A Nice Jewish Wolf 1

Elena stirred, alerted by the long, long silence to the fact that business was exceptionally slow. There was no great need to worry: their bookshop was ticking over in the black – just about – and had been for years now, given a fortunate location and loyal clientele. It was just – wet Wednesdays, and early closing day, and a long way off payday for a lot of folks. The thing was, a lack of customers gave her the urge to mess with her brother, even if only for her own personal amusement.

She looked over at him, hunched beside the elderly till, a vintage Guy de Maupassant spread out before him, and a mug cooling by his side.   



and build it up with worn-out tools*

Ehhh, feels like time to re-make and re-write some of my old fanfic WiPs, rebuild them into original fic.  Not that I haven’t already been doing a bit of that, under aliases Sarah Tender and Wanda Withers.  But for my two old faves this seems like the right ID.  So very shortly indeed, expect a mangling re-working of a tale loosely based on ‘Notting Hill’.  With new added werewolves!



*Kipling, darling.  Love a bit of Kipling.  ‘If’ used to reliably make me cry, before I got so hardened and contemptuous.



Goodreads reviews: Tenth of December by George Saunders

A huge, big, fat, pig-ugly, repulsively obese toad.  Blobber blobber blobber!

Tenth of December, by George Saunders

“Gross, clever, ruefully funny. Spot on about human nature. Twunts, by and large, certainly will act the grovelling, slobbering toady to an outright abuser, with very little persuasion.”

Image credit – Gordon on Flickr, https://www.flickr.com/photos/monkeymashbutton/  licence https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/ no remix.

special secret writing tips


So, you know how as  a writer – we writers, bub, you ‘n’ me – very often you’ll keep a notebook beside your bed?  So that if you wake up with the germ of a great idea in your head, you can dash it down quick and not lose it?

(So that someone else gets to very lightly re-write it, claim it, and cede not one word of credit, of course.  For another day, bud!  For another day!  Oh, the mooks.  Watch out for the mooks!)

Anyhoo.  Ya do that.  That’s not novel.  Everyone does it.  Writers, anyhoo.

But what do you do when you wake up, with something nagging at your brain.  And you turn over, to take a look at your notebook.  And lo –

– in your handwriting –

– scrawled across the top page –

– this legend doth blaze upon it –


No, I mean that’s it.  No further word of explanation.  Can’t even remember writing it.  Do you think the Devil made me do it?  What does it mean?

All suggestions gratefully received.  Buggered if I know.  But I’m quite charmed with it.  It may spark off a Saga of goatly superpowers, possession and invasion yet, who knows.

moonlight sashimi – oh love, my love

Water should be clear, invisible.  He should never have to think about water.  Because his mate is near, a fact that ought to trump every other consideration.

But the water’s thick, with blobs of synthetic snowdrift.  It’s more terrifying than the winter scenes he can dimly access, from his other life.

Then he spots her, through the growing mist.

Still in human form, despite the moon: scuba diving through the aqua depths, her wetsuit gleams as she swims frantically towards him, a kilometer away.  Because she can feel it, as he begins to choke, to spasm.

To die.  Greg wonders if his mate’s pain will be the last thing he knows.  Her shark form is triggered, she begins to rip off human adornment, to launch herself towards him as her gills open.

He’s choking.  And he wonders.  If they’ll die together, in this storm of man-made plastic snows.

He’s man.  And he’s shark.  But it’s men who’ve killed him, and her too.

moonlight sashimi – the hunt

The water is home.  He hits it swimming, plunging deeper.   Searching for his first meal, of this particular change.

Food is what his predator brain searches for.  But what he finds, is something else.

Sharkbrain is different to human  brain.  In human form, he knows it, theoretically.  But it’s a shock to experience it: the focus, the intensity, the dead-set intent.  Anyway: he’s never felt this before.