Good morrow bambini mea.

It is oneself, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Author, teacher, bon viveur, and all-round example to the uncultured youth that surrounds one’s sainted head. Famed for the classic example of science fiction excellence ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One is displeased aujourd’hui.
The climate displeases.
One’s maternal parent displeases.
And the taste of bile in one’s throat displeases even more.

One’s pater, it seems, is about to withdraw one’s allowance. Deeming, as his latest paramour declaims in tones of purest East Ham, that “thirty-whatever is fucking old enough for the useless twat to have a job and start supporting himself”. One’s mater, of course, finds the whole thing funny in the extreme. To quote her dulcet tones “I haven’t laughed so much since granny got her tits caught in the mangle.”

Such crudeness displeases almost beyond measure, and on many a night one has wet one’s pillow with tears of frustration and shame. But one shall survive. And the vulgarity of one’s progenitors brings one neatly to the topic of today’s lesson.

Lesson 29: The Write Euphemism

In the quest for literary perfection there are two parallel, but divergent, routes upon which one may set one’s delicate tootsies.

One may, if that is the limit of one’s creativity, embrace the route of sordid realism, whereupon every wart and wrinkle is described with anatomical precision. The road where a delicate sexual encounter may be described as a f**k. The dark alleyway along which bodily functions are both described and enjoyed. The foetid pit of filth and fecundity into which the crassly uncaring author pushes his anti-heroic characters with the sole aim of discerning whether they sink, swim, or come up smelling of hyacinths.

This, mes estudas, is not our way. It cannot be our way. It eschews the beauty of language and embraces the visceral. Should this be your inclination, why then one washes one’s hand of you. Should you wish to join the ranks of those penning ‘kitchen sink’ (pah! sewer more descriptively) fiction then avaunt ye. One will have thee no more in one’s tribe. The children of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV shall never sink to vulgarity. One’s daughters shall never develop three chins and a heaving dewlap of belly fat. One’s sons shall never bake in the tropical sun for so long that their skinny bodies resemble some wrinkled denizen of the reptile house in a low-rent zoological park. Oh no, mes estudas, we shall be beauteous until the day we tread sedately to Saint Peter’s golden gate. And in order to retain our beauty, we shall eschew all that is coarse, elemental and unlovely.

Here, then, is where the euphemism is your friend above all others. The gentle euphemism, that courteous suggestor whose orchidaceous syllables allow us to infer the crude, the ugly, the sexual, and the painful whilst protecting the delicate sensibilities of both artist and admirer.

We shall not speak of drunkenness – rather let our persons feel tiredness and emotion exacerbated by the intake of glorious nectar.

We shall not speak of the bodily functions of the bottom – rather infer that time spent in contemplation eases the pangs of the inner man.

We shall not enumerate the vulgar grunting of the joining of man and woman – rather shall we speak of the tenderest of caresses, and of the female lady garden and of the male’s fleshy sword.

Let our pens not dwell on the reproductive organs at all if that is possible – instead speak of sweet peaks and masculine heat.

We shall not speak of death – rather should we gently suggest a walk to the side of one’s maker.

We shall not enumerate pain – rather allude only to discomfort bravely borne.

We shall never speak of physical ugliness – no, let those who are plain of visage and ungraceful of form remain undescribed wherever possible and where description is unavoidable let ugliness be veiled under such kindly words as homely, honest-faced, strongly built, and even, dare one suggest, the damning of little physical beauty.

Indeed my children, consider my words of wisdom with care and never be swayed from following the primrose path of euphemistic glory. Let others dwell on the ugly and misshapen while we rise above such crudeness in our flying boat with the wings of the whitest swan and the beauty of a golden twilight.

Study your euphemisms, whilst your teacher goes fort in the vain attempt to detach his female parent from the public bar in the Beagle and Bumhole in sufficient time to converse with her own parent who is now our sole source of financial support.

Au revoir. Etudez bon

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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Eric Klein is the author of the science fiction novel The One: A Cruise Through the Solar System and books on cyber-security.

Question one: What was the most difficult piece of research you did for this book?

Actually, the most difficult part of the research was stopping. It was so much fun finding and connecting the various pieces together. But the hardest part was digging up details about chelation therapy for heavy metals. Turns out that eating cilantro has been found to help reduce some heavy metals in the body, and this translated to some of the dishes served in restaurants on Mars.

Question two: If you could name a space mission to explore beyond the edges of our galaxy, what would you call it? And why?

Well, avoiding the various silly names. I would name it Minerva, after the Greek Goddess of Learning. I expect out initial forays out of our solar system and galaxy will first be to learn what is out there while later missions may be exploration, colonization, or even military. But I must admit, I was tempted with boldly going with Enterprise.

Question three: If you were given the chance of a one-way ticket to a colony on Mars would you go?

When the Mars One project came out with a chance to win such a one-way ticket, I was tempted to put in my name. But as much as I would love to be part of such a project, I have too much here on Earth to give up. Now if it was a round trip tourist ticket I would be first in line (something out to Jupiter or Saturn, and back, would be even better).

Eric Klein in his own words:
I have been dreaming of space ever since being woken up to watch the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing at three in the morning. The fact that as a three-year-old I demanded to be woken up (or that my parents actually did wake me) was not a surprise. You see I was watching the Original Star Trek TV series in color from the 9th episode because they had the audacity of starting to air the series before I was born. (Trivia fact: I was born on the day of the original airing of the episode Miri). I credit my love for all things Shakespearean to starting with the many references in Star Trek. A hint to these origins can be found by my use of the play Hamlet in space, similar to that used in the Star Trek episode ‘The Conscience of the King’ in my first novel.

You can find Eric on Goodreads, Twitter or his own Website.

We return to Helium for some free time. The group split. Some wanted to go shopping; some went looking for a local geologist that one of them went to school with; others just went looking for lunch.
I see Dodge walking down the street with a bunch of people. As they pass I can hear her say, “A person is defined by his actions, not their memory.”
Interested in lunch ourselves, we go down a street of food vendors. Chinese, Mexican, Vietnamese, Moroccan, or Thai; each has a window of green herbs. Displays announce proudly and clearly the use of cilantro, fresh coriander, and Chinese or Mexican parsley in the dishes – all the same herb, but under different names. Stopping outside a Moroccan restaurant I ask the proprietor why such a fascination for this one herb.
“You must be tourists. Here on Mars, most people worry a little about the chance of the heavy metals in the soil getting into the food. We all know that the scientists say that the plants don’t absorb these metals and they are safe, but there were times when they told us that tobacco was harmless and salt was causing heart disease; then they ‘discovered’ they were wrong. So we eat cilantro. There was a study that showed it was found to remove mercury, lead and other heavy metals from the tissue of the body via chelating them out of the body. Even though each individual meal is safe, most of us try to prevent a buildup by eating a good amount of cilantro each day. Better to be safe than sorry when they revise their findings.”
Thanking him, we decide to enter his restaurant for lunch. As we sit down, he puts out lots of little plates of salads, including a tomato and cucumber one, and another made from radishes. The best is an artichoke salad with garlic, spices and preserved lemon. All are full of flavour – and cilantro.
The restaurateur says, “With the lower air pressure here, we have to modify some of the original recipes so that the flavour will come through.” The yak tangia is wonderful with dried fruit and a slightly sweet sauce. Fay has the fish balls, and the sauce is full of cilantro. After the meal we are offered sweet mint tea and Kaab el ghzal – crescent-shaped cookies filled with almond paste and cinnamon. Absolutely wonderful.
Taking the maglev back to the spaceport, we enter the security area and find two TSA agents hand-searching Dodge. While they are working, we are waved on to other agents, who quickly scan and pass us for returning to the ship. They are still working on Dodge and her day bag when we enter the transfer tube.
Letting out a deep breath, I release the tension I had not even realised I was feeling. It was comforting to be back on the ship. In only two weeks it had become ‘home’ and a safe refuge from edgy security teams.

The One: A Cruise Through the Solar System is the debut novel from Eric Klein.

Another wedding. Another spectacularly unbecoming dress. Another day of pitying looks for the spinster cousin. Another waste of precious days off work. Jennifer sighed and stared unseeing at her reflection. The hairdresser finished twisting a garland of artificial poppies in her hair and she smiled her thanks. He smiled back and leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“At least you have the colouring to take poppies. Makes the other two look like anaemic chickens.”
She rewarded him with a glimpse of her dimples and he sashayed off grinning.
Then it was time to don the dreadful dress. It hung on her slim body with all the pizzazz of a dishrag, and neither of the other unfortunates looked any better. The younger one managed a conspiratorial grimace before the bride’s mother lined them up and looked them over with a gimlet eye. She nodded, albeit somewhat grimly, and stumped off.

The bridesmaids followed the tiny, exquisitely clad, bride up the aisle to where a stolid looking young man (with prospects – and the beginnings of a paunch) awaited her.

Jennifer’s age conferred on her the dubious status of ‘chief bridesmaid’ and would also normally have meant she was expected to schmooze the best man. However, on this occasion it was made very clear to her that the elder, and sourer, of her two peers had first dibs there. Which was one small bonus in a day chock-full of horrors.

The reception. A marquee on the lawn of the bride’s mother’s house, catered by a company Jennifer privately dubbed Bodgitt and Screwham caterers.

She elected not to eat the prawn cocktail.

Fifteen minutes later she had reason to bless her own cynicism. That was when the first person started to vomit. Although that scarcely describes what happened. The bride’s father stood up, turned to face the wall and pebbledashed the tent.

After that it felt as if all hell had been let loose. Jennifer found herself working alongside a tall man with a neatly trimmed auburn beard and exquisite hands.

Three hours later and the last of the really ill people was hospitalised, while the rest were being given rehydration fluid and made comfortable in the house. Jenny sighed and sat down plump on the floor. Her co-worker sat at her side.
“I don’t know about you,” he said carefully, “but I’m bloody starved”.
Which is how the two of them sneaked off to a local steakhouse and shared an enormous steak and a mountain of chips.

Six months later.

Another wedding. No dresses though, and no bridesmaids. Nurse practitioner Jennifer Wells and her tall, auburn haired husband were in the Bahamas on their honeymoon before any of the female cousins even knew there was a wedding on the horizon.

Very late that night she raised a glass of champagne. “Here’s to Bodgitt and Screwham,” she said before her husband’s beautiful and clever hands robbed her of the power of thought.

©️ jane jago 2018

Oh can you tell me mother dear what is that in the sky
‘Tis nothing but the soldiers blue no need for you to cry
But mother dear the noise is harsh the clanging and the guns
It is, but when you are a man you’ll love that noise, my son
May I sleep then mother dear as they overfly
Oh yes, I’ll sing a lullaby as the tanks fly by
The rusted hulks that filled the sky held no more power of dread
He nestled on his mother’s breast and a sky tank shot them dead

©️Jane Jago 2018

People seem to like the idea of having free reads every day so much that the Working Title Blog is moving onto Facebook as well!

Working Title on Facebook is a place to share and find out about free reads – poetry, short fiction, essays, blog posts, free books, whatever.

We also welcome discussion topics, both serious and silly. Chat about what you are reading. Seek opinions and advice.

Be intellectual, be silly, but above all be kind.

We only ask that you steer clear of politics and religion and that you are considerate of the feelings of others.

Pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of your favourite poison and enjoy.

See you there soon!

The city lights, alluring stars that cast a glamour
Drawing in, like moths to flame, to city clamour
The restless young, in search of something so bright and grand
Romantic dreams of sweet success and a life unplanned.
Like froth on waves of rising hope and cappuccinos
The bright light sears their souls and draws them into shadows.

And here the old do stalk, eyes dulled, charred by shining lies
Their lost humanity sunk too deep to hear the cries
As all about the city predators swoop and dart
Whilst coiled serpent-like in the belly of each heart
The fervour of one passion still feeds them and burns bright:
Lust for power and money matter more than human rights.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“Louwina, I – I can’t live without you,” Woul stuttered, his eyes holding an acre of desolation and his sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight as his six-pack flexed in his distress.

She backed away from the head of the shifter clan, eyes wide in disbelief. Why was he being so mean to her? She knew at sixteen she was nothing special with her stick like body and bulgy breasts. Her hair was never exactly fashionable as it set her distressingly even featured face in a halo of golden curls.

She backed into the tall, muscular figure of Girald, the new boy in town who all the popular girls yearned to date.

“No, Louwina, your secret heritage calls to me. We are meant for each other,” he said, looking down lovingly into her eyes, sprinkles of fairydust falling like dandruff from his hair.

“My – what?”

“Well, you know how your parents both vanished mysteriously on the day of the eclipse and how your granny has that weird book engraved with the words ‘My Family’s Book of Ultra-Secret Witchcraft’?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything, she never lets me read it.”

The gorgeous hunks looked at her with longing and desire, adoration clear on both faces.

“You are the Chosen One and my chosen one,” Woul murmured, smirking.

“You are my chosen one too,” Girald echoed, his eyes sparkling in the starlight.

Louwina stood stunned by the revelation. She was the Chosen One? So that explained why everyone at school hated her and why her life had been so miserable so far. And now she had to choose between these two, equally gorgeous, half-naked eighteen year olds, who made her feel all warm and tingly in places she had never thought much about before.

But which one?

Louwina rolled her eyes.

How was she meant to choose between a Vampire Weresheep and a Fae Weregiraffe?

E.M. Swift-Hook

There is a god in the machine
I have no doubt at all
But is that god benign or mean
Does it catch, or make us fall
Is that god benevolent
Or does it juggle fate
Without a care if we’re content
Or railing at our state
There is a god in the machine
That is the thing I feel
A god whose hands are white and clean
As we suffer on life’s wheel
There is no kindly sprit who
Loves each heart and soul
What you call god is only true
To those it can eat whole

©️jane jago 2018

Turning Pages  is the first book in Brhi Stokes new series The Arbiter.

We leapt and bounded across roofs that shed tiles and dirt like rain as we jumped to taller and taller decaying shells. Her leaps were impressive in spite of her injuries, and I could only watch as she launched herself swiftly to the right and entirely off the edge of the roof. Her leap carried her up and towards the thick rails of elevated train track.

There was no way I could make a jump like that.

Instead, I followed her along the rooftops below, keeping an eye on the tracks as they angled closer to the taller buildings. Finally, I spotted a jump I could make. Ignoring the strange sensation in my left arm, I waited for a place where metal pillars connected the tracks to the ground and, securing the gun between my teeth, I threw myself towards them.

I missed the tracks completely, my numb left arm apparently useless. Thankfully, my right hand snagged at the maintenance rungs towards the top of the pillar and, with some scrabbling of my feet, I pulled myself onto the tracks. Up close, I could see that they consisted of two huge metal rails, connected crossways by smaller bars of steel. It had not quite occurred to me how big the train might be, but even the single rail on which I stood completely dwarfed me. The train that traversed it must have been simply enormous.

My balance accounted for and the gun back in my hand, I looked towards the woman. She had stopped momentarily and was panting for breath as blood trickled down her back. At the sight of my weary form climbing up onto the tracks, however, she bounded away. Breathing heavily, I took aim again, the whir of the gun filling me with a strange dread. I fired.

Another cry went up as the woman stumbled and fell, her strangely shaped legs twisting and catching beneath her as the bullet buried itself in her thigh. With no real joy, I began to make my way across the tracks towards her. She was close enough for me to make out her expression and, although I found it hard to decipher the emotion in her faceted eyes, I could sense the malice which dripped from her as steadily as her blue blood. With a final growl of defiance, she wrenched herself sideways and off of the tracks.

Her body fell. It slammed into the thick gutter of the nearest building before toppling from it and tumbling all the way down to the streets below. Even from my height on the tracks, I could see that part of her skull had caved. A mix of grey, red and blue seeped onto the cobblestones around the body, visible under the light of a nearby oil lamp.

For a moment, I watched the body as its fluids seeped out, wondering if her last act of defiance had been for herself, or simply to spite me.

It mattered not. A thunderous growl from the castle’s direction told me what was coming. I knew there was no point in looking. Instead, I fished around in my pocket for a small roll of silver tape and wound it gently around my weapon. The rails shook as a deep rumbling shuddered through my bones, the roaring growing so loud that it felt as though my ears would burst.

I was ashamed to admit that in the final moments as I turned towards the enormous coal train, I gasped in fright.

As the sole transdimensional fixer – a killer and thief for hire who can traverse worlds – Page just wants to get the job done for the shadowy Masters who pass down the orders.

In this profession, however, things are never quite so simple.

When a job goes awry and other fixers start showing up – fixers who aren’t even supposed to exist – Page has to wonder what else might be untrue, just how much trouble helping these newcomers might be and if one bottle of whiskey will be enough.

Brhi Stokes writes dark urban fantasy and you can follow her on Twitter or seek her out on her website.