Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The face smiled, belying the words it spoke. “We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath. “Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.” A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it. “You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

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…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It has come to my attention that there may still be those amongst you who are not entirely au fait with who I am and my impeccable credentials for penning these pieces of perfect pedagoguery. More on why I fear this in a moment, but for now, I must yet again remind you, it seems that I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, Ivy to my friends, author of the science fiction and fantasy classic, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mayhap it is because I have temporarily withdrawn this gem of literature from the maw of an unappreciative public whose ability to discern quality is clearly lacking.

The issue of having one’s fame less recognised than it should be, came to one’s attention when Mumsie returned from an evening at our local hostelry ‘The Pink Wigeon’. She stumbled into my writing room cursing and swearing about not being able to see as I had been writing by the light of a single candle to enchant and encourage my Muse.

“You’re wasting your bloody time, Moons,” she declaimed as she picked herself up from the floor. “No one has heard of you and no one ever will. I asked in the pub and no one had any idea. No one. Not one of the bastards.” Then she staggered back up the step from my underground lair and vanished into the night. Had she remained to hear it, my bright witticism of a reply came to me scant minutes later. “Mummy,” I would have said, “prophets are never honoured in their own hometown.” She would have had no answer to that one, I am sure!

Voice

You may have heard it said that every writer has their own ‘voice’. But I suspect, dear Reader Who Writes, that no more enlightens you than it did myself when I first encountered that phrase many days ago now. But allow me to explain so you may acquire this essential aspect of your actualisation as an author.

Your voice is how you speak and your writing Voice is how you speak to your readers. It is that simple. When you choose the precise posy of willing words from the diverse dictionary of your capacious creativity, this – this dear reader Who Writes – is your own unique Voice.

‘But, my beloved teacher,” I hear you say, “Is this not what I already do? Am I not thus, fully fledged from the outset with my own vibrant Voice?” And I reply ‘Nay! And Nay! And thrice Nay! Oh ignorant one.” This is why is I who am the teacher and you the humble pupil, sitting at my metaphorical feet to benefit from my knowledge and wisdom in matters pertaining to the literary arts.

That which you fondly consider your Voice at present is merely your own fumbling effort to present prose in a manner that at least is not too distasteful to a reader. Consider yourself as an aspiring cook who has acquired sufficient skill not to burn their offerings. You will acknowledge that is a long way from being a Master Chef!

Your Voice is only achieved at the end of a long apprenticeship. It is the end result of your hard work. Of those long hours spent burning the candle at both ends (though I have yet to find a candle holder that permits this myself) so that you can emerge from the chrysalis of mere imitation into the fully fledged speckled butterfly of your own Voice.

For therein, dear disciple, lies the secret of attaining your own Voice. Copy that of your literary betters until you have imbibed their Voice and imprinted it upon your own. After all, who are you to think you can write with a more compelling Voice than those whose literary feet you are not fit to touch?

Until next we meet.

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.

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

E.M. Swift-Hook

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.

Leaving Sian to feed the twins, I dragged Ben over to the office. He opened his mouth and I forestalled him with a big kiss.
“I take it we are expecting visitors.”
He nodded, but there was a grim set to his jaw.
“Right then. Let’s do contingency planning. There’s no way to stop Stella from going to assure herself Audrey is okay, so we’ll send a couple of Connor Smith’s boys to ride shotgun. They all adore Star, and her cream buns, so she’ll be as safe as houses.”
The atmosphere in the office dialled down several notches and he managed a half a grin.
“Why didn’t we think of that?”
I let that one go and enumerated the rest of my thinking on my fingers.
“Extra manpower in the ice cream parlour. And in here. And a couple of big lads in the house. That should do the job.”
“It should. But what do we tell the twins?”
I thought for a minute.
“Are any of the guardsmen any good with tools?”
“They’re all better than me,” he offered.
I shook my head. “So are Bud and Lew.”
His chuckle was real enough and he fondly mussed my hair before pulling himself back to the business in hand.
“I think that the two older guys who replaced that louse Andrew are pretty handy. But why?”
“There’s quite a bit of maintenance wants doing over at the house. The twins won’t question a man with a screwdriver. Though they might just get right on his nerves.”
He beamed. “You never let me down.”
After a stolen kiss he went off to make arrangements and I grabbed a few precious minutes with my girls. All too soon it was time to smarten myself up and head across to meet some gentlemen I had rather hoped to never encounter again. I left Bud and Lew playing with the twins but took Stan and Ollie with me. We bellied up to the bar and I fortified myself with a glass of impeccable claret. Ben wasn’t far behind me, and, although he opted for a pint of a local golden ale, and we managed to talk about the possibility of stocking the brand regularly instead of as a ‘guest’ we were both as edgy as cats in a rainstorm.
At the appointed time, three men came quietly into the bar. One was slight and expensively tailored. I remembered him. The other two were more obviously hard men, though I reckoned them less dangerous than their boss. They walked over to where I sat and the man I remembered smiled.
“Mrs Beckett. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
I extended my hand and he shook it with careful gentleness. Meanwhile the dogs were giving his companions their most unfriendly side-eye. One man put a hand in his jacket pocket and I felt myself stiffen.
Before I had chance to do more than glare his boss rounded on him and snapped out an order. The hard man cringed and seemed to diminish inside his clothing.
“Our hostess’s dogs would seem to be correct in their estimation of you. Either remember your manners or go and wait in the car.”
The hard boy met my eyes and I kept my face cool and disinterested. Eventually he ducked his head.
“Apologies, madam.”
I inclined my head. “Accepted. But please remember I am very fond of my dogs.”
Boss man laughed, a sound of genuine amusement.
“There is a lesson there for you boys. Courage doesn’t always come with big muscles.”
I didn’t quite follow his train of thought there, but I wasn’t about to ask dumb questions.
Ben put a restraining hand on my shoulder, though, just in case.
“Be welcome to The Fair Maid and Falcon,” he said formally. Then in a more normal voice. “Can we feed you?”
“That would be a greater civility than we are accustomed to.”
I grinned at him as Ellen appeared with menus.
“Your table is ready, if you would like to follow me.”
Once we were seated and our drinks order was placed I had a thought.
“How many of you are out in the car park?”
“Four. In two cars.”
I signalled to the waiting Ellen.
“There are four gentlemen in the car park who are also hungry I’m sure. Have two of the boys move a picnic table to a convenient spot and take their food orders out to them.”
“Which cars?”
Once she had the necessary information she bustled off.
The two hard boys fiddled with their hands and I sort of took pity on them.
“You having a problem deciding what you want to eat?”
They nodded. “We aren’t used to eating at the establishment of a Michelin starred chef.”
I had to laugh. “Would it help to know I don’t cook much these days?”
That drew a smile, but then the braver of the duo shook his head. “I don’t reckon you as the type to let standards slip.”
“Busted. And I will admit to being proud of what we serve. What sort of food do you like?”
This time they both grinned naturally. “We aren’t proud, so long as there’s plenty.”
Ben took over as smoothly as if he wasn’t in a state of high adrenaline.
“How about tapas?”
“What, like you eat in bars at Benidorm to stop yourself getting pissed?”
“Sort of. Only better.”
They nodded enthusiastically and in the end we opted for tapas for five, with extra chips and garlic bread.
Boss man smiled at me, but addressed Ben.
“You may find it difficult to believe, but I’m truly not here to pick a fight with your family. I have a great deal of respect for your business ethics and your support for the community. It’s merely a case of explanations from both sides.”
Ben’s jaw unclenched fractionally. “Okay. I guess.”
“Shall we eat our lunch and talk after?” I suggested.
“That seems like an excellent notion.”
The food arrived with commendable speed, and our guests were soon wholly occupied by the variety and excellence of the dishes. Even the boss man lost his veneer of superiority sufficiently to all but groan at the medley of flavours. I had wondered at Ben’s addition of extra chips and garlic bread, but he turned out to have been right on the money as every dish was all but licked clean.
When they had finished eating, the youngest of the trio made me a mock bow.
“It’s a good job you’re married, or I’d be here every night making a fool of myself by courting you for your tapas.”
His boss offered him a stern look, but when I laughed he palliated the severity with a wry grin.
“It’s a good job I more than halfway agree with you. It’s also a good job her husband is a secure sort of a gentleman.” He indicated Ben with a hitch of his chin. “Because he’s certainly not a man it would be sensible to irritate.”
“Indeed he wouldn’t.”
“As the woman is blind enough to never see any man but me, I can afford to be complacent.” Ben spread his easy charm. “Does anyone want pudding?”
After a fair bit of groaning we established that everyone was full and coffee would be the order of the day.
Ben and the two hard boys took their coffees to the bar, leaving me and my dogs to converse with the boss man.
“Cards on the table?” I asked.
“It would be easiest.”
“I’ll begin then. It has been brought to my notice that certain groups of people are interested in a plot of land we acquired to add to the pub and the market garden. I’m also pretty certain that some people are suspicious of our motives for buying it.”
He nodded and I continued.
“The old man to whom the land belonged died and his daughter offered it to the parish council, who had neither the money nor the will to make the purchase. They suggested that Ben and I buy it. Given that one part of the land is a field that abuts the market garden and another is an orchard that runs alongside our beer garden I could see the business sense. Ben, of course, thought the paddock would be ideal to house ponies for our twin daughters. This. Is. Not. Happening.”
My companion grinned a sort of sharky grin. “My daughter has a horse, and it keeps me poor.” Then he sobered. “I can see the field to add to the market garden. But what use are the other bits?”
“Not a lot. Particularly as it’s all protected and covenanted. But look at it this way. If a developer got his sticky hands on the orchard how long would it take them to break the covenant and build on the orchard at least. Imagine having a dozen or so ‘luxury homes’ sharing the access road we maintain and complaining that the pub is too noisy, etcetera.”
“I hadn’t considered that, but it’s a valid point. It is indeed a valid point. And the paddock?”
“It was just part of the parcel. Currently it’s home to some sheep and a group of pigmy goats. Now. I believe we said something about cards on the table.”
“We did, and it’s a troubling tale. Forty or so years ago, a shipment of arms and ammunition went missing. So far as I am able to ascertain it just disappeared. Those for whom the consignment was destined were unamused, as were those who were the providers. After some ‘investigation’, suspicion fell on a fairly small cog in the delivery machinery. He was questioned closely and let go. However, there was a faction convinced enough of his guilt to take vengeance. His wife was kidnapped and never seen again. He was sent her fingers in a box, but nothing else was ever found. She was seven months pregnant. The young man hanged himself.”
He stopped speaking and one look at the porridge grey of his skin had me signal to Ben for a large brandy. A few sips later and my guest had himself back in hand.
“Thank you for your patience. Anyway. This sad story was all but forgotten until a very old man died in a hospice in Limerick. His last action in life was to write a confession of his part in the abduction and murder of an innocent woman.”
It came into my head that a lot of innocent women, and children, and men had died in what is often revered to as ‘the troubles’, although that was an idea I had sense enough to keep to myself as my guest continued speaking.
“The letter stated that the murder victim was buried somewhere in the New Forest, which doesn’t narrow things down by much, and we were pretty much back to square one when we got a breakthrough. The hospice where our informant died received a monthly cheque to help pay for his care. From the man from whose daughter you purchased the land.”
And that was when the penny dropped. The hidden thing supposedly on our land was the body of a murdered woman. My companion passed me his brandy glass…

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.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Milla watched the fight, wondering what to do. She couldn’t let Glory kill String or String kill Glory and if she didn’t do something one of the two was going to go down. Pew was still shouting at them both to just stop fighting, but neither was listening. Neither was paying her any attention either.
Without giving it much thought she grabbed at String from behind, hoping to trip him up so he could be subdued before Glory did him any real damage. But he ducked as she grabbed and instead of catching at his clothing she was gripping the tiara. As String sidestepped she pulled it away and the dwarf let out a horrible scream, dropping the axe and falling to his knees sobbing.
“No! No! No! You’ve made it all end. I want to stay here…. Nooooo!”
The kneeling figure shimmered briefly then seemed to suck in to a single point of light and disappear.
There was a sudden and terrible silence. Then Pew spoke, his voice shaky.
“Are there any volcanoes around here? I think we need to find one to throw that… that thing you’re holding in.”
Milla looked down at the tiara and let go instantly. It had changed from being a golden crown into a writhing black band of…? Milla really didn’t care to know and certainly wasn’t going to study it closely enough to see. Glory reached down and scooped it up in her armoured fist.
“I think I know just the crack of doom for this, leave it to me.”
Milla wanted to say she wasn’t sure that was a very good idea, but Pew was there and hugging her.
“Did we save String?” she asked.
“I think we did. You did.”
“Well thanks for the group,” Glory said, still holding the black crown. “It was certainly different. I’m out. Running late for raid. They’re already forming up, so using my home-stone.”
“I don’t think…” Milla began, but before she could finish Glory had vanished.
“Let’s get back to WBS,” Pew said. “I’ll use my ring of recall. Just hold on tight and…”
The world flashed out of existence and back again. From being a weirdly glowing blue the light was bright and sunny. A palm tree waved overhead and there, right in front of them was her house.
She was home.
They were home.
Milla was suddenly very certain she never wanted to go on a venture ever again.

Two days later, sitting on the beach with Pew throwing sticks for Ruffkin, she was already not so sure about that. There was something about ventures. Perhaps they were addictive.
“String is fine. Seems he thinks he just got very drunk and hallucinated. Sent me a load of in game messages describing this dream he had about you and me rescuing him. I didn’t bother to say anything different.”
“And Glory? Did she get rid of that..that thing?”
Pew shrugged.
“Well that’s the odd thing. She’s not been in game since. I’ve asked around but no one seems to know what’s happened to her.”
Despite the warmth of the day Milla shivered and moved closer to Pew who put an arm around her.
“I’m just glad we’ve got each other,” he said and kissed her gently.

And that is the story so far in Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published 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…

When the loud banging and creative swearing started to emanate from the hole in the ground under the greenhouse, Brenda went for a visit with Granny.
“They find somebody to read their book to them?”
“No. They’m following the pictures.”
“What. Like the biggers and flat pack furniture?”
“Very like.”
Brenda winced. “I’ll just have everybody move to a safe distance then.”
“I would. Them three isn’t likely to get hurt, they’m too stupid. But one of the flower fairies could cop for a big problem.”
Brenda nodded.
The fairytale people shifted themselves away from the veggible garden and waited…

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

achnor (noun) – a Caledonian person who says no a lot

brillaint (adjective) – of hair, shined and glued into place with brylcreeem

cramine (noun) – the peculiar colour all the washing turns when you put a red sock in it by mistake 

defetas (adverb) – of speech or singing, loud, flat and with one of those accents that removes two vowel sounds

dilemna (noun) a long-legged coot-like bird characterised by an inability to make up its mind

foor (adjective) – poor in the terms of reference of the very rich in that one’s children have to attend minor public schools and one cannot afford more than one divorce

hosematre (noun) – pedagogue who beats pupils with a hollow length of rubber

jamsine (adjective) – sticky and bright red

jusat (adjective) – smelling vaguely of old socks and Vimto

lineger (noun) – underwear that smells like a chip shop

morgin (adjective) – grumpy and prone to spitting

omouf (adjective) – of lipstick, misapplied so it slips over the edges of the lips

sinnic (noun) – a person with no charm and little intellect 

totamo (noun) – yellow fruit with hard skin that tastes like stew and smells like sick

upsdie (noun) – a dice that only throws sixes

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…

Rex had been through several homes so he had no great expectations when he was chosen at the pound that this one would be any different. The woman who had stared at him in his run with an intense piercing look had not seemed that pleased to take him. She wore hard heels that tapped along the floor and didn’t say anything as she put him into the car and drove home.

The man who sat alone in the garden looked very sad until he saw Rex. Then he smiled.

“Charlie? My Charlie!”

Rex decided he liked his new name.

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 sweet Reader Who Writes,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, harbinger of spring, dispenser of wisdom, icon of perfect taste, and world-renowned author. For those of you who do not know one, one has sincere commiserations, but no intention of repeating one’s credentials. Look me up!

Oh yes, my beloved students, your pedagogue is in waspish form on this day. Try not one’s patience lest one turns upon you with the svelte ferocity of a maculate tiger, lest one bites you with the teeth of the hooded cobra, lest one scorn you with the poisoned barbs of a beautiful woman, lest, worst of all, one turns one’s back on you and excludes you from one’s tribe. Which, with all one’s usual deftness of touch, brings one to…

Tribes

Tribalism, as one needs to see it from the point of view of the intelligent scribe, is the basic breaking of humanity into groups. This occurs in order that our peculiar bipedal species may function both socially and emotionally. Even though we all – yes even you – belong to the same basic genus (the human race), it is impossible for the tiny minds of most to comprehend anything so vast. And even those of us with the largeness of vision and the scope of imagination to see the vast sprawl of humanity as our brethren will still be more at ease as part of a defined sub-group, or tribe.

Ergo, my wide-eyed innocents, it behoves us as humble scribblers, as the custodians of the communal mind, as the still small voice of the conscience of humanity, to take cognisance of tribal mores and the tightness of social groups when we build the complex worlds upon which our heroes stride and our villains crawl.

So how may we define our tribal groupings for the benefit of our readership?

The smallest and simplest group is the family, which we may simply define by name, be that patronym, matronymic, or any other device that occurs.

One up in size from family will be the village/town/school/workplace group. This can be defined by where a person lives, or they can be referred to as alumni of wherever, or, of course, we have the device of uniform for workplace tribes.

One larger will be areas, such as the counties in our own fair land, whose denizens may be conveniently delineated by accent or quirk of speech.

And finally: Nationality can be shorthanded by physical characteristics – such as the bland coldness of certain northerners, the dark oiliness of the mare nostrum nations, the dark smoothness of those who hail from some subcontinents, and so forth.

All very easy and precise, but where those of you without ones breadth of experience and largeness of both intellect and imagination will fall every time is on those tribes not defined by any of the above.

The tribe whose defining characteristic is its support of the hero: This group may be defined either by outstanding physical beauty or by its humbleness and willingness to sit at the feet of one’s hero basking in his knowledge and beauty. Or both.

The antithesis of the first will be the tribe whose sole purpose in life is to make our hero’s life a misery, or to profit from crime, or to promulgate lies, or…: This tribe may be conveniently singled out by one of the following methods. They may have chosen for themselves a uniform of sorts (preferably a black one). They will bear a distinguishing mark from birth (ugliness, mole, deformity etc). Or they may have chosen to mark themselves by means of tattoo, body piercing, hair colour/style/shaven head.

From one’s own experience the use of bodily inking in specified patterns is among the most easily understood devices by which one can identify the tribe from which one’s antagonist springs. That or many gold teeth, sharpened and set with jewels, should one’s antihero emanate from wealth as well as depravity.

And that mes estudas concludes our lesson on tribalism.

Do not have nightmares trying to identify your own tribe.

Bene scribere!

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 slow worm called stumpy
Lives under the tin
And five little mice were born
Right beside him
Out in the garden
Where dappled leaves shade
Under old rusty iron
Creatures live. Unafraid

©️jane jago 2024