George was a gentle creature, slow moving even for one of his kind and deliberate of thought and speech.

When Mabel was introduced to the group, all the males hustled around her puffing out their cheeks and making their most macho grunting noises.

She ignored them, choosing instead to come and munch some fresh greens at George’s side.

When Alfred attempted to mount her she flipped him over onto his back and continued munching.

“A girl likes to be asked,” she said quietly.

It was many days before George did ask, shyly.

Mabel nodded, and they tended the eggs together.

©jj 2019

George’s portrait was painted by the talented and lovely Ian Bristow of Bristow Design.

Flash fiction from Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The God-Emperor was playing knuckle bones with his friends in the peaceful fountain garden when the conquistadors burst into the palace. There were many of them, armed and armoured in steel, and they systematically swept every chamber, leaving nothing living in their wake. When the last room was cleared a group made its way along the paved walkways to the place by the largest fountain of all where the children continued to play their game.
The soldiers brought with them the smell of blood, and their booted feet left reddish splotches on the white stone paving. The last soldier pulled a skinny old woman, in the dress of slave behind him. He held her by her bound wrists, dragging her cruelly, careless of whether or not she remained on her feet. The God-Emperor wrinkled his nose but said nothing.
The only adult in the garden was a young priest, and one of the soldiers grasped him by his braided scalplock.
“Where is your accursed God-Emperor?”
The young priest was braver than he looked.
“He is not here. He and his tutor fled the palace at first light.”
The old woman who they dragged along in their wake shook her head. “He lies,” she spat, “nobody has left the palace all this moon.” The priest gave her a look of such loathing that anybody less in fear of their life would have been abashed, but the old crone met his eyes contemptuously. Then she spat on his feet.
The troop commander, one Don Hermano Gonthalez, marched into the cool of the garden. He carried his helmet under one arm and his floridly handsome face was flushed with bloodlust.
“Well,” he said coldly. “We now know it’s one of the brats. Which one is it?”
“Nobody is telling.”
“Kill the lot then.”
The God-Emperor stood up and faced the tall European.
“There is no need to kill any more. I am he who you seek.”
The soldier looked down at the unimpressive little figure and laughed harshly.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you know I speak the truth.”
“Then you will know your life is forfeit.”
“Kill the God, Kill the faith?”
Hermano nodded brusquely then looked into the lightless depths of the child’s eyes, for a moment he knew the true meaning of love and compassion, but he shrugged his shoulders, pushing those feelings to one side. He took a pace forwards and grasped the topknot in one large fist. The gaze of the God-Emperor did not waver from his face, even when a sword of the finest Toledo steel severed the thin neck and the conquistador was left with a disembodied head hanging from his hand.
“And what of your God-Emperor now?” Don Hermano demanded harshly.
The young priest shrugged. “I know not.” Then he laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, before deliberately impaling himself on the long dagger of the soldier who held him by his hair.
“What is so funny?” The soldier who held the old crone’s wrists shook her brutally.
“I know not.” She said in a voice of resignation. “How should a slave know the thought of the great ones?”
One of the other children lifted frightened eyes from the ground. It was a girl of some ten or so summers, who was as fair as the garden in which she sat. She looked at the conquistador.
“He meant that once the God-Emperor’s soul left his body it will have found another host. Once you killed our brother he lost his divinity. What you hold in your hand now is only the head of an ordinary child.”
Don Hermano dropped the severed head and grasped the shrinking girl.
“Who?” He demanded. “Who? Who?”
She lifted her great dark eyes to his face. “We do not know. Nobody knows. Yet.”
Understanding dawned, and the conquistador gave a great cry of rage as he dragged the girl’s face closer. His blade moved almost of its own volition, all but cutting her in half.

© jane jago

The townsmen tied her to the post, then left. She wriggled until her hands were free, then it was the work of a moment to untie her feet.

Sitting on a convenient rock she regarded the bright silk of her dress with some disfavour. It was neither practical nor warm.

The knight rode up on a tall horse.

“Errrr… Weren’t you supposed to be tied up?”

“Yeah, but somebody needs to learn better knots.”

“And the dragon?”

“He won’t be along. I’m not qualified.”

When the penny dropped the knight grinned. “Want a lift then?”

They called their son Dragonbane.

©jj 2019

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

“What’s this one?” Shaldre picked up one of the vials of genetic material which had rolled out of the old storage cylinder and ended up by her feet.
Hepestin shrugged. “Just because I’m a researcher in ancient genetics doesn’t grant me magical powers to read ancient DNA.”
Shaldre picked up the vial in her servo-gauntlet. Of all the things they had found in this long-abandoned human colony, this collection of genetic samples which the labels hinted might even come from Earth itself, was the most exciting discovery her archaeological team had yet uncovered.
Churn Hepestin had been assigned to the team at the last minute to explore any interesting genetic variants in the traces they might discover from the crops these colonists had been growing. Which considering this find of a sealed cache of genetic samples, was serendipity. Originally, Shaldre had not really expected to have much use for her.
“Might they be viable?” she asked, still peering into the vial.
Hepestin was packing the other vials into a secure portable containment chamber and held out her claw for the one Shaldre was studying.
“Unlikely.”
“But you could try?” Shaldre asked, as she parted with the vial despite an odd reluctance to do so.
“The funding could stretch to that.”
Some rotations later Shaldre was looking into the eyes of the sweetest creature she had ever seen, holding it carefully in two of her arms. They had done some research in the colony database so she had some idea of what this was and what its kind had meant to long lost humanity.
“Hello Dog,” Shaldre said gently. “I think you and I are going to be good friends.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

In line with some sort of convoluted idea of feminism, Princess Jocasta got to choose her husband.

From a selected shortlist.

Within twenty-four hours. 

The first discards were easy. Too old. Not rich. Not handsome enough.

Then there were three.

One had broken off his betrothal to court her.

That left two.

Each had a picture of his home to show. Walliam’s house was nice, but Aiden’s castle atop its conical hill fed her fantasies.

She said ‘yes’.

They married joyfully. 

But she argued with him every day, so he threw her down the mountain into the killing sea. 

©jj 2019

From Transgressor: The Fated Sky a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face.
Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing.
But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road.
“Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of Qabal Vyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?”
If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.”
Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.”
Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle.
“And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost.
The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile.
“I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.”
Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear.
“I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is undoubtedly Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner.
Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

The bicycle looked somehow wounded as it lay across the path, as if thrown aside with careless cruelty.

There was evidence that something, or someone, had crashed, or been dragged, through the graceful waving foliage that bordered the forest walk. He followed, through the wrecked beauty, with every nerve and sinew braced in case rescue was needed. 

Then he heard the voices, a woman speaking softly and a man’s deep laughter.

“You so surprised me, love.”

He turned back the way he came, smiling ruefully.

When he reached the path, he propped the bicycle against a tree and walked away.

©jj 2019

On 3 July, our second anniversary, we announced a poetry competition to celebrate and today we can reveal the winning poem and the one to whom the laurels of victory are due! First, a huge thanks to all who entered and so joined in our celebrations here on the Working Title Blog. Every entry was read and appreciated. It was a tough gig but we found a winner!

Our winner is…

Stephanie Barr

With runners up Ian Bristow and Mike van Horn

Thirteen Years

It was Timmy’s birthday and she had it all prepared:
A little celebration in the tiny house they’d shared.
She twisted paper ribbons, colored orange and cobalt blue,
Arranged the tiger lilies on a table set for two.
She nearly tripped on sneakers he’d been told to put away.
Nothing new for Susan. She tripped ‘most every day.
She set up thirteen candles on a cake of gold and blue.
Ugly but his favorites so what was she to do?
Wrapped presents she had scrimped to buy waited on a chair
She bought them all so long ago, she’d forgotten what was there.
The clock chimed five o’clock and her heart began to pound.
She filled her glass with vodka and drank most of it down.
Thirteen years, she thought and wept, the years that he’d been gone.
Thirteen years he’d lived and now he’d been dead just as long.
Time healed hearts, they told her, e’en hearts with such a hole.
She wanted to get on with life, but felt a hollow soul.
For thirteen years, he’d been her life, the center of her heart
Cut down running home that day from playing in the park.
An errant car, a cold phone call, as she’d finished with his cake
And burned his favorite dinner of a rare and juicy steak.
She didn’t have to scrimp now. Her time was now her own.
She didn’t have to cook for two or share the single phone.
She didn’t have to pick up clothes or tell him to come home.
But damn her life was empty all these years she’d been alone.

Stephanie Barr

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part-time novelist and full-time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next! If you enjoyed this poem she has a book of poetry out too – Musings of a Nascent Poet. Stephanie’s latest book is a fur-tastic collection of cat stories Pussycats Galore.

Stephanie has also won her choice of book from the back-catalogue of the two Working Title women – Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Keep an eye out for Mike’s and Ian’s poems appearing on the blog this weekend!

Great-grandmother was a legend. A beauty who scandalised society by marrying a Russian emigre jeweller. She had the last laugh, though, as the Olov family still had wealth and position that others could only dream of.

Liana looked at the hand tinted photograph and wondered what the haughty beauty would say to a girl who loved a commoner.

It seemed the picture spoke.

“Marry him, child, if you love him. Don’t make a loveless match for gain.  I lost my love through my heartless arrogance. He won’t even see me in death. Don’t make my mistakes.”

Liana took courage…

©jj 2019

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Interview over, Julia felt the need of a fortifying drink. Being unfamiliar with the city, she let Dai lead the way towards the taberna where his team awaited him. Julia followed, carefully not speaking to allow this proud and prickly man time to absorb what the Tribune had to say.
They were walking along a little-used alleyway between two warehouses when they were attacked. A dozen or so burly toughs surrounded them, coming from both ends of the alley simultaneously. Julia touched the emergency alert tab she wore on her wristphone before putting her fingers in her mouth and whistling shrilly.
“I’d be surprised,” she remarked, noticing Dai touching his own wrist device, “if Edbert is actually out of earshot, even if I did dismiss him, but in the meantime.…”
She positioned herself so that she was behind Dai, facing the opposite way. Knowing him to be weaponless she pulled the nerve whip from the back of her belt and pressed it into his right hand. He grunted as his foot took the first thug between his meaty thighs. The man went down whimpering. Secure in the knowledge that Dai had her back, Julia turned her attention to her end of the alley. A huge tattooed figure was running towards her yelling obscenities, and with his hands clawed. She unholstered her personal weapon and shot him through the thigh. He fell to the floor, and she shot a second man as he vaulted his groaning colleague. While the other four were thinking about their options Edbert and the hounds arrived in the company of two angry Praetorians. Satisfied the threat from her end of the alley had been dealt with, Julia turned her attention to Dai’s side. She was pleased, if unsurprised, to find he had managed to incapacitate four of his assailants. Two were running away. Julia shot both in the legs.
“Sorry if that offends, Dai…”
“It doesn’t. I’m a great believer in making examples.” He looked at the nerve whip in his hand. “And this is impressive; we Vigiles don’t get issued them. Or any personal weapons.” Julia looked at his face, expecting to see bitterness and condemnation. To her surprise, he just favoured her with a lopsided smile, and said: “Not your fault. And you did share.”
Came a small commotion at the entrance to the alleyway and a group of Vigiles sauntered in, looking smug.
“What’s afoot here?” the biggest one demanded in haughty tones.
Dai handed Julia her nerve whip.
“Excuse me, domina,” he said, his tone scrupulously polite. “I have merda to shovel.”
He strode over to the group of Vigiles and without any warning ploughed a big fist into the belly of the leader. As the man folded, retching and coughing, Dai turned a furious face to the other five.
“Since when,” he demanded savagely, “did the Vigiles of this city take money to turn a blind eye when law-abiding members of the populace are attacked?”
“And since when did ‘the populace’ think they can get away with attacking servants of Rome?” the biggest of the Vigiles blustered taking a threatening step towards Dai.
Unfortunately for him, the tall Celt was not in a good mood and the man took a well-aimed boot to his solar plexus that had him rolling on the filthy cobbles alongside his confederate.
“Anybody else?” Dai’s voice was dangerously quiet. For an instant nobody moved, then there came a high-pitched whistle from the street. Dai whistled back. His men came thundering in, screaming to a halt as they took in the scene. Bryn was the first to find his tongue.
“What happened, Bard? Scorpius’ thumbs started twitching so we come looking for you. Then your panic alarm sounded…”
“Somebody thought it would be fun to ambush me and the Inquisitor.”
“Inquisitor?” a voice from the back of the group sounded truly confused. Dai gave what Julia was coming to see as his characteristic grin.
“Bryn has had the pleasure already, but the rest of you, allow me to introduce Inquisitor Domina Julia Lucia Maxilla. And before you lot make your minds up there are a couple of things you should know. First, she swears worse than any of you. Second, she loaned me her nerve whip until the cavalry turned up. Plus. See them dogs and the big guy with the muscles. They belong to her. So drop the hostile and take these gentlemen to the Praetorian Barracks where they can be asked some pertinent questions.”
“What, Vigiles and all?”
“Oh yes. I very much want to know who paid them to turn a blind eye. Oh, and Bryn, you lot are moving in with the Praetorians until further notice. All leave is cancelled and you had better call your spouses or the local lupanar and tell them you are not coming home for a few days.”
The middle-aged Vigiles looked at his superior officer with wise eyes.
“That dangerous, is it?”
“Could be. So if anybody wants out I’ll sign you off, on sick-leave.”
Nobody did, and Dai’s men hustled their prisoners into a hovercart and made for the barracks with one Praetorian along to vouch for them.

“I don’t want that drink now.” Even to her own ears, Julia’s voice was as cold as an Appennine snowstorm. “Instead, I’d like a word with the curator of the Augusta Arena. I want to know who paid him to look the other way.”
Dai grinned.
“Not him, her, one Annia Belonia Flavia.”
Their one remaining Praetorian spat on the ground, and Julia lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Futatrix,” the man grunted. “One of the lady Lydia’s patrician friends. Too good to talk to the likes of the Tribune.”
“Let’s go ruin her day then, shall we?”
“What a perfectly splendid notion.”

Part VI will be here next Sunday. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.