Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Life is unexpected at times
When nothing you do seems to fit.
You try hard as you can
But it simply won’t work
And in the end, you just give up and go and do something else completely different instead!
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…
Dear Readers Who Write,
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service mes estudas. For those whose education has missed out on my coruscating brilliance, I am the orchidaceous creator of that classic of superlative speculative fiction ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and the selfless author of this work of pedagogical genius you are so eagerly licking with your little pink tongue in order that you may imbibe some insights into the mysteries of the authorial inspiration.
As I was pondering on what I should take for the theme of my next excursion into pedagogy, dear Mumsie thrust open the door of my bijou writing room and peered at me with her piercing raptor’s gaze.
“Shit – it’s dark in here! You should get out of this coal cellar some days, Moons. How can you tell stories if you don’t do anything but sit in the dark all bloody day? I’m amazed you can think of what happens next at the end of each sodding page.”
Thus in her sweet, inimical yet loving way, Mummy gave me the theme of today’s excursion into the deeper mysteries of the art of literature.
I suppose the less erudite among you may be unaware of the precise significance of the term Narrative Arc. It is, my little students, the process by which we move our characters from one state to another, or to phrase it more accessibly, the process by which we facilitate change and so tell our hero’s story.
An obvious narrative arc will take a character to his lowest ebb and will remove from around him every vestige of support, succour, or comfort, and then cast him afloat in a sea of his own inadequacy to ascertain whether he will sink or swim. When such a device is utilised, we can expect the sorely tried protagonist to undergo a process of growth and change and to emerge triumphant, or not, in the third quarter of the story.
But we spit upon such oversimplification, we urinate on the shoes of the easy single arc of narration. Strive instead as you put finger to keyboard to create as many arcs as possible on whose multiple streets your characters can walk to their intertwined destinies. Weave, weave, and again I say weave. Let not a sparrow fall on page one of your magnum opus without there being a corresponding tsunami of reaction when that one tiny action impacts on the lives of each and every private soldier who marched to the tune of your fife and drum.
Dream large and write even more elephantine prose. Let the arc of your narrative be as tall as the leaning tower of Pisa, as complex as a FairIsle cardigan, and as unobtrusively essential as a well lubricated condom. When one of your characters is plunging into the depths of their personal Hades, another can be dancing on clouds of delight and fulfilment. Paragraph to paragraph you can twist the emotions of your readers: this sentence despair, the next ecstasy, whirling the cast of your creation through a rapid roller-coaster of writing. Be not like the dull who see in consistency the summum bonum of the story, instead cast caution to the wind and have your characters on their multiple arcs shifting the story as they spin. Does not the very thought exhilarate?
In short, my adoring fans, discard the advice of those who are less than we. Discard the old lies and shibboleths. Take up the banner of the convoluted arc and let us run with it into the ocean of sensuous prose, and swim to the islands of perfection in storytelling and lubriciousness in character building. Let the arcs of your narrative fill the skies with a spectacular rainbow spectrum of socially unacceptable colour. Let the world marvel at the vibrancy of your imagination and the courage of your prose.
Then and only then will you find your own perfect Narrative Arc.
Work tenaciously, mes estudas. And ecrit bon…
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.
Online orders delivery man
Plays a game whenever he can.
He hides your packages with such care
You’d never guess that they were there.
It’s not under a bucket or beside the shed,
It’s in your recycling bin, though he never said.
When you get home all tired and worn
You wish that man never was born
Out in the garden, you search with a torch
Why didn’t he leave it safe in your porch?
You look under a bucket and beside the shed,
But not the recycling bin, cos he never said.
The pottery shattered as it hit the stone wall and the wine splashed out in a liquid corona, staining the fine fabric of the hangings and seeping over the floor like blood flowing from a wound. The music slid to a discordant halt as the musicians scattered quickly and a single shriek from one of the serving girls ended the tune.
Jariq Zarengor sat still, holding the cup which he had been filling from the wine jug, a motionless figure in a sudden sea of movement as the other patrons of the inn decided it was wiser to be elsewhere. Ralik stood by the wall, arms folded watching, as the Harkeran Vavasor drew his sword and continued shouting.
“You can’t seduce another man’s wife and expect to get away with it.”
The Harkeran noble was sober enough, even if high in emotion, but Zarengor had been drinking steadily since they had arrived at the inn. Ralik straightened up slightly and unfolded his arms. He saw another Harkeran was moving forward, one hand reaching under the dark blue cloak he was wearing. Zarengor seemed not to have noticed and was frowning very slightly, as if confused by what was happening. He gestured with his empty hand towards the bench beside him.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but if you have a problem, why not sit down with me, have a drink and talk it over. We can get some more wine – ”
He was not able to finish before the Harkeran lunged at him and was instantly sent sprawling backwards as Zarengor exploded into motion almost faster than the eye could follow, tipping the heavy wooden table forward into his assailant and in the same fluid movement, turning as he rose, drawing his sword to bring the point to the throat of the second man before his own blade had even half-emerged from beneath the blue cloak.
The second Harkeran released his sword hilt and leaving both hands spread wide, stepped back carefully, reading certain death in the steady brown eyes. His companion groaned beneath the table and tried weakly to push it off. Zarengor seemed to have forgotten him completely, slamming his sword back into its scabbard and striding from the room. Ralik detached himself quietly from the wall and made a less noticeable exit by another door as people surged forward.
As he left, he noticed it took two men to lift the heavy table. The voices of the Harkerans followed him out, mutters of fear and admiration, of condemnation and simple envy. Ralik had a passing moment of gratitude that he was not of the kind to inspire such feelings in others.
Outside it was dark and the air was cold. Ralik took a moment to find his charge since Zarengor was braced against the wall, his lean body almost invisible against the rough stonework.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” The Black Vavasor’s voice sounded weary. “I am old enough to be out on my own, you know.”
Ralik said nothing. There was nothing to say. It was easy enough to understand the level of frustration that the other man had to contend with.
“Don’t you just love these Harkerans? They think themselves so civilised and superior – regard war as unreasonable, think a man who can write poetry or design a building is of more value than one who can use a sword, they regard their women as their equals in all things and even give legal rights to their slaves and their animals.” His voice was very slightly slurred betraying the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “But when it comes to good old-fashioned affairs of the heart, they are as quick as the next man to leap to the wrong conclusions and draw their blades.”
Ralik watched a group of young Harkeran noblemen leave the inn. They were obviously looking for something, or someone and two carried lights.
“It is getting late, Honoured One,” he said carefully. Zarengor, when drinking, could be persuaded but never pushed.
“Then you go home,” the other man suggested, his voice quite friendly, “I was thinking of finding another Harkeran matron of high standing to ravish, your Castellan’s wife perhaps.”
Ralik stiffened at the insult but said nothing, knowing it was deliberate, knowing Zarengor was goading him and knowing also it was the frustration and the drink that spoke through him. The Harkerans were getting closer and the mood Zarengor was in, it could easily end with blood on the street – their blood.
“Death of the gods, Ralik, what does someone have to do to get under your skin?” Zarengor sounded amused more than irritated.
The Harkerans had heard the voice if not the words and were moving now with intent. Ralik moved closer to his charge, who seemed to notice the threat for the first time and groaned aloud.
“Oh joy, children with swords and pistols. Just what I needed to make my day complete.”
The five young men, none of whom could have seen more than twenty summers, moved to confront them, throwing the burning torches to the ground and two of them had drawn swords, a third rested his hand on the butt of a finely crafted pistol. Zarengor still rested against the wall.
“Tell them I’m not hungry, Ralik, I have eaten enough babies today.”
“I’m more a man than you are, butcher,” the ring leader called out. Zarengor laughed briefly.
“Of course you are, that’s why you have your four friends with you. Brave child, go home to your mother and suckle some more then you might grow up big and strong one day.”
The Harkeran made a sound of incoherent fury and launched himself forward. Zarengor barely seemed to move away from the wall, his sword suddenly in his hand and cutting down through the youngster’s guard, drawing blood on his shoulder. The Harkeran stepped back, but found he could not escape the blade which seemed to be everywhere. Then as his sword went flying and he tried to jump aside, Ralik’s own blade came up and caught the death cut at the last moment and moved ready to parry again as the deadly blade disengaged.
“He is only a boy!” Ralik said the words urgently and ungently, part of his mind furious at Zarengor for allowing himself to drink to the point of such judgement loss and for the rest, afraid that he himself might now become a target for the feral sword. But the Vavasor seemed to come to himself, hesitating to attack through Ralik, and the youngsters took advantage of the moment to escape, disappearing into the darkness at speed.
For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, swords in their hands. Ralik waited with the point of his own blade towards the ground in a defensive gesture. He could not afford to surrender any advantage, Zarengor, drunk or not, was by far the superior swordsman. Then the Vavasor sighed and lowered his sword slowly.
“We should find the ponies,” he said heavily, sliding the blade back into its sheath. Ralik allowed himself to relax and stepped back carefully before putting his own sword away.
Nothing was said as they were riding back until a short way from his house, Zarengor reined in sharply, bringing his pony in front of Ralik’s and forcing him to stop.
“Gods, I am sorry Ralik. You should not have had to do that.”
Ralik said nothing. It was true. He should not. Zarengor cursed and turned his pony back to the street. They rode on in silence for a while before the other man spoke again.
“I do not know what I am supposed to have done. These people seem to want to find me a monster.”
“You think it is nothing of your own making?” Ralik was unable to keep silent at that.
He found it unbelievable that Zarengor should think he owned no responsibility for the reactions he provoked in others.
“I know what I have done elsewhere. Well, what I am believed to have done elsewhere, but I have done nothing to harm so much as the fingernail of any Harkeran. I am here to fight their war with them and I will do so and win it for them too if we have even the most leisurely break of good fortune. You would think they might have some sense of that.”
Ralik moved to ride alongside him. It was strange to him to see this side of the man whose strength and self-confidence had once been more than an inspiration for him. It made him question again what he had been doing in Harkera.
“Why should they be grateful to you? They do not know you except by reputation. Perhaps when you have won their war they will be grateful.”
Zarengor looked into the gathering darkness and shook his head.
“Maybe. And maybe they will suddenly find me inconvenient, an embarrassment, something best put away as quickly and quietly as possible. Or am I getting too cynical?” He sighed slightly. “Tell me, Ralik, have you ever known happiness?”
Ralik’s thoughts instantly filled with a beautiful face whose storm-grey eyes held a depth of emotion he had never inspired in any one before.
“I think so. But what man can ever call himself truly happy? The gods may take all we have in a moment,” he spoke quietly, but with conviction.
“Then perhaps happiness is not the goal, just a fleeting side-effect of other events in life. Perhaps the goal is something altogether more straightforward.” Zarengor fell silent a moment and the sounds of the evening streets closed in: a shout of laughter, a woman shrieking, a child crying, two dogs fighting. “What really matters to you Ralik? What do you steer your life by? What principle or creed governs your direction?”
The questions took Ralik by surprise. They were not the kind of questions one fighting man asked of another and they were questions he suspected that the Vavasor in a sober state would never have asked of him. He was tempted to say nothing, to let the moment pass. But, for some reason, the questions had touched upon the disturbing thoughts and events in his own life in recent days and he found himself considering them almost without meaning to do so.
“Honour,” he said stoically. It was the answer he would have given in all honesty until a few moons ago. But now? Well, now he knew there was something he held higher than honour, although he was not sure he could admit it to anyone else and he would still never forsake honour lightly.
“Oh yes, honour,” Zarengor said and sounded weary of the word. “We were brought up with it as our wet-nurse’s milk, you and I. Honour for ourselves, our families, our lord, our clan, our city – a desolate field is honour. Can it put food in the mouths of the hungry? Can it heal the wounds of the injured? Can it make Castellans strong and merchants wealthy? We make whores of ourselves for honour.”
Ralik was shocked.
“Without honour, what is a man?” It was the creed he had been born to and Ralik could recite its catechism as well as any other nobleman from the north. Zarengor looked at him directly for the first time in the conversation.
“I am not sure, Ralik, but I am beginning to think that without honour a man becomes something more. That without honour, he is free to choose the best way to live.”
“Then perhaps that would be a new way of honour,” Ralik suggested.
“Or perhaps,” the Vavasor said, “it would be a new way of living.”
From Transgressor Trilogy: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook, a Fortune’s Fools book.
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
Milla had given up trying to understand all the Visitors said and focused on what really mattered.
“Yes, but String…”
“Is a healer.”
String nodded enthusiastically. “I’m a canting chanter. Mostly HoTs, some wards. Can wear chain and use two-handers.” He reached to his back and drew a huge double handed sword from nowhere. It pulsed with runes and had a blue flame that danced up and down the full length of the weapon from the skull-shaped pommel. “Yep. See it and weep Pew. I gave this toon a legendary blade.”
“I thought they were an OP pet class?”
String grinned and made a gesture into the air. A black boar with steel tipped tusks and wearing some kind of harness, armoured with plates of obsidian and onyx, popped into existence beside him, then stood there snarling at no one in particular. “Yup. Total OP class.” String’s expression was close to ecstatic “Tank pet. Two-handed melee. Uber-heals. What’s not to love?”
“Do we have to take him?” Milla asked, wondering if it were possible for a ryeshor to puff his chest out quite so far and still breathe.
“Much as I hate to say so, we could really do with heals and a tank pet would be useful too. Trying to root and nuke a boss could be tricky, they tend to be immune, and can’t really kite mobs in enclosed spaces.”
Milla still wavered. Yes, she was new to venturing and these Visitors had much more experience that she had, but the thought of having to put up with the two of them talking gibberish was almost more than she could bear. Then she thought of Ruffkin. If he was hurt he might need healing.
“Alright. You can come then.” She gave String her two-eyed One Eye glare. “But no more spitting.”
“Deal!” String executed a sharp salute and his spikey crest shot up vertically. “Canter Chanter Stringvestheals at your service fair Lady Milla.”
Pew rolled his eyes and turned to stomp off towards the unguarded gate. Milla extended her stride to catch up.
“Is he your friend?” she asked.
“Not really.” Pew sighed. “Well sort of. We’ve been guildies since vanilla.”
“Vanilla?” It was one of Milla’s favourite flavours.
“Yeah. Before the devs had their first massive egostorm and fragged it all up.”
His tone made Milla wonder what kind of cataclysm that had been.
“Was that a long time ago?”
Pew snorted as they went through the gate. “You could say that. Anyway, after that he stalked me. Mention any MMORPG and we’ve probably been there.”
“What’s an Ememoharpeegee?”
Pew stopped by the imposing door to the pyramid, tracing the serpentine decoration on it with the end of his staff. In the centre of the design was an odd shaped keyhole. Pew frowned, clearly distracted by that as he answered her.
“They are like this. Only different. Different worlds. Different magic systems, combat systems. Different lore.”
Milla’s thoughts went back to what One Eye had said about Visitors coming from a different universe. Perhaps he had been right.
“You’ll need this,” String said helpfully, holding up a large golden key. “Body drop from the gate guard.”
Pew’s arm holding his staff froze in place and he turned his head to stare at String.
“You soloed the gate guards?”
String puffed his chest again and preened “What can I say? OP class.”
Milla took the key from his outstretched hand and examined it. “This is the same as the inlays on the polearms they left those by the gate. You removed it from one of those.”
String looked completely unembarrassed. “Did I say I got it any other way? Not my fault if Pew leaps to the wrong conclusion.”
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 8th Quest next week.
‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.
Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…
Cheezer had a problem. His wheelbarrow needed oil. It shrieked and groaned, advertising his whereabouts to every predator that stalked the night garden. He looked in the potting shed, but the oil can was as dry as his throat when a tawny owl all but landed on his head. The squeal of his traitorous barrow seemed scornful to him and he was about to cry when Bertha’s big hand proffered a tube.
“Try this.”
He squeezed a dollop onto the axle and tried a tentative push, to be rewarded with silence.
“Woss KY Jelly?” he asked.
“Never you mind, boy.”
With a lifetime of hard earned experience behind her, Granny generously shares the wisdom she has gleaned over eight decades. So pin back your ears and bloody well listen!
St Valentine’s Day…
Ah, that bitchfest in the name of lerv. That commercialisation of affection. That show the world how perfect your relationship is. That Gw***** P*****w of festivals.
In case you hadn’t guessed, Granny really don’t approve.
When I was a gel, your boyfriend sent you a card he had bought in Woolworths and probably forgot to take the price ticket off of. You showed it to your mum and your best friend and put it in a box with all your souvenirs. End of. And if nobody sent, well only you and your mum and your best friend knew. No real harm done – unless your best friend was a bitch.
Nowadays nothing is that simple. Today you have to Instagram the card, the flowers, the jewels, the wine, the food, the guy, the naughty underwear…
Stop it. For the love of sanity. Do. Not. Do. It.
But. Given that it will occur and every halfwit on the planet will be posting the biggest lie they can concoct…
Here’s the plan.
Buy yourself a bouquet of something pretty. Photograph it. Post it on all your social media with no explanation.
When somebody is rude enough to ask simply say the flowers were from your greatest admirer. Truth. And. Sorted…
Advice for chaps. If you are from the side of the room with dangly bits and facial hair the advice to you is Do Not Forget. Your life may depend on it… also a large present and a suitably soppy card can result in the sort of sexual favours you have only dreamed of.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
The secret of living not glum
Is to live by this one rule of thumb:
If you can’t eat it or fuck it
Then pass by that bucket
And go find a bottle of rum!
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…
Bonjour my little love muffins,
It is one, the beloved and multi-talented Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient teacher who, via the medium of this ‘Thinking Quill’ seeks to inform, educate and excite – via the vulgar coils of the Interwebs – the hearts and minds of a growing band of Readers Who Write.
Today, my Muse and I feel sportive and light and do gambol about in the water meadows of imagination in a harmony so perfect that to speak it is to mar its unsullied beauty.
Therefore, mes estudas, follow us quietly making your footsteps as gentle as the bleating lamb and as soft as the breast of the turtledove lest you dishonour the music of my life with your vulgarly large boots…. Ah yes, my children, follow in silence and listen with care, for today we discuss the pinpoint of blue-hot flame that is literary erotica in all its fine forms.
It must be understood that the act of fornication, in its multiplicity of guises, is the engine that drives humanity to live out its mundane day-to-day existence in the hope that a glimpse, a scent, a touch, or a taste will donate to any given moment that sexual ecstasy for which it strives. Equally we must always take into account the sensibilities of our gentle readership and the rules that govern what may be said and what should only ever be hinted at.
We are, mes estudas, above the simply biological. We may not discuss the precise size and thickness of the male appendage, any more than we should even hint at the width/narrowness, hair/baldness of the female docking station. No. You may leave it to your reader to understand that tab A is most usually inserted into slot B (with occasional excursions into orifices C and D).
Your task as a purveyor of fantasy is to bring a flush to the cheek and a heaviness to the stomach of literature in such a way that the reader experiences those selfsame heats and twinges. A properly written scene of sexual tension should leave its reader panting lightly and susceptible to the merest breeze of sensuality.
Do not grasp your unfortunate victim by the genitalia and wrestle him to the ground with the sledgehammer blows of sexually obvious language. No. And again no. Rather scent the air with tender sensuality and slowly bring your reader to a climax only by the tenderest touches of the fingertips of perfect prose.
Build your scenes of human love with care, lest they tumble around your ears leaving you like a pubescent boy with damp pyjamas.
Oh yes, my students, who hang on my every word with the sort of open-mouthed excitement more usually generated by a pole dancer at an adolescent birthday party, lead your readership along the paths of sensual gratification by all means. But do so with the siren song of your creative juices, not by lassoing them with a string constructed of pubic hair and bodily secretions.
To finish this lesson. I offer a small extract from my own greatest work wherein our hero first feels the gentle tug of his feminine companion’s sensuality.
They came out of the desert into the fertile valley of the big river, just as the sun was dropping. Buchtooth kicked her camel until it knelt and leapt off the saddle throwing her clothing off as she ran towards the water.
“Come on Fatswhistle you ugly bastard, get off your frigging camel and get into this water. You smell worse than him.”
Fatswhistle followed his companion in a much more leisurely fashion. He was just removing his cracked leather boots when she threw herself into the water. Her back was broad and freckled and as she dived, the white globes of her arse were displayed to Fatswhistle’s suddenly interested gaze. He removed his clothing at a rather accelerated pace and hurried after her into the brown water.
She was singing tunelessly and washing her long carrot-orange curls when he waded over to her and sat down. The river mud felt like silk under his buttocks and he picked up one of his own feet and looked between his toes. He watched his companion from under his eyelids finding her heavy breasts surprisingly exciting as they dipped in and out of the water. He scooted closer and put out a tentative hand. She snorted and wrung the water out of her hair. Emboldened, he touched the freckled skin on her shoulder. She jumped and swore, dunking him under the water until he saw stars.
“Gerrof.”
Farewell for now dear students!
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.
If I fall let it be because I climbed too high
If I fail let it be in great endeavour
If I slip let it be because the ice is dry
Let me labour each task and give up never
If I should in my life cry tears of shame
May it be that I tried though it went wrong
I will take the cold shoulder and the blame
If I know in my heart that I stood strong
I will stand at the side of any friend
With our arms linked and facing any fight
I will pledge to be loyal and not bend
And always speak out for what is right
Even so when I’m old and my eyes fail
When my body is unable for the war
May I still be a beacon on on the trail
And still know what thing is worth fighting for
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