This is the opening of Sprocket and the Heart of the North by Bryan Pentelow.

In the North lived a very skilled glass maker by name Cedric. There were many glass makers but only this one was a Dragon Friend and made Dragon Glass.

His workshops, on the edge of a great forest, were large and many of the local people worked for him or supplied him with the materials he needed.

The secret of his success was dragon fire. He loved the fiery creatures and treated them with kindness and respect. In return they gave him all the fire and heat he needed to work his art and skill with the hot treacly mix of melted sand and other trace elements which made his glass so special.

Because of the dragon fire, used to melt and form the glass, it became very tough and resilient. Cooking vessels never cracked on the fire and were easy to clean after use. Lamps that he made burned brighter and their candles lasted longer. It was however his sculptures which made him famous.

These beautiful objects formed from crystal threads and woven sheets as fine as gossamer captured the light of sun and moon and spun it into ever changing spectrums which dazzled the eye and made men’s hearts sore. Each work was different and enclosed in a globe of glass like a soap bubble but was so strong that even a blow from a hammer or sword left no mark.

Everyone wanted his glass products and wealthy men and kings came from far and wide to marvel at the beauty and artistry of his work. He was offered wealth beyond the dreams of most men but would only sell to those with pure intentions and one piece was not for sale at any price.

The Heart of the North was his master piece. Not large or ornately showy.  A globe, barely a hand’s span in diameter, it pulsed with an inner fire and warmed the spirit of any that looked into its depths. When asked about it he would shrug, and simply say it was the beating heart of the land, then smile and turn back to his work.

One night, when thunder hammered the high fells and lightening splintered the darkness into blinding shards, a hammering came at his door. He roused himself from the comforting fireside and went to see who would venture out that terrible night. As he crossed the room light blazed around the solid oak door and it crashed open almost bursting from its massive iron hinges. A tall cloaked figure with burning red eyes loomed in the doorway then strode into the room brushing the glass maker aside. Finding nobody else in sight he turned back to Cedric and demanded he give up his best work. The glass maker refused and the stranger became incandescent with rage.

When morning came, with skies swept to a clear cold blue by the night’s storm winds, the villagers found Cedric’s cottage in ruins and the glass maker lying crushed beneath a heavy beam. It took five strong men to lift the huge trunk of oak from his body but life still beat faintly in his shattered chest. They carried him gently to his workshop and placed him near the kiln to give him warmth. The village healer was called and came with her herbs and potions but after a brief examination of his injuries she shook her head in sorrow and bade them make his last moments as comfortable as possible. Knelling beside him they asked what had happened but all he could gasp was that the Heart was lost and woe would come of it.

A crowd scoured the ruin of the cottage and though many of his prized pieces were found there was no sign of the small treasure that was his finest creation.

When his end finally came two large dragons, one a deep red the other a pure white, flew silently down to the workshop and asked that the body be brought out. Four of his workers wrapped him in a sheet and carried him into the light of the setting sun, placing him in front of the huge beasts. The dragons bowed low over the body and remained silent and still for several moments, then took hold of the sheet in their talons and leapt into the darkening, sky carrying the remains of Cedric with them.

With The Heart and its maker gone the village lost its purpose. People no longer came to trade for there was little to trade. In less than a year all its inhabitants had drifted away and the buildings were no more than tumbled heaps of moss covered rubble. No dragons came, in fact very few were seen anywhere in the land and soon they became no more than a folk myth.

The Heart had gone from the North and sorrow and decay took its place.

You can find out more about Bryan Pentelow and his books on his website.

Q1: What is your favourite traditional British food?

This has to be the Full English, or on my rare forays to Northern Ireland an Ulster Fry. These fine examples of a coronary on a plate have been the back bone and muscle of the British working man for generations. They may have died early but with a smile on their grease smeared lips. This feast is also enjoyed by two of the main characters in the Sprocket Sagas, Mr Brassroyd and his faithful English Bull terrier Mrs Mumbly. Cooked on a huge oil fired cast iron range in the kitchen of 7 Pudding Founders Lane, there is nothing Mrs Mumbly likes better than slices of bread fried golden brown and crispy in bacon fat.

Q2: Are you a dog person or a cat person?

Without a doubt, a dog person. My childhood companion was a wire-haired fox terrier. This small fierce animal had a truly warped personality. It would ignore any dog smaller than she was and leap, fangs bared by any dog larger. When our children were growing up we were bequeathed a second hand three legged Golden Labrador by an elderly couple who lived across the road and were moving to Spain. This dog which often played in our garden with our children simply arrived with his bowl and basket and within two days was a permanent fixture. Docile and loving by nature he was the ideal pet with only two down sides. Labradors shed hail 365 days a year and this one would beg desperately for the box when we had a pizza and then turn into the original dog in the manger in defence of his prize.

Q3: What do you think the best thing would be about living in a world where dragons exist?

In my Dragon World time passes at a faster rate than on our world so you can double the length of the weekends while not missing more than a couple of hours at home.

My dragons, though many are huge and most are fire breathing are vegetarians so don’t eat people. They are sentient and powerful telepaths so no problems with communication or learning difficult languages. Let’s be honest humans just don’t have enough fangs to speak dragon properly. Dragons live for centuries and with the ease of mind to mind contact History would be a fascinating experience, getting actual eyewitness accounts of things and happenings which we can only speculate about. But best of all would be the fireworks. Dragons are an explosion looking for somewhere to happen and will put on a pyrotechnic display at the drop of a hat, literally to let off steam. You could have the sort of displays that would make New Years Eve along the Thames pale into insignificance. What a treat.

Finally just for Jane:

I an old and a dragon to boot
And find humans a bit of a hoot
Though I’m covered in scales
And harder than nails
You find me incredibly cute.

About Bryan:

I was conceived in Dorset born in Northamptonshire and now live in Yorkshire. My early life, starting in 1947, was relatively pastoral, growing up in a small town tainted with shoe factories, but surrounded by rolling countryside. My parents determined that my sister and I should not follow them onto the factory floor of the Boot and Shoe trade, chivvied and encouraged us to get a reasonably good education, and despite our best efforts to ignore this, some of it rubbed off.

My teen years were made more entertaining by the combination of the US air force and a Lambretta motor scooter. These enabled me to explore the world of R&B music. As part of a distinctly amateur rock group which played predominately black music to mainly black audiences in the PX clubs of the plethora of American Air Bases which dotted my part of East Anglia. These establishments also provided access to cigarettes, alcohol and ten pin bowling at prices which were affordable due to the excellent exchange rate and US government subsidy. My thanks, to America, for making teen angst bearable by providing very necessary distractions.

Following three years of glorious irresponsibility, at a teacher training college in South Wales, I qualified as a teacher and proceeded to make children’s lives less than exciting. Due to the miserable pay scales of that time I gave up moulding personalities and became a sales rep for an educational supplies company. This move doubled my pay and provided a free car. Oh Joy.

Since then I have muddled my way through the world of work in various capacities and industries while managing to provide a home for my wife and two children (one of each). Now is the best bit, I am retired and blessed with the Fearsome Four, my grandchildren, three girls and a boy, who do their best to drive me insane and make me tearfully proud by turns.

So now I write. I write for my own amazement (Science Fiction) and the entertainment of the Fearsome Four (The Sprocket Sagas) both of which seem to be liked by some wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review my books.

I have always been a keen reader despite being labelled of remedial grade in primary school and now try to pay forward by reviewing the books I consume like a starveling at a banquet. What goes around comes around. Long live the reviewers.

You can find Bryan Pentelow on Goodreads and on his own Website.

“I’m tired of trying to see the good in people.” Clarence stalked around the pen with his wattles waving distractedly. You get fond of people and they just go away and leave you. Last week there were five thousand turkeys in the barns. Yesterday there were five hundred. Today there is just me.”
The only other occupants of the fifteen-acre field eyed him in something like contempt. “Didn’t the same happen last year?” Gloria asked waspishly.
Clarence stopped and looked down at the fat little chicken and her sister.
“Did it?”
“Yes, Clarence, it did.” In contrast to Gloria’s waspishness, Florence just sounded tired. “And the year before.”
He looked puzzled.
“I don’t remember.”
“No you never remember. But it’s always the same. From now until the winters end it will be just the three of us. Then there will be baby turkeys. Then they will grow up. Then they will go away.”
“But why. Where do they go.”
Gloria came as close to a shrug as a chicken can.
“We should know…”

The two humans who sat on the fence looked at the trio with some amusement.
“Have you never wondered what they think?” the man was feeling whimsical.
“Does poultry think,” his companion leaned on his shoulder.
“Presumably. On some level they must. Ergo, do they wonder where the rest of the turkeys go?”
“You may as well ask if that turkey cock wonders why he is still alive.”
“He might not wonder, but I do.”
“He was a mistake. We only sell hen birds. And the hatcheries aren’t supposed to send anything else. But three years ago he arrived with the girls. Dad thought it would be interesting to keep him and see just how big a turkey can get. But he pined on his own, so we got him the chickens for company.”
“How compassionate.”
“It’s no good you looking at me like that, and at least our birds have a decent life.”
“What there is of it.”
The woman lifted a pettish shoulder and they fell silent.

No more was said until the turkey cock stalked across the field to where they sat.
“Poor old boy,” the man said. “I wouldn’t like it if somebody took you away and replaced you with a chimpanze.”
His companion laughed and moved into his embrace.

Clarence peered shortsightedly up at them.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “Can you tell me where my chums have gone? The chickens are very nice, but a chap wants his own kind, doncha know.”
But they all they heard was gobble gobble, and the women threw him a handful of grain from her pocket.
He ignored the corn. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I did ask you an important question.”
Of course they didn’t answer, and in the end he gave a doleful sniff and went to back to where Gloria and Florence were scratching in the dirt and squabbling over earthworms.

©️jane jago 2017

As the year turns,
An arbitrary date.
We make vows,
Give hostages to fate.
I will do this.
Or I will not do that.
I will exercise.
I will not grow fat.
We bargain,
To better our own lot.
If I keep this
I give happiness a shot.
As the year turns,
And daily we grow older
We make promises
In fear of growing colder

©️ jane jago 2017

The first thing to say is that this list is not an exclusive list of all the great Indie books out there – or even all the great indie books we have read this year. It is a well-considered recommended reading list of books we have enjoyed in the last twelve months, consciously spanning genres. So whilst this is most decidedly a list of excellence it is not claiming to be definitive or anything like.

The second thing to say is, we recommend these books wholeheartedly and if you have yet to read them you should consider doing so if they are in a genre you enjoy.

So, onto the list. This is given in alphabetical order of author name and there is no ranking. All are stonking good reads.

The Working Title Blog 5 Star Golden Reads for 2017

The Gaia Effect – Claire Buss
That rare beast, a dystopian book with a real glow of hope.

Vengeance of Snails – Chrys Cymri
It could honestly have been any or all of the Penny White novels, but this was chosen for being the darkest.

The Dying Of Mother Seed – India Emerald
This is one of those stories you can’t say much about without spoilers, just that India is the mistress of the twist in the tale.

Austism – Dwayne Fry
This story tackles prejudice face on. It’s wrenching, but humorous too.

A Time Of Need – Brent A Harris
This truly engaging ‘what if’ that takes a tilt at American history

Murder in Absentia – Assaph Mehr
A Roman-style whodunit in a world with magic.

Selia’s Promise – Christina McMullen
A truly frightening view of the future, read it and be afraid.

Hand and Talon – Melonie Purcell
Fabulous fantasy and with strong characters.

Druid’s Portal – Cindy Tomamichel
Time-travel romance back to Roman times which challenges a lot of our assumptions about the nature of history.

Zombie Turkeys – Andy Zach
Wonderful dry humour and social comment – and zombie turkeys!

And here’s to another year of great reading in 2018!

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

It was deep midwinter just days short of his eighth nameday when they told Edgar FitzJohn his father was believed dead. His stepmother came to his bedside in the dark of the night. She came alone, and with her glorious hair unbound. When he sat up blinking she bent to kiss his brow.
“Can you be brave?” she whispered.
“I can try.”
She reached to ruffle his straight, black hair. “Do not give up hope. If you will trust me then we can hope that all will be well in the end.” She showed him a little charm such as women wear on bracelets, in the shape of a Welsh harp. “Should anybody show you such a token as this, then you may trust them.” She pulled him into her arms and hugged him fiercely, before stealing away again.

The next morning, he awoke to a great bustle. Mother’s father and her brother had arrived from the city, and it seemed to Edgar that the place was full of big red-faced blond-bearded giants who were most efficiently taking over. He thought to question, but his stepmother’s closed face, and her visit in the darkest hours, kept him silent. His grandfather looked down at him, and smiled a wolffish smile.
“Isn’t this one about ready for fostering?” although his voice seemed casual, Edgar could sense some deep inner excitement.
“He is indeed,” Mother answered coolly. “In fact he leaves on the morrow. He goes to my lord’s sister in Lancaster.”
Grandfather chewed his lip and spluttered, but could think of no useful response. Uncle Aled moved to smooth over the situation. “Excuse our father. It is the surprise. We did not know of this.”
Mother lifted one of her smooth, white shoulders. “How should you know? The arrangement was made long since.”

On the morrow, Edgar set out, clad warmly in wool and leather, mounted on a surefooted pony, and guarded by six of his ‘grandfather’s’ surly Saxons. They rode in uncomfortable silence.

After spending the night at a wayside inn, the party entered the forest at first light. One of the Saxons shivered.
“I mislike this place,” he growled.
“It’s worse in summer,” the oldest member of his escort opined, “at least you can see what is coming to attack you when the trees are bare.”

Of course he was wrong. They saw nothing until the dark figures sprung up out of the loam. It was a brief, dirty, fight, which left four Saxons dead and two wounded, but walking. Edgar found himself pulled firmly from the back of his mount and pushed down into the dark soil. He might have fought, but his captor showed him a ring in the semblance of a Welsh harp. The dark men quickly caught the Saxons’ horses, but somehow Edgar’s pony seemed to escape them and it careered off into the forest dragging something in its wake. The least hurt of the Saxon warriors looked at the fleeing pony with something like dread in his eyes.
“Do you know who that is?” Receiving no answer he ploughed on. “That’s the grandson of Eudric the Red, that is.”
“Was,” one of the folk grunted. “Will be dead by now. If you want to stay alive, walk.”
The two Saxons walked, and nobody moved until they had gone out of sight and earshot.

After that things happened so fast that Edgar could only remain quiet and allow himself to be borne along on a human tide.

Back at Castle Borso, the chatelaine shut herself in her rooms to mourn the death of her husband and his son, whilst her father and brother dug themselves firmly into position as the castellan and master at arms.

This matters stood a full twelvemonth later, when the Castellan intercepted a letter addressed to his daughter. He read it and hissed his displeasure. Aled looked up from where he sprawled on the hearthrug in company with his wolfhounds.
“What?”
The old man threw the letter into his lap. “We are to make ready for visitors.”
“Visitors indeed. Now I suggest you seal this up and have it delivered to my sister. We don’t want her to be able to tell the Queen’s Majesty that she did not receive it.”
His father grunted, but obeyed.

What the Queen’s letter neglected to mention was that she was bringing John FitzJohn with her to reclaim his property. Those Saxons who survived the purge were turned, naked into the cold with prices on their heads.

As the castle prepared for a joyous Yuletide, the lady looked into her husband’s deep dark eyes and smiled a secret smile.
“Will you come for a ride?”
He looked puzzled but readily agreed. They set out with only two trusted guards, one of whom led a laden packhorse.

John quirked a mobile brow, and his lady laughed, high and clear.
“These are people to whom we owe a debt.” Then she closed her mouth firmly and urged her mare to a canter. They followed a rough track up out of the fertile valley and onto the springy moorland turf.

It was about an hour’s ride in the crisp winter air until they came to an isolated farmstead. In the yard a dog barked, and a broad-shouldered tow-headed man came to the gate. Seeing who it was, he relaxed, and bowed before opening up to admit his visitors. He whistled two notes and a tall dark-haired youngster came charging out of the house. John stared for a second, then all but fell from his saddle. In an instant, he had the boy in his arms and was laughing and crying at the same time.
“They told me you were dead.”
“Aye. And they told us you were dead, Father. But Mother didn’t trust them. So she hid me.”
John turned to his wife. She dimpled demurely.
“I told you I had a Yuletide gift for you, my love.”

©️ Jane Jago 2017

I am old, and today my bones ache
And I’m sloughing my skin like a snake
My wrinkles are saggy
My arse very baggy
I think I’ll just stay home and bake

© jane jago 2017

#87: Christmas

Ah. Christmas the time of cheery carollers, sleigh bells, and happy families. Or, looking at it less romantically, the time of burnt dinners, family fights, and divorce.

That first Christmas together. That’s the one that sets the pattern for all the others. Do not go to his mother’s. Or yours. Ideally, see no one and do a lot of sex.

Given that that isn’t happening, here are a few ground rules.

1. Do not be cozened into buying them tins of mixed sweeties. There will be at least two thirds that nobody likes. You will be reduced to feeding them to the dog in August.
2. Booze. Do not buy eggy stuff. It looks like snot and it tastes like snot, and nobody will drink it. If granny likes a Snowball. Buy a couple of ready made ones in pouches. She will only go to sleep with her face in the sprouts if you give her proper booze.
3. The Turkey. You do not need something the size of a Shetland Pony to feed you, your husband, and granny. Small is beautiful. After all nobody really likes turkey anyway.
4. Cooking. There’s a lot of rot talked about Christmas dinner. Do plenty of roast potatoes and a ton of them little sausages wrapped in bacon, because that’s all anybody eats.
5 Most importantly. The Punch. It should be very strong. And to begin with it should taste nice. After The Queen’s Speech it pretty much stops mattering. By that time people will drink meths.

And that is the secret of Christmas in a nutshell (NB do not buy nuts somebody – usually your new husband’s cousin from Reading – will inevitably display the symptoms of anaphylactic shock if you do).

Granny’s Punch

1 litre brandy
1 litre vodka
1 bottle ginger wine
1 litre pineapple juice
1 litre ginger ale
1 net of baby oranges
1 large tin pineapple chunks
Loads of glacé cherries
Punch bowl/clean plastic bucket/WHY
Ice

Cut the oranges in halves, then throw everything in the punch bowl. Drink much of it yourself.