“Well, you know what they say, don’t you pet? What don’t kill you, will make you stronger.”
           Jessica felt her teeth dig into her tongue with the effort of not snapping back. It was one of those glib sayings people trotted out every time they realised there was harm done they couldn’t heal. She wanted to snarl that what didn’t kill you could just as easily leave you broken and bloody, weakened and vulnerable and much less strong than you were before. It could also leave you changed as well as damaged, struggling to know who this stranger was that you had become – the one who jumped at shadows and whose heart started racing when a car engine started up.
           It was not a good look for a woman who had once been decorated for valour.
           She forced a smile and did not cringe at the hand pat that went with the words of wisdom, delivered from the place of someone whose worst nightmares were about being caught on Scarborough seafront without her make-up on.
           “Your aunt means well, Jess.”
           The voice came from the door of the lounge, which was being pushed open. There was a smell of fresh coffee as Uncle David carried in a tray with a samovar and tiny cups.
           “Oh don’t be so daft, Dave. She knows I mean well, don’t you pet?”
           Jessica nodded and managed a half-smile, then busied herself moving the newspaper, and a couple of magazines about horoscopes and tarot cards, from the table in front of the paisley-patterned settee. Her uncle set the tray down with care then served the coffee as he always did – strong, black and sweet.
           His eyes were not patronising when he looked at her. But then he had fought at Goose Green and brought home his own ghosts to roost in the rafters of the perfect life his wife devised for them both. No children of their own, but then they had Jess.
           “So are you off to Whitby again to see that young man?” Aunt Susan peered over both the top of her cup and her bifocals.
           For a moment, just hearing someone naming the place sent a shiver through Jessica’s spine, and her imagination bridged the miles to place her on top of the cliffs, screaming gulls wheeling overhead, the wind that never slept and Roald, the image of a modern-day viking, hair blowing over his face, shoulders half-hunched in a fleece, face animated, telling her the history of the ruined abbey as if he had been there at the time.
           “It was all started by a woman – Hild. She was an amazing woman and not one you would want to cross. A princess of sorts. And for all she was an abbess eventually, she didn’t decide to become a nun until she was  in her thirties and she’d done one heck of a lot of living by then.’ He paused and made a really broad gesture with one arm as if including the ruins and all the headland where they stood. “She loved this place. Would stand up on the cliffs, by the beacon that was here then and look out over the sea, and upbraid her hair so the wind could play with it. And, you know, when she established that first abbey it was nothing like you would think of a monastery today. It was more like a community – both men and women.”
           It was easy to picture Hilda in her Saxon dress, facing out over the waves. Jessica thought of that actress she’d seen playing Rowena in ‘Ivanhoe’.
           “No,” Roald sounded almost angry, “Hild was of Anglic blood – not Saxon. The ones Pope Gregory famously spoke about when he saw some being sold as slaves: ‘Non Angli, sed angeli’.
           Jessica looked at him her mouth very slightly agape. He did that a lot. It was very unsettling.
           “Non angerlee – what?”
           Roald grinned and gave an exaggerated mock wince, as if her pronunciation caused him pain.
           “Non Angli, sed angeli – ‘These are not Angles, they are angels.’ “
           She had still been on crutches then and he had helped her back to the car park soon after then they had found a small pub in Robin Hood Bay, where they could look out of the window over the tumble of cottages and tourist shops. Picture postcard stuff, except the sky had been an obstinate slate-grey all afternoon.
           “So what has this to do with anything?” she asked at last, when the small talk dried up over their beer.
           “Your dream,” he said, “the one you keep having about a glowing necklace of strange pearls.”
           Jess nodded, she had told him of it when he asked her if she ever remembered her dreams.
           “I’m not sure they were pearls, just the kind of odd light they gave off made them seem like it. They were pearls shaped in ridged spirals.”
           In the dream she had seen something glowing under her uniform blouse, shining and everyone staring until she had run away and been standing on a cliff edge, then ripping open her blouse to see the strange necklace lying there on her naked breasts. The image came into her mind clear as a photograph and she heard Roald draw a small, sharp breath, which brought her back to the pub.
           “Uh, yeah,” he said, his expression slipping into an odd smile, “that’s the one.”
           For some reason, she felt uncomfortable and looked out of the window to escape the moment.
           “It’s only been since the – the accident,” I’ve never had that kind of dream before.”
           Standing naked on the cliff-edge, her hair so long it ran the full length of her back and blew out around her, sparking with energy, and feeling so whole, so complete – so powerful.
           “I know.”
           The way he said it, made her blush. She started pulling herself to her feet, leaning on the crutches.
           “I need to get back – I promised I’d take my aunt to the talk on astrology. She loves all that kind of stuff.’
           Roald rose too.
           “And you don’t?”
           “I never used to,” she admitted, as he helped her ease back into her coat.
           “And now?”
           She tried to shrug, but it was not so easy with the crutches.
           “Maybe, believing in fate helps make this all seem less meaningless. Maybe it helps make sense of the senseless. Even if all I’m doing is seeing patterns in the stars by joining the dots with random lines.”
           He stopped on the way back up the hill to the car. Asking her to wait as he dived into a tourist shop, full of costlier craft items. She studied the window but could not see what had caught his eye. When he came out he pushed a small flat box into her hand.
           “Just something to remember today by,” he said. The leaned forward to kiss her, lightly, one hand running up over the curve of her breast, lingering as he whispered: “You look beautiful naked.”
           She had been so stunned that she had frozen, her whole body stiff, paralysed. Just as it had been when she woke up to find herself in hospital. So she had not said a word as he turned his broad back away and strode off into the crowds of tourists, lost to sight the moment he did so.

From Maybe by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

 If you would like to continue reading, just sign up to follow the Working Title Blog and use the Contact form to tell us you have done so. Be sure to include an email and you will receive your free copy.

They opened the castle gates at dawn and Sir Edwulf’s men marched in.

The castellan stood in the open doorway, his head bowed and his sword on the ground at his feet. He lifted sorrowful eyes.

“My lady is within.”

Edwulf dismounted and brushed past the man.

The lady’s titian hair was unbound, and her gown draped loosely across her burgeoning belly. Edwulf crossed the room with impatient strides, grasping her chin in one gauntleted hand.

“Mine?” he demanded. “Or his?”

“If you doubt me you can count.”

“I will.”

He bent to her mouth and she bit his lip…

©️jj 2018

It isn’t okay
To like people today
You have to be gender selective
You don’t understand
How a woman and man
Can converse with a friendly perspective
It isn’t all right
To expect us to fight
On the basis of gender or race
Understand that it’s true
That it’s people like you
Giving hate an acceptable face

©️JJ 2018

An extract from Santabot a short story by LN Denison and one of the stories you can find in Sparkly Badgers' Christmas Anthology All profits go to help the Avon Riding Centre for the Disabled, helping disabled people to learn to ride.

After about ten minutes, Christopher began to calm himself, taking in longer, normal breaths as the silence engulfed him, but it was too early to lift his head from underneath the covers. There was still that little niggle of doubt in his mind as to what he might find if he dared to peer into the darkness of his room, and the feeling that he might not be alone also played on his mind. He thought of the prospect of finally coming face to face with the bearded man after all those disappointing years of trying to wait up for a glimpse. slowly, the covers came down, and his eyes glimpsed over the rim of the cotton fabric of his sheet.
For a moment, a sense of disappointment replaced what remained of Christopher’s fear as he looked into the stark emptiness of his room. But the fear that gripped him returned anew as the sound of heavy clanging could be heard coming along the landing that led to his bedroom. Christopher’s eyes widened as a bright light shone through the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from shaking.
He held his breath, but this time he refused to cower under his covers. It had to be his mum, surely? Was she finally ready to read him a story?
There came three raps on the door, which made Christopher jump out of his skin.
“Mummy?” The frightened seven-year-old whispered.
Again, three knocks on the door, but this time the scared little boy tugged the sheet over his head.
“Go away!” Came the muffled cry from under the covers.
Christopher sobbed with fear as the door knob squeaked, and the door pushed open, hitting the side wall hard.
“Leave me alone!”
Eerie shadows floated above the sheet, reflected by the light on the landing. Through the thin cotton that covered him, Christopher could make out the silhouette of a large, bulbous object hovering over his bed. In an instant, he curled up into a ball. He could feel the sheet being dragged, then found himself exposed to the temperature of his room. The coldness of metal wrapped itself around one of his arms and pulled him up to his feet.
Christopher’s eyes widened further and his mouth flopped open as he looked on the shiny, red and white, Santa-looking thing, which just stood in silence. Curiosity more than anything else, now took hold of Christopher’s mind as he tilted his head and knotted his brows.
“What are you?”
Christopher felt his voice tremble as the words fell from his mouth.
The Santa-looking metallic object whirred, readying itself to respond. With a couple of little surges of energy, the bot finally spoke.
“I am Santabot One, and I have been sent to re-educate you on the myth of Santa Claus.” It’s voice sounded tinny, but not robotic – almost human.
The bot regarded the little boy.
“Oh, Christopher! Do you want to know the real secret behind Santa?” The bot tilted his head slightly, and watched as the child considered the offer.
The Santabot led Christopher from his bedroom, across the landing and down the
stairs, where they had to pass the living room to get to the front door. Christopher looked over at the seating area, where his mum, dad and their guests were sitting frozen. For a moment he wondered if they were playing a game of Musical Statues. The Santabot saw him looking.
“They will be fine. It’s just a gas induced sleep. We had to make it so.”

Dont forget to grab your copy of the anthology!

LN Denison is a usually  a writer of near-future dystopian sci-fi. You can catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.

Mightiness and his children watched intently as the woman laboured to bring The One into the world. She clenched her muscles, and gave vent to an animalistic groan.

Rafaela winced sympathetically. 

“How is putting the mother through this going to make the child any more human than if we had just dropped it in the cradle?” she demanded with some asperity.

Mightiness actually looked a little shamefaced, but Gabe stepped in.

“You wouldn’t understand.” 

“There is nothing to understand.”

“Man is born through the travails of woman,” he intoned piously.

“Travail this, buster.”

Gabe only limped for about a millennium…

©️jj 2018

Once upon a time, the world was covered in water, and the overlord sat on a smooth rock overlooking his domain. All was well and he smiled into the blueness of the sky. The merpeople sang and the fishes swam, and every creature lived in its appointed place. But then a strange thing began to happen, dry green pieces could be seen poking out of the oceans, and creatures that should have been swimming began crawling in the greensward and flying in the clouded blue. The overlord looked up towards the heavens and cried to the creators for help, but no help came.

Those who made the blue planet had turned their attentions elsewhere and the green and the brown slowly took over the blue and the silver.

Once upon a time, man crawled out of the water and set his foot on dusty land, thinking himself master of all he surveyed. But the world took against him as he plundered and purloined her treasure. The waters started to rise and man cried to the creators for help. But no help came.

The blue and silver slowly took over the brown and green and the overlord’s rocky throne slowly rose from the waves. The merpeople sang and the fishes swam, and once again every creature lived in its appointed place…

©️ Jane Jago

Normally, Lawyer Ducco really enjoyed dragonback riding. The speed and manoeuvrability was exhilarating, and it usually beat any other means of transport talons down. But today he felt as if his body had been beaten with sticks and his head was ringing as if his long-dead mother had boxed his ears.

He walked into the Hall of Judgement with his robes and wig askew and his hands shaking. His clerk looked in amazement.

“Sir. What happened to you? Are you all right?”

Ducco wagged his head.

“Take my advice, lad. Never hitch a lift on a dragon with PMT.”

©️jj 2018

.... or 'How To Speak Typo' by Jane Jago

abyssmal (adjective) very craggy and deep usually used to describe wrinkles or bum cracks

acorss (slang) – as a matter of fact old chap

ahewad (noun) conspicuously large male genitalia

ancinet (noun) – medieval forerunner of the Internet involving running men carrying scrolls

bo liek (slang) – diarrhoea

bearst (noun) – feminine chest hair

cintip (adjective) – of hairdressers unreliable with scissors 

dregde (adjective) – looking as if one has seen the ghost of one’s ex-husband staring out of the lavatory pan

ewrror (noun) – a mistake made when describing something disgusting

finsing (indefinite form of the verb to finse) – finding oneself in the window of a department store naked but for a bucket on one’s head

mena – (noun) the postmenopausal thoughts of a small lavender elephant

pis hood (noun) a garment for exceptionally inclement weather

scrathing (verb to scrath) – placing one’s nether regions on the platen of a photocopier for a jolly jape

thta (noun) – small marsupial with orange buttocks and purple furry ears

wevy (adjective) of hair having the tendency to point in all directions

woudl (noun) – Cornish nose flute music best heard from a very great distance

yest (noun) – sludgy stuff in the bottom of drip trays behind the bar in a not particularly hygienic pub

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

He had served the city for forty years, and he was a shoe-into be re-elected. 

Only one problem. Polling day, the guy is found dead in the bed of a seventeen-year-old ho.

What to do?

His grieving wife pulled her panties up tight and suggested a corpse could do as much in the way of civic duties as the old goat had managed in the last two decades.

This eminently sensible point of view was endorsed by his political bosses.

The election went as planned, and the cityfolk became quite fond of their mayor’s embalmed body.

©️jj 2018

From 'Dying for a Home' a short story in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

Early November MDCCLXXVII

The golden autumnal weather had given way to a chilly November. Dai Llewellyn sat at his desk by the broad window that looked out over the walled garden of his residence. He still struggled to think of it as ‘home’. Maybe it was the eagle over the door that sneered at him every time he crossed the threshold with its silent message that this was a villa designated sub aquila – Roman only. He wondered if he could arrange to get the facade remodelled on some excuse so above the name of the house, the poppies of its name were wreathed there instead.

He had been absently playing with the silver band around his index finger as he thought these near treasonous thoughts. Then he looked at the ring, it’s intricate blend of Celtic knots and Roman letters and symbols. It marked him out as a citizen – as Roman as his beloved wife Julia and without it she could not be his. She had given him this ring to remind him that their worlds were enriched by each other, not diminished.

Days like this he had to be reminded of that. Sighing, he tried to focus again on the information in front of him. A breakdown of the tenancy of a group of insulae on the rougher edge of Viriconium’s expanding commercial area. The buildings were owned by a Britannia wide property agency – Titus Holdings. They provided housing for over four hundred families – most were single-parent households or impoverished elderly folk who either had no family or whose sons and daughters lacked the space and resources to take them in. It was one of the poorest communities in the city and Dai knew that Titus Holdings did little for its tenants except ensure the structural integrity of the building was maintained. And that was only to avoid facing criminal charges if they should collapse.

He had not visited the estate himself since his return to Viriconium after almost a decade living in Londinium, but his Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had done so and his account had been harrowing.

“I’m not saying I’ve not seen as bad – we both have. Think the dreg ends of the Caligula, but that was Londinium and most there were unregistered and criminals. These people are just desperately poor. Most do seasonal work in the farms around or go begging even. Half the kids look like they’ve not had a decent meal in their lives and most all the old folk are ill from the mould and damp. I was told there is a local joke that the estate has to restock each spring ‘cos so many don’t make it through the winter.” Bryn shook his head at the thought. “It’s grim, Bard.”

“Grim – but not illegal.” Dai had a bitter taste in his mouth as he spoke. “The law says no one forces those people to live there, they choose to do so. That means they choose to accept the conditions the owner offers. After all, if they don’t like it they can always leave.”

“I can see it now you put it that way. They are spoiled for choice with alternatives – sleep on the streets, or under a bridge by the river – or maybe in a nice comfy hedgerow.”

Dai sighed.

“Roman logic. People who can’t imagine what it is like to be so poor the very concept of ‘choice’ about anything in life is meaningless.”

“Not all Romans are rich – your Julia was born in a place not so very different, from what my Gwen tells me.”

“That’s true, but it’s the rich ones that make the laws.”

E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago