Two Women and Some Books
Quite suddenly the sky went dark
Not full black but nearly
And every tree and blade of grass
Was outlined sharp and clearly
It was as if we held our breath
In the unnatural calm
As if the starkness of the earth
Awaited nature’s balm
A storm predicted overhead
A promise of sweet rain
A bang, three drops, a flash of light
It went away again
And now the heat is heavy damp
The sky relentless grey
Where dogs lay panting in the shade
And even lambs won’t play
Granny’s life hacks – nicknames
Okay you horrible lot, listen up. Granny is about to impart knowledge.
If you are a married lady of a certain age, look across the room and consider your significant other. How does he appear?
Dashing, debonair and handsome
Rough, tough and dangerous
Slightly grubby and with jam on his vest
Tidily harmless in his cardigan and carpet slippers
If he is any of the first three it’s an even bet you don’t call him your ‘hubby’….
Also for ladies who should be old enough to know better. What do you refer to your lady bits as?
Fanny
Man Trap
Minge
Front bottom
If it’s any of the first three you probably still have a sex life….
Are you beginning to catch my drift here? What we call things matters.
If you call a man ‘hubby’ he will grow into the neutered tom cat smugness the word suggests.
If you really do call your fanny a ‘front bottom’ the chances of it ever getting a visitor diminish with the years as the terminology becomes more and more at odds with the age and the experience of the speaker.
My late husband – god rest his OCD little soul – once referred to me as the little woman, and wondered why I didn’t come across for a month. Although I am certainly a woman, I am far from being little and the term is pejorative in the extreme. It is like so many words used about women, being designed to remind the ‘fair sex’ of its position in society.
So let’s strip the cute nicknames bare, shall we?
Fur baby. Nope. It’s a cat or a dog or whatever. It is not a baby. Gyp is a dog and he is my best mate (except when he barfs on the floor). I would no more call him a ‘fur baby’ than buy him a pink coat and have his toenails painted. He needs to be allowed to be a dog.
Your tiny daughter has baby fat in bracelets around her wrists. You decide to call her ‘chubbykins’. She has body image issues for the rest of her life.
And so on.
Words have power.
So please stop fecking about.
And if you want to neuter the old man send him to the vet. It’s quicker and more dignified
To celebrate our third birthday at the beginning of July, the Working Title Blog held a drabble writing competition.
As it is our third birthday competition we have three Honourable Mentions. This one is from Stephanie Barr.
She’d been driven from her home again.
Hated. Scorned. Alone. Reviled for what she was not who, though how could she be anything but what she was?
She never attacked anyone who didn’t invade her home, even though those invaders were hated as much as she was herself.
She wanted no more than what anyone else wants: the chance to live in peace, to raise a family, to sleep and eat like anyone else.
Well, maybe not eat like anyone else.
Sucking them dry rather than eating per se. It could be disturbing.
It was hard to be a spider.
It was very quiet in this area of the stacks, so quiet that if you listened carefully enough you could hear the books breathing. This portentous silence was broken by a rhythmic squeak as a trolley loaded with grimoires and magical texts was pushed firmly towards the dark corner wherein such resided.
“It’s no good you being like that,” a determined voice said. “It doesn’t hurt being shelved. It’s not as if any of you are chained. Although if some of you keep misbehaving…”
The rhythmic squeal stopped and the trolley rounded a corner, being pushed by a dumpy girl with a determined looking chin. As it neared the shelves where arcane and magical volumes were shelved the squeal started up again.
“Does somebody want to be shelved on 99b?”
Silence.
The dumpy girl began shelving volumes with practiced efficiency. She handled the books with care and respect, but would brook no resistance nor any other tricks. One of the grimoires snapped its covers at her and she slapped it firmly.
“Start that with me and I’ll chain you.”
If it was possible for a book to look abashed it did so, coming quietly to hand to be slipped into its accustomed place.
Once the grimoires were tidily placed in their proper positions, the Night Librarian closed the steel doors around their stack and locked them with a hugely ornate key.
On her way back to the centre desk, she paused briefly at travel and pointed an imperious finger. There was a bit of scrabbling as the books reshelved themselves in their proper order, followed by an embarrassed silence.
“Papua New Guinea, since when have you lived between Jersey and Guernsey?”
A dog eared volume leapt from a shelf and scuttled off. The girl regarded the now tidy stack for a moment before permitting herself a small smile.
“Better.”
She turned on her heel pushing the now empty trolley to the store room where it would be filled by the day staff who were far too busy to ever shelve books.
As they saw it, that was her job and the business of shelving had already taken a goodly part of the night, but at least there was just one full trolley left. She looked at it with some disfavour before grasping the handles firmly. Immediately they turned warm, and furry and she could feel tiny tentacles caressing the thin skin inside her wrists.
“Stop that at once,” she frowned awfully and the trolley behaved as she pushed it past Young Adult, Alternative History, and Romance to its designated area: Erotica.
“Here we are,” she said brightly, “your stop”.
These stacks were somehow claustrophobic, and the air was thick and heavy with what could be felt as either threat or promise. The young librarian appeared to feel neither as she simply proceeded with her work.
“Lesbian romance,” she clapped her hands and a half dozen or so volumes jumped from the trolley and shelved themselves neatly among their peers. She carried on, briskly calling out names and categories and the books kept obeying, even if she did feel the occasional groping hand as they passed her by.
Finally there were just two books left glowering at her from the trolley. “Extreme punishment, am I to assume you are unwilling to shelve yourselves like sensible books?”
There was a sudden sullenness in the air and she sighed.
“You lot are more trouble than grimoires.”
You can find this story in Pulling the Rug IV by Jane Jago or listen to it as recorded by Tall Tales TV on YouTube.
I just had my tea. Fish and chips. Bloody nice it was too. On the table there was ordinary salt and malt vinegar. Sufficient condimentation for anybody.
What is with people? Some places there is more condiments on the table than food.
And. What. The. Fuck. Is. Pink. Salt.
You do not need: Eleven varieties of peppercorns. Salt from the Sargasso Sea (it tastes salty). That bloke with the funny name’s fish condiment. Beetroot ketchup. Any kind of infused oil. Anything that calls itself an artisan condiment.
If your cooking is that shite, instead of overblown condiments, buy a cookbook.
They made an odd sort of household. Decimus had granted Dai guest status, giving the Vigiles a room in his own extensive apartments instead of in the barracks. This was something Dai clearly struggled with at times, not being used to the semi-formality of a Roman family setting. But he rose to the occasion in a way that made Julia feel a strange pride.
Decimus was often too preoccupied with events, including organising his wife’s appropriately lavish funeral, to keep her fully updated. But Dai, whose own freedom of movement was restricted to only being out with the protection of his men and an attached praetorian, actively sought her advice. This was a surprising turn of events and Julia found herself looking forward to her conversations with the prickly Celt.
To her secret pleasure, her womanly intuition told her that she wasn’t alone in finding a great deal of pleasure in their conversations. She began to have a sneaking impression that Dai was finding extra reasons to spend time in her company above and beyond the mere sharing of intelligence. She even wondered sometimes if he might not have started looking at her in a way that suggested he was far from oblivious to her as a woman. And that was a thought to ponder with more than a little pleasure.
But…
It was a beautiful morning, and the thought of another day inside four walls was scraping her nerves raw. Dai must have sensed her frustration because he looked up from his bread and honey and made a suggestion.
“Would a visit to the baths help?”
“It should be safe enough,” Decimus agreed, “and you do stink.”
Julia threw her bread at his head with unerring accuracy.
“Spado,” she said, entirely without heat. “But I would like to get out for a couple of hours.”
“Okay then,” Decimus waved a thick finger, “but you take Edbert and a couple of my boys along as muscle.”
Thus it was that a couple of hours later two Praetorian guards were idling in the atrium of the very expensive bathhouse favoured by the Roman elite of Londinium society, trying to pretend they were nothing to do with the uncouth Saxon who leaned on a wall cleaning his nails with a dagger, while Julia and Dai shared a private steam room, having both made good use of the gym equipment in the exercise rooms.
In a nod to public morality, he wore a loincloth and she a short backless garment that just about covered her modesty. She couldn’t help a covert look under her lashes to discover that although his skin was as white as milk, his muscular torso was liberally sprinkled with springy-looking black hairs. For some reason, she found her very fingertips wondering how it would feel to touch the hairs on his chest and the thin line that marched down his flat belly towards his loincloth. She sat on her hands, and looked up into his face. There were laughing devils in his eyes that she had never seen there before.
From Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.
“You will look after my Pixie-Wu, won’t you?”
Great Aunt Devina was off on vacation and I was the unlucky great-niece chosen to look after her precious lapdog since she knew I was training as a vet.
Pixie-Wu was spoiled rotten and overweight. He hated having no treats and tiny meals, being trained to walk to heel and not to snap.
On the other hand, he loved the ever-longer walks, playing with other dogs and getting muddy jumping in the river.
I don’t think great Aunt Devina ever forgave me – she only left me one thing in her will.
Pixie-Wu.
The city of Alfor was an impressive sight. Rearing proudly up from the low rolling hills at the edge of the Wasteland, it was protected by strong, high walls and encircled by two concentric rings of earthworks in which were built five small forts. On these were set a peculiar assortment of heavy artillery which ranged from locally cast muzzle-loading cannon, to an ancient solar-charged pulse laser that was probably less accurate and more unreliable than the local weapons.
In the south the ground rose to where the castle crouched, dominating the city and to the north lay a river, providing a natural moat. There were only two paths through these defensive fortifications – raised paved causeways, leading to the great gates in the eastern and western walls. The roads met in the middle of the city, becoming a vast plaza where once a year caravans, stalls, entertainers, slave-pens and corrals for animals competed for space with the throng of merchants, townsfolk and sight-seers at the time of the Alfor Fair.
Many cities held annual fairs, but Alfor, sitting as it did at the heart of the Western continent and at the hub of many trade routes, held the longest, the largest and the best.
Caer found himself feeling almost buoyant as the caravan made its way down the Western Causeway towards the massive steel-bound gates, each half the width of the broad road and six times the height of a man. It was as though he had shed a great burden, and in a way he had. The responsibility of bringing Alexa’s caravan safely to Alfor, with its concealed treasure intact, would have been no easy task for an experienced Zoukai captain with a full complement of seasoned men. He had done so on his first command with too few Zoukai and most of them unseasoned or worn out. But now it was over and the delights of the city at Fair time awaited him as a well-earned respite. Caer felt like a conquering general leading a victorious army home from battle. He even smiled at the sour-faced sergeant who accosted him at the gates demanding a toll and asking the size of the caravan, before they could be admitted.
“We have forty Zoukai and thirty-four wagons.”
The sergeant glanced along the causeway and nodded sullenly.
“Livestock to trade?”
“One hundred and eighty-seven animals – including twenty-eight slaves.”
Inevitably enough, the sergeant asked for twice the amount due and equally inevitably Caer haggled until it was reduced to its proper proportions together with a handsome personal payment for the sergeant. At last it was settled and the cavalcade of people, wagons and animals went forward through the gates and into the city.
Being late arrivals it was not an easy task to find space on the main plaza and for once Caer was glad that the caravan was so small. Had it been much larger they would have had to seek a less favourable site on the edge of the city where the caravans normally lay up for the winter, which would have made their trading much more difficult. As it was, they finally camped down beside the corrals and slave-pens where the stench was at its worst and the wagons had to be set so close as to be touching wheel to wheel. There was scant room for any tents, but that could not be helped. A handful were pitched with weights, around Alexa’s pavilion. For the rest, even the Zoukai would have to sleep in or under the wagons.
From The Fated Sky, part one of Transgressor Trilogy, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook
Why?
First of all….
This. Is. Not. Tea.
It’s a tisane or herbal infusion. There is no tea in it.
Is it a ‘delicious caffeine free alternative to tea’? I don’t think so. I hate tea. But I hate this stuff even worse.
It must be good for you because it’s herbal. Yeah. Sure. Hemlock is a herb, as is deadly nightshade. And the only person I know who drank it in large quantities got the shits so badly she was afraid her bum was gonna fall out.
If you like the stuff drink it. Just don’t preach about it
Schoolgirl Charly Holmes has an out-of-this-world experience!
Charly in Space by Tim and Cathy Walker, is an adventure story for young readers involving British schoolgirl, Charlotte Holmes (called ‘Charly’ by her friends).
13-year-old Charly and her friend Jenny must raise money by washing cars if they want to go on a school trip to the European Space Agency in France. With Dad’s help, they hit their fundraising target and embark on the trip of a lifetime that soon becomes the adventure of a lifetime for wannabe detective, Charly.
“The launch phase was successful.” Captain Tom’s voice crackled in Charly’s ear. “You can both unbuckle your belts and float to your workstations.”
Charly watched Lucia float away from her seat and move to a control panel on the side wall of the capsule and twist a knob before punching some buttons. Charly unbuckled her belt and floated up to the roof, banging her helmet and hovering there.
“Woah, Janine, let me help you,” Lucia said, floating over and grabbing Charly’s arm and pulling her to a keyboard and screen. Charly nodded and grabbed a hand-rail next to the keyboard, not knowing what was expected of her.
As if reading her mind, Lucia said, “You can start by monitoring the data on velocity and turbulence. If either of those dials go into red, give me a shout.”
That’s easy enough, Charly thought, staring at the pair of twitching needles, both well below the red zone. Out of the window she saw they were in space. Stars twinkled against a dark blue blanket as they moved onwards with a gentle growl of the engine and the occasional bump.
“What’s the turbulence reading?” Captain Tom’s voice crackled in her helmet.
That’s my job, Charly told herself, lifting her sun visor and looking at the turbulence dial. “It’s two hundred and fifty,” she said, mimicking her Mum’s ‘I-told-you-so’ voice.
“Great,” Captain Tom replied. “Space Station coming into view up ahead.”
Charly craned her neck to look out of her window and saw the outline of the three big chambers joined together by tunnels. Soon, she could make out dishes and spiky aerials on its outside shell.
“We’ll get into its orbit and come up behind, docking at the rear door,” Captain Tom explained.
Lucia returned to her seat and fastened her seat belt, turning to Charly and giving her a thumbs up. Charly did the same, buckling her seat belt and preparing for docking. She watched the big screen over Captain Tom’s head and listened to the chatter between him and the Space Station crew. Slowly, their module closed the distance and the black opening grew closer and closer, before filling the screen.
There was a bump as they connected to the Space Station. “Contact made. Link secured. Good job everyone,” Captain Tom said, twisting in his seat to give Charly a thumbs-up. She returned the gesture and waited.
“Let’s make our way to the exit chamber,” Lucia said, waiting for Charly to unbuckle her belt and then giving her a gentle push in the direction of Captain Tom. Charly floated to the back of the capsule and grabbed the sides of the doorway, following Tom into the decompression chamber. She sat on a bench and clutched her flight bag in her lap, waiting for Lucia to secure the door.
With a hiss of escaping air, the outer door opened, and Captain Tom floated into the tunnel to the Space Station. Charly followed, and then Lucia, who secured the doors behind her. Charly floated along the tunnel, looking out of small windows at stars winking in the darkness of space. She was getting the hang of moving in zero gravity, and expertly sat on a bench next to Tom. They waited a few seconds before a light came on over a door, and the door swung open. They moved through into the Space Station, Lucia closing the outer door with a loud ‘clunk’. After a hissing sound, a light came on, and Captain Tom removed his helmet. Charly turned to look at Lucia, who did the same. Charly fumbled with the release catch for her helmet, her gloved hands failing to get a hold of it.
Tom stood before her and released her catch, twisting her helmet free. He lifted it off her head and gasped in amazement. “But you’re not Janine!” he said, eyes wide in surprise.
Lucia stood beside him and they both stared down at her in disbelief. Charly looked up and grinned, as if she was the last to be found in a game of hide-and-seek.
“Who are you?” Janine asked.
“I’m Charly Holmes, a British schoolgirl.”
After a few seconds, Captain Tom broke the silence. “Well, Charly, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Let’s get into the Space Station and you can tell us your story.”
Charly in Space is a story of imagination and thrilling adventure that treads the border between scientific possibility and sheer fantasy, seen through the sharp eyes of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.
This book is suitable reading for children aged 9+ and is the third book in a series, following on from The Adventures of Charly Holmes and Charly & The Superheroes.
Tim Walker is an independent author living near Windsor in the UK. He grew up in Liverpool where he began his working life as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. He then studied for and attained a degree in Communication studies and moved to London where he worked in the newspaper publishing industry for ten years before relocating to Zambia where, following a period of voluntary work with VSO, he set up his own marketing and publishing business. His creative writing journey began in earnest in 2013, as a therapeutic activity whilst undergoing and recovering from cancer treatment.
He started an historical fiction series, A Light in the Dark Ages, in 2015, following a visit to the near-by site of a former Roman town. The aim of the series is to connect the end of Roman Britain to elements of the Arthurian legend, presenting an imagined history of Britain in the early Dark Ages.
The series starts with Abandoned (second edition 2018); followed by Ambrosius: Last of the Romans (2017); Uther’s Destiny (2018); Arthur, Dux Bellorum, which won two book awards in April 2019 and Arthur Rex Brittonum(2020). Series book covers are designed by Canadian graphic artist, Cathy Walker.
Tim has also written two books of short stories, Thames Valley Tales (2015), and Postcards from London (2017); a dystopian thriller, Devil Gate Dawn (2016); and The Charly Holmes Series of children’s books, co-authored with his daughter, Cathy – The Adventures of Charly Holmes (2017) and Charly & The Superheroes (2018) and now Charly in Space (2020).
You can find him on Goodreads, Facebook, Twitter and his own website.
Working Title Blogspot 