The cat joined Garth for lunch every day, and he began to notice how thin she was and how dull her coat.

It came to him that she was feeding kittens and he felt a little worried that nobody would feed her on his day off.

He spoke to the master smith, who shrugged massively.

“We can always use cats in the smithy. Speak to Karina.”

Garth spoke to the smith’s comely daughter and between them they fed the little cat.  

By the time she brought them her kittens, Garth and Karina had thoughts of a brood of their own… 

©️jj 2019

She turned to go in, but he stopped her with a long arm. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘Will you come to Seattle with me? It’s Angus and Maggie’s fortieth wedding anniversary day after tomorrow. They heard I was in the States. Big family bash.’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Oh. A hundred and one reasons. Not least the third degree about why we are brat-less.’
Mike laughed. ‘That’s OK. Just tell them you have no balls. They won’t believe it, but it’ll shut them up.’
He looked at her narrowly for a minute then grinned. ‘That’ he said with some surprise ‘is the closest we’ve come to making a joke about my little problem.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘The joke is good. It’s maybe bad it has taken so long. Now I’d better book us some flights, and then we can sort out two big wardrobes.’
‘And your mother’s clothes.’

After twenty-four hours of frantic sorting, Mike was only too glad to collapse into her seat for the six-hour flight to Seattle.
‘Remind me never to ride to your assistance again.’
Leo sniggered and pulled her into a friendly half-hug. ‘You just shut up and go to sleep.’

They touched down at 6am local time and soon cleared immigration. Having only carry-on luggage, they bypassed the carousels and were about to enter the arrivals area when Leo balked like a jibbing horse. He was striding ahead of Mike, with both their bags in one hand, when he stopped dead. She all but walked into his back, and was about to give him what for when she felt the tension in his long body.
‘Just move behind this pillar’ he spoke without turning his head.
She obeyed, curious as to what had disturbed him.
‘We, or rather you, seem to be awaited’ his voice was taut. ‘And this is a problem because?’
‘Because I don’t recognise any of the three big blokes who are holding a placard reading ‘Michaela Johnson’.
‘Yeah. OK. That’s just plain wrong. What’d we do?’
‘Call Angus.’
‘Leo, it’s six o’clock in the morning.’
‘So?’
She gave in and sat on the floor while he made a brief call.
‘We need to move back from the doorway. Airport security won’t bother us. Then we wait for Angus himself. We don’t go with anyone else. He’ll be about a half hour.’
They pulled back from the doorway and a security guard moved towards them, then he stopped and put a hand to his earpiece before sheering off to harass a group of holidaymakers who looked as if they may have imbibed a little too freely on their flight. Moving even further away from the door, Mike sat on the floor and she and Leo composed themselves to wait. For what seemed to be ages, nothing happened, and the three hard men stayed put carefully watching arrivals. Just as Mike was about to nod off some even larger men surrounded the trio and marched them off. She got up and snuggled under Leo’s arm, in time to see a bulky figure marching across the concourse towards them. Angus Johnson clapped his half brother on the shoulder and enveloped Mike in a bear hug.
‘Fine welcome to Seattle that was’ he rumbled in his gravelly tones. ‘We know that lot. I’m sure they will be only too delighted to tell us who sent them. We’ll ask them very nicely.’ He smiled a smile of surprising charm. ‘Shall we go home? Maggie’s cooking breakfast.’

From Shall we gather at the river? by Jane Jago

The picnic basket and cooler were on board, Pa looked around.

“Everybody ready?”

The boys yelled but Ma groaned.

“What’s up hun?”

“I reckon this baby is comin’ right now.”

Pa floored it and the truck bounced along the rutted track, finally drawing up outside Grandma’s house. By now, Ma was white and sweating. Grandma come out and smiled.

“You leave Franny here and take the boys to the picnic.”

It was evening when they got back to Grandma’s. Ma sat in bed with a pink-wrapped bundle in her arms.

“Boys,” she said, “come and meet your sister Liberty.”

©️jj 2019

Two years ago the infant Working Title blog fell into the world! Since then we have grown into a pudgy toddler who lands flat on her bottom every other step and usually has mucky fingers and a huge grin. We have gathered momentum as we have grown and kept to our original mission statement of providing a short read every day to go with your coffee or tea break. Now as we reach around 1000 views a month, we ask you to join us and celebrate!

The First Working Title Blog Poetry Competition for our Second Anniversary!

Poetry has been a part of our regular programme since we started. Nowadays you can find poems on the Working Title blog every  Saturday and Sunday. But we don’t often get to feature poems by other authors. This contest aims to remedy that!

Grand Prize!

Aside from the kudos of carrying off the poets’ laurels and having your poem 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 poetry and you can check out the kind we write if you scroll back through the blog a bit.

How to enter:

(1) Write a poem on the broad theme of ‘anniversaries’. It can be about celebrating or commemorating something. It can be joyous or bitter, a comedy or a tear-jerker. It can be any form of poetry – from a limerick or a haiku, to a sonnet or a ballad, anything in between or completely free-form. We might draw the line at epic poetry though…
You can submit a previously written poem 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 poem into the ‘Comments’ box. We do need a working email so we can contact you if you win.

(3) Closing date is 24 July 2019 and the winning poem will appear on the blog on 5August 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 poems listed as finalists will be shared on the blog over the next two to three months. You will be emailed in advance to tell you when your poem will be appearing on the blog.

NB: By entering we assume you are granting us permission to reproduce the poem 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!

As brothers went Edgar wasn’t so bad, but right now Gwytha wanted to strangle him with his own hair. She would have left the room but the craftsman who was making the King’s chess set was sculpting her likeness, so she had to sit still and endure the pontification.

She waited for Edgar’s turn to experience the boredom of sitting still. It never came – the thane being far too busy. While the sculptor worked from memory, she plotted.

“Craftsman,” she said sweetly, “Have you forgotten my brother’s overlarge teeth?”

“No ma’am, I shall be sure to include them.”

Gwytha smiled.

©️jj 2019

There was something to be said for being a prince. It brought respect from the masses, but it also carried a weight of expectations that it was hard to maintain. Of course, many princes had wealth, land and a kingdom to inherit, not just the title of ‘prince’. Prince Rulondo wished he had more than just the title. But being the fifth son of a very healthy and long-lived family meant he was never likely to do so.

Thus, on his twenty-first birthday he had announced to his family that he intended to seek his fortune and find his own princess. Eyes were dabbed, hugs exchanged and hands waved as he left, but he had the distinct impression there was a certain amount of relief as well. One less prince to consider in an over-princed kingdom.

In fact, Rulondo had no real intention of finding a princess. He loved playing the flute and had always wanted to be a travelling musician. So his plan was to ride a few kingdoms down the road, then get changed into the humble outfit he had packed in his saddlebags, hide his shiny armour and become ‘Borsrin the Bard’.

But then he saw the dragon.

Rulondo had heard tales of how playing the right tune could calm the most ferocious beast. He took out his flute and set it to his lips. There was only one problem. He had no idea what any of those tunes were and he had certainly never heard of any that charmed a dragon.

Uncertain as to what he should play, Rulondo realised that the dragon was actually addressing him. That was very perplexing. Never in any tale or legend or ballad had he heard of the dragon actually talking to someone in such a familiar way.

“Ho! Sirrah!” he called. “Who art thou that thou dare’st address a prince in such a mien?”

He thought that sounded much the way one should speak to a dragon. Fortunately, the dragon was distracted by the arrival of a knight errant, shouting something about rescuing a fair maiden

Seeing the new arrival, Rulondo felt relief. It was no longer his princely duty to do the dragon thing. He could wholeheartedly bard it now! His flute gripped between his teeth, he unstrapped his armour, hurled the heavy pieces into the air and laughed with joy as his muscular torso rippled naked in the sun.

He snatched up the bardly outfit from his saddlebag,  shook it out so the gold, red, emerald and turquoise diamonds of fabric, glimmered in the sunlight, before swirling it around and shrugging his way into it – easing the flute through the neck hole with care. Then, standing up in the saddle and balancing on one leg, he began to play a glorious rendition of ‘Summer is a cumin in’ – breaking off to add loud ‘cuckoos’ at appropriate moments.

It didn’t help much. The dragon still attacked the knight errant. With the expected consequences.

Seeing the slain one, the recently barded Rulondo, began playing a funereal dirge. His eyes fixed on a rather comely young lady who had taken the opportunity to escape from the dragon’s den,  and was coming towards him holding a bottle – or two of said dragon’s collection of fine liquors…

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rulondo said and smiled winningly. He took the bottle holding it in one hand and his other muscular arm encircling the maiden.

“I’m Borsrin the Bard. Delighted to meet you. Shall we ride off, seek our fortunes and live free and happy lives unconstrained by the conventions that society would impose upon us?”

And that is exactly what they did…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Mother told them that two-legs were unstable, but they thought she was joking. They hadn’t had the chance to study any. Until the day a whole bunch of them turned up in the next field. 

They banged a big stick into the ground and while some of them made horrible noises with squeezing and blowing and banging things, some others capered around the stick crying aloud.

Doris turned to Deirdre and shook her head.

“Mooooo-st peculiar.”

“Mooooo-ther do say they gets bit by gadflies this time o’ year”

Doris belched up a wad of grass and chewed.

©️jj 2019

The Rabid Readers Review Thrill Kings: The Size Of Minneapolis Upright by Rik Ty

Sometimes even though you look at a book that is a bit out of the usual way of things and think ‘I might like that’, but something about the commitment stays your finger from clicking to purchase.

It’s for books like that short reads are the perfect introduction.

Thrill Kings: The Size Of Minneapolis Upright by Rik Ty is a really good introduction to his Thrill Kings Fragmented Sky. It is a short read which places you instantly into the Thrill Kings World, introduces you to Nonstop, an interdimensional rescue worker, who is tasked with making sure all the people in an area of Missouri are safely out of the way so the inter-dimensional invader – ‘the size of Minneapolis upright’ – can be returned to where it came.

In a short, tension-packed read, with superb worldbuilding, Rik Ty takes the reader into his world and makes the visit meaningful. By the end you will know if you want to make that commitment to his series, and my guess is that for most who love well-written sci-fi with tight action and cool concepts, the answer is going to be ‘yes’.

Oh yes – stars… 4.5 rounded up to 5!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Fast read. Fast review. 

This book is very well written, and the action is slick, fast and believable. The author is skilled at building his world in such a way that you ‘get’ it even in a short story without the need for info dumps or tedious exposition.

A cool concept, quick read where punchy prose serves to highlight the ideas fuelling the tale.

This is a very good entry into The Thrill Kings series, and it may well draw you further into Nonstop’s world…. 

Jane Jago

Lucie found Granddad in the garden. He was sitting on the bench opposite a bed of scarlet poppies. There were tears running down his seamed, brown cheeks.

Lucie scrambled into his lap. “Aw Gramps, doncha cry.”

The old man hugged her. “Not really crying lovely. More remembering. There was poppies like them when we went back to the battlefields to do the decent thing by the bones of the dead.”

Lucie thought for a moment then climbed down, and touched a flower with a gentle finger.

“You have to remember,” she said slowly, “but they wouldn’t want you to cry.”

©️jj 2019

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Start Writing A Book – The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

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.