generosity move you to sprinkle planetoids with a lavishness beyond the desserts of that which stands before you.

I present to you my own formula for asteroid assignation.

One heavenly body: some slight little thing. An example being Dying to be Roman, by those dreadful women who I allow to benefit from my enormous popularity

Two sleeping satellites: a book with sufficient eclat to hold one’s grudging respect. An example being  JRR Tolkien’s fantastical travelogue.

Three asteroidal amplifications: a volume where one is sufficiently engaged to need to peek at the ending to ensure one’s favourite characters survive. An example being ‘Game of Thrones’ – who’s bid for more shining lights was only scuppered by a little over fondness for violence within its pages.

Four twinklies: a work of superlative excellence. An example being the understated, linguistically purist, Gorean Saga

Five golden galleons: reserved for the work of the divine dame whose bejeweled pink slippers I am unworthy to kiss.

In conclusion, dear RWW, let your metaphysical pen be as feared in reviewing as it will become beloved in creation.

Lire Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

So. Who the feck invented holidays or vacations as the French and our colonial cousins call them?
And to what purpose?
I mean. Pack a suitcase with your most impractical clothing, load up your kindle with romantic novels (pauses to evacuate the bit of sick in the back of throat), leave your best mate in kennels, sit in a tin can in the sky, then spend two weeks beside a pool crammed alongside half a thousand red, sweaty people.
Why?
Can somebody just tell me why?
What the heck is that all about? Hours and hours in a tin box that smells of breath mints, mothballs and haemorrhoid cream – with the added delight of a courier in an ill-fitting blazer (with mismatched dentures and a very sketchy idea of the holiday itinerary and any places of interest en route). Hotel rooms with brushed nylon sheets. All-you-can eat lunchtime buffets. Cream teas with stale scones. Three-course ‘evening meals’ with canned soup and arctic roll.
Not in this life.

On the morning of his fiftieth birthday Daniel Danielssen, ninth of his name, Emperor of the Southern Continent, and Lawgiver to the Northern Confederation, woke up with the feeling that this was going to be a very good day. He poked his current lover ungently in the ribs. ‘Up, lazybones, or we won’t have time for breakfast before the hunt.’ Without waiting for a reply, His Imperial Majesty rolled out of bed and headed for his bathroom where his valet was already filling the tub with steaming water. ‘May the gods smile on your nativity, Highness.’ The Emperor smiled his thanks before lowering himself into the tub and accepting the proffered bar of scented soap.
Daniel was determined to make the most of the day, relishing the prospect of a day hunting to be followed by a formal banquet at which he planned to surprise the assembled company with an Imperial edict outlawing slavery across the southern states. Having spent a decade on the Ivory Throne, he felt that it was about time he stopped being a figurehead and began to actually use his Imperial powers. He had no illusions about how this new law, plus an Emperor determined to be more than a face on the coinage, would be received in many quarters, but he would have the element of surprise on his side, and, short of murder, he couldn’t see how anyone could stop him.
As a bonus, the family of his beloved wife would be among the biggest financial losers in the abolition of slavery. As he rose from the steaming water the Emperor allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and thought that he may even find the time to visit the exquisite home of his official mistress if the hunt did not run over time.
However, even as the royal valets dressed their master for the festive hunt, plans to dislodge His Majesty were falling into place in a house not far from the Imperial precinct. A severely aesthetic-looking elderly gentleman sat behind an ornate desk and addressed a group of tough types who seemed out of place in his opulent library. ‘No survivors’, he said severely. ‘Lessons must be learned.’
‘Does no survivors include your revered daughter?’
‘Especially my revered daughter. Those who cannot control either themselves or their spouses must pay the penalty for disappointing me.’ The men raised clenched fists to their brows and filed out of the room.
When the door closed behind the last bravo, the old man gave vent to a sardonic laugh. ‘More than a figurehead? Outlaw the slave trade. I think not.’
Two hours later the birthday hunt clattered out of the palace courtyard, led by the Emperor himself mounted on a magnificent black stallion and dressed for the hunt in gilded leather.
Who exactly fired the arrow that ended the Emperor’s life wasn’t known at the time, but the moment it was confirmed that His Majesty had indeed shuffled off this mortal coil the rest of the plan swung into motion and a band of masked assassins entered the palace via a maze of secret tunnels, whose location should have been known only to members of the Imperial family. Within an hour of the Emperor’s death, almost the whole of that family lay dead inside the locked doors of the private royal apartments. None was spared, from the Emperor’s ninety-year-old uncle, to twin baby princes in their cradles. Even as the palace guard began assaulting the doors with a hastily-fetched battering ram, the hired bravos searched desperately for the last remaining member of the royal house. Fifteen-year-old Princess Ana was nowhere to be found.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.

To celebrate our fourth birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a limerick writing competition.

We could not choose between two limericks to be our runner up – both celebrate the blog and we who work to bring it to you daily! So we have two runners up and this is one, by Trish Butler author of the Redway Acres series!

There was a young woman named Jane
To say plain would be far too tame
She liked to write books
And give strangers odd looks
Then would say ‘it’s all part of the game.’

It was too late to make a difference, too late to save the mother they had abused.
Guthrie had known since he took the Director of Resources position at the Federation in 2166, ten years ago, that his efforts to slow humanity’s ravenous desires would most likely fail. They were too attached to the conveniences of the modern world. He glanced around his office, noting that he was no different with his antique cherrywood desk and livestream hologram projector and AI secretary.
Sighing, he took a sip of whiskey. How had humanity spiraled so far down this path? He had at least been hopeful of slowing the inevitable. But even that seemed impossible at this point. One man, no matter the title, was no match for such a united and opposing mindset—especially when so many in power sought only to reinforce ideas that coaxed people into a false sense of reality, one where mining materials in space would make all the problems go away. Nothing to fear. Business as usual. It was progress.
Progress.
The magic word that turned the public’s attention away from the wake of devastation they so wanted to ignore.
“Sir, you have an incoming stream from General Hawkins.”
The cool voice of his AI broke his thoughts.
“Accept the stream.” He sat up and adjusted his uniform as the holographic bust of a grey-haired man projected over his desk.
“Good afternoon, Director.”
“Afternoon, General. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no point beating around the bush on this…”
“Sir?”
“It’s finally happened,” Hawkins said. “We’ve found a host.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
Guthrie sat forward. “You mean to tell me you’ve found a suitable host and have taken the time to study it in enough detail to be absolutely sure? How am I just now hearing of this?”
“I wasn’t about to tell you before we had made, as you put it ‘absolutely sure’, was I? We’ve had several failed potentials over the last two years, so you can imagine my reservations. And beyond that, this is highly classified. Only a handful even know about it, and we intend to keep it that way. Up until now, you didn’t need to know.”
“You’ve always had a way with words.”
“It’s not my job to charm.”
“Point taken.” Guthrie took a sip of his whiskey to let Hawkins know he had no further comment.
“As I’m sure you will already know, the necessary steps going forward will need to be handled very carefully. If this gets leaked…”
“Indeed. Who has made the discovery?”
“A man named Mathew Hodgson. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Guthrie nodded. “I have. Brilliant man.”
“That he is.”
“But surely he doesn’t know where our intentions for his discovery truly lie?”
“Of course not. He’s under the impression we are only interested in data. Which, of course, we are—we are just more concerned with the practical applications of that data.”
“Can you link me a report on this ASAP?”
“Already have. Your secretary should be forwarding it to your handheld as we speak.”
“Excellent. I won’t lie, this news is hard to digest. I knew we were expending a lot of resources in our search, but a part of me thought it was wasted effort.”
“You and me both,” Hawkins said. “But this is nothing new for humanity, is it? We have always found a way. And I suspect we always will. I suppose that is the prize you earn for reaching the pinnacle of evolutionary success.”
Such arrogance made Guthrie shudder internally. He didn’t quite know how to respond without giving away the anger Hawkins’ last words had generated within him. That spark of anger led his thoughts back through their conversation. Words like ‘host’ and the deception of a brilliant man, whose agenda was purely academic, made him ashamed of his position and his peers. The way power manipulated the mind was truly frightening. But maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe he was just an idealist. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t understand where General Hawkins was coming from. This really was humanity’s last hope.
He just wished there was another way.

From Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Every Wednesday night, since time immemorial, it’s keep fit in the village hall. Runs for two solid hours – and they reckon you could fall to your death on the sweat slick that seeps out under the door. 
I went once.
Why have I never been again?
A bossy cow called Noreen dressed in pink spandex.
Half a hundred middle-aged women in leotards (the skinny bitches look worse that the fat buggers)
Laying on the floor next to someone whose pubes are out of control 
The distinctive aroma of the yoga mat
Need I say more?
Don’t do it people…

In the scented air of the pavilion Alexa settled back on her couch, closed her eyes and let her body relax, whilst her mind wandered. The two girls tended her, one combing through the glistening dark red waves of her hair and the other painting her finger and toenails with vermilion. She wanted to look her best this evening.
She could never allow herself to forget that for a woman to be a caravansi was rare – so rare Alexa had never heard of another. It was the only way of life she had ever known and one that she loved passionately. Much too passionately to give up for settled life or for any man. But whilst she recognised it was strange to others, to her it was the most natural of things. She had inherited the caravan, its animals, slaves, wagons and pavilion from her father as his only child and his apprentice.
When she thought of her father, she would always see him as he had been before he fell ill: tall and proud, his face animated as he told her stories of the past; or still and focused as he poured over ledgers, eyes skimming each page as he calculated the amounts faster than most could even count the numbers. His death had been the most painful event of her life – but the caravan gave her comfort. In the dust of travel, the shouts of the Zoukai and the rumble of wagons, she could sometimes imagine he was still there with her and nothing had changed.
But everything had changed after his death at the end of last summer. The merchants, including those who knew her personally and had been clients of long standing with her father, were very uneasy with the idea of entrusting their precious trade goods to one they saw as an untried woman. Merchants, it seemed, were superstitious when it came to such things. It had been a bitter blow to Alexa since she knew she was a tough, good and honest caravansi – and she knew that they knew it too. Undeterred she had spent everything she had on trade goods she could carry and sell for herself. It was not much but would be just enough to pay her way and make a small profit – if she could sell in Alfor.
Then her father’s Captain of Zoukai, had left the caravan.He had been old by Zoukai standards, past his fortieth season, and he had said he wanted to settle down and raise a family before it was too late. That had been just the beginning. All except a handful of the very oldest Zoukai, those who would have been hard pressed to be taken on elsewhere, took it as an excuse to leave too. Like the merchants, the Zoukai had a superstitious distrust of a caravansi who was a woman.
Alexa had spent most of the long winter scouring the city of Ratzal and sending messages to other nearby cities, seeking a Zoukai captain who would ride with her caravan. But as the first signs of thaw began and the bigger caravans took to the roads across Temsevar, she had faced the bleak prospect of being unable to go with them. If she did not make the Alfor Fair, her trade goods would be worth, at best, half their purchase value and she would have no choice but to sell up everything. That dread had sat colder in her heart than the bitterest winter blizzard.
With just two days left before the departure deadline – the latest they could leave Ratzal and still hope to arrive in time for the Alfor Fair – Caer had presented himself at her pavilion and promised her forty men if she would hire him as her Captain. If Alexa had not been so desperate she would have never given him serious consideration. Caer was not just too young, he was much too young. A good Zoukai captain, it was said, should have seen twenty seasons with the caravans under another’s leadership and Caer had clearly seen no more than half that. Besides, he offered her only forty men when she needed nearer twice that number to be truly secure.
But she had been desperate and Caer, young as he was, was the only chance she had of getting the caravan on the road in time to make the Alfor Fair. Even knowing that, when she had seen the Zoukai he brought with him, her heart had sunk. Almost half were so old that it was obviously going to be their final year riding with the brotherhood and most of the rest were very young – scarcely men at all – their heads newly shaven: boys who had never ridden with a caravan before. Less than a handful were experienced Zoukai of full fighting fitness. It was hardly surprising, though, Caer was no more any good Zoukai’s choice of captain than she was any good captain’s choice of caravansi.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

To celebrate our fourth birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a limerick writing competition.

We could not choose between two limericks to be our runner up – both celebrate the blog and we who work to bring it to you daily! So we have two runners up and this is one, by Ian Bristow author of Hunting Darkness (recently featured on the blog) and other books.

Here you will find two women of wit
They’ll make you feel more than just a bit
You’ll laugh and you’ll cry
No need explaining why
That’s just what good authors do when they sit!

To celebrate our fourth birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a limerick writing competition.

We are thrilled to announce that this is the winning entry by Stephanie Barr author of the YA Science Fantasy series The Bete and many other books about supernatural beings – and cats!

Stephanie has won an Author Feature on the blog and her choice of books from those available from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Rosemarie was the most patient wife
To a husband that filled days with strife.
When his car smashed their den,
He stained the wash with his pen,
He just shrugged, said, “Well, honey, that’s life.”

Congratulations Stephanie, and a huge thank you to all who entered and to all who have been reading and supporting the Working Title Blog!