Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

The Fugitive’s Sword is the first book in a historical adventure series, Lord’s Learning, tracking the lives of two young people through a tumultuous time in history.

In the autumn of 1624, Europe is deeply embroiled in what will become the Thirty Years’ War.

A young boy of 15, Philip Lord, once favoured at King James’ court, has vanished without a trace, under the shadow of treason.

Outside the besieged city of Breda, Captain Matthew Rider faces the brutal reality of wintering his cavalry in the siege lines, until he crosses paths with Filippo Schiavono, a young man whose courage and skill could change everything.

Kate, Lady Catherine de Bouqulement, arrives in London prepared to navigate the dangerous politics of King James’ court to ensure troops are sent to her mistress, the exiled Queen of Bohemia.

Within Breda’s walls, a foundling named Jorrit unwittingly stumbles into a lethal conspiracy when Schiavono hires him, supposedly to help sell smuggled tobacco. But Schiavono’s plans go awry and they are compelled to flee the city, only to be captured at sea.

If Schiavono is unable to prove his loyalty and ruthlessness to a savage Dunkirker privateer captain, both he and Jorrit will face certain death.

Meanwhile, in London, Kate is forced to fight her own battle against those seeking to coerce her into their schemes and finds herself trapped in a terrifying and deadly power struggle. Driven by violence, treachery, and the sea’s merciless tides, their fates collide.

The Fugitive’s Sword is now out on Kindle.

Eleanor Swift-Hook fell in love with the early Stuart era at university. She is also the author of the Lord’s Legacy series. She lives in County Durham. You can find loads of information about this book and the others she has written on her Website, together with background information about the history of the times and the characters, or follow her on Twitter/X.

Cover design and original artwork is by Ian Bristow.

Jacintha Farquhar, maternal parent of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV offers important life lessons to those who like to think they’ve got what it takes to write a damn book…

To whoever is deluded enough to read this crap.

This is Jacintha Farquhar, woman of a certain age, and distaff parent of the delusional and currently incapacitated Moons. I never thought I’d feel sorry for the poor self-centred little twat. But I do. I actually hurt for him. He’s so bruised and battered that I have sent him away to lick his wounds in the fleshpots of Mykonos. I packed him off with a bag of clothes, a few smutty novels, and an introduction to a couple of gay friends who run a very popular bar there. As to what precisely happened to the sad little bugger, that’s his business. I’m not about to discuss it with a bunch of prurient wannabes. If he wants to tell you when he gets back into the saddle that’s his affair. But for now, mind your own…

If it was up to me, I’d stop this crap too. However, it means a lot to my battered son, so I have promised to keep it going until he returns from his sabbatical.

I have decided to write about life lessons, because if you lot really want to write anything decent you’ve got to live it first.

Writing about Alcohol.

In almost every piece of adult literature you will find booze, and as a general rule boozing falls into one of half a dozen categories:

Polite drinking.

Social drinking.

Party drinking.

Getting pissed drinking.

Drowning the sorrows drinking.

Alcoholism.

So then, where are you on the scale? A sherry on the third Thursday of every month? Prosecco hangovers on Sunday mornings? A bottle of vodka in every cupboard in the house?

Whatever your own consumption, consider that as the strongest use of alcohol you should ever write about. Of course, many of you will be timid shits like my poor little bastard of a son, and will consider a glass of Fernet Branca on a sunny afternoon to be the height of decadence. But on the other side of your shiny little threepenny bit you will be wanting to write about drinking and roistering. Well. You bloody can’t….

If you want to write about a drunken orgy, bloody well find one (effing Google it) and go and get completely off your face.

In the same vein, if you really want to write about the miseries of a hangover, or the utter awfulness of drinking so much you vomit what feels like your toenails into the gutter, then at least have the frigging courage to try it out and see what it really feels like. My recipe for the first: a bottle of good red wine with your dinner, followed by at least a dozen cocktails, and four large brandies. To achieve the second, take recipe one and add a kebab and half a bottle of Bucky at the end.

When you’ve done that. And taken a week to recover. Then you can write something that will be at least recognisable as real.

Now piss off and get on with it, because, to be brutally honest, you lot are getting on my tits right now and I’ve a hot date with a half-bottle of calvados.

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

You can find more of my son’s ramblings in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago, but I wouldn’t bloody bother even though I did my best with it and added a load of comments on his drivel!

The music that we called our song
Plays on repeat in my head
But the notes now feel twisted and wrong
And my heart, like our romance, is dead
The music plays on without heed
Uncaring of how I might feel
As the record revolves still I bleed
Perhaps if it stopped I might heal

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

February was a difficult month, with the temperature unremittingly cold and skies dropping pellets of ice at inconvenient moments. We provided hot stews and soups which the WI delivered to those in need. And if the odd sack of logs found itself loaded into a Ford Transit and dropped outside the home of those who couldn’t otherwise keep a fire going, I certainly wasn’t going to argue.
On a dark Tuesday afternoon I was battling with a set of truly complicated forms from our pension provider when Ben came in and shut the door quietly behind him. Something in the set of his chin said troubled so I saved what I was doing.
“S’up Benny.”
“We have a visitor.”
“Someone we know?”
“Nope. But he gives me the heebie jeebies. He’s very polite and all, but I get the feeling asking for the favour of a few words is rubbing him right up the wrong way.”
“Do you not want to speak to him?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like the cut of his jib. And anyway it ain’t me he wants to talk to.”
“Now I’ve got the heebies.”
The scent of flowers with an underlay of decay announced Esme’s presence. She spoke aloud.
“It’s all right Mother. This one means no harm.”
I blew her a kiss and she was gone.
Ben sat down in my visitor chair with an audible thump.
“I really thought Esme was gone. Haven’t had a sniff of her since Cherry went to the light.”
“She’s still here, love. I think she’s just been keeping a low profile because she thinks you don’t like her.”
“I do kinda like her. Even if I didn’t I’d tolerate her because I know she loves you. I was just surprised she’s still about, and sorry if she can’t find her way to the light.”
Esme’s laugh filled the air. “I’m okay Mister Ben I can cross when I want. I’m just waiting for something.”
I think she must have kissed his cheek because he smiled and put a hand up to touch his own face.
Esme spoke in my head. ‘For a man, he’s okay.’ Then she was gone.
“Come on Benny, stop flirting with girl ghosts. Let’s go talk to whoever.”
I checked my face and fluffed my hair, following Ben into the bar where a tall, pale-skinned, dark haired man stood up from his seat at a table by one of the wide windows. He had a chiselled, handsome face, was immaculately tailored from his tie to his highly polished brogues, and felt about as human as an iceberg. I walked forward with my head high and my spine straight. He unbent fractionally.
“Mrs Beckett. I hope you will excuse my turning up here unannounced. It isn’t the way I normally operate, but my errand isn’t exactly normal.”
I inclined my head. “Shall we have tea while you explain your errand?”
I noticed the spasm of distaste that crossed his stern features at the word tea, and grinned at him.
“Are you not a tea drinker?”
“Indeed I am not?”
“Would you prefer coffee? Or something a little stronger?”
He smiled narrowly. “I’d prefer a large whisky, but, as I am driving, coffee works be more than acceptable.”
“What variety of coffee?”
“Anericano please.”
Ben went to the bar and had a brief conversation with Morgan, who showed him an uplifted thumb.
“Shall we sit?” I suggested. “Then maybe you can tell me why you have driven from wherever, on a day as foul as today, to speak to a woman you have never met.”
This time his smile was a little warmer. “They said you would be a surprise and I begin to see why.”
Ben slid into the seat beside me. “I wonder what you have found so surprising in a perfectly reasonable question.” His voice was calm, but the underlaying threat was obvious.
“I’m sorry if you found my comment offensive. But the only information I was given about Mrs Beckett was that she is a beautiful woman who talks to spirits.”
Ben chuckled. “She also runs a hugely successful business, is mother to twin girls, and swears like a storm trooper with a bunion. However…”
“However indeed. What I was expecting was someone rather more dramatic and a lot more Celtic Twilight.”
I snorted. “I’m not a Celt. And I’m not fond enough of drama to create it. Life does that for me.” Then I added my own caveat. “I can produce a genuine Romany clairvoyant if you would like to meet her.”
He held up both his hands palm outwards. “No. Thank you. I’ll pass on that experience if it’s all the same to you.”
Ben snorted out a laugh and our visitor stiffened.
Fortunately for the civility of the encounter Ellen and Morgan arrived with coffee, tea, scones, jam, clotted cream and assorted cakes.
By the time afternoon tea was laid out in front of us, Ben had controlled his sense of humour and Mister Grumpy had wound in his neck.
I loaded a scone for Ben, and did the same for our visitor. His eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw a human being under the ice.
“Eat first, talk later,” I used my bossiest tone and he complied.
Once fed and watered, our visitor felt a lot less uptight and almost like an actual human. As soon as the girls had bussed the table he spread his hands on the polished wood and I studied the black hairs that marched across the backs of those hands while he marshalled his thoughts.
“My name is not going to mean anything to you, but for the record here’s my card.” He put a square of pasteboard on the table. “I’m an advocate operating in Edinburgh. In this case I am representing a gentleman who died late last year. It is my understanding that you met him once and facilitated his communication with his deceased wife.”
“I didn’t facilitate anything. All I did was show him where his wife’s bones had been found.”
Ben took up the narrative. “The aforementioned Romany clairvoyant helped to push aside the veil for long enough to give comfort to an obviously dying man. Other than that…”
“Whatever you did or did not do, my client came here deeply troubled and the bitterest human being it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. When he returned to Edinburgh he was changed. Something had gifted him with the grace to die in quiet acceptance, instead of carrying on an unending search for vengeance.”
“For that I’m glad.” I said.
“Me too.” Ben spoke quietly.
“I wrote his will and am the sole executor. It is in that capacity that I am here today. He left a sum of money for you to put to use in a specified way.”
“What way?”
He took a sheet of paper from his top pocket and read from it: “I leave this money in the hope Mrs Bennett will use it in memory of my dear Cherry. I would ask that she arranges something bright in the place where Cherry’s bones lay. Something bright and joyful. Something where children’s laughter rings and happy memories are made.”
Ben gripped my hand and I let myself sag against his strength for a brief moment.
“I can’t refuse, can I?”
Both men spoke together. “You can if it asks too much.”
Which braced me better than any amount of ‘encouragement’ could ever do. So much so that I could immediately see what needed to be done.
“How about an Easter Egg Hunt?” I said. “Easter Sunday afternoon. With afternoon tea. And enough chocolate to ensure children on a sugar high for days. Will there be enough money for that?”
“There is ten thousand in the pot.”
“That’s all right then. Have a big party and donate any leftovers to a children’s charity in Cherry’s name.”
Ben clapped me on the back and Mister Edinburgh Advocate opened and shut his mouth like a landed pike.

And that ‘gentle reader’ is why I’m sitting in the middle of what feels like half a hundred screaming children hunting chocolate in the thin, spring sunshine and why I said if Ben hadn’t bought the orchard none of this would have happened.

If you enjoyed reading about Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

“This is an intrusion into my dear friend Octavia’s privacy,” the woman said imperiously. “It is intolerable.”
Dai lifted his head to see her eyes flash with anger and felt the sudden insignificance of a being a mere non-citizen, provincial Briton in the presence of over a hundred generations of pure Roman patrician breeding.
“I – I apologise, domina,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.
“I should think so. And if you wish to keep your job you will be certain this does not make it into any official report – or unofficial one. If a single word gets out, I promise you that I will ensure you have no job and no licence to live in Londinium ever again either. Do you understand?”
Dai felt his throat dry up. She more than had the power to do precisely that if she chose.
“I understand you, Domina Lydia.”
There was a slight flush of colour then in her face and for a moment Dai wondered at it, then he realised that she had not thought he recognised her.
“I am glad you do,” she said quietly. “You can leave now. I will look after poor Octavia. But remember what I said.” 
Dai bowed again and moved towards the front door, as Octavia detached herself from Bryn and was scooped up into the arms of Domina Lydia who made soothing noises and stroked her hair whilst glaring over her head with cold command at Dai and Bryn.

They left the apartment block in stunned silence and it was only once they were walking back to their vehicle Bryn broke it.
“You handled that well, Bard, your poet’s charm worked a treat.”
Dai shook his head.
“I’m out of practice, is all.”
Bryn stopped by a street stall.
“Two portions of garum and chips, not wrapped.”
They stood waiting as the chips were thrust into paper cones and the pungent sauce poured all over them. Bryn paid with his wrist phone and they continued walking, eating the chips as they went.
“Did you notice something odd?”
“I noticed a lot. Like the way you buried your head in her tits for example.”
“More like she did the burying bit.”
“You weren’t exactly fighting her off. Can’t say I blame you though. Not every day you get to put your face in the perfumed cleavage of a Roman matron. Or not without having your balls sliced off for it. Must have made it almost worth the threats from that pompous bitch at the end. Like we give a cracked cack whether some Roman lives in the lap of luxury or not.”
“It wasn’t that,” Dai said quietly.
Bryn looked at him.
“Oh?”
“No. She was just terrified we’d seen her there. She didn’t ask what had happened to Rufus or even who we were, which means she must have known us. And I don’t know if you have a celebrity job on the side, Bryn, but I’m really not that famous.”

Part XIV will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

The biggers were at it again: something about a trip to the Muffdives being cancelled.
Mother Bigger was throwing one: something about her tan. The teenagers, of course, were completely over the top.
Big Bigger started shouting, and the gnomes all ducked as something flew through a window that wasn’t open.
Everyone fell facedown as a flatscreen tv wound up in the pond, where it made a peculiar hissing noise and sunk without trace.
Big Bertha ambled over for a look.
“Best none of us was here.”
The gnomes faded as Big Bigger emerged to see what he had wrought.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.
Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.
Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.
“What makes you think you are worthy?”
“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”
“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”
Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.
The same yearning, the same questions.
Alone in her underground chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Maisie panicked when Sheena collapsed.

For a moment she’d no idea how to get out to get help. Then Maisie remembered the dog door and pushed herself through it, her skin scraping painfully as she did so.

Then what?

The main road ran past the drive and she ran up it as fast as she could. But how to stop a car?

Only one way.

The man who got out sounded disbelieving. “There’s a pig in the road. Just lying there.”

But he followed her and called an ambulance in time to save her owner Sheena from a heart attack.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

I scarce can bring myself to greet you, my pupil.

The only reason I am setting out these words is from the profound sense of duty that every pedagogue owes to his most devoted students. In happier times I was renowned for my science-fiction work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ – a light-hearted escapade of two heroes who could only ever conquer, written by one who then had a light heart, untouched by the ravages of love and loss.

For now I write to you from the very depths. This is a harsh lesson indeed and comes from one whose name is now sorrow, whose eyes see naught but pain, whose mouth tastes naught but ashes, and whose dreams are filled with tears. But this is no matter. Of such agony truth of writing cometh. Follow me and I shall lead you into a vale of tears from which your writing shall grow emotions of which you never hitherto dreamed.

Heartbreaks

In every story, in every lifetime, in every world, in every universe there is Heartbreak. Even should your compositional endeavours lead you to a place inhabited only by machines and sharply carapaced octopids there will still be unrequited love, or the gutwrench of a failed relationship, or death, or sickness, or the loss of all.

And as writers this is what we must deal with.

We must lift our prose to a plane from which sorrow drips like corrosive acid into the very souls of our readers. We must wring their withers. We must pull from them gouts of snot, bathfuls of tears, and sobs that leave their chests pained and torn.

We must use every adjective and adverb to our name. We must leave no emotional stepping stone untrodden, no hidden corner of sensibility unharrowed, no tiny morsel of love unstamped upon.

If we are to write grief, let us feel grief, let us cry ourselves to sleep as we contemplate the fate of our hapless lovers. Let us understand their hearts as our own breaks with them.

I offer a small sample that you may begin to understand…

It was a suburban garden, offering him little space in which to feel himself alone enough to allow the fullest extent of his misery to crash down around him like a tidal wave of unquenchable sorrow. Seeking solitude, and knowing there was no solace to be had under the unforgiving sun, he had crawled under the spreading leaves of a barren fig tree there to lie in foetal misery, too frozen to cry and too alone to face the world. Who knew how long he had been sunk in his own misery before he felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Turning, almost not of his own volition, he allowed himself the luxury of another’s embrace. The comfort of a shoulder clad in unromantic and somewhat bobbled and faded wool. He lifted his eyes to the worn and unromantic features of his mother, thinking in some corner of his tired mind that he could not remember the last time he and this woman had shared anything except vague mutual antipathy. She seemed to comprehend his distress though, as she smoothed his hair back from his hectic forehead with gentle fingers.

“Hearts don’t break,” she said softly, “it only feels like they do”.

Until next time.

Whenever that may be…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.