Sir Cerdic was in trouble. Again. He stood outside the preceptor’s office studying his steel shoes and rehearsing the arguments that might or might not save his spurs.

The office door opened and a brown-clad clerk indicated by a jerk of his head that Cerdic was to enter. The knight walked in.

Preceptor Erasmus looked over his spectacles.

“Clerk. Out,” he snapped before turning his attention to Cerdic. “I suppose you know why you are here.”

“Not really.”

Erasmus sighed. 

“What is not to understand about waking the maiden with a chaste kiss?”

“I kissed her.”

“On the lips, man…”

©️jj 2018

Part three: vengeance

CHAPTER TEN

After a busy four days, with full lists on each day and a long evening of emergency surgery on a hit and run victim, Sam was only too pleased to be heading home before midnight on Friday. At least, he thought, I have the weekend off. When he got to the gate he was very surprised to see Jim’s muscle truck on the drive. Someone must have been watching for him as the gate swung open, and was closing before he had climbed out of the Range Rover. Jim was at the gate, looking grave.
“What’s up?” Sam asked.
“It seems I’ve pissed somebody off and they want to play rough,” Jim grated. “They sent a bloke to visit my parents, but he’s in hospital. Then they tried to scoop up the twins on their way home from school. They didn’t count on my brother being keeping an eye. He took out the driver of the car, and the twins beat the living crap out of the guy who tried to grab them. Anyway, Dave had a nice cosy chat with the getaway driver. Seems there’s a bloke somewhere who is very pissed off because the bottom fell out of his nice medical scam. Wants to ensure I back off if I find any of his other deals. Not happening.”
“And this concerns us enough for you to get here this fast because?”
“Because your name and Anna’s were mentioned as friends who could suffer if I wasn’t a good boy. And because I need her help.’
“I see.”
Then Sam patted Jim’s meaty shoulder.
“Don’t look so guilty. You can’t cave in to that sort of shite.”
“I know. But Anna’s right on the edge of throwing a major wobbler, and I feel guilty about that.”
“Right, let me deal with her. Then we can talk.”

He strode into the kitchen to find Anna walking jerkily up and down the room, with her arms folded tightly in front of her, muttering.
“It’s over. I’ll have to leave. I can’t put Sam in danger. I knew life wouldn’t let me be happy. It’s over…”
Bonnie sat in her basket, the picture of abject canine misery. He went over and patted the dog.
“It’s OK Bon Bon. I’ve got this.”
Then he walked over to Anna and picked her up as if she was a child. She felt rigid in his arms, and carried on with her litany of sorrow, although she didn’t actually struggle.
“Excuse me folks,” he said and carted her down the hallway to the office, where he put her down and closed the door behind them.
He took his wife by her slender shoulders and shook her: hard.
“Anna Henderson,” he said firmly “shut up and look at me.’
She obeyed, looking up into his eyes.
“Right,” he said. “You are not going anywhere. I won’t let you rip my heart out because you are afraid.”
“But.”
“No buts. You are the centre of my life. You are going nowhere without me. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Agreed?”
She burst into tears and hurled herself into his arms.
“You twit,” he said lovingly, and kissed her quite seriously. “I love you and I need you. Promise me we’ll have no more leaving talk. I don’t think I could stand it.”

Anna lifted her tear-stained face and looked deeply into his eyes. Whatever she saw there made her wind her arms around his neck and croon gently.
“Oh Sam. I’m sorry my love. I was being a proper asshole wasn’t I? I never thought about you and how it would effect you if I fell to bits.”
“You were too sunk in misery. But I’ll forgive you if you promise not to leave me. It would kill me, you know.”
“I promise.”
There came a gentle scratch on the door and Sam put his hand behind him to open it. Bonnie crept in, and looked carefully at Anna and Sam. Whatever she sensed must have eased her doggy mind, because she started wagging her tail and came over for a fuss. Anna bent and stroked her soft ears.
“Here’s another person I wasn’t considering isn’t it?”
“Umm. Yes. Poor little sod was the picture of misery when I got home. But she cheered up when she realised I had the situation under control.”
“You did, didn’t you. Thank you my darling.’
He leaned down for a kiss and Bonnie wriggled her way into a group hug. Sam laughed.
“Right. Let’s go talk to Jim and Pats.”

Jane Jago

He must have said smile, because she was immortalised forever doing just that, seventeen years old and mugging away like an idiot. She hated that picture like poison, and if she had been able to destroy it.

But she couldn’t. 

Wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the fragging Internet. Fifty years later, her young face fronted a campaign for the equality of the differently able. 

The elderly photographer was lionised. Became famous. Wealthy. Was spoken of as a genius and a man of the people.

What the old woman in the wheelchair thought nobody bothered to ask…

©️jj 2018

They were the giants, whose shoulders lift us high,
And we, the living, cast our patronising smiles
In weighing deeds of those whose grandeur we decry.
We judge them from the giddy heights of gifted breath,
Belittling those whose words have filled our breast-milk tomes,
So forgetting soon shall we join them in death
And then will others come and rifle through our bones,
To pick the choicest flesh from them – and discard the rest.
Then laugh at all our fears and our misapprehended woes
Themselves to glorify, to think the wisest and the best.

E.M. Swift-Hook

 

August. Midnight. Breathlessly hot. 

Leonore found the heat enervating to her body, even as it beat on her mind like the sound of a brazen gong. She had barely felt able to eat, and her feet dragged as she headed towards the garden in the hope of a little coolth. She leaned her forehead against the glass of the french doors and resisted the urge to scream.

A familiar voice spoke in her mind.

“Why so sorrowful L’e’onore?”

“Because it’s too hot, and my head hurts, and I haven’t seen you for…”

She stopped speaking, uncomfortably aware that the last time R’u’uth had come to visit she had tried to make him understand how unsuitable their relationship was. And when he had refused to see her point had chased him away with a flea in his ear. 

He just laughed.

“Oh L’e’onore. Why did you not call me?”

She shrugged, and a tired tear ran down her cheek.

“How could I call you when I was so angry last time?”

She turned to look into the parched garden just in time for a long tongue to lift the tear from her skin.

“Come for a fly. Let me take you where the air will cool your cheeks and soothe your fevered mind.”

Leonore didn’t need asking twice; she climbed up R’u’uth’s extended foreleg and settled between his gleaming wings.

“Where are we going?”

He turned his head to grin at her.

“Wait and see.”

Then they were in the air, with a breeze ruffling Leonore’s hair and cooling her skin. She leaned against smooth scales and strong muscles, and just gave herself to the joy of flight.

They didn’t seem to have been in the air for very long at all when R’u’uth turned on a wingtip and dropped down through the night sky to land beside a moonlit lake. Leonore slipped down from her perch and ran to the edge of the water.

“Oh, it’s beautiful here. Where are we?”

“Nowhere in your world.”

“That should be frightening, but I find I don’t care. I reckon I’m safe with you.”

R’u’uth laughed dragonishly.

“That depends on your definition of safe…”

Leonore felt herself blushing and nerved herself to meet R’u’uth’s gaze.

“That remains to be seen.”

She felt the warmth of his approval as a heat at the base of her stomach and turned back to look at the dark water.

“Would you swim L’e’onore?”

“Can I?”

“You can. I will swim with you if it would please you.”

“I have no swimming costume.”

R’u’uth laughed.

“Dragons swim in their skin…”

She put her hands on her hips and regarded him with some severity before throwing back her head and laughing.

“If dragons can swim in their skins I suppose humans can too.”

She dragged her dress over her head and wriggled out of her underwear before kicking off her sandals and heading into the blessed coolness of the lake. For a moment she didn’t think R’u’uth was with her, but then she felt a smooth, warm flank as he swam over and under her and around her. She laughed delightedly, and the two of them played in the water like children.

“On my back,” R’u’uth spoke in her head and she allowed him to swim up beneath her, settling herself between his folded wings. He swam strongly away from the side of the lake towards what Leonore eventually realised was a small, green island. She leaned forward and placed her arms around his neck. He chuckled and she felt it vibrate through her body. 

And then they were climbing onto dry land and she remembered her nakedness.

“R’u’uth. My clothes.”

He chuckled again, then sobered.

“Worry not. I will enjoy to see you, but I know you are not ready…”

“No. I am not ready. I may never be ready.”

“I will take that risk. Now get off my back before the feeling of your tender skin becomes too much for my resolve.”

She slipped to the ground and found, to her intense surprise, that she actually rather enjoyed the feeling of his eyes on her skin. He looked at her approvingly and she even found a bit of a swagger somewhere in her locker.

“Why are we out on this island?” 

“I wanted you to see something. Come.”

He led the way uphill to a rocky peak at the centre of the island and pointed with his nose.

“Look.”

Leonore looked, and could scarcely believe the beauty before her eyes.

The black water of the lake looked as smooth as silk and there was a stripe of golden moonlight marking a pathway from the horizon to the centre of the lake. And if that wasn’t enough, there were silver creatures dancing on the golden water.

“What are they?” she whispered.

“Naiads. Listen. They will sing.”

Leonore listened as the water spirits lifted their voices. Their song was beautiful, but cold and ethereal, and Leonore shivered as she listened.

R’u’uth draped a wing over her and she leaned against his smooth strength.

“Thank you R’u’uth,” she whispered.

He turned his head and delicately nipped at the side of her neck before blowing his spicy breath into her lungs.

“Come. Let us get your clothing before I forget myself.”

Leonore climbed onto his back and they took to the sky for the brief hop to where Leonore’s clothing lay in a heap. She dressed quickly and leaned into R’u’uth’s embrace, rubbing her face against his muscular neck. 

He touched her cheek with his tongue.

“Home?”

“Please.”

R’u’uth made a step with his foreleg and she climbed lightly onto his back.

He turned his head and favoured her with his most dragonish grin.

“Next time I bring you to the island, I may not be such a gentleman….”

And then they were in the sky, heading back towards the August heat. 

©️ Jane Jago

The black cat lay out across an overhanging tree branch. To the casual observer she appeared to be slumbering away the heat of the afternoon. Anyone wise in the way of felines, though, would have noticed the twitch in the very tip of her tail.

But the cruel teenage boys who had tied a firework to the tail of one of her crew weren’t wise. 

They swaggered along the pavement, stopping under her branch to pose and posture for the watching girls.

It’s very difficult to be cool and impressive with a cat attached by sixteen claws to your face…

©️jj 2018

Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.

So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.

But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?

As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create…

E.M. Swift-Hook

How To Start Writing A Book, the worst ever 'how to write' book, has escaped from the pages of this blog and become a real ebook. Read IVy's advice with editorial comments on each blog piece by his mother. Jacintha. All courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The Prologue

One greets one’s adoring fans for whose benefit this volume of bon mots upon the topic of How to Write A Book is being placed in the public domain.

These epistles of wisdom to you, a Reader Who Writes, began in the summer of 2017 when one kindly offered one’s services to The Working Title Blog. Week by week, the esoteric arcane mysteries of the literary art were unfolded for the elucidation of a growing number of adoring fans. Week by week one poured spirit, heart and soul into the project, sharing one’s most intimate moments and best kept secrets.

Then, in a tumultuous series of events, it was over! The course of lessons were complete and whilst they linger yet in the ether of the interwebs, they are separated and hard to find. So, in an act of unmerited generosity one decided to seek out each blog post, pluck it fresh and blooming still and collect all together into a single volume.

One has now moved on to another literary guide aimed at those for whom even this book may be too advanced, but enough on that, you may find out more about it by reading my regular updates on The Working Title Blog.

For now, set aside your other thoughts and preoccupation and sit at the feet of the master. Take notes, for there will be questions!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Forward

It’s me, Moon’s mum or should I say IVy’s mum as he prefers to be known that way. It’s just as well I caught him in the act on this one. I was enjoying the last of the summer with a jug of sangria in the garden and he had been scribbling away on his tablet on a lounger in the shade. When he went for a piss I sneaked a peek at what he was working on and nearly choked on a slice of orange when I saw. Bad enough he’s been inflicting his shite on those misguided twats who read his blog, but this…

Fortunately, I convinced him every great author has to have an editor so he agreed to let me edit it for him. Which is just as well as the amount of pretentious tosh he’s pumped out over the weeks has to be seen to be believed.

Oh yes. You’ve just bought the book so you’ll be seeing it, won’t you?

All I can say is good luck with that and I’ve done my best to bring a bit of sense to this mess, but you can put a pig in a tu-tu and it still won’t make it a ballerina.

Jacintha Farquhar

How To Start Writing A Book is available now from Amazon.

Happy hour in a tatty bar at the edge of Small Gods, which is the poorest area of Olympus. Seven very minor gods sit at a smeared table drowning their sorrows in the local hooch, which somewhat resembles whisky, somewhat battery acid.

The tooth fairy narrows her eyes at the God of Unconsidered Trifles. 

“I dunno what you’re moaning about. You get more followers every day.”

“Yeah. But. Geeks.”

“Fair enough.” 

Lycra Cycling Shorts nods wisely before slipping off his chair facedown in spilt beer and crushed scratchings.

Muse shows a petulant face.

“Whaddabout me? Only wankers believe in me.”

©️jj 2018

‘32 was bad. Boy’s family went to California. Then Ma got the fever and died, and Pa did what he always done in times of trouble. He run away.

I stayed in the cabin to lick my wounds. After I shot me a couple bears, and a neighbour of evil intent, I got left pretty much alone.

So there it was. Thanksgiving. Me alone. I never expected no knock on the door and I opened her just a crack. My boy stood there in his cracked boots and foolish grin.

“It’s a long way to walk from Californy,” he said.

©️jj 2018

Happy Thanksgiving to all our US friends from the Working Title Blog!