One greets the assembled disciples.

Should it be that you are a lost soul, who has recently slipped into the back of the class in the hope of improving your limited literary endeavours, allow me to introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, fondly referred to as IVy by my chums. The acclaimed author of that prodigiously enchanting science fantasy work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ which has been removed from the shelves on a temporary basis so it can return and be lauded as it truly deserves.

The end of summer is upon us and as harvests are gathered in I am once more returned to my writing room to reap the rich harvest of a summer gleaning inspiration from the very lap of the Muses in their homeland. Thus I was less than delighted to be disturbed whilst revisiting the profound passages of my previous literary highlights and admiring the lavish style, the graceful similes, the elegant turns of phrase and the superlative use of descriptive ornamentation.

It was, of course, my maternal parent who was well into her second admixture of Benedictine and Calvados. I knew that because the sickly smell of honeyed apples hung on her breath as she stuck her face into mine, muttering: “Why did I do it? What was I doing? How did I ever do something to deserve this?” Then, fuelled by alcohol and the disappointment she feels in her own sad little existence, she trailed off into a long-winded monologue in which I was unflatteringly compared to a chocolate teapot, a leadless pencil and other random objects.

Once I was again mercifully alone, the door bolted to avoid any further distractions, I realised Mumsie had unwittingly pointed out an area of English grammar that I have been remiss in bringing to the attention of my pupils. The ‘doing’ words.

How to Write Right  –  The Write Verb

Right class! Today we shall explore one of the backbones of any sentence. Indeed, that without which it is not a sentence at all.

Verbs are words which inform us of action. You all knew that of course, so I shall skip over asking for a show of hands and cut to the chase: how to choose the right verb for your sentence.

The important message I need you to take from today’s lesson is that any sentence can be instantly improved if you consider varying the verb. Truly. It can. Allow me to demonstrate briefly:

The stars shone.

Nothing wrong with that at all. It tells the reader the simple fact and they will absorb it and move on. But oh what a wasted opportunity! Instead of having the reader merely register the idea of the stars being there, doing what we all know stars do, you could have informed their imaginations with your creative genius (however small that might be) and awed them by your command of the depth of beauty in the language. Thus, thusly:

The stars blazed.
The stars lustred.
The stars scintillated.
The stars effervesced.
The stars coruscated.
You, by now, begin to assimilate the idea.

Thusly, my innocents, do not ‘walk’ but ‘promenade’. Never merely ‘jump’ when you can ‘frolic’. And remember, dear disciple mine, any noun can be enverbed to add to your treasure trove of possibilities:

The handsome young man entabled his firm buttocks, peachifying my day by his very beauty. (Voila mes crudités, deux pour le prix d’un)

And thus have we indeed ‘done’ the doing words.

Now go and try some out.

Until we 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.

White flowers sprinkled the grass in the clearing, looking Clea thought like spilled milk. In another time, or another place, she might have shared that thought but she didn’t think the grim-faced woman who had hold of the leash around her neck would appreciate whimsy so she just looked at her feet and kept plodding.

Her captor made a queer grunting noise and as Clea turned to look, she  collapsed with the vanes of a crossbow bolt protruding from between her shoulder blades.

Relief made Clea light-headed.

But the swathe of white flowers was now stained with blood.

©jj 2019

How fares the one I chose to love now that the years have passed?
The face that I once looked upon each day will be much changed.
I wonder how I once believed your love for me would last
When even then I saw your heart from me was oft estranged.

But folly is as folly does and youth’s not folly’s foil,
Full hearts will empty wit and blind the eye from truth so plain.
When in the field of love just one doth plough and plant and toil
The harvest reaped at season’s end is only tears and pain.

I never gave my heart again into another’s keep
And lived my life in many ways that seldom brought me peace.
Yet still, in dreams, we walk the hills, steal kisses as I sleep
And know again the trust and strength I’d thought could never cease.

Tis forty winters, come and gone, since I did see you last
How fares the one I chose to love now that the years have passed?

E.M. Swift-Hook

Zarai had been Lord Ho’s favourite concubine for five seasons. Then Lady Ho died.

The lord spoke. “Do you look to be exalted?”

“No, to be sold.”

His sigh sounded almost genuine. 

“Sadly. I make political alliance with the horse tribes. But their headman demands your person to complete the deal.”

“As my master commands.”

Three suns later Lord Ho wedded a wild daughter of the tundra, and a slave left the palace.

The horse lord was young and kind. He gave her a pony and wove wildflowers into her hair. 

Some forms of servitude are less onerous than others…

©jj 2019

We tried to catch the wind today
My fickle friend and me
But as the zephyr flew this way
My friend deserted me
We tried to catch a friend today
The winter wind and I
But as my friend came out to play
The breeze did wave goodbye
Oh you may have the wind he sighed
Should that be as you choose
Or you may have me at your side
You win one, one you lose
We tried to catch the wind today
A wind to sail us home
But fickle fate gangs aft agley
And now I cry alone

© jane jago 2017

One remembers a rather exciting games master at the old alma mater reading us random chunks of this, among other books, when it was too inclement for rugger practice.
For this reason, it will always be associated in one’s mind with the smell of lineament and teenage sweat and the burns on the back of one’s legs caused by sitting on the clanking, clunking radiators in the second form changing room.
Happening upon a dogeared paperback copy propping up the door of the summerhouse* one determined to visit the whole oeuvre. Quel disappointment.

Review

A girl child called Scout lives somewhere. I think it is colonial. Possibly America. Persons seem truly uneducated and not one’s type at all.
Nothing much happens for a very large part of the book. Then a man is accused of a crime he seems not to have committed. But he is found guilty anyway.
And nothing much happens again. There is a rabid dog, and a nasty man who has evil designs on the heroine and her brother. There is a struggle. The bad man gets killed somehow, I’m not clear how.
End of story.
One star – for longevity.

*It’s a shed, you pompous little prat! ed. Jacintha Farquhar

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.

When one has waded through blood to achieve ambition, the best way to keep one’s enemies off-balance is to observe all the exigencies of proper dress. Ieyasu allowed himself a small closed-mouth smile as they dressed him for his first formal appearance.

When they were finished an underling brought a mirror.

“Great lord.”

“Yoi”, Ieyasu inclined his head. “It is well.”

His beautiful consort covered her mouth with one small hand to camouflage unseemly merriment. 

He smiled too, remembering how they had fought back to back and how she had saved his life.

Besides which, he loved her.

©jj 2019

First he made her his secretary, then he made her his plaything, then he sent her to an exclusive clinic in Switzerland where they would make her his fantasy.

Today he was going to see that fantasy for the first time. He brushed past his bodyguards and put his palm to the plate on the playroom door. The door hissed open and he entered alone. At first he could see nobody, just the barren gameplay landscape where he lived out the early twentieth century sci-fi films that fuelled his imagination.

He heard a noise to his left, and turned his head to see her dressed from neck to ankle in skintight black leather and armed to the teeth. He could barely speak for excitement.
“Oh baby, you are even more than I imagined.”
She smiled.
“Now it’s time to make you into my fantasy man.”
He frowned. This wasn’t in the game play he had designed so carefully. But he was sure she had nothing but delight in store for him, so he made his voice excited.
“What’s your fantasy?”
She laughed a short, unamused bark.
“My fantasy? A helpless cripple.”

Then she shot him in the kneecaps.

© jane jago

Shoshanna was known for posters depicting headless male torsos, and ownerless penises. Her work was stark and pointed: in a world where women were objectified she did the same to men.

Her models hated it, but she paid well and there was always food when you were done. 

Being reduced to a set of shapes on a billboard is sobering. The strangest side-effect was the number of feminist beefcake models there came to be.

She asked her favourite ‘body’ why this should be. He shrugged.

“I don’t rightly know, ma’am. All I do know is it makes you aware…”

©jj 2019

An extract from Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow

Brandon Murphy flagged down a taxi, his movements frantic. Despite the cold that infiltrated the air that November afternoon, he was sweating profusely. Fear like he had never known clutched him, and there was nothing he could do to fix the situation. Why had he involved himself in the first place? If he was honest with himself, it was because he had truly thought he was doing the right thing. But it was clear now that he’d been deceived. None of his original ambitions seemed to be of consequence, and what was worse, none of the promises that had been made to him were being kept.

In fact, it appeared he had become nothing more than a pawn in a much more elaborate game, which was becoming increasingly dark. Breaking and entering was not what he had signed up for, and if it absolutely had to be done, a confrontation definitely wasn’t on his agenda. He’d made that clear and had been assured that no one would be home, so who was that man that showed up? He’d actually fired a shot at the man. What was happening to his life?

His taxi pulled up to the curb. He got in and said, “Brantford Road, N17. I’m in a hurry.”

The cabbie nodded, put the car in gear and stepped on it.

Murphy checked the time on his phone persistently as they made their way across North London. He had been instructed to arrive at their meeting place no later than 4:00 p.m. Apparently, his employer had some important event to attend that evening at the British Academy building, and it was imperative that they left in time to be there for 5:00 p.m.

“Step on it, mate!” Murphy demanded as he watched the time switch over from 3:50 to 3:51. “I would have to get stuck with the slowest bloody cabbie in London!”

“Oi! I’m already over the bleedin’ speed limit. Bloody ‘ell! I reckon yer a bleedin’ fare dodger an’ all!”

“Excuse me?” Murphy snapped. “I always pay me way, mate! Just get us round to Brantford Road as quickly as possible, alright?” He wiped the sweat from his brow and checked the time again.

3:55.

His heart started to pound. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He’d been explicitly warned about being punctual. It wasn’t just his life at stake if he failed to be there, it was his family’s as well.

“Here you are, mate,” said the cabbie as he came to a screeching halt. “Brantford Road, N17. That’ll be thirty-five quid.”

Murphy pulled an uncounted wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it in the cabbie’s lap before jumping out of the car and sprinting toward a warehouse building several yards from the road. He reached the entrance within moments and let himself in. The space inside was nearly pitch-black. He pulled out his phone, lit the screen and began navigating through the maze of pallets that occupied a vast majority of the area.

“Hello?” he called out, making his way toward the opposite side of the warehouse. “Is there anybody here? I made it on time,” he said glancing at his phone to confirm that his statement was accurate. The time read 3:59.

He turned a corner and fear stole over him. Glowing yellow eyes met his own. A beast was upon him before he could react. He felt long claws sliding easily through his stomach. Once. Twice. Three times.

Horrified, he put his hands over as many of the lacerations as he could, but it was a pointless move. His vision started to blur as fatal amounts of blood drained from his body. He fell to the ground, still clutching hopelessly at his wounds. He could almost make out his attacker in the light cast by the phone that had fallen from his hand, but his vision was fading fast.

Vision fading…

Darkness.

Ian Bristow