Why all the fuss about the first day of May? 

It’s the 122nd day of 366, and is steeped in the history of labour relations. But of course, that doesn’t interest you lot a bit, now does it?

Oh no, you airheads want the ‘Obby ‘Oss, the Morris Dancers, children whose mothers have confiscated their phones clomping gracelessly around the Maypole, some prim child all tricked out as The May Queen, and strange songs with incomprehensible lyrics, and so on. You really do worry me…

Before you abuse me as a miserable old bag with no sense of tradition, perhaps you might consider taking a closer look at the May Day traditions that charm you so.

The ‘Obby ‘Oss is probably a leftover from the Beltane Sacrifices of pre Christian faiths, thus symbolising the poor animal (or human) being led to the slaughter.

Morris Dancing, whatever its weird origins, is a generally harmless excuse for men to go from pub to pub in the hope of free beer. Though I would dispute any suggestion it’s entertainment.

The Maypole Dance, on the other side of the coin, is a fertility ritual – do I really need to tell you what the Maypole represents? – and, as such, extremely unsuitable for children. 

Ditto the May Queen who is either a fertility symbol or maybe the one chosen to be shagged by the lecherous old bloke representative of the fertility god or, even more worryingly, The Maiden who would be sacrificed to ensure a good harvest. (Think on all this very carefully before you engage in a fistfight with twenty other yummy mummies in order that little Susquehanna can wear the diadem.)

Need I continue?

In conclusion, get your heads out of whatever orifices you currently have them in and think about International Labour Day. Think about how much all you miserable bloody so and so’s owe to the trade union movement instead of knocking it for just one day.

Now buzz off. You are making my brandy curdle.

*throws dog ends and dried cow turds at departing readership*

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell

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,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and earbuds and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

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 isn’t what you think though you saw it on the screen
The place was not the place they said, they added in that scream
Of course it looks convincing when you see it very clear
But someone’s trying to shape your mind, to fill you with a fear.

It isn’t what you think though you saw it on your phone
The voice you know was surely his with such a vicious tone
But someone wants to make you think in a hateful way
It’s not just clips they’re playing with, it’s your mind that they play

It isn’t what you think and now it’s getting worse
No longer just adjusting stuff, for AI is a curse
It takes the truth and shakes it up to fit a new agenda
And in this world of creeping lies, who is our defender?

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. Life seems to be going well when…

I whistled sharply and my German Shepherds, Stan and Ollie, ambled in from the garden. Both went into alert mode gazing fixedly at the window. A slightly different whistle brought reinforcements in the form of a pair of Staffordshire Bull Terrier brothers called Bud and Lew, notable for their muscularity if not their intelligence. With the canines in attendance I turned my face to the window. The interloper seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“Morgan. Is that door locked?”
“No.” She looked worried.
“Right. You sit on the floor behind the bar and phone Ben.”
She sat down with bump, and I beckoned the man. He smiled wryly and came in on soft feet. Once he was inside, Bud and Lew circled around until they were behind him.
“The German Shepherds only bite of I tell them to. The Staffies are less reliable so I wouldn’t recommend any sudden movements.”
He stood still and I got my first proper look at his face. It was John Smith, whose undistinguished appearance hid, I was sure, the soul of a conscienceless killer. I wondered what the hell he wanted, and a worm in my gut told me it wouldn’t be anything nice. I kept my voice cool and even as I addressed him.
“Mister Smith. You have some explaining to do, and I suggest you make it convincing. I dislike being followed and/or spied on.”
He spread his hands and Lew growled deep in his barrel of a chest.
“I’m sorry Mrs Beckett. I wanted only to speak to you. For preference out of the range of prying eyes.”
“Speak then.” I kept my voice coolly neutral.
“Very well. But can you call off the dogs?”
Ben appeared in the doorway behind Smith and I couldn’t help thinking how much my husband’s sneaking skills had improved under the tuition of a couple of poachers turned gamekeepers who were among our regular clientele.
“I think the dogs stay where they are until I’m satisfied your intentions towards my wife are purely friendly.” To give Smith his due, he only flinched at the deep, deep voice behind him. I’ll admit he went up in my estimation, though not far. At the same time, I marked him down as being a person not to turn my back on. This guy really was hard – a would-be would have jumped and squeaked like a teenage girl at a horror movie.
“I’m glad you’re here Mr Beckett. As to why I’m here.” He showed his teeth in a rodentine travesty of a smile. “I’m here as the bearer of sad news.” Only he didn’t sound particularly sad. “In the early hours of this morning, Amos Proudly crossed into the arms of his ancestors.”
He stopped speaking.
“And?” I prompted .
“And that leaves a vacuum at the head of his family. A vacuum his granddaughter seeks to fill.”
“What. The silly girl who makes a living by means of theft and intimidation?”
“Yes. Her.”
“But what’s that…” I hadn’t finished the question before the analytical side of my brain took over. I started again. “What it has to do with us is in the matter of making examples, isn’t it?”
“My father thinks it might be. The way he reads it, the family aren’t going to accept a female rom baro without a bloody good reason to do so. He thinks she has two options to prove herself worthy. She can start a feud with the Lovell clan, which would be as stupid as it would be dangerous, or she can go after the people she blames for her recent humiliation. I’m sent to warn you, as Tata dislikes the Proudly clan, and he likes your food very much.”
I stood the dogs down with a gesture and saw Smith’s shoulders relax.
Ben came fully into the room.
“Okay. I’ll buy that. How did you get here?”
Smith looked puzzled but answered readily enough. “My car is parked up the lane that leads to your market garden.”
Ben chuckled. “Do you remember Jed Lovell’s dog?”
“The one that makes your German Shepherds look like chihuahuas?”
“Yup. Him. He’s gonna be sitting beside your car just waiting for you to reappear.”
Smith shuddered.
“Not a dog person, are we?” I put a little bite in my voice.
“No. What do I do now?”
I let him squirm for a minute.
“I suppose we owe you for the information, so I’ll walk you to your car.” I turned my attention to the small figure seated on the floor behind the bar. “Morgan. Will you pop over to the kitchen and sort out a box of baked goods for Mr Smith senior?”
“I will. But my dad’s been listening in. Wants a word with this bloke before he fecks off.” She stood up and handed me a bright pink iPhone. “Don’t let him pinch my phone,” she said cheekily before whisking off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Her dad?” Smith attempted to sound jaunty.
“Mark Brown,” I said and handed him the phone.
He took it with the same enthusiasm as if I had handed him a live cobra.
“Where can I?”
“Just go over into one of the booths. Neither of us is interested enough to eavesdrop.”
He went, carefully sitting with his back to us. Ben put his mouth close to my ear.
“Why don’t I trust that guy?”
“Same reason I don’t. He wears too many faces,” I breathed.
The dogs didn’t trust him either, as they stayed alert even though I had stood them down.
Whatever Mark had to say didn’t take too long, and it didn’t seem to require Smith doing more than murmur agreement. When the call ended, he stood up and walked carefully back to me, handing over the phone with a wry half smile.
Morgan came across the grass with a white baked goods box in her arms.
Smith smoothed his hair and it seemed to me that he was settling back into his harmless accountant persona.
“Mister Brown seems to be a more reasonable human being than I was led to expect,” he said primly.
Morgan handed her box to Ben and poked Smith sharply in the chest. She indicated a carefully folded paper bag on top of the bakery box.
“I brought you a couple of brownies in case your old man wasn’t into sharing, but I can soon take them back if you keep on referring to my dad as if he was a bug in a pin.”
To my great surprise, Smith actually laughed. A properly amused laugh.
“Apologies Miss Brown. And point taken.”
She studied him narrowly for a moment, before lifting a shoulder.
“Okay. You get to keep the cake.”
“My thanks. And I do sincerely apologise. The patronising primness is part of my unthreatening persona. But even so…”
His voice tailed off and Morgan snorted.
“I guess it’s difficult pretending to be an ineffectual pissant, but why’d you climb down so fast?”
“I’ve got a daughter. She’s fourteen and I’d like to think she defends me like you just defended your father.”
Morgan gifted him her prettiest smile. “If you love her and she loves you, of course she do. And now, if nobody minds, I’ve work to do and you’re rather in 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…

“Nice belt that.”
Milla looked round at Glory then down at the belt. It had a definite shimmer to it. Small motes of coloured mulit-coloured light danced around it, so close in as to seem part of the fabric itself. Her heart swelled with affection and gratitude, One Eye Rye had given her a magic item.
But there was no time to wonder what it might do, the boat had arrived and a couple of Visitors got off it, giving Milla odd looks as the three of them scrambled on. She held her head high and gripped Pew’s hand tightly as the ship pulled away from the dock almost immediately. It had to be a magical vessel as there was no crew and the sails seemed to manage themselves.
But the view as they slipped from the shore and out into the bay was incredible. For the first time Milla could see the whole of Wrathburnt Sands, from the far end of the beach, on one side to the palm trees that surrounded the pyramid on the other. She was so taken by the scene that she didn’t notice when they sailed over the Boundary only that in the next moment she was feeling very sick and the view had changed completely.
Above, clouds scudded across the sky, and sometimes darkened it. The land ahead of them was green and the sea more grey than blue. Almost completely green. So many trees and bushes and even the ground itself was covered in low growing grass and flowers. So very different from the familiar yellows and browns of home that she drew in a sharp breath of surprise and delight.
“You alright?” Pew was still gripping her hand and there was real anxiety on his face. He was worried for her. That made her feel warm inside and she found she was smiling back at him.
“I’m fine. But this place.” She gestured to the approaching coastline with a sweep of her free arm. “It’s amazing.”
Glory made a very unelven snorting noise. “Not so amazing when you have to spend day after day grinding here.”
“I like Barren Steppes,” Pew said. “It’s kind of like where I live.”
Milla blinked. “You live in Barren Steppes?”
“No. Of course not. I just meant…”
But whatever he just meant Milla didn’t find out as Glory was suddenly shouting and reaching for her bow.
“Incoming! Firedrakes! Don’t let them get close!”
Milla instinctively clutched at her pendant and looked up to see half-a-dozen dark shapes with leathery wings circling around the top of the mast. They looked much too small to be dangerous. Then one opened it’s oddly shaped beak and a massive gout of flame shot out, engulfing the rigging and setting it alight.
A moment later the flying creature shrieked and plummeted to the deck, pierced through by the shaft of an arrow. It vanished before it landed. The others swooped down to attack in a tight V formation. Milla found herself being pushed roughly behind the other two by Pew as Glory drew her sword.
“By the power of My Skull!” she yodeled, slashing at the nearest one and slicing into it. Pew had raised his hands and pushed them outwards, just as the drakes breathed their fire. It hit Pew’s invisible shield and barely any of the flames got through, enough to singe Glory’s eyebrows. But Pew’s shoulder’s were slumping with the effort of maintaining the shield
“Powerfeed me, Milla!”
Without really thinking, Milla grabbed her pendant and sent the magical energy it contained towards Pew. He straightened up almost immediately and keeping the invisible shield raised with one hand he threw out a series of small fireballs with the others.
A few moments later the last of the drakes had exploded into nothing and Glory was counting coins she had found somewhere. Pew wiped his brow.
“Where the frack did those firedrakes come from? I’ve never been attacked zoning here from WBS before.”
Glory looked up. “Oh yeah. Sorry about that. Just a class quest I’m on. I get randomly attacked now and then until I’ve finished.” She tipped the coins into her pouch and looked about as un-sorry as it was possible to be.
Pew drew a breath and Milla thought he might be about to say something very rude, but at the last moment he closed his jaw with an audible snap. She felt oddly proud of him and squeezed his hand to tell him so.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 18th 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…

The drunk biggers in the house started a countdown.

‘Ten, nine, eight…‘

At one nothing happened, and Big set out across the wet garden to see what was wrong.

Luckily for him, he had only gone about three paces when there came a flash and a bang and the ‘rocket launcher’ lurched to one side as the big flaming thing flew… 

…straight towards the revellers gathered on the balcony.

The biggers threw themselves to the ground as the firework flashed through the open doors and exploded dramatically in the middle of the room.

Mayhem ensued, watched by the curious nomes.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

almunus (adjective) – deeply fond of charity shops and dime stores

amborsal (adverb) – of sleeping – making noises like a bathtub emptying

bearst (adjective) – of ursine appearance

chacater (noun) – small marsupial of the genus ventus conputrueruntus best known for the pungence of its farts

catcomba (noun) – feline trichologist 

dinga (noun) – one who hits first and asks questions after

ephelant (noun) – elderly woman with very wrinkled skin

fiender (noun) – particularly inept ghost hunter 

gnnat (adverb) – of speech – gruff and without charm

krean (adjective) – of women airheaded, entitled and unable to spell

lunimous (adjective) – pale, dull and vaguely unsatisfactory

mitger (noun) – very stingy person

psrson (noun) – priest with bad skin

ragrine (noun) – complex dance form practiced by thin men in leotards

revtim (noun) – me time for catholic priests

streuggle (noun) – apple cake with the addition of egg noodles (for no apparent reason)

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.

Growing older is sometimes quite fun
When you look back on all that you’ve done
And can take a deep breath
At each shibboleth
You once suffered but have now overcome

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,

As ever it falls onto my shoulders to ensure you are aware whose words of wisdom you are imbibing from the breast of pedagogy. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. My claim to a seat at the high table of the literary elite is rooted in my credentials as author of the science fiction and fantasy neo-classic “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”. At one point, this work of incredible creativity achieved the giddy heights of Amazon’s one millionth on the bestseller charts. As such, you can rest assured I am indeed over-qualified to dispense guidance on how you can best write your own delightful fantasia.

I may have mentioned in passing that my father has long since gone to a better place. In truth I do not recall too much about my father. He was seldom at home even when he was still with us. But I do recall one conversation. I was still in shorts being a mere lad of seventeen, he sat me on his knee and grunted a bit, then told me: “Moony boy – you have to learn the facts of life. Fact One – life is a shit heap and only those at the top get to smell the sweet clean air. Fact Two – you only get to the top if you use the heads of others like a ladder. You got that son?”

At the time I had no idea of his meaning. I had little idea of what his job was either I had always believed he was some form of landscape gardener. After all what else should one think a hedge fund manager did all day? Tragically, before I had any opportunity to ask him to elucidate in depth, he was gone forever.

So whilst Mummy and I share a suburban semi-detached residence, he has gone to paradise. I think it is the Bahamas although it may be Bermuda – the pictures on Facebook are always very vague as he has no wish to alert the tax authorities to his present whereabouts.

Which brings me neatly to my topic for today.

Settings

I can not express strongly enough how crucial it is to provide the precise and perfect backcloth against which to unfold your torpid little tale to transform it from mediocrity (or worse) to stella-luminescence in the literary sphere. Location. Location. Location.

Imagine for a moment if Robinson Crusoe had been set on an island near Tonbridge not Trinidad? Would ‘A Thousand and One Nights’ be as beguiling were the stories set in Swansea? These are things to ponder and as you do so, here is my list of questions to ask yourself when choosing the best locale for your literature.

• What is the weather like?

Vital as it determines your character’s style of dress!

• What is the geography like?

Vital as you need to know if the sea is nearby for a swim or if your characters will be hiking through mountains.

• Does everyone there speak English?

Best to avoid this location if not as you and your readers won’t understand anything.

• Does it have to be a real place?

One of the key advantages of writing science-fiction and fantasy, you can make up everything about the place to suit however you want it to be.

And that is pretty much it. Get those basics right and the rest will fall into place.

Until my next, oh disciples of Calliope!

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.