Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The sun rose over the meadow, painting the horizon in crimson and gold.

Leaning on the fence, Reuben watched, as he had every day for fifty years. He should have been overseeing his small flock, sold last year when there was no money left to keep them. He’d had to sell his handful of acres too.

With a roar heavy plant began tearing up his old meadow. A luxury development the sign said.

Sighing, Reuben headed home.

Thank goodness he’d sold with planning permission. Maybe, after he got back from the cruise, he’d put a jacuzzi in his refurbished cottage…

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…

Buenos Dias!

It is indeed I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, writer, agony aunt and astrologer to the famously credulous.  The renowned author of the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One had been racking one’s cranium for a topic for this week’s tutorial (yes, even I sometimes find inspiration needs to pursued vigorously), when a question prompted one to consider the vital importance of symbols and symbolism to those who would create literature.

Even that bastion of unthinking vulgarity, that outpost of alien mindset, that epitome of hard-handed hard-headedness, that creature one calls Mater has in the recesses of her underused and underdeveloped brain a vestigial understanding of the importance of symbols. Only last week, she was watching some interminably boring panel programme sur le téléviseur, upon which the current Archbishop of somewhere was being castigated about yet another cover-up of ecclesiastical child abuse. Mater looked across the room at me and smiled a twisted smile.

“Moons,” she said a thought sadly. “Moons. If that churchman was to have worn his episcopal regalia, instead of sitting there like a mouse in a poorly fitting lounge suit, I reckon most of them oiks would’ve been a lot more respectful. It’s the symbols of office doncha know.” Then she refilled her gin and Guinness and no more was said.

But that brief moment of lucidity is proof, if proof were needed that the power of symbols reaches deep into the psyche – even of those as sunk into alcoholism and depravity as one’s unlovely parent.

However. En avant.

Symbols

When one seeks to create literary magic one needs many tools at one’s disposal. Not the least of which is the noble quest. A device by which your hero may be dispatched wherever your imagination chooses in search of some artefact or some creature without which the story can progress no further. But what does that have to do with symbols, do I hear you cry? Yes, of course, I do as your tiny crania cannot hope to make the leaps of understanding that come to one’s mind as easily and gently as a bluebottle lands on a plate of rotting meat.

Of course, the noble quest is to do with symbolism. It is one of the most symbolic of all the storylines.

First. The quest itself is a metaphor (or symbol) for the struggles that beset all humans from cradle to grave.

Second. Your hero’s solid helpmeet – uplifted from the lower orders to become his right hand – is symbolic of the common clay’s need for a god to worship and of the need gods have for worshippers.

Third. Whatever or whoever is searched for, the vicissitudes of the search are the symbolic harbingers of events in human life which must be overcome with stoicism and bravery. Tempting though hysteria and Tia Maria may be.

And finally. That which is sought is the most powerful symbol of all. It symbolises human love and human endeavour. It shows us the beauty that may be found in the depths of the human soul as we try ever harder and climb ever higher in our quest for perfect beauty.

Some common symbols explained
The dragon. Strength, coldness, avarice, and sex.
The virgin. Unattainability, truth, and the desire for sex.  
Water to cross. The struggle to be loved, and the desire for sex.
A cup or grail. The thirst for knowledge, and the desire for sex.
A dove. Hope and sex.
A raven. Despair and sex.
A knife. Cutting the thread that binds a child to its mother, or sex.

One could continue almost infinitely, but I am sure you are following by now.

So, my bambinos, choose your symbols with care and write them with delicacy.

Until next. Do not have nightmares 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.

A cloud behind the mountain
Greets the rising sun
Moon floats in the sky although
Day’s almost begun
Our eyes may see the mountain
As if it was brand new
But mother moon for a thousand years
Saw that selfsame view

©️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.

Morning arrived, and with it another bank of thunder clouds rolled ominously in from the west. The air was so charged with electricity that the twins’ hair stood out around their heads like primrose haloes.
“We looks like dandelions,” Ali remarked. “Why would that be?”
Sian, who was wielding a wide-toothed comb and refraining from swearing, took the opportunity for a small teach.
“Do you pair remember how we talked about static electricity?”
“We do.”
“Well there’s a thunderstorm coming, and what is thunder and lightning made of?”
“Electricity.”
“Correct. And the air is so full of electricity that it’s sort of coating your hair. Go and stand in front of the mirror in the hallway and rub your hands on your heads.”
Roz and Ali ran out and Sian went to the doorway to watch them.
“Now lift your hands slowly.”
The shrieks and giggles told me what was happening, but I had to sneak a peep. The girls were surrounded by a cloud of soft blonde hair that was following their small hands.
“This is so cool.”
Sian looked at me. “It’s gonna take me half a day to calm their locks, but I don’t believe little kids should be scared of stuff.”
I put an arm around her. “Me neither. And in my bedroom there’s a pump spray of leave in conditioner. It’s Ben’s. Without it he looks like a dandelion all the time. It’ll help sort out the gruesome twosome, I think.”
“Is that the stuff he sprays in my hair before he cuts it?”
“It is.”
“Then I’ll give it a go.”
She ambled along the corridor and I kissed my daughters before heading for work.
Ben was in my office leaning casually against the wall. I wasn’t fooled by the apparent idleness of his posture.
“What’s pissed on your strawberries?”
“A very politely worded request for a table for eight next Tuesday morning.”
“From?”
“One Seanmóir.”
“Oh. Right. But there’s bugger all we can do. And at least we’re no longer getting visitors with evil on their minds.”
“True. But. Danilo also called me. Says he and Finoula, and some muscle, will be burying ‘Cherry’ at sunrise on that day.”
“Will she have a proper coffin?”
“He said you’d want to know. Wicker he said. Lined with moss. Also says they will leave a hole in which the twins can plant their tree. Jed will get it.”
“And you are annoyed because?”
“Because I have the willies.”
“I’m not all that comfortable in my skin now you come to mention it. High level vigilance I think.”
“Me too. I shall go and arrange a maintenance crew for the house.”
“Good idea. Maybe they can do the cracked window pane and the squeaky doors.”
He grinned a bit more naturally and scooted off. Having little confidence in the power remaining connected, I decided against booting up the office computer. Instead I rounded up any large young men I could find lurking and had them light fires in the pub’s cold grates. One of the quietest looked at me as if I’d run mad. I quirked an eyebrow.
“It’s thirty degrees in the bloody shade,” he grumbled.
“And, according to the met office, and my own instincts, when that storm over there hits it’s gonna drop to about fifteen. Which, with pissing rain, is gonna feel bloody cold.”
He thought that through and went for another basket of logs.
Ben cantered back into the bar and smiled widely. “Good thinking, love. I reckon we should get the wood burner lit at home.”
“Yes and in Neil and Stella’s flat and the bothy, and Morgan’s place. I have a feeling this storm is set to make the last one look like a weakling.”
“Maybe that’s what’s giving me the willies,” he said.
I nodded but felt a worm of doubt. “Can you get Neil to check the generators?”
“I can. And I’ll keep well away from the bloody things. I don’t know how he is so fond of them.”
I laughed. “Neil likes engineering. You don’t.”
The man himself spoke from the doorway beside the bar. “Generators ready to cut in at a moment’s notice. Sian knows how to switch yours on, and Simeon has the ones for the outbuildings under his eye.”
“Thanks Neil.”
He grinned and disappeared.
The fires were beginning to take nicely when Simeon appeared in the doorway.
“Anything else need doing before the storm hits?”
“No. Unless.” I had a quick think. “Can you tell Morgan not to open the ice cream parlour? She and her girls can pinch hit wherever needed this morning. And have you lit the wood burner in her flat?”
“I can. And I haven’t but I will.”
He saluted me ironically, then was gone like an oversized wraith.
“Cheeky bugger,” I leaned on Ben, who draped an arm round me as the sky darkened and a sudden wind whistled around the building.
“Show time,” he murmured.
Even though I was expecting it, the first crack of thunder was loud enough to make me think of Armageddon. I might even have jumped and squeaked like a proper girl if I didn’t have my reputation as a hard bitch to consider. The lights flickered and died as did the coolers behind the bar, and for a few seconds the purplish light made everything seem eerily threatening. Then the generators cut in and the lights came back on. Ben went and shut the big oak door in the outer wall of the porch.
“I know a closed door doesn’t look hospitable, but…”
“But it’s better than the flood that could happen if this ‘weather feature’ decides to dump its rain hereabouts.”
The storm was pretty much overhead, as witnessed by simultaneous flashes and booms.
“I hope the littles are okay.” Ben was trying to sound nonchalant but I could hear worried daddy threading through his voice.
“Whyn’t you go and see? I’m sure Sian has everything in hand, but it would ease my mind.”
He was gone almost before I’d finished speaking.
I heard a giggle from behind the bar and realised Morgan had appeared. I grinned at her.
“Yes. I do know what you’re thinking. But let’s not make an issue of it.”
“I wasn’t going to. Anyway it’s kinda nice how you two always have each other’s backs.”
“That’s how it needs to be, Morg, if we want our relationship to keep flourishing in the midst of whatever.”
She nodded her head and blushed.
“That’s what Dad said about me and Simeon. Says his first wife didn’t give a damn what was going on in his head so long as he brought home the money and didn’t interfere with her ideas of what a woman ought to do. He reckons it killed his desire for marriage until he met you and Ben and saw there was a better way.”
I could feel myself blushing and she came over to hug me.
“I’m sorry, I never meant to embarrass you.”
“It’s okay lovey. That’s on me. I just sometimes wish we didn’t live in a goldfish bowl.”
“You don’t really. It’s only because a lot of us love you that we pay attention.”
I squeezed her and kissed her soft cheek, but I had no words.
Ben rescued us from emotional meltdown. He poked his head into the room.
“You have to come and see this.”
We followed him to the back door from where we could look across the private garden to the house where Ali and Roz were standing on the wide veranda studying the sky with upturned faces. To my surprise, not one of the dogs was on obvious guard duty, being flopped out at their ease on the weathered flagstones. Sian was behind the twins and she waved a hand.
“How the heck does she have them pair keeping still?” Morgan was impressed.
“Look in her right hand,” Ben chuckled.
I looked, and looked again as my brain caught up with my eyes. Sian had two leather dog leashes held in a firm grip. Each leash was firmly clipped to the back belt loop of a small girl’s jeans. I found myself laughing into Ben’s eyes.
Morgan was about ten seconds behind me but once she sorted out her thoughts, she laughed until tears ran down her face and she had to be banged on the back. Simeon appeared as quietly as a professional poacher. He put his arms around a still giggling Morgan, who pointed a shaking hand at Sian and the twins.
“Well, I’ll be…”
“Novel isn’t it?” I was proud of how deadpan my voice was.
He grinned widely. “Well, I don’t reckon you’d find it in any child psychology book. But the people who wrote them never met your girls.”
“Are they truly that much bother?”
“Absolutely not. But they are a force to be reckoned with.”
Which was unarguable.
Roz spied us and poked Ali in the ribs, pointing to where we stood. They both lunged forward, but Sian had a wiry strength that was more than a match for them. They turned to give her the stink eye and the heavens opened.

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 Tribune breezed into the room like a beak-nosed hurricane. She rather wished that she could see her new partner’s face when the formidable Decimus Lucius Didero lifted her in his brawny arms and kissed her on both cheeks. She wriggled and kicked and he put her down.
“Llewelyn,” he grunted, “you take care of my little foster sister.”
Dai looked as if he couldn’t think what to say. Julia was very sure this was not the way he usually saw Romans interacting. The Tribune grinned.
“She will grow on you, and she can’t help being Roman any more than you can help coming from a place where they make up songs about everything and shag sheep. Now. I’ll assign you a contubernium of praetorians.”

Julia winced inwardly knowing how that would sound to the Briton and was not surprised that Dai’s looked furious although he said nothing. Decimus smiled a wolf’s smile.
“Calm down, you and Julia will still be in command and you can keep your own posse too, if you can trust them all. It’s just that my lads can get away with doing things you and yours never could. And they don’t have to wait for anybody’s permission. I’m thinking that by the time your boss has consulted all the people who are paying her, our bird could easily have flown the coop,”
Once again, Dai kept his mouth shut and Julia could see the knowledge that Decimus was right, openly warring with his loyalty to the force to which he belonged. She gave him a sympathetic look and he actually smiled back at her, a thin smile to be sure, but definitely an upward tilt of the lips. The Tribune, who she knew would have missed nothing, grunted at them, but it wasn’t an unfriendly sound.

“Right. Listen carefully. There are some things you need to know but I’m not supposed to tell you. Privileged information, praetorian confidentiality and that kind of merda. Well I’m not having it. My little sister doesn’t go to war unprepared.” He pointed a thick finger at the pair of them. “You need to know about your corpses. Bellicus and Docca were in big trouble. They were being targeted by a betting syndicate who try to get players taking money to fix Games. And I don’t mean any of your little Londinium locals, I mean the big boys from Rome. Those people do not play nice when someone says ‘no’. They also don’t take kindly to anyone poking a nose in their affairs, no matter who it might be.

“More of a worry, though, is this Luca. He left Rome under a cloud. It was either exile or death. He chose exile. You don’t need to know precisely what he did but you do need to know that at least six very powerful families had reason to want him punished. Whether or not they succeeded at arm’s length, I don’t care to speculate. Just be aware that he was very good at making enemies. The interesting thing is he was supposed to stay in Gallia Lugdunensis where Daddy has extensive estates around the town of Lutetia, under a form of house arrest. But clearly he didn’t and I heard today his wife didn’t either. We have no idea where she is right now.”
Julia looked at her old friend.
“That explains a lot. That old cunnus Marius looked as if he was eating merda when he had me in his office and sent me on this mission. He about halfway forbade me to bring Edbert and the dogs.”
“I hope you ignored him.”
“I did.”
“Good. You’ll need them. But you will also have an apartment here. Inns are insecure at the best of times. This is starting to smell bad.”
Julia opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it. Things were indeed smelling bad. She began to formulate a thought, but before she had time to work it through, Didero turned his attention to Dai.
“You’ll move your men in here for the duration of this case.”
Again, Julia could see the flare of pride in the Briton’s blue eyes being quickly damped by rational thought. She realised, at that moment, that she was dealing with a man who lived in a steady state of war with his own passions, a very Celtic trait. Somehow that thought just made him more intriguing.
“As you will, dominus,” Dai said. “And I see that would be safer. We’ll be in the barracks?”
“They will be, yes. They can share with the men assigned to you and Julia. I’ll arrange your accommodation too.”
Dai bowed his head.
“Dominus.”

Part V 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 gnomes were fascinated. They had no idea what the biggers would be about.
First they moved all the gnomes to the shrubbery. Putting planks of wood over the lawn, a crowd of strange biggers in heavy boots made a big house from flapping sheets.
Big Norma shook her head. “Got me beat”.
The strange house was furnished with chairs and flowers, before it filled with biggers of every sort.
To the sound of loud music the bigger they called ‘father’ escorted a small female, dressed fine, to where a man in a long dress waited.
“Dearly beloved,” he said.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

ahd (acronym) – absolutely horrible dandruff

bastrad (noun) – asshole whose parents have disowned him

brather (noun) – inconsequential conversation with male relative

cncetrating (verb form) – of jelly to set very firm

colun (noun) – printer’s symbol indicating the above is gobbledygook print as it stands

delive (noun) – technical term for murder

ebfore (noun) – very low tide

fdribblingrom (noun) – the mouth of a very drunk person

fudhe (adjective) – squishy and smelling faintly of old underwear

grwon (noun) – supernatural being almost always invisible but discernible at all times by its galloping halitosis

hopefulyl (noun) – optimistic alien

hosemate (noun) – person who swings a mean length of rubber pipe

ireonic (adjective) – of facial expressions, annoyed in a long-suffering manner

irritaes (noun) – annoyed rodents with very sharp teeth

kake (noun) – strange green dessert made from honey and cabbage

lvoe (noun) – small furry armpit parasite

maoment (noun) – unit of time falling anywhere between twenty seconds and an hour as in ‘I’ll do it in a maoment’

migth (adjective) – applied generally to children – meaning small, pale, and given to developing strange illnesses

numer (noun) – bloke who sniffs dirty laundry

orefer (noun) – yellow bird with pink feet and an attitude problem

somethme (noun) – occasional herb

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

It was his grandmother’s final wish, formalised in her will:

And to Mungo, I bequeath the contents of my safety deposit box, provided he keeps his word to me and marries within the year.

Mungo, the eldest son of a duke and in his thirties, hadn’t shown interest in marriage, although often seen with various celebrity women but now speculation mounted.

A year after his grandmother’s funeral, at a private ceremony, Mungo married his secret commoner lover of many years. The ring, his grandmother’s, had been in the lockbox.

Mungo proudly introduced his new husband to the family soon after.

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 bambini mea.

It is oneself, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Author, teacher, bon viveur, and all-round example to the uncultured youth that surrounds one’s sainted head. Famed for the classic example of science fiction excellence ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One is displeased aujourd’hui.
The climate displeases.
One’s maternal parent displeases.
And the taste of bile in one’s throat displeases even more.

One’s pater, it seems, is about to withdraw one’s allowance. Deeming, as his latest paramour declaims in tones of purest East Ham, that “thirty-whatever is fucking old enough for the useless twat to have a job and start supporting himself”. One’s mater, of course, finds the whole thing funny in the extreme. To quote her dulcet tones “I haven’t laughed so much since granny got her tits caught in the mangle.”

Such crudeness displeases almost beyond measure, and on many a night one has wet one’s pillow with tears of frustration and shame. But one shall survive. And the vulgarity of one’s progenitors brings one neatly to the topic of today’s lesson.

Euphemism

In the quest for literary perfection there are two parallel, but divergent, routes upon which one may set one’s delicate tootsies.

One may, if that is the limit of one’s creativity, embrace the route of sordid realism, whereupon every wart and wrinkle is described with anatomical precision. The road where a delicate sexual encounter may be described as a f**k. The dark alleyway along which bodily functions are both described and enjoyed. The foetid pit of filth and fecundity into which the crassly uncaring author pushes his anti-heroic characters with the sole aim of discerning whether they sink, swim, or come up smelling of hyacinths.

This, mes estudas, is not our way. It cannot be our way. It eschews the beauty of language and embraces the visceral. Should this be your inclination, why then one washes one’s hand of you. Should you wish to join the ranks of those penning ‘kitchen sink’ (pah! sewer more descriptively) fiction then avaunt ye. One will have thee no more in one’s tribe. The children of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV shall never sink to vulgarity. One’s daughters shall never develop three chins and a heaving dewlap of belly fat. One’s sons shall never bake in the tropical sun for so long that their skinny bodies resemble some wrinkled denizen of the reptile house in a low-rent zoological park. Oh no, mes estudas, we shall be beauteous until the day we tread sedately to Saint Peter’s golden gate. And in order to retain our beauty, we shall eschew all that is coarse, elemental and unlovely.

Here, then, is where the euphemism is your friend above all others. The gentle euphemism, that courteous suggestor whose orchidaceous syllables allow us to infer the crude, the ugly, the sexual, and the painful whilst protecting the delicate sensibilities of both artist and admirer.

We shall not speak of drunkenness – rather let our persons feel tiredness and emotion exacerbated by the intake of glorious nectar.

We shall not speak of the bodily functions of the bottom – rather infer that time spent in contemplation eases the pangs of the inner man.

We shall not enumerate the vulgar grunting of the joining of man and woman – rather shall we speak of the tenderest of caresses, and of the female lady garden and of the male’s fleshy sword.

Let our pens not dwell on the reproductive organs at all if that is possible – instead speak of sweet peaks and masculine heat.

We shall not speak of death – rather should we gently suggest a walk to the side of one’s maker.

We shall not enumerate pain – rather allude only to discomfort bravely borne.

We shall never speak of physical ugliness – no, let those who are plain of visage and ungraceful of form remain undescribed wherever possible and where description is unavoidable let ugliness be veiled under such kindly words as homely, honest-faced, strongly built, and even, dare one suggest, the damning of little physical beauty.

Indeed my children, consider my words of wisdom with care and never be swayed from following the primrose path of euphemistic glory. Let others dwell on the ugly and misshapen while we rise above such crudeness in our flying boat with the wings of the whitest swan and the beauty of a golden twilight.

Study your euphemisms, whilst your teacher goes fort in the vain attempt to detach his female parent from the public bar in the Beagle and Bumhole in sufficient time to converse with her own parent who is now our sole source of financial support.

Au revoir. Etudez 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.

They toss the coin and that decides
If you should live, or if you die
No matter who your family
Or whether good or bad you be
Your age to them is not a matter
Nor is how many lives they shatter
They flip the coin, won’t hesitate
Cold metal spins and lands your fate

©️jane jago 2024