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.

Time. Thief of life
Celebrated in each tick
Clock faces smiling
Cogs turn too quick
Day climbs past night
Neither stops nor waits
No care for humans
Nor interest in their fate

©️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.

December arrived with frosty nights and a great deal of festive jollity, accompanied by a great deal of work. Even with the college students I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, which I privately enjoyed though I’d not want to do it permanently.
It was the Sunday before Christmas and we were just finishing food service when Ed came out to the kitchen wearing a perplexed look.
“Geezer in the bar, begs the favourite of a word with Mrs Beckett. Seems genuine enough. Says you won’t know his name, but you might remember him as the nurse.”
“Chunky guy? Looks like he can handle himself?”
“Yes. What’s to be done?”
“I’ll come and see him. Ask him to please give me ten minutes. And Ed, can you find Ben.”
“Can do.”
With the bulk of the food sent away and only a few desserts to assemble I had no reason not to leave the kitchen, so I washed my hands and face and removed my soiled apron. Neil came to stand beside me.
“Do you think it’s the guy from the shiny Merc?”
“I do.”
“He’s probably come with a message from his boss.”
“Probably.”
In the bar, I found Ben talking to a man I had last seen in the back of a black Mercedes ‘ambulance’. He spotted me as soon as I stepped out of the kitchen corridor and made a sort of half bow. Once I could see his face I knew at least part of what he had come to say and I offered him my hands. He bent his head briefly before straightening his spine.
“Mrs Beckett. My employer passed away on Monday.” He paused and I waited for him to compose himself. “It was a far more peaceful end than I would have anticipated before that strange night in a rain washed orchard. For that I thank you.”
My throat felt a little clogged, so I elected not to speak. He seemed to understand because his somewhat grim features stretched into a surprisingly gentle smile. He reached behind him and picked up a small parcel from the table.
“My old friend chose this small thing and made me promise to bring it to you after his end.”
I took the box from his hands and placed it carefully on the bar before untying the ribbon. With gentle hands I lifted out the tiny cherry tree. It was exquisitely made and yet not ostentatious, being delicately enamelled metal without precious gems or anything that flaunted wealth. I touched a pink enamel flower and felt a tear run down my face.
“Thank you,” I said. “I will treasure this.”
He bent over my hand then left on silent feet.
Ben watched him go before looking at the little tree. “That’s a charming thing. Though scarcely a Joss thing.”
“True. It’s a dust catcher extraordinaire. But I can appreciate the symbolism.”
“Me too. But what will you do with it?”
I was flummoxed at first, but then I knew.
“I shall give it to Roz and Allie. They can have a cupboard of small, beautiful things like Ellen and Sian had when they were winkies.”
“Still do have.” Ellen spoke from behind the bar. “And I even know where there is an ideal cupboard.”
“You do? Where?” Ben was flabbergasted.
Ellen nodded firmly. “Wait here.”
Morgan popped up from behind the bar. “Gin and tonic madam?”
“I think I could do with one. Ben too?”
He nodded his agreement and we had just got our drinks in hand when Ellen reappeared. She was grinning.
“Bloody thing’s too heavy for me to carry so I borrowed Dad.”
Neil came in behind her carrying a miniature library cupboard. It was richly polished dark wood with decoratively paned glass doors. I thought it was probably an apprentice piece.
“Where did that come from?”
Ellen grinned. “Mrs A found it years ago. In one of the many cupboards in the function room. She cleaned it thoroughly, put it in the store, and promptly forgot about it. Dad saw it a few weeks back and him and Sian polished it up. She was going to suggest it as a special cupboard for the twins.”
Ben swallowed audibly. “It’s beautiful and they will love it. Ellen give Sian and Star a shout. I reckon your family needs to give the girls their cupboard. Then Joss can give them the tree. After she and I have had a big drink.”
Which is how a funny little alcove not far from the fireplace in our family room now contains an exquisite miniature library cupboard. One that fits the space so well Ben and I are pretty well convinced it was made to go there.
And the cherry tree? That has pride of place and Roz and Allie clean it carefully once a month, singing to Cherry and her little family as they dust and polish.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or 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.

The apartment was less opulent on the inside than it appeared from outside. There was fine furniture and a couple of pieces of wall art, but it all had a worn look about it. Only the small niche where the lares sat gleamed with what looked to be several gold items, and one penate holding a cornucopia with jewels pouring from it. Dai wondered if he had interrupted her private devotions; as there was a small offering bowl visible and the slight smell of incense.
Octavia must have seen the direction of his gaze, because she walked quickly over to the niche and closed the doors, pulling the beautifully embroidered hanging over them. Then she turned to face the men, standing with her hands clasped behind her, almost looking defiant, as if engaging in the worship of her own household gods in her own house was something less than acceptable.
“I know you’ll think it all silly superstition,” she said, lowering her gaze demurely, “but I find it very comforting.”
Dai felt Bryn stir behind him and give a soft cough of embarrassment.
“Not at all, domina,” Dai told her, wondering how such a naive innocent could have wound up with a cunnus like Urbanus Hostilius Rufus. “Perhaps you would sit down and we can talk, there is something we need to tell you about your husband.”
She smiled and moved to one of the couches, arranging her stola with an easy grace and reclining on it completely, cradling her head on one arm as she looked at them with sky blue eyes.
“He’s in trouble again?”
“I am afraid it is a bit more serious than that. Do you have any friends or family near by? Anyone you could ask to stay with you for a few days?”
Octavia’s eyes glanced involuntarily at one of the inner doors and then looked back to Dai. She had coloured very slightly.
Deo Damnatus, Dai thought and exchanged a brief look with Bryn, she has a lover in the bedroom.
“He’s been arrested?” she sounded surprised.
“No,” Dai said, his tone flat. “I’m afraid he’s been murdered.”
Her mouth opened and she uttered a low cry came which picked up in pitch and intensity until it was a full-blown scream.
Dai found himself beside her, unsure whether he should slap her or hold her. She made the decision for him, sitting up and pulling him close, her hands gripping into his tunic as she almost stifled his face in her bosom.
“My Roo-Roo! My poor Roo-Roo!” she wailed.
With some difficulty, Dai disentangled himself and managed to hand her off to Bryn, who was not at all averse to having a beautiful young woman pressing herself against him as she sobbed.
“I’ll find you some tissues,” Dai said vaguely and moved to the door that Octavia had glanced at before. He was about to open it when she squealed.
“No! Not in there.”
Trusting Bryn to keep her from getting in the way, Dai opened the door to what he fully expected to be a lavish bedroom and a naked young man. Instead it was an undecorated room, with a simple double bed and cardboard boxes stacked up with clothes visible neatly folded in them. On the bed sat an elegantly dressed woman, who got to her feet as soon as she saw Dai. Her designer stola was draped in soft folds of silk about her. It took him a moment to place her, to think where he had seen her before. Then he realised he hadn’t, but he had seen pictures of her and the odd moment on TV when the news was covering some swish event. She had been on the arm of Tribune Decimus Lucius Didero.
Instinctively he bowed his head.
“Domina.”

Part XIII 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…

Having to sit at home and talk to each other was highlighting the biggers’ mutual loathing, and big bigger had obviously decided to do something constructive.
He and middle-sized bigger waited at the gate while a lorry deposited a number of packages on the driveway.
Garry Gnome puzzled out the letters on the biggest box.
“Lux Yerry Tree House.”
“You sure Gaz?”
“Yup. And anyway there’s a picture of a tree house by the writing.”
The gnomes looked at each other in disbelief. How were the biggers going to build a tree house in a garden with no trees?

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Dying might not be so bad. It was living that had broken him. Taken from his family at eight years old, vowed to celibacy before he understood what the word meant, and sold to the highest bidder time after time. His sword had eaten the blood of so many enemies that he felt today was no more than reparation. As the hooded figure came to his side he looked into its compassionate eyes.
“Am I dead?”
“Nearly. Say farewell to your loved ones.”
The Knight spoke the saddest three words under all the stars.
“I have nobody.”
Then he died.

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.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The humans were happily drawing water that the myora kept fresh and sweet for them.

Rescued from a dying world, the oddly appealing humans couldn’t shape reality mentally, lacked telepathy, and had an irrational urge to over-procreate. Some myora even considered humans to be sapient. Those who watched now didn’t care. They were here for entertainment.

The signal came and the culling began, with the smallest humans screaming as they were caught.

This way of managing animals came from the humans’ own history. And since the population had to be kept in check, why not have fun doing so?

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…

Good morrow mes estudas.

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, raconteur, bon vivant, and lover. You may know me for my classic work of science-fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ but I am not defined by any one genre or style. For me, the entire plethora which fills the vast panoply of literature is my veritable playground.

Ah yes, play! From the innocent games of children, to the mature games we adults play, the make-believe and imagination we hold within can be ejaculated upon the page by the skilled and talented writer, such as one is and you, dear reader who writes, aspire to be.

Which brings us to the topic of my next eloquent endeavour in education.

Erotica

Today we shall tackle the ticklish topic of erotica. A topic more top-full of dilemmas than almost any other.

Firstly we ask ourselves if we should indeed commit to metaphorical paper the most lustful and libidinous and licentious workings of our brains?

Should we decide in the affirmative we must ask ourselves how detailed are our explorations to be. How explicit shall our histories become? How much do we tell and how much leave to the fevered imaginations of our readers?

Having set ourselves such boundaries as seem good, our next quandary is how far we delve into our own personal experiences and fantasies. Should we tell all? Or are we morally obliged to invent and to speak only of our inventions?

Our last question is the delicate matter of gender specification. Can a man write as a woman, or a woman as a man? Is one’s genius able to carry such opposition?

Having settled each question in your mind and to your own complete satisfaction there leaves only to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard and create for your reader that hotbed of chaos and unthinking sensation that is the experience truly erotic. That world of touch, and smell, and stinging slaps, and kisses, and the caress of the flogger, and the forgiving benison of The Act itself. Bring your reader each subtlety, and each affront to previously held notions of decency. Teach him the fear and the ecstasy.

Make him want as your protagonist wants, or you shall have failed.

I offer a small snippet of words to conjure such feelings in the virgin breast as were unknown before.

Conceive if you will, gentle reader, of a holiday cottage somewhere in the depths of rural nowhere. It is as sparsely furnished as such places tend to be, and of creature comforts there are none. Also imagine, if your poor enfeebled brain allows, that the one brought to this place is virginal in all but the very basest sense of that word. That this child comes with untouched sensuality, with eyes wide in both need and fear, with trembling hand, with heaviness in the pit of the stomach, and with a need neither understood nor yet assuaged. Imagine the joy this simple child feels at the hand of that person who sets the self up to be both lover and teacher. Feel with our protagonist the soft caresses that turn the knees to water and the lions to fire. Hear the arousing sound of a hard hand meeting and pinkening the fairest of skin. Feel the kiss of the cat and the bite of the binding rope. Hear the cries of joy as orgasm follows orgasm. Experience the texture of skin on your tongue. The taste of the ultimate gift as your hero drinks of his lover’s joy. Rejoice. And feel envy…

Next week, my students. Ah, next week. Next week, what? That is a mystery in itself. Await my words with baited breath and painful loins and a heart that feels too big for your chest. Await me thus, and you shall see.

Until then.

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.

When did it get to be September?
Where did the summer go?
The wind’s slid out of the gentle south
As autumn begins to blow
The earliest trees are painting their leaves
In hues of russet and gold
While busy squirrels fill their cheeks
And watch the nights unfold
The air round our ears is sharp and clear
Though the sky is still duck-egg pale
It feels like the days at this end of the year
Hear the whisper of winter’s cold tale
When did it get to be September?
How are the nights so cold?
Whose is that wrinkled face in the mirror?
When did we grow old?

©️Jane Jago

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.

I was a bit over optimistic when I spoke of finished business, but at least the hanging ends tied themselves off with no unseemly drama.

As August rolled into September, and the kids went back to school, we received a visitor. Danilo turned up just before lunchtime on a cloudy Tuesday in the company of a stocky guy with a big beard, a leather waistcoat, and a lot of tattoos. Danilo offered his best television smile and introduced Bartley Proudley.
“He is the newly elected baro rom of his family and wanted to come and build a bridge with you if you will.”
I looked at the set of Bartley’s chin, and the muscles that rippled under his tattoos, and wondered what ‘elected’ actually consisted of. I kept the thought to myself, though, and smiled as graciously as I could.
Ben inclined his head. “The baro rom of the Proudlys is welcome to our vardo. Though I would like to be assured that the woman of his household who chose to declare war on me and mine is no longer in a position to aggravate me.”
Bartley showed a set of very white teeth in a wide grin.
“You have my word. That one is now the wife of my brother and under the eye of my own wife.”
I understood the bleak implications of that and leaned into Ben’s warm strength. He gave me a quick squeeze and I made my escape to the kitchen where I donned an apron and helped out in the tapas kitchen. It wasn’t too long before Ben came to find me.
“It’s okay to come out now. Mister Proudly has departed. Danilo too. Although Danilo wasn’t best pleased to be leaving – I think the tapas was calling. But Proudly doesn’t eat in the vardo of gadjos.”
“Normally I hate to lose a sale but I’ll make an exception for that guy. I thought him misogynistic, nasty, and firmly stuck in the nineteenth century, so I bailed out before I lashed out. Sorry.”
Ben pulled me in for a hug. “No need to apologise. You did right. Mister creepy even complimented me on having a properly behaved woman. I accepted the compliment, before telling him, in my best berserker tones, that I was prepared to let bygones be bygones. This once. And only as long as there was no backsliding. I think Danilo enjoyed that bit, as he reminded Proudly that this family is under the protection of the Lovells, and the Smiths, who would take a dim view. Even Mister Inky didn’t fancy that and he gave me his word, backed by a rom vow.”
“So. Do we think we’ve seen the last of his shitty little family?”
Ben’s smile was that of a very happy predator. “We do. Especially when Finoula turned up and harried the retreat. It was beautiful to watch.”
That cheered me no end, as a true Romany clairvoyant putting the fear of god is an irresistible force.
“Is Finoula still here?”
“Yup. And Jed. I talked them into tapas with us in the private garden.”
“Do you need me here?”
Neil shook his head. “No. Were okay, though the extra salads will be a godsend. Bugger off the pair of you. I’ll send over tapas and wine.”
I stripped off my apron and threw it at him. He caught it in one big hand and pretended to mop his brow with it.

Fortunately the autumn weather turned cool and dampish, so trade tapered off from the absolute mania of a record-breaking summer and we had leisure to look about us and make such changes as we could to bulwark the business against further surges. By the middle of October our various protectors had returned to their day jobs, except Simeon, of course, who spent every hour he wasn’t working trying to persuade Morgan to marry him.
I worried that this was a stumbling block in their relationship, but another part of me thought it was a game they both enjoyed immensely. Ben laughed at me, and at their antics.
“They’re young,” he said, “but they know they are meant to be together. For now, it pleases Morgan to pretend she doesn’t know it, and it pleases Simeon to try and trick an admission of commitment out of her.”
I must have looked mulish because he kissed me fondly.
“Morgan has had a lot of shit in her life and she needs to enjoy just being Morgan before she makes an honest man of Simeon.”
“I see that. But does Simeon.”
“Yes. Very clearly. He understands and he loves her enough to let her have her fun.”
“And we know this because?”
“Because he talks to me about her.”
With which I had to be satisfied, until Morgan wanted to talk to me. We were in the office sorting Christmas menus and setting upper limits for party sizes. Etcetera. We finished and I stretched my aching fingers.
“In October I loathe Christmas. But when it comes around I rather love it. Even more so since we have Roz and Allie.”
She tidied her stack of papers and looked at me a bit wistfully.
“What is is, love? What’s put sad in your eyes?”
“It’s Simeon. He wants me to commit to him. To us.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“I do want to. But I’m a bit scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m scared I might love him too much. And I’m scared we’re too young.”
She looked at me like I was the Delphic oracle, which might have been scary if I stopped to think about it. So I didn’t stop.
“You’re nineteen aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“And Simeon is twenty-three?”
Another nod.
“So. When I agreed to marry Ben. I was twenty-one and he was twenty-five. I would have said yes before, but we were interrupted by a small misunderstanding over a predatory female who took flirting as an invitation, and who wanted anything that was mine.”
“How did you manage to get over that?”
“I waited for the scales to fall from his eyes. Which happened pretty quick. What took much longer was him forgiving himself enough to hope we could be together.”
Morgan looked at me. “But you’re never jealous even when Ben flirts outrageously.”
“No. I’m not. I know now that he doesn’t see anybody but me. Also I love him without restraint or restriction. In my book you’re never too young to grasp happiness and you can never love too much.”
She launched herself into my arms and wept a little weep.
“You don’t know how much you helped me. I can’t talk to Mum about this stuff because she’s going to worry if I do and I don’t want to spoil her happy pregnancy with my silly dithering.”
I gave her a little shake. “Debs is wise enough hot to worry about a bit of maidenly dithering, as is Simeon if I don’t miss my guess.”
We left it at that and got on with the work.
Much later, in the comfortable warmth of our bed, I talked to Ben about Morgan. He heard me out in silence before kissing me tenderly.
“I think that about covered it.”
“And I didn’t do wrong by mentioning our little bump in the road?”
“No. You were just explaining.”
I don’t remember what I was going to say next as he distracted me. Masterfully.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.