There once was a plumber who was so crappy
And the name of the plumber was Mister Happy
He sent round a man for a hundred pound
Who didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

He started a job then he went away
And the water ran down the walls all day
And when he returned he looked in your eye
And said your problem was not I

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

He’s never on time and he’s never at home
And nobody ever answers the phone
The only thing that is not late
Is the bloody bill that’s right on date

Soon may the plumber come
Sits in his van with his finger up his bum
Whatever you ask him to do
He will mess it up for you

©jj 2021

Beloved Readers Who Write,

Although a reminder of my superb credentials and exquisite sensibilities is becoming increasingly superfluous, it is possible that a tiny minority of the denizens of cyberspace may, as yet be unacquainted with the masterful intellect that is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft. Ecco, mes estudas, here one is. Prepared to pedagogueise…

How to Start Writing a Book – Refining the Write Character

For today’s little tutorial, one’s fickle Muse leads one further along the bridleways of characterisation and the building of those sprites which shall infuse your works with life and loveliness. Follow in one’s footsteps, mes enfants, and you will surely find that the strength of one’s pedagogical peregrinations shields your tender little souls from the hurricanes of blandness, excessive ‘realism’, cold bare prose, and that all-devouring vampiric creature whose name is critic.

Ergo, mes enfants, when you have your protagonistic personifications placed in your psyche allow them to speak within the pristine pergola of your mind. Listen as they tell you of their lives and loves and leisure pursuits. Speak with them aloud as their insubstantial forms draw flesh from conversation with their creator. Fear not the idle sneers of ignoramuses, listen not to well-meant advice wherein those less sensitive to etheric beings counsel against speech with those entities none else can see or hear.

Be brave and enter into such dialogues as the children of your encephalon will vouchsafe to you. Dispute with them, should that be their will. Declaim aloud your fractious floccinaucinihilipilification. Shout to the skies when Erato and Calliope send unto you an actor of such ferocious intractability as to madden the very core of your sensitivities. Sing lullabies to soothe the merciless breast of your insubstantial interlocutor. Eat only that which their nourishment requires, abstain from tobacco, strong drink, and hallucinogenic substances so that your soul can be pure and your psyche open to the voices from beyond.

In the ultimate analysis, when you have a protagonist who walks by your side directing your steps you have succeeded beyond mere measure, and you can allow yourself to be led by the hand into the labyrinthine lusciosity of lustful lubriciousness that is literature lubricated by genius.

Ah yes, mes estudas, when your careful construction takes breath into its own lungs your work is done. Cry tears of joy as you inscribe into insubstantial cyberspace the passages of pusillanimous prose your protagonists dictate to you.

When their clamour will not let you sleep, you will know you have achieved the ultimate in character creation!

I shall conclude with advice on antagonists. They are the bad people, everyone knows what a bad person is like, we all have neighbours, work colleagues or relatives we despise. So there is no need to explain them or their motives in more than the briefest of detail. Less is more.

Écrit 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.

The rocks fell in the dungeon of his mind. 

Again and again, reliving the moment the roof of the cave had collapsed, trapping Marsha and the kids and leaving him alone. An outing gone so wrong it couldn’t have gone wronger.

The emergency services were digging as fast as they could but the swirl of flood water was making it hard. In fact, they said, it couldn’t be harder.

Stuck by the entrance.

The hollow of the cave, the hollow of his mind.

The rocks falling again and again.

Then he heard a shout.

“Daddy!”

And the rocks stopped falling.

E.M. Swift-Hook

By this time we were rounding the corner to come face to face with Jackdaw Court. Paul Brown visibly recoiled.
“It’s smegging ugly isn’t it” I said conversationally.
“No comment. But if you think that…”
“It’s the tower.”
He must have seen the yearning in my face, as he sprinted to unlock the front door of the tower apartment, which gave access to a flagstoned lobby and a broad stairway that ran up the side of the stone-clad building to the base of the tower proper. We ascended in single file with me in front. When we reached a second locked door Paul passed me a key. I opened up to find myself in a large, light entrance hall.
“Bedroom level. Both are en suite.”
I looked into the first room to find a hardwood floor and white wooden shutters at the window. Nice. The en suite was a wet room with slate walls and floor.
“Master the other side of the hall.” This was bigger and with windows in two walls, but it had the same flooring and shutters. The en suite was a proper bathroom with whirlpool bath, and walk-in shower. Again the floor was slate, but the walls were white composite. I nodded once and preceded Paul up the stairs. This floor was almost entirely taken up with a kitchen cum diner cum family room. The kitchen bit looked fine to me, and the rest was more than fine. Up again we reached the sitting room, which had a big balcony on one side and a tiny roof garden the other. A final bonus was the spiral staircase to a mezzanine level study.
I stood in the middle of the sitting room and considered my options. “Okay” I said. “Take it off the market. I’ll pay the asking price if I can be in inside a month.”
Paul grinned and this time I steeled myself to shake his outstretched hand.
“Important. Part of the deal is that nobody else gets to come in here sniffing about. That would be a deal breaker.”
His smile was positively beatific.
“Whatever you say.”
“Besides which” I remarked as demurely as I was able “we wouldn’t want Ranjit or Ralph thinking about gazumping me, now would we?”
“We wouldn’t.” He bit the words off and I couldn’t help noticing how strong and white his teeth were.
Note to observant readers: I don’t like touching strangers, or having them touch me. I have more than a whiff of my great grandmother’s Sight, and it’s activated by touch. It can be uncomfortable to the point of stomach churning and I tend to stay away from it as much as I can. But. Back to business.
Surprisingly enough, the purchase of my tower went precisely to plan. Mister Paul wanted his commission, and he also wanted to be the first person to sell in a more than somewhat controversial development, so he made sure the developer moved with dispatch. I went to school with my solicitor and he’s kinda scared of me so he got a jiggle on. Plus, I guess, nobody could see any profit in wasting time.
I signed on the dotted line, had some additional security installed, and prepared to move in.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

As a woman whose face has more furrows than a ploughed field, you can probably guess my stance on this subject.
Firstly: At what point did it become sensible to inject your face with food poisoning?
Secondly: Has nobody explained how frigging stupid you look when the only facial expression you can muster is vague surprise.
Thirdly: This doesn’t so much make you look young as desperate
Fourthly: If you stopped pulling the disapproving face that makes your mouth look like a cat’s bum…
And finally: Nobody looks at women over fifty anyway, so have a cake and enjoy life.

Detective Inspector Hunter Davis fought to maintain his composure as he watched his sergeant’s mahogany coffin sink below the ground. The moment felt surreal, almost dreamlike, yet he knew the intense pain that had settled into his chest manifested reality. Davis was no stranger to pain in the physical sense. He could endure that and had done so many times. And he would happily endure it again if doing so meant an end to this extreme of mental anguish.
He tore his gaze away from the grave where he stood with many of his colleagues, no longer able to bear the sight of it. Steeping clouds rolled in from the east, obscuring the feeble rays of November sunlight that had patterned the expanses of North Watford Cemetery with a false sense of warmth.
He became vaguely aware of the fact the people were starting to leave. Their movement felt distant, like something that was taking place on the other side of a two-way mirror— he could see them but didn’t exist among them. He didn’t belong to their group. They would go back to their lives and all would be as it once was. Their mourning for the death of Sergeant Evan Williams would last no longer than a few days, maybe less. Davis, however, would never be the same. He had lost both his best friend and sergeant for the last five years.
He looked around and saw Evan’s wife and their two children— the only people besides the burial ground custodian who remained near the grave. Seeing them jolted him out of his own acute sense of loss. Surely he hadn’t been so self-absorbed as to overlook those who would mourn Williams’ death far beyond his own level of grief ? Ashamed, he crossed over to where she stood.
The woman gazed at him through a curtain of tears. He gazed back, a surge of empathy for the new widow urging tears to the surface.
“Hunter,” she said, her voice strained.
“Angie,” Davis took her hand and gripped it for a moment, then bent down and spoke to the two children who stood on either side of their mother. “I’m sorry about your dad. I know it’s going to be hard not having him around . . . I know you are missing him and feel so sad, but your mum is going to be with you, and I’m going to help her as much as I can. If you ever want to talk to me, just let her know and I’ll come and see you.” He spread his arms wide, inviting them to hug him.
They nodded and rushed forward, bursting into tears. “Y-yes, U-uncle Hunter.”
After a moment, during which only muffled sobs could be heard, Davis released them and stood back up. He faced Angie. “Is there anything I can do? Would you still like me to come round to your house on weekends?”
“Of course I would,” Angie replied. “You’ve been coming round to our place for the last five years. And now that he’s. . .” she glanced at her late husband’s grave, tears threatening to surface once more “. . .he’s gone, we will need you more than ever. You know how fond the children are of you. You’re their Uncle Hunter.”
Davis gave the children a quick glance. Both of them had gone back to hugging their mother. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking asking a question like that. Of course I’ll still come round on weekends.”
Heavy drops of rain began peppering the ground around them, prompting Davis and Angie to end their conversation.
“Shall I give you a lift?” Davis asked. “My car’s parked just round the corner.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite alright. I have my car. Thanks just the same though.” Angie managed a decent attempt at a smile before shepherding her children towards the exit of the cemetery.
Davis watched them until they were lost from sight, his mind a raging tornado of emotions. He turned back to his fallen sergeant’s grave and made an internal vow— to be there for his family, whatever the cost. Rolling thunder finally pulled him back from the trance he had entered.

From Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

It was one of those moments that come by in science once in a decade – or maybe even once in a century. Stella realised that this was a potentially life changing possibility, not just for herself but for all humanity.

It was a virus, yes, but one that if it infected a human being, worked directly in the brain creating new neural networks and pathways. Making the individual who was infected ten times more intelligent than they had been before.

It was only after she had infected herself, Stella realised that it was a virus so it might yet mutate…

E.M. Swift-Hook

A short time later Caer was leading a small group of six Zoukai horseman westwards around the base of the mithan. Although from a distance the rock seemed almost to sheer up from the ground, the west face was not as steep and Caer eventually found a path. This track was narrow and rough, used by the small herds of wild browsing animals which went up to feed on the spring growth of the high plateau. Scraggly beasts, scarcely worth hunting for their stringy meat – the wild kin of the domestic curu, whose fat fleeces were woven into fine fabrics or pressed to make the warm thick felts everyone needed in the winter.
Even for the surefooted ponies the path was not easy. Loose stones from above could cascade down and send a pony skidding if it misplaced a step. But they only needed to dismount and lead the ponies at two places – once crossing a scree of rolling gravel and then again to skirt a large outcrop of rock by means of a narrow ledge which dropped away, dizzyingly, to the plain far below. Both the men and their ponies were blown by the time they reached the plateau and Caer called a halt so they could recover, whilst he shaded his eyes from the low sun and looked across the flat expanse.
Despite being tired, he felt a sudden pulse of pure exhilaration as he saw a blunt-ended object, as big as a building, rearing out from the rock-pocked surface and clearly visible over the spring growth of low shrubs. Between where they were and that huge object, was a large area of more debris where everything had been blackened. There was no crater, but even the rock seemed charred. Caer had no doubt whatever was in that blackened ground would be of little value now, but it seemed that at least part of their prize was relatively intact. He turned to the other Zoukai unable to suppress a grin.
“Let us see what the fated sky has brought our Caravansi,” he called and set his heels to his tired pony, urging it into a reluctant canter, the other Zoukai close behind him.

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

And that was the end of camping as an idea. The twisted metal was taken away by some cheerful gents with a lorry, the paddock fence was repaired by some other cheerful men, and the truck was replaced with a stately-looking Range Rover. 

Mother booked the family into a very expensive hotel in a Cornish surfers’ paradise. Big admitted defeat and packed the car.

Mother counted the surf boards that were being loaded on the roof rack.

“Four? But you can’t surf Big.”

Big grinned.  “I’ll soon get the hang of it. After all. How hard can it be.”

©️jj 2021

Back in July 2017, two rather eccentric women had a strange notion that it would be a good idea to start a daily blog offering a broad spectrum of fiction, poetry and general silliness to share their writing with the world and help promote their fellow authors. Four years on we are still at it, bumbling along and trying to make a professional looking fist of it all!

The Working Title Blog Competition for our Fourth Anniversary!

It has become a bit of tradition that we ask you to write something to help us celebrate our anniversary, and so this year we are asking you to pen a limerick on the theme of or including the words: ‘That’s Life’.

Grand Prize!

Aside from the kudos of carrying off the literary laurels and having your limerick hailed as the winning entry, if you win you will be offered an ‘Author Feature’ on the Working Title blog to showcase and help promote your writing. The winner can also choose any ebook published by Jane Jago or E.M. Swift-Hook.

The Judges.

That would be us Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. We both write limericks and you can check out the kind we write if you scroll back through the blog a bit.

How to enter:

(1) Write a limerick which fits the theme of or includes the words ‘That’s Life’. It can be joyous or bitter, thought-provoking, a comedy or a tear-jerker. You can submit a previously written limerick that fits the theme provided that it is free from any legal/copyright encumbrance that would prevent it from being posted on this blog.

(2) Submit your entry to the Working Title blog. To do this, send us your entry by carrier-pigeon or snail mail, PM or loud-hailer. Or you can use our Contact Page. Just paste your limerick into the ‘Comments’ box. We do need a working email so we can contact you if you win.

(3) Closing date is 26 July 2021 and the winning limerick will appear on the blog on 2 August 2021 together with a list of all the finalists. The winner will be offered an Author Feature on the blog and may choose a prize of any one ebook published by Jane Jago or E.M. Swift-Hook and will be emailed a .mobi of the book of their choice.

(4) All limericks listed as finalists – and any others we quite like – will be shared on the blog over the next two to three months. You will be emailed in advance to tell you when your limerick will be appearing on the blog.

NB: By entering we assume you are granting us permission to reproduce the limerick in one post on the Working Title blog.

If you have any questions, please leave them as a comment on this post and we’ll get right back to you to answer it!

Huge thanks from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook to all those who have contributed to the Working Title Blog thus far, whether as guests or as readers.

Here’s to the next year!