Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
The secret of life you will find
Is simply to try to be kind
If you’ve got to be vile
Then go venting some bile
In private and no one will mind
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…
Χαίρετε,
It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author extraordinaire of the bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, lightsome spirit, and all-round good egg. I come to you today all aflutter with excitement, and with a spring in my delicate heels. Mumsie and I have come into money. Well, Mumsie has, but as she so playfully puts it: “One can’t leave the fruits of one’s fanny out of the treat, even if he is a disappointing plonker, with no charm and less humour.”
And guess what the treat is…? We are going away on holiday to the sun. To the Greek isles in general and to Mykonos in particular. To the place of dreams, to the wine-dark sea and the retsina. Sadly this visit, which will no doubt refresh my creativity in the home of Calliope herself, is not to occur for some months yet. But even now I am feeling ever more uplifted towards my Muse.
Mumsie says she intends to spend two weeks ‘on the lash’ (whatever vulgarisms that portends) whilst I ‘sort my freaking head out’. As if my beauteous little noddle was in need of ‘sorting’. Be that as it may, one is so excited that one’s breath comes in short pants and one finds oneself almost as excited as an eight-year-old on tuck-box day…
But such delights cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the programme of authorly improvement upon which we have set our feet. En avant ο φίλος μου.
It has been suggested to one that writer’s block is a condition that exists only in the mind of the writer. One would counter that claim with the irrefutable fact that one’s writing emanates from one’s mind. Ergo writer’s block is as real as one’s fingers or toeses. And if it is a real condition of the true literary giant, which it is, it behoves one to search for the remedy which must, as surely as the sun rises, be somewhere in the shining ionosphere
Researching the words the literary glitterati, one hears of stratagems varying from long walks in the countryside, to excessive sexual activity, to the consumption of hallucinogenic substances, to just giving up and going to bed.
In one’s own small experience of the stubbornness of the Muse of literature, one has found that capricious semi-deity can best be summoned by providing an atmosphere conducive to the comfort and delight of a creature accustomed to the finest things this world – and any other – has to offer.
Summon Calliope with soft music. With the scent of burning incense. With the delicate petals of rosebuds. With the richest of fabrics and the softest of cushions. Lay aside the vulgarity of the pad electronic in favour of the smoothest of papers, the blackest of inks and the most beautiful of fountain pens. Gaze upon only the fairest of nature’s creations. Bring yourself into that meditational state advocated by the most practiced of yogis. Do all this and you shall see the return of your faithless mistress to her perch at your shoulder. You shall once again smell the sweetness of her breath, and her inspiration shall once again enter your writing like a soft breath of breeze from the summer sea.
Above all do not despair my student. Apply yourself with humility and love and your Muse will love you once more.
Until next καλή τύχη. 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.
jenny dunn lived in a pretty smart town
with an up so market prices go down
all year round in her little room
she used her smartphone to control
Friends on facebook (both far and wide)
cared for jenny dunn not at all
they liked her posts she played their games
time now to login again
children grew up with screens a few
and down went their health as up they grew
winters stopped more summers came
then the sun dried up the rain
one day jenny dunn died I guess
hard to know as her profile’s there
busy folk living their virtual life
don’t miss the woman who was ne’er a wife
Friends on facebook (both false and fake)
reaped their harvest ate their cake
came their going and died their death
earth gone nowt left…
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.
The boys headed back to the table, where Roz and Allie leapt on them demanding information.
“Just some rude little boys who needed reminding of their manners.” John grinned at the twins. “Have you fat girls left any pudding for the workers?”
The ensuing battle gave Ben a moment to whisper in my ear.
“Uncle James?”
I had a quick think. “I think, no I’m sure, he’s Mark’s cousin on his dad’s side. But a lot older than Mark. Hence uncle. We met him at one of Debs’ big barbecue bashes. I think he lives in Spain near Mark’s dad.”
Ben’s forehead creased as he sought remembrance. “Oh yeah. I’ve got him. Truly a hard man by the looks. Jaw you could split logs with and shoulders like an ox.”
“Yes. That’s the one I’m thinking of too. I remember being told he has five large sons.
Ben nodded. “The Brown family is almost as far-reaching as a Rom clan.”
“Further, really as the Browns absorb people on merit rather than any racial malarkey.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He watched the twins assaulting John’s knees, which was about as high as they could comfortably reach, and grinned. “Do you suppose I should rescue him?”
“Possibly. Before the gruesomes hurt their fists.”
And so it was that family, friends, and the running a business that sometimes felt like spinning plates on top of poles, pushed all thought of bad guys and ill intentions to the back of my mind.
Until.
Some three weeks later.
The school holidays had kicked in and the twins were enjoying the fleshpots of Majorca in the company of their doting grandparents. Which might have given me a break if the pub wasn’t insanely busy. We were just winding down after a chaotic and frustrating lunch service, when trouble found us again. I had been pinch-hitting in the kitchen and was helping to sort out a buggers muddle in the tapas kitchen, when Stan and Ollie came to the door with their fur standing on end.
“What is it boys?”
They flattened their ears and Ollie growled deep in his chest.
“Show me.”
They turned and headed towards the back door of the pub. I was about to follow when I was stopped in my tracks by what felt like a giant hand.
“No, Joss. Not that way.” It was the voice of Esme Caunter from the other side. “Go through your home and approach the ice cream shop from the private garden. And take some large men with you.”
“Okay. I have it.”
I slipped out into the bar, where Ben and Simeon were bussing tables. I beckoned them and they came at once.
“The dogs say there’s a problem at the ice cream parlour. And Esme agrees. Says we hafta go in the back way. Sneakily.”
Ed whistled sharply and I turned to look at him. He handed over a couple of weighted baseball bats and a handful of pepper sprays. Normally I’d have been annoyed that he had such an arsenal in his possession, but I was too disturbed to do more than grab a coupe of sprays mid-stride.
“Never go into an unknown situation unarmed.” Ed said starkly.
Ben gave him the thumb and we ran round the front of the pub, slipping through the house and out into the garden. Ben and Simeon are a lot faster than me, and the dogs are faster than them, but we all stuck together, ghosting carefully round the extreme edges of the garden to where the back door of the ice cream parlour stood open.
“Right then, ‘Miss Brown’, or whatever name you’re really entitled to. You just phone your boss and tell her she has five minutes to get over here before we start hurting you.”
“I can’t call her. You have my phone.”
Came the sound of a fist hitting flesh before a second voice spoke.
“She has a point.”
I felt Simeon stiffen beside me and I laid a hand on his arm.
He and Ben leaned down so I could whisper.
“I’ll cause a diversion and you two come in and mop up.”
The nodded grimly.
I stopped creeping and wandered towards the open door. I had my hands in my apron pocket, an armed pepper spray in each hand, and murder in my heart.
“Morgan. Are you okay? You were supposed to come and collect your order of clotted cream.”
The figure in the doorway turned, and I saw it was Andrew from Brown Brothers. The fact that someone who was supposed to be guarding us was abusing Morgan made me very angry indeed. That anger stiffened my spine even further, but I smiled prettily .
“Hi Andrew. You on parlour duty?”
He showed me his teeth in a travesty of a smile.
“You could say that. I’d be more inclined to call it vermin extermination.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Guess what just walked into our trap.”
Taking two big paces towards me he put out a hand to grab. I stepped back and let him have the contents of a pepper spray full in the face. He dragged his hands over his burning eyes and I think he might have screamed had not Simeon erupted out of cover and kicked him in the solar plexus effectively rendering him helpless.
Ben and Simeon passed me at a flying gallop, and I paused only long enough to put Stan and Ollie on guard. I followed my boys inside, with Bud and Lew at my heels.
Morgan was holding her hand to an obviously bruised cheek, while Simeon and Ben each held a young tough by the throat. A third youngster was attempting to make his escape, oozing along the floor like a snake. He might even have got away had Bud not grabbed a mouthful of his gentleman parts and squeezed none too gently .
“He’s a Staffordshire Bull Terrier,” I said conversationally, “and he can bite through two-inch thick wood. If I was you I’d freeze.”
He froze.
“Who hit you, Morgan?” It was Simeon who asked.
“The one you have hold of.”
Simeon dropped his prey and punched twice, before the man had chance to do much as twitch. I hadn’t known a human fist could move that fast and to be honest it was bloody impressive. Grabbing the retching crying figure, Simeon spoke close to his ear.
“You don’t hit women, asshole. And you most certainly don’t hit my woman.”
The smile Morgan bestowed on him could’ve lit the sky, but it was me she spoke to.
“I was supposed to get you over here so they could beat you up. For making a fool of my dad, they said.”
She was obviously shaken, but doing her very best to stand tall. I went over and gave her a swift hug.
“Why are you on your own?”
“Between shifts. I let the girls go. Was just putting up the closed sign when these brave bastards rushed me.” She grabbed my hand. “There’s another one.”
I grinned into her eyes. “Yeah. We dealt with him in the way through. He’s had a face full of pepper spray, and a kick in the solar plexus. And either Stan or Ollie will bite him if he so much as twitches.”
Her expression lightened. “Deep joy. Now, if someone will get my phone out of the pocket of the one laying on the floor pissing himself I’ll call Dad.”
I looked at the prone figure. “Phone. But slowly you wouldn’t want the dogs to get the wrong idea would you?”
After which it was all pretty anticlimactic. Mark sent some men with a van to collect what he called the trash, and I gave Morgan the afternoon off to go and see her mum. Unsurprisingly, Simeon took the time off too. To drive her home and, no doubt, stop for a cuddle on the way.
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…
Then the airship angled down and stopped abruptly. It had moored at a platform identical to the one where they had boarded. Back on solid ground again, even if it was only as solid as a path in the middle of a swamp could be, Milla breathed a sigh of relief. The other two were still going at it as they went down the steps from the platform behind her.
“…but the armour and defence rating won’t stack so you’re better off taking something to boost your dodge.”
“My agility bonus has maxed out my dodge to the hard cap. And you’re missing the benefit of having the extra HP.”
Milla cleared her throat loudly. “Fascinating as I’m sure all that is, where do we go now?”
Pew looked at her and then looked around as if unsure where they were.
“If we’re heading to Lustrous Lake we have to go through the griblin village,” Glory said, pointing to where the ramp up to the stilt-settlement was guarded by a skinny looking creature with a purple and green skin, clad only in a loincloth and holding what looked like a barbed fishing spear. “The lake’s just on the other side – on the edge of the swamp.”
But Milla was looking at Pew who had a stricken expression. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”
“I’m KOS to the griblins,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Oh fracking frag!” Glory looked appalled “You’re not serious?”
“What does that mean?” Milla asked, feeling lost as she often was around Visitors.
“It means your boyfriend can’t go through the village without every fragging griblin attacking him on sight. But what I don’t get is how come you’ve not got the faction? Every toon on the server has griblin faction by your level.”
“I forgot I’d never done it on this toon. It was last expansion and I only started my ryeshor this expac.” He sounded so miserable that Milla wanted to hug him, but she felt a bit shy doing so in front of the sarcastic Glory.
“Then maybe we can sort that?” she suggested.
The other two looked at her as if she had turned into a swamp slug.
“Seriously?” Glory shook her head and laughed. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to grind up griblin faction? The devs put it in as a time sink for those who’d done everything else in game to fill in before the new expac came out. It takes days just to be allowed into the village and even then you can’t pass through without maxing faction and that’s another week of grind.”
Milla picked out the essential idea that Pew was not going to be able to walk through the village and wrinkled her snout in thought.
“So then let’s go around the village.” She gestured to the swamp.
“No!” The answer came in chorus.
“We can’t do that,” Pew explained. “There are wandering contested raid boss mobs in this part of the swamp and the whole place is set up so you can’t help but run into them. We’d never make it through.” His crest had deflated completely and he looked defeated. “I can’t even use an invis pot. The griblin guards’ll see through it.”
Milla stiffened her shoulders and heaved a sigh.
Visitors!
Which gave her an idea. The one advantage she had here was that she wasn’t one.
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 21st 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…
Brenda turned her back on the nakedly capering Oisin and waded through the nomes who were fighting over the hooch. She slapped a few and grabbed the bottle.
“It don’t say Po-Cheen anywhere.”
“It wouldn’t.” That was Grandmother. “That’n is shop bought. Poteen is home made.”
“Home made booze. Why have I never heard of it before?”
Granny indicated what was rapidly becoming a war with one rather grubby thumb, and Brenda nodded.
“Anyway, stop hugging that there bottle and pass it this way.”
Brenda took a pull and her eyes watered. She coughed and passed the bottle across.
A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…
admaant (adjective) – specifically of politicians – sticking to the party line no matter how immoral, or illogical
buttre (noun) – sheep with large horns
degssting (adjective) – looking as if one has eaten a bee
eggsistentialism (noun) – the belief that we are all lizards and hatched in secret laboratory
gerryatrick (adjective) – having the appearance of being cocky and unreliable
littke (adjective) – fecking useless at typing
looing (verb) – waiting in line for the ladies’ toilet
migth (noun) – small biting insect found in gyms
nuon (adjective) – naked and very pink
relaly (noun) – pink ice lolly shaped like a penis
octover (noun) – the eighth set of balls in a village cricket match
sexcription (noun) – the writing of financially successful erotica
tusinghem (descriptive noun) – of playing a musical instrument, having more enthusiasm than skill
wueer (noun) – waterfall with very little water coming over it
zume (noun) – online conference where nobody can hear anybody else and at leat three separate toddlers are tantrum-ing in the background
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
If life has one lesson to give
Then it’s simply to live and let live.
You’ll not need forgiveness
If you mind your own business
As there’ll not be a thing to forgive.
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,
Before one does anything else one feels it imperative to apologise profusely to one’s faithful readership for last week’s entry under this illustrious imprint.
I. Cannot. Believe. What. My. Parent. Wrote. Last. Week.
One can only assume the woman was under the influence of her favourite cocktail – a tasteful mixture of advocaat, ruby port and rubbing alcohol, which she refers to as a ‘Dog’s Bollock’.
As I lay on my sickbed, near to death, the dreadful female managed to insult all I hold dear, ridicule my literary genius, and reduce these profound seminars to objects of derision. Were it not for the fact she is bigger than one, and packs a mean left hook….
But enough of my sorrows. To our work.
At the risk of pushing against an open door, I shall take a little moment to remind my beloved students of my credentials, and my reasons for preparing this series of little tutorials. I am, of course, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and acclaimed author of the millionth bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and my writing these little posts to my adoring students is solely motivated by the desire to assist your writing endeavours.
And now to business.
The romantic novel is the graveyard of so much literary endeavour, being a crowded marketplace in which the average flounders and sinks itself beneath contempt and only the superlative can possibly hope to achieve success. Of course the paramount example of this pulchritudinous delight is the queen of pinkness and prettiness at whose slippered feet we are unworthy to worship. We cannot hope to even approach her superlative talent but we may use her incandescently shimmering writings as a blueprint for our own feeble scribbles.
The Rules
And that mes estudas are the wrules of the write way to write a wromance.
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.
The month of May, the month of May
Time to see the lambs at play
Time to see the the buds bursting
As nature launches into spring
The month of May, the month of May
Time to go outside and stay
Time to watch the birds take wing
As nests they build new life to bring
The month of May, the month of May
Time to welcome each new day
Time the windows wide to fling
So the freshness can flood in.
The month of May, the month of May
Time to set aside the grey
Time to smile, dance and sing
For summer is icummen in.
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