They were the giants, whose shoulders lift us high,
And we, the living, cast our patronising smiles
In weighing deeds of those whose grandeur we decry.
We judge them from the giddy heights of gifted breath,
Belittling those whose words have filled our breast-milk tomes,
So forgetting soon shall we join them in death
And then will others come and rifle through our bones,
To pick the choicest flesh from them – and discard the rest.
Then laugh at all our fears and our misapprehended woes
Themselves to glorify, to think the wisest and the best.

E.M. Swift-Hook

 

August. Midnight. Breathlessly hot. 

Leonore found the heat enervating to her body, even as it beat on her mind like the sound of a brazen gong. She had barely felt able to eat, and her feet dragged as she headed towards the garden in the hope of a little coolth. She leaned her forehead against the glass of the french doors and resisted the urge to scream.

A familiar voice spoke in her mind.

“Why so sorrowful L’e’onore?”

“Because it’s too hot, and my head hurts, and I haven’t seen you for…”

She stopped speaking, uncomfortably aware that the last time R’u’uth had come to visit she had tried to make him understand how unsuitable their relationship was. And when he had refused to see her point had chased him away with a flea in his ear. 

He just laughed.

“Oh L’e’onore. Why did you not call me?”

She shrugged, and a tired tear ran down her cheek.

“How could I call you when I was so angry last time?”

She turned to look into the parched garden just in time for a long tongue to lift the tear from her skin.

“Come for a fly. Let me take you where the air will cool your cheeks and soothe your fevered mind.”

Leonore didn’t need asking twice; she climbed up R’u’uth’s extended foreleg and settled between his gleaming wings.

“Where are we going?”

He turned his head to grin at her.

“Wait and see.”

Then they were in the air, with a breeze ruffling Leonore’s hair and cooling her skin. She leaned against smooth scales and strong muscles, and just gave herself to the joy of flight.

They didn’t seem to have been in the air for very long at all when R’u’uth turned on a wingtip and dropped down through the night sky to land beside a moonlit lake. Leonore slipped down from her perch and ran to the edge of the water.

“Oh, it’s beautiful here. Where are we?”

“Nowhere in your world.”

“That should be frightening, but I find I don’t care. I reckon I’m safe with you.”

R’u’uth laughed dragonishly.

“That depends on your definition of safe…”

Leonore felt herself blushing and nerved herself to meet R’u’uth’s gaze.

“That remains to be seen.”

She felt the warmth of his approval as a heat at the base of her stomach and turned back to look at the dark water.

“Would you swim L’e’onore?”

“Can I?”

“You can. I will swim with you if it would please you.”

“I have no swimming costume.”

R’u’uth laughed.

“Dragons swim in their skin…”

She put her hands on her hips and regarded him with some severity before throwing back her head and laughing.

“If dragons can swim in their skins I suppose humans can too.”

She dragged her dress over her head and wriggled out of her underwear before kicking off her sandals and heading into the blessed coolness of the lake. For a moment she didn’t think R’u’uth was with her, but then she felt a smooth, warm flank as he swam over and under her and around her. She laughed delightedly, and the two of them played in the water like children.

“On my back,” R’u’uth spoke in her head and she allowed him to swim up beneath her, settling herself between his folded wings. He swam strongly away from the side of the lake towards what Leonore eventually realised was a small, green island. She leaned forward and placed her arms around his neck. He chuckled and she felt it vibrate through her body. 

And then they were climbing onto dry land and she remembered her nakedness.

“R’u’uth. My clothes.”

He chuckled again, then sobered.

“Worry not. I will enjoy to see you, but I know you are not ready…”

“No. I am not ready. I may never be ready.”

“I will take that risk. Now get off my back before the feeling of your tender skin becomes too much for my resolve.”

She slipped to the ground and found, to her intense surprise, that she actually rather enjoyed the feeling of his eyes on her skin. He looked at her approvingly and she even found a bit of a swagger somewhere in her locker.

“Why are we out on this island?” 

“I wanted you to see something. Come.”

He led the way uphill to a rocky peak at the centre of the island and pointed with his nose.

“Look.”

Leonore looked, and could scarcely believe the beauty before her eyes.

The black water of the lake looked as smooth as silk and there was a stripe of golden moonlight marking a pathway from the horizon to the centre of the lake. And if that wasn’t enough, there were silver creatures dancing on the golden water.

“What are they?” she whispered.

“Naiads. Listen. They will sing.”

Leonore listened as the water spirits lifted their voices. Their song was beautiful, but cold and ethereal, and Leonore shivered as she listened.

R’u’uth draped a wing over her and she leaned against his smooth strength.

“Thank you R’u’uth,” she whispered.

He turned his head and delicately nipped at the side of her neck before blowing his spicy breath into her lungs.

“Come. Let us get your clothing before I forget myself.”

Leonore climbed onto his back and they took to the sky for the brief hop to where Leonore’s clothing lay in a heap. She dressed quickly and leaned into R’u’uth’s embrace, rubbing her face against his muscular neck. 

He touched her cheek with his tongue.

“Home?”

“Please.”

R’u’uth made a step with his foreleg and she climbed lightly onto his back.

He turned his head and favoured her with his most dragonish grin.

“Next time I bring you to the island, I may not be such a gentleman….”

And then they were in the sky, heading back towards the August heat. 

©️ Jane Jago

The black cat lay out across an overhanging tree branch. To the casual observer she appeared to be slumbering away the heat of the afternoon. Anyone wise in the way of felines, though, would have noticed the twitch in the very tip of her tail.

But the cruel teenage boys who had tied a firework to the tail of one of her crew weren’t wise. 

They swaggered along the pavement, stopping under her branch to pose and posture for the watching girls.

It’s very difficult to be cool and impressive with a cat attached by sixteen claws to your face…

©️jj 2018

Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.

So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.

But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?

As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create…

E.M. Swift-Hook

How To Start Writing A Book, the worst ever 'how to write' book, has escaped from the pages of this blog and become a real ebook. Read IVy's advice with editorial comments on each blog piece by his mother. Jacintha. All courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The Prologue

One greets one’s adoring fans for whose benefit this volume of bon mots upon the topic of How to Write A Book is being placed in the public domain.

These epistles of wisdom to you, a Reader Who Writes, began in the summer of 2017 when one kindly offered one’s services to The Working Title Blog. Week by week, the esoteric arcane mysteries of the literary art were unfolded for the elucidation of a growing number of adoring fans. Week by week one poured spirit, heart and soul into the project, sharing one’s most intimate moments and best kept secrets.

Then, in a tumultuous series of events, it was over! The course of lessons were complete and whilst they linger yet in the ether of the interwebs, they are separated and hard to find. So, in an act of unmerited generosity one decided to seek out each blog post, pluck it fresh and blooming still and collect all together into a single volume.

One has now moved on to another literary guide aimed at those for whom even this book may be too advanced, but enough on that, you may find out more about it by reading my regular updates on The Working Title Blog.

For now, set aside your other thoughts and preoccupation and sit at the feet of the master. Take notes, for there will be questions!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Forward

It’s me, Moon’s mum or should I say IVy’s mum as he prefers to be known that way. It’s just as well I caught him in the act on this one. I was enjoying the last of the summer with a jug of sangria in the garden and he had been scribbling away on his tablet on a lounger in the shade. When he went for a piss I sneaked a peek at what he was working on and nearly choked on a slice of orange when I saw. Bad enough he’s been inflicting his shite on those misguided twats who read his blog, but this…

Fortunately, I convinced him every great author has to have an editor so he agreed to let me edit it for him. Which is just as well as the amount of pretentious tosh he’s pumped out over the weeks has to be seen to be believed.

Oh yes. You’ve just bought the book so you’ll be seeing it, won’t you?

All I can say is good luck with that and I’ve done my best to bring a bit of sense to this mess, but you can put a pig in a tu-tu and it still won’t make it a ballerina.

Jacintha Farquhar

How To Start Writing A Book is available now from Amazon.

Happy hour in a tatty bar at the edge of Small Gods, which is the poorest area of Olympus. Seven very minor gods sit at a smeared table drowning their sorrows in the local hooch, which somewhat resembles whisky, somewhat battery acid.

The tooth fairy narrows her eyes at the God of Unconsidered Trifles. 

“I dunno what you’re moaning about. You get more followers every day.”

“Yeah. But. Geeks.”

“Fair enough.” 

Lycra Cycling Shorts nods wisely before slipping off his chair facedown in spilt beer and crushed scratchings.

Muse shows a petulant face.

“Whaddabout me? Only wankers believe in me.”

©️jj 2018

‘32 was bad. Boy’s family went to California. Then Ma got the fever and died, and Pa did what he always done in times of trouble. He run away.

I stayed in the cabin to lick my wounds. After I shot me a couple bears, and a neighbour of evil intent, I got left pretty much alone.

So there it was. Thanksgiving. Me alone. I never expected no knock on the door and I opened her just a crack. My boy stood there in his cracked boots and foolish grin.

“It’s a long way to walk from Californy,” he said.

©️jj 2018

Happy Thanksgiving to all our US friends from the Working Title Blog!

Christmas reimagined: Twelve Tales of Christmas by Jane Jago Some old friends and some new kids on the block.

Excerpt from ‘White Christmas’

Minna was sitting on her grandfather’s lap. They had eaten supper and now they were watching the sky spit shards of ice onto the frozen fields.
“Gramps,” she asked softly, “what’s a white Christmas?”
“A white Christmas is one where there is snow on the ground.”
“Have you ever seen such a thing?”
“No, I have never. I’m eighty-four years old and I’ve only seen snow twice in my life.”
Minna thought for a long time, then asked. “What’s snow?”
Gramps grunted as he marshalled his thoughts. “It’s frozen rain.”
“Like hail and ice storms?”
“No. Not a bit like that. It’s white and it’s soft and it makes everything look beautiful.”
“I wish I could see that.”
Gramps rested his chin on her head. “I wish you could see it too.”
They were quiet for a long moment then he lifted his head and spoke again. “There’s another thing we have to talk about.”
Minna looked into his worried eyes.
“It’s about Father isn’t it? Father has to choose a new wife.”
“Where did you hear that missy?”
“Father came and sat on my bed the last time he was home and we talked.”
Gramps looked amazed and Minna giggled.
“It’s our secret, Gramps.  Big strong Hunters aren’t supposed to talk to little girls. But Father said I could tell you because you would understand.”
Gramps gave Minna a big hug then he smiled down at her.
“Oh yes. I understand. I used to have secret talks with your Mama when she was a little girl. Now tell me what you think about Father marrying again.”
Minna wrinkled her forehead. “Does it matter what I think? If it doesn’t matter whether or not Father wants a wife, why would anybody care what I think?”
For a long time Gramps didn’t answer. When he did speak his voice was slow and sad. “It matters to me what you think. And I’m sure it matters to your Father.”
“It’s all right Gramps. Just as long as Father chooses well it will be all right.”

Available for preorder right now. Out December 1.

The words of the incantation whirled through the trees on the brisk wind. Branches creaked and groaned as they came to life, turning into limbs, shrinking down to size. Skin replacing bark, and feet replacing roots,  when they freed themselves from the ground. The feeling of being able to move, to walk away from a spot the they had been rooted to since being planted. The feeling of the wind in their newly formed hair. Being able to touch their new skin, soft and smooth. Being able to touch anything, if the truth be told, was a wondrous, but daunting feeling – something that would take time to get used to.

In their human form, the tall fir trees of the Sarandorn forest, led by the only female among them, came to stand before the man who chanted the spell that woke them. The female had been blessed with the looks of an angel, and the others were built to cause damage. The man, dressed in black, his head concealed by an overhanging hood, stood silent as the female and her army stopped in front of him. His job was almost done. It only remained to issue them an instruction, as they were now his to command.

The female, who the man in black named Saphira, stepped forward on the wave of his hand. She didn’t need to be told, she knew the signal was hers as she felt the pull from the flick of his wrist. She watched him warily as he stepped into her eyeline and took down his hood, revealing the thickest head of black hair. His face bore scars so deep that you could see the cheek bone in some areas. Saphira gazed on the man who’d become her master with a sense of pity and wondered why he had used the incantation to wake them. She tried to find her voice, but only a whisper came from her newly formed lips.

“Your voice will come, my child, but first I need you to listen to me.”

His tone sounded soft, but there was a certain coldness about it.

Saphira stood and absorbed the man’s words and prepared for more words to fall from his lips.

“My name is Brum Inkle. I come from a long line of druids who have, over the years, tried to rid ourselves of the ones who are trying to kill our natural way of being. I have brought you to life for one reason, and one reason only – to avenge my people and your own brethren, your saplings and all that nature has given. For too long, I have watched you and your kind suffer at the hands of humans. it is now your time. Go forth into the night and gain your revenge.”

Saphira tilted her head in confusion. She didn’t know what he was saying. No one had harmed them. They were fine, and she knew of no harm coming to her brethren. She had only been in human form for a few brief moments.

“I see from your confusion that you have no idea what has been happening to the trees on this world, so let me enlighten you. For centuries now, humans have been chopping the forest trees down for their own use. You have thus far been lucky. It was only a matter of time before you felt the woodman’s axe, and now you can gain the upper hand. The incantation has given you and your army the power to turn anything you touch into wood, then revenge is yours for the taking.”

Saphira and her army accepted Brum’s words in their minds and headed toward the nearest village, where Brum had said that most of the occupants were woodsmen and that the whole place had to be destroyed before anymore of Mother nature’s majestic firs were lost to their axes. Screams began to ring out across the small valley where the village sat, and shadows of men lined the border. Each wielded an axe, and waited.

Observing from a distance, but never turning back, Saphira continued her charge, although her head was telling her that something was wrong. Even to her new mind, the villagers seemed a little too prepared for their arrival, but the opportunity to turn back was gone, they had been seen.

Saphira and her army found themselves surrounded. She knew then ithad been a set up from the start, as Brum ran to join the axe wielders for the impending battle of wills. The woodsmen surged forward, and others approached from behind, hemming in the transformed firs, who rooted themselves to the spot and waited for what fate had in store for them.

Brum approached Saphira, a twisted, evil smile dancing across his lips.

“You didn’t really think this was about you gaining revenge, did you?” His voice was colder than the night air. “It was all about us getting you closer to the village, hence the spell to set you free from your wooden prisons. Winter is drawing near, and the villagers need wood to burn on their fires. Why should they have to endure the deathly cold temperatures to venture to the forest, when they can have the source of their warmth here?”

Saphira gasped and a single tear ran down her cheek. Helpless and trapped, as her family turned back to the firs that they once were, by the touch of one finger on their skin. They had no chance to fight, as the touch came from behind. Brum looked on Saphira and brought his hand up to touch her face, pausing for a moment before breaking the spell by the touch of his fingers. The next screams she heard were her own as she began the painful transformation back to a tree, ready for death.

LN Denison is a writer of near-future dystopian sci-fi. You can catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.

WThe naiads’ pool was quiet and deep, even the feeder waterfall crashing down the mountainside could not disturb the tranquility of the clearing.

It was a place of enchantment. 

A place for lovers. 

A place, it was said, where at least the first child in almost every family was made.

Which made it all the more shocking when they discovered the body of a beautiful nymph in the clear brown water.

Two weeks later a handsome and self-seeking young hunter was found murdered.

The only clue to his fate? 

A hank of wet green hair tied about his throat.

©️jj 2018