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,

By now one’s profile is such that one scarcely needs to trouble oneself with an introduction. The willingness to elucidate? The eloquent and sophisticated writing style? It could be none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – acclaimed and admired author of “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” whose fantastical and fortuitous adventures through the megaplex-multiverse have been steady in the Amazon charts as Bestseller One – in a – Million for over a year.

Mummy tells one that as a consequence of one’s talent and application one can now claim millionaire status as an author – and as such, one’s advice, dear Reader Who Writes (henceforth for brevity, my RWW), should be deemed as of a value beyond that of any lesser star in the literary firmament.

The Best Writing Environment

Today, we shall consider decor. For how shall a man write words of beauty if surrounded by ugliness… Let your writing environment be as the oyster shell that contains the pearl of your wisdom in its nacreous depths. Let all be of characteristic colour and lustrous texture. Let even the floor upon which you rest your prognathous toes be a thing of surpassing beauty.

For oneself, one has chosen a monochrome background against which the vibrant colours of one’s imagination can flower like the tenderest of cymbalom orchids. Against the purity of nero and blanco, one may await the prognostications of Euterpe and Calliope in perfect symbiosis with one’s environment. Oh, how one’s soul sings for sheer beauty, as one takes up the metaphorical pen with which one dispenses the finest flowers of one’s intellect and one’s experience to both enlighten the minds and titivate the jaded palates of the proletariat behind their electronic reading devices.

And this, gentle RWR, is the prescription for perfection in the decor of your own little writing hovel. Let your decoration be tasteful and rich, playful and precocious, seductive and austere, lightsome and weighty. Let it be all these things, but above all let it be the perfect backdrop for the blossoms that are seeded in your mind by the gentle Muses as they blow the breath of inspiration into your hearts and souls. Oh, and don’t forget cushions. One can never have too many cushions.

The next time I speak to you we will consider the vital importance of writing rituals.

Until next then, my faithful students you RWW. Bon ecrit!

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.

I’ll walk away when the leaves fall
When the autumn blazes gold
I’ll leave when winter knocks the door
When this young year grows old
I won’t outstay my welcome
Where love is not for me
I’ll pack my bag and walk away
Won’t cry where you can see

©️ jj 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. 

That weekend the weather broke spectacularly. We enjoyed the mother of all thunderstorms accompanied by torrential rain and storm force winds. Fortunately for us, The Fair Maid and Falcon is low-slung, flint-walled, and surrounded by similarly strong buildings, all of which stood sturdily against the worst the elements could offer. I worried for the glasshouses in the market garden, but they were carefully constructed and well-maintained, and we lost only one pane of glass. Jed and Finoula also reported their cottage safe, with only one slipped slate that Jed could fix himself.
Not everyone was so lucky, and the countryside around us awoke to missing roof tiles, feral garden sheds, wrecked greenhouses, and wandering rubbish bins. Not to mention flash floods and power cuts.
Home village rallied round those who lost possessions, and, while some of our big strong boys assisted with the clear up, we fired up the generators that live in the barn and provided soup and sandwiches for those who had no means of cooking.
The electricity was back on and the sky was showing the beginnings of a glorious sunset when we had a visitor. He came in quietly enough, but I know dangerous when I see it, and so does Ben who followed the man into my office and leaned negligently against the wall.
I eyed my visitor as coolly as possible, whilst he essayed a thin smile.
“My name is Charles MacAlister. I’m here on behalf of MacAlister and Reagan.”
He presented me with a business card that claimed him as a junior partner in a solicitor’s practice operating out of Southampton. ‘Yes, right, my friend,’ I thought, ‘and I’m the Aga Khan’. But I smiled politely.
“How can we help you?”
He showed his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I’m here because you recently purchased a parcel of land that adjoins your property.”
“We did.”
“My client would like to buy it from you.”
“Why?”
He bridled. “That is scarcely your concern.”
I raised my brows. “Really? As you yourself mentioned, the land adjoins our property, therefore what happens to it is my concern.”
He glowered at me before reassembling his polite persona. “You do have a point,” he said carefully. “I can assure you that the potential purchaser has no intention of doing anything other than ensuring the land remains undeveloped.”
“In which case why buy it? The land is already protected by covenant and precedent.”
“Which can be broken, with a few words in the right ears. Surely you are enough of a businesswoman to see that.”
He leaned forwards, attempting to pin me with his cold eyes. Meeting his gaze unflinchingly I let the silence between us stretch until it was beginning to be uncomfortable before I spoke as dismissively as I could manage.
“I’m a very successful businesswoman, as you are perfectly well aware. I am also not selling what I just bought.”
He hissed and Ben balled a big fist.
“You are making a mistake.”
I lifted one shoulder. “Mister MacAlister. I don’t think it’s me making a mistake. You offered to buy the land. I refused your offer. Therefore our business is now concluded.”
He bunched his shoulders and the four dogs raised their heads, with Ollie going so far as to growl deep in his chest. Behind our visitor, Ben made a similarly angry noise.
I spread my hands. “You see how it is. There’s no more to be said on the subject. So I will bid you good evening.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
I gave him my blandest most disinterested look.
“Oh. I don’t think so. We own three pieces of relatively useless land. A paddock and an orchard which will remain undisturbed and a small field which has already been incorporated into the market garden it adjoins. You can tell your principals that if it makes your position any more tenable.”
Our eyes met and he must have seen something that persuaded him I was in earnest because he stood up and made me a half bow.
“If I can convince the gentleman concerned that the orchard and paddock are to remain undisturbed I’m sure he will be reassured.”
With that he went as quietly as he had arrived.
Ben came and sat on the corner of my desk.
“What do we think he really wanted?”
“Oh, I think whoever he works for really wants the land. What I can’t fathom is the why.”
While I was thinking Ben’s phone burbled merrily. He looked at it idly then grunted.
“It’s Mark I’d better answer I guess.”
“You do that love. And while you’re about it can you get your backside off next week’s menus that I’m about to enter on the website.”
He chuckled but obligingly lifted a cheek. I got on with my work whilst halfway listening to Ben making noncommittal noises into his phone.
After a pretty lengthy conversation he tapped a finger on my shoulder.
“Can we have a breakfast meeting tomorrow?”
“Who’s we?”
“Us. Mark, his dad, and his cousin James. Plus Finoula and Jed.”
I had a quick think.
“I don’t see why not. Half eight at ours. And, yes, we’ll provide the breakfast.”
Having relayed my acquiescence he ended the call.
“You got much more to do, love?”
“Nope. Five minutes should finish the job. Why?”
“Tapas in the bar? You ain’t eaten since breakfast and I can always eat.”
I was tired enough for that to sound like a grand idea, so I nodded.
“We need to get a wiggle on, though. Before the kitchen closes.”
He grinned his best schoolboy grin. “I already ordered. Was on my way to pry you out of the office before that goblin appeared.”
I grinned back at him. “You go and get me a big glass of wine and I’ll be right there.”
We lingered over our food for a long time, aided and abetted by our good friends Neil and Stella, who put off their chef’s whites and joined us for wine and nibbles.

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 took a moment to orient herself and work out which was the exact tree the griblin had pointed out, then she strode over the purple tussocks. The tree felt pretty solid, it’s grey bark a little slimy, but there seemed no way though it. Her shoulders dropped. The griblin must have lied. She heard the others come up behind her and couldn’t bear to turn and face them with her foolishness.
“Oh Em Gee! Look at that.” Pew’s excitement made her spin round without thinking. Half his body was visible the other half had vanished through the tree.
“But… but it’s solid to me,” she protested and thumped on the broad trunk.
Glory put her hand into the tree and pulled it out again.
“I reckon that’s cos you’re an NPC. You’re part of the same graphics as this is so to you it’s solid.”
Pew was nodding. “That makes sense.”
“But that means I can’t come with you. I’m stuck here.”
Pew emerged from the tree again and took her hands in his.
“It’s ok. I’ll go through this graphics glitch and you and Glory can walk through the village. Like she said you’re an NPC so you shouldn’t need griblin faction. We’ll meet on the other side. It’ll be fine.”
And for once – just for once – it was. But Milla was so worried the whole time about Pew getting stuck in the swamp on his own or running into a monster that she barely noticed what the griblin village was like. She just hurried as fast as she could after Glory who seemed to know which walkways to take and which to avoid. They finally headed through a closed gate to which Glory held the key and down a narrow ramp onto a tongue of gravel and sand which jutted out into the lake.
Behind them the griblin village was barely visible, hunkered down behind a wall of outward pointing wooden stakes. Ahead of them was a broad expanse of blue sparkling in the sun and for a moment Milla felt homesick. But only for a moment, before her anxiety overwhelmed it. She spun around studying the treeline on either side of the village.
“I don’t see Pew.”
“I’m here!”
She turned again but saw nothing. Just the stake wall and the trees. Then Pew stepped out from a tree almost beside her. Not caring what Glory might think she threw herself into his arms and for a moment they clung together.
“Um… guys?”
She heard Glory’s voice and the edge of tension in it but, Milla’s eyes were closed and she was kissing Pew. Properly kissing him. Their first proper kiss and rainbows and unicorns were dancing around them.
“Guys!” Glory’s voice was sharp and Pew broke the kiss.
“Oh crap!”
“Incoming!” Glory shouted, drawing her sword and Pew stepped forward so he was in front of Milla, but a good pace or so behind Glory.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 23rd 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…

When almost everyone had partway recovered from the effects of Big Bigger’s booze Brenda called a meeting.
“Right you lot. I’ve only got one thing to say. Nobody brews no po-cheen.”
She ignored the mumbling and grumbling and went for a quiet rest in the herbaceous border.
She awoke to find Granny snoring beside her.
“What you doing here, old nome?”
Granny awoke with a start, and by the time they had found the teeth that exploded from her mouth it was dinner time and the question was forgotten.
Cheezer, Oisin, and Chiggers were conspicuously absent.
Big Brenda sighed.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

dauy (adverb) – of speech, sounding as though one has a mouthful of marshmallow

definitle (descriptive noun) – an author’s struggle to find a suitable title for their magnum opus

denoucne (noun) – sticky toffee that is so chewy you can’t talk for three hours

dispure (noun) – a pretend virgin

fugure (verb) to make a column of figures add up to a different total every time you try

hisnts (noun) – male genitalia 

moght (adjective) – of cheese, moist and vaguely oscillating

noticeded (adjective) – pertaining to cake or bread – being without seeds

pitol (noun) – small biting insect related to the headlouse found in cracked toes

priotitise (adjective) – having one breast bigger than the other

thy seel (archaic) – yourself

waiitng (noun) – antipodean bird whose call sounds like an old Nokia phone

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 one of those sunny days where you have to half squint at times to keep the brightness out. I’d just been round the monthly market in the town square and spent a bit on fruit and veg, and was wandering back to the bus stop when I saw a large orange on the edge of the pavement by the stone wall of the church.
Thinking it lost by someone leaving the market I bent to pick it up and found I was holding a small orange kitten.
And that was how we got our big tom cat, Marmalade!

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,

You will recall from our previous acquaintance that I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV author of the One Million Bestseller (one million in Amazon Rankings) epic of science fiction and fantasy excellence, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. One’s chums tell one that they find the old moniker a bit of a mouthful and for some inexplicable reason few seem able to pronounce it without adding a silent smirk in the middle. Hence, one is usually bespoken of by one’s legions of admirers as ‘Ivy’.

However one is proud of one’s unique and outstanding name. I owe it to my darling Mummie having been a flower-child in her youth and Pater being a frightfully successful stockbroker. Tragically, Pater is no longer with us. He is in a better place, as he assures the world frequently in those Facebook pictures of his suntanned self and the skinny tart he took with him to Barbados.

But enough of my history, you are not here to have your heart bleed for my broken home, you are here to learn from my vast stores of wisdom and humility. I will keep you in anticipation no longer.

The Best Writing Equipment

A delicate pun-ette never goes amiss, gentle Reader Who Writes and brevity in insignificancies is a virtue I profess frequently, so you shall be acronymed into my RWW from now on in this piece.

The importance of beauty cannot be overemphasised. One is a follower of the maxims of the sainted William Morris and will have nothing in one’s bijou writing cave that one does not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.

It takes so little effort my beloved RWW to ensure that one writes only on the most perfect sheets of paper, with the most gloriously coloured inks, using pens made from the flight feathers of the Phoenix of one’s imagination.

Oh, would that were true, would that it were.

Instead, we are driven by the exigencies of life in a century that prizes immediacy above the endeavours of gentlemanly artistry. So I have a convenient technological contrivance to enable me to articulate my erudition across the world. From my fingers to your eyes. Miraculous to realise that these words I am typing in my underground retreat shall soon be read by you dear, dear RWW whether you are in Utah or Uzbekistan, Brisbane or Brighton, La Belle France or Lesotho.

So yes, the equipment you most need as a writer is some form of a computer connected to the interwebs. Be sure to have one set up in your chosen writing area before I next grace you with my presence.

And until then, dearly beloved RWW – bon ecrit!

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.

June comes in beauty, decked out with flowers
Bluebells and harebells, buttercups and celandine
Bringing us days with long daylight hours
And lily-of-the-valley and sweet columbine

Every hedgerow and meadow is blooming
Poppies and daisies, cornflower and chamomile
Gardeners’ know midsummer is looming
Forget-me-nots, campion and hoary cinqfoil

Summer is comming with all nature’s glory
Comfrey and clover, valerian and marigold
Wildflowers blooming tell their own story
Agrimony, saxifrage, and dandelions bold.

So out in the fields and gardens we ramble
Pansy and tansy, willowherb and cow parsley
Braving the sun and the rain and the brambles
For foxgloves and meadowsweet and bird’s foot trefoil.

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. 

Quite some time later, in the privacy of in my office I allowed myself a small meltdown in Ben’s large embrace. He held me while I shed the tears that would seriously embarrass me if anyone but Ben saw them. When I was at the gulping and snot stage he offered me a large handkerchief.
“It was just…” I struggled for the words, and I couldn’t carry on.
“Morgan being punched in the face?”
I nodded miserably, and he smoothed the hair back from my forehead.
“I know, love, but it’s not on you.”
“No Joss, it’s not.”
The deep imperturbable voice made me jump.
“Mark. What the feck are you doing here?”
He smiled kindly, although the set of his chin boded ill for someone.
“I’m here because Morgan knew it wouldn’t be long before you started blaming yourself. She says we oldies are to stop reacting and apply our intelligence to working out the why.”
I could hear Morgan saying it and felt my smile grow.
“She really is a pistol isn’t she?” Ben’s voice was warm with appreciation of her courage and pragmatism.
“She is.” Mark chuckled. “I’ll always love her for her mother’s sake and for her sweet smile, but she’s such a brave little soldier that I also admire her almost beyond words.”
“Me too,” Ben agreed, “and I don’t forget that her ability with a baseball bat saved Joss’ life.”
I found a small thread of a voice. “So what’d we do?”
Mark snapped his teeth together and I was reminded of the alpha predator that lurked under his normally urbane persona.
“We take steps.”
“What steps?”
“Some rather angry people visit the Proudly family. And we beef up your security until such time as this shitfest is sorted.”
I poked him in the chest.
“More security might be helpful. But. We can’t afford it.”
“Oh. You won’t be paying.”
“Mark. No. You can’t afford to guard us for nothing.”
His smile was just on the acceptable side of smug. “You won’t be paying, and we won’t be losing out. The family Proudly was warned that there would be financial consequences to any further attempts to intimidate you or any of your staff. They have overstepped, and now they’re going to pay. The first bill will be delivered along with a stern talking to.”
I frowned. “Are you sure the Proudlys were responsible for today’s attack?”
“We are. Young Andrew recently got himself a new girlfriend, who managed to drop some acid with her pillow talk. Her name is Margarita Proudly. She’s the younger sister of a certain female with an agenda. Andrew became convinced that you and I are doing the dirty on the side, and that Morgan was the result of an affair between Debs and a married man. Namely my cousin James.”
“Simeon’s dad?”
“The very man. He is not happy. Currently on a plane from the Costa del Crime, accompanied by my father. They want words with the family Proudly and to be honest I’m not about to get in their way.”
Ben nodded sagely. “Me neither. And maybe they can shake some information out of someone…”
“They should take Finoula with them,” I said. “They can intimidate physically, and she can scare the shit out of them with the power of her mind.”
Mark patted me on the head and Ben managed to pull me away before I bit him.
“That’s a spectacularly dim thing to do.” I snarled.
Mark looked puzzled. “Why?”
“Because I’m neither a clever toddler nor a fucking dog.”
“What…”
Then his brain caught up with his mouth.
“That was both stupid and patronising and I have no excuse beyond how hard the damage to Morgan’s little face hit me. It was like a trip back to when you were almost killed, Joss. And it bites.”
Ben nodded. “It does. It bites hard. And I might even have patted you, babe, had I not had my card marked in that area a long time ago.”
I remembered the occasion quite well, and it wasn’t really all that long ago, but I decided not to argue the date as I could see how upset both men were. Instead I lifted a shoulder and spread my hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Okay. Mark gets a pass this once.”
I looked into his sombre eyes.
“Don’t sweat it. Morgan isn’t. Because she trusts us to get it sorted. And we will.”
Ben bent and rubbed his face against mine.
“You’re right. As usual. What would you do next?”
“I think you and Mark need to go and visit Finoula.”
Mark nodded. “We do, but not until you have been introduced to your new group of ‘employees’.”
There were a dozen thick-shouldered hard-handed guys waiting in the bar. These weren’t young lads, and I recognised none of them. I shook hands all round, tried to memorise names and attempted to work out where the troops had come from.
The oldest guy caught on to my puzzlement.
“We work for Connor Smith. Our boss told the Proudly crew to stand down. Only they never done as they was told. Mister Smith don’t like to be disrespected. And he likes your food. So we’re here to make sure there’s no more backsliding.”
He smiled a crocodile smile, but dropped me a wink that made him look more human.
“We’ve got a bus to live in. Is there anywhere we can park her?”
Ben and I shared a moment of memories before he nodded briefly.
“We do indeed have a decent bit of hardstanding with electric hookup, water, and an outside loo where you can empty your waste tanks.”
“Thanks. Mostly we have to explain our needs in words of one syllable. And even then…”
“Yeah. I get that. But we have a Winnebago in the big barn out back, and when we first came here, as holiday relief, we parked Winnie right where you can put your bus.”
I left the men to sort themselves out and went over to the ice cream parlour where the afternoon shift was in full swing. Needless to say, the ‘girls’ on duty, actually a pair of sisters in their mid forties, had already heard what happened to Morgan. They were inclined to be indignant, but not worried for themselves.
“We’ve got good jobs here. And we’re quite able to take care of ourselves.”
I looked at their brawny arms and thought that was probably true. Then I found myself serving ice-cream cones from the recently repurposed window while the pair of them ran the cafe with practised efficiency. By the time we closed the doors at six o’clock my respect for the team, and for Morgan’s planning, knew no bounds. We cleared up briskly and they got their coats.
“Thank you ladies.”
I handed each of them a folded twenty. Both notes disappeared into capacious handbags and the duo grinned at me.
“You didn’t need to do that, but it’s welcome.”
I waved them off and wandered over to see how things were going in the pub. Thankfully, although busy, we didn’t seem to have attracted any moaners or would-be con artists and everything was running as it should. Heaving an inward sigh of relief I hoisted my backside onto a bar stool and ordered a large gin and tonic. I felt, rather than heard, Ben come up behind me.
“Slacking are we?”
“Too right I am. You got time for a pint or will your boss give you the elbow?”
He chuckled and bellied up to the bar.

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.