Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
The secret of living not glum
Is to live by this one rule of thumb:
If you can’t eat it or fuck it
Then pass by that bucket
And go find a bottle of rum!
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…
Bonjour my little love muffins,
It is one, the beloved and multi-talented Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient teacher who, via the medium of this ‘Thinking Quill’ seeks to inform, educate and excite – via the vulgar coils of the Interwebs – the hearts and minds of a growing band of Readers Who Write.
Today, my Muse and I feel sportive and light and do gambol about in the water meadows of imagination in a harmony so perfect that to speak it is to mar its unsullied beauty.
Therefore, mes estudas, follow us quietly making your footsteps as gentle as the bleating lamb and as soft as the breast of the turtledove lest you dishonour the music of my life with your vulgarly large boots…. Ah yes, my children, follow in silence and listen with care, for today we discuss the pinpoint of blue-hot flame that is literary erotica in all its fine forms.
It must be understood that the act of fornication, in its multiplicity of guises, is the engine that drives humanity to live out its mundane day-to-day existence in the hope that a glimpse, a scent, a touch, or a taste will donate to any given moment that sexual ecstasy for which it strives. Equally we must always take into account the sensibilities of our gentle readership and the rules that govern what may be said and what should only ever be hinted at.
We are, mes estudas, above the simply biological. We may not discuss the precise size and thickness of the male appendage, any more than we should even hint at the width/narrowness, hair/baldness of the female docking station. No. You may leave it to your reader to understand that tab A is most usually inserted into slot B (with occasional excursions into orifices C and D).
Your task as a purveyor of fantasy is to bring a flush to the cheek and a heaviness to the stomach of literature in such a way that the reader experiences those selfsame heats and twinges. A properly written scene of sexual tension should leave its reader panting lightly and susceptible to the merest breeze of sensuality.
Do not grasp your unfortunate victim by the genitalia and wrestle him to the ground with the sledgehammer blows of sexually obvious language. No. And again no. Rather scent the air with tender sensuality and slowly bring your reader to a climax only by the tenderest touches of the fingertips of perfect prose.
Build your scenes of human love with care, lest they tumble around your ears leaving you like a pubescent boy with damp pyjamas.
Oh yes, my students, who hang on my every word with the sort of open-mouthed excitement more usually generated by a pole dancer at an adolescent birthday party, lead your readership along the paths of sensual gratification by all means. But do so with the siren song of your creative juices, not by lassoing them with a string constructed of pubic hair and bodily secretions.
To finish this lesson. I offer a small extract from my own greatest work wherein our hero first feels the gentle tug of his feminine companion’s sensuality.
They came out of the desert into the fertile valley of the big river, just as the sun was dropping. Buchtooth kicked her camel until it knelt and leapt off the saddle throwing her clothing off as she ran towards the water.
“Come on Fatswhistle you ugly bastard, get off your frigging camel and get into this water. You smell worse than him.”
Fatswhistle followed his companion in a much more leisurely fashion. He was just removing his cracked leather boots when she threw herself into the water. Her back was broad and freckled and as she dived, the white globes of her arse were displayed to Fatswhistle’s suddenly interested gaze. He removed his clothing at a rather accelerated pace and hurried after her into the brown water.
She was singing tunelessly and washing her long carrot-orange curls when he waded over to her and sat down. The river mud felt like silk under his buttocks and he picked up one of his own feet and looked between his toes. He watched his companion from under his eyelids finding her heavy breasts surprisingly exciting as they dipped in and out of the water. He scooted closer and put out a tentative hand. She snorted and wrung the water out of her hair. Emboldened, he touched the freckled skin on her shoulder. She jumped and swore, dunking him under the water until he saw stars.
“Gerrof.”
Farewell for now dear students!
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.
If I fall let it be because I climbed too high
If I fail let it be in great endeavour
If I slip let it be because the ice is dry
Let me labour each task and give up never
If I should in my life cry tears of shame
May it be that I tried though it went wrong
I will take the cold shoulder and the blame
If I know in my heart that I stood strong
I will stand at the side of any friend
With our arms linked and facing any fight
I will pledge to be loyal and not bend
And always speak out for what is right
Even so when I’m old and my eyes fail
When my body is unable for the war
May I still be a beacon on on the trail
And still know what thing is worth fighting for
In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…
Idibus Augustus MDCCLXXIX Anno Diocletiani
Julia Llewellyn was on her way home from the Asclepieion on Ynys Mon at last. She had been there, or thereabouts, for most of the last two months and hard as it was, she pushed down the turmoil of emotions which revolved in her stomach every time she thought about that and focused hard on the future.
Firstly, she had endured a very difficult pregnancy from mid-term on, requiring extensive bedrest and the inevitable boredom and frustration that had meant. Despite all that, her son, Rhodri, had still been born six weeks early needing to be hailed off to an incubator. Then he was discovered to have a hole in his diaphragm requiring immediate surgery. Several sleepless nights followed with herself and her husband keeping watch over his tiny form, before he was declared on the mend. And then Julia had to wait for him to grow big enough to leave his incubator and come home…
She was glad for more than the obvious reasons. Her husband, Dai Llewellyn was a Submagistratus for the region of Demetae and Cornovii and she knew he was keeping something from her, holding back to protect her, as he would think. It was hard to pin him down in his brief visits, once home she was sure she would get to do so.
At last the great day had come and she was seated decorously in the back of a burly all-wheel being piloted by her friend and bodyguard, Edbert. If she had been an expecting sort of a woman, she would have expected Dai to be sitting beside her. But he was conspicuous by his absence. She sighed a tiny sigh and kissed the downy head that rested on her breast.
“Not his fault.” Edbert’s unfeasibly deep voice broke gently into her reverie.
“What’s not who’s fault?” Julia kept her voice even for fear of waking Rhodri.
Edbert laughed softly. “It’s not Dai’s fault that he isn’t sitting beside you, you cross-grained little person.”
Julia found herself relaxing. “Catch a hot case did he?”
“Nope. Having refused to see or speak to Dai, or either of his Senior Investigators – Bryn or Gallus – for the best part of a month, Magistratus Sextus Catus Bestia called a meeting for this morning. Messaged just before we were setting out to fetch you.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “If I didn’t know better I’d think it was timed to cause maximum inconvenience.”
Julia sighed again. “He is such a petty man. I keep hoping things will improve. But it’s not likely.”
“Isn’t. And his attitude to ‘servants’ is beyond despicable.”
Julia held the baby carefully as she leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Bestia really is a piece of work, isn’t he? But he is just petty and that can’t hurt us.”
“I wouldn’t place any bets on that.”
“Me neither, honestly. But I can’t afford to think like that.”
“No. Nor you can. My bad. How is the little one standing up to the journey?”
“He’s fine. Had his prandium before we set out. Sleeping now. The medica said something to me just before you rolled up that was very comfortable. ‘Rhodri Ddu is a fighter and as tough as they come’. She says not to treat him any different to any other baby now. He’s all healed and a hundred percent fit.” One tear escaped and ran down her cheek, but it was a tear of thankfulness not sorrow. Her precious baby was well and could take his place in the nursery where he and his sister Aelwen would be in the care of the nursery maid Luned, who was as brave as a lioness and as tender as the touch of silk. All things considered, Julia thought today was a good day, even if the pinpricks from Dai’s boss were getting sharper and less disguised. She wondered if they were what was behind her beloved’s withdrawn mood.
The rest of the ride home passed in silence, save for Rhodri’s tiny snore.
Just before they were due to turn onto the private road to the Villa Papaverus, Edbert stopped the car and screwed around in his seat to look at Julia with deep wisdom in his winter grey eyes.
“A word of warning. There’s about half a hundred people waiting to greet you. If I was you I’d wait in the all-wheel and hand the little one off to Luned before you get out. What with dogs and in-laws, and that madwoman Domina Lavinia, it would be easy for you to take a tumble. Luned and me put our heads together and she has found a big old high-wheel baby carriage so everybody can see young Rhodri without crowding.”
For a moment, Julia didn’t know what to say and she felt her throat constricting. Edbert smiled and touched her cheek with the back of one huge hand.
“All a bit overwhelming ain’t it?”
“It is. And thank you my friend.”
“Always got your back small stuff.”
“Always got yours, you big ape.”
With the shoals of emotion successfully navigated Edbert started the engine again.
He might have exaggerated ‘half a hundred’, but not by much. There was all Dai’s family, from his mother and step-father, to his brother Hywel and sister-in-law Enya with their four boisterous boys and adopted teenage daughter, close friends like Bryn and Gwen Cartivel and Lavinia Lucia who was a friend Julia had made from her puellae who prandium circle, with her lawyer husband Paulus, not to mention the entire household from Cookie to the youngest apprentice gardener. However, Elfrida, their indomitable housekeeper, had taken a hand and the waiting crowd was being policed by her two gigantic sons who would allow nobody to exit the building further than the steps. There were only two figures on the apron of raked gravel that fronted the villa – Luned with the promised baby carriage and Dai who held a wriggling Aelwen in his arms. As the all-wheel rolled gently to a halt Dai leapt forward, opening the rear door and smiling gently in. “I’m sorry love. I should have been…”
Julia stopped his mouth with a kiss to a cheer from the onlookers and Aelwen’s obvious delight.
“Mam kiss Da,” she announced before leaning in and kissing her mother and her sleeping brother. “Aelwen kiss Mam and Dri.”
Luned stepped forward and Dai moved out of the doorway for a second, allowing Julia to hand the sleeping baby over. Dai dropped a kiss on his brow as she did so, passing a tender hand over the roundness of his skull before settling him in the old-fashioned conveyance.
“There,” Luned said, with briskness not entirely camouflaging deep thankfulness, “he’s home safe now and so is his mam.” Once Julia’s arms were empty, Dai and Aelwen swarmed into the all-wheel where they all indulged themselves in a group hug with Edbert grinning at them from the driver’s seat. Julia was pleased that he allowed them a few moments of joy before poking Dai in the back.
“Get off her now, because I’m going to release the screaming horde.”
“Let me get my feet on the gravel before you do,” Julia attempted to sound severe, and scrambled out of the vehicle with Aelwen and Dai close behind her. Aelwen held her mother’s hand tightly.
“People, Mam.”
Julia bent and picked her up. “Yes love, lots of people.”
Edbert leaned on the horn of the all-wheel and Bran and Col released the happy throng.
From Dying to be Innocent by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago
Glossary of Latin and Other Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
Asclepieion – healing spa, hospital
Demetae and Cornovii – Wales and several English Midland counties including Shropshire
Ddu – dark, as in hair and/or skin
Domin-a/us – Ma’am/Sir. Used to superiors both in rank and social status
Magistratus – senior official with legal jurisdiction over an area
Medic-a/us – doctor
Prandium – brunch or lunch
Submagistratus – a more junior official with legal jurisdiction over an area, under the authority of a Magistratus
Villa Papaverus – Poppy House. Dai and Julia’s residence.
Ynys Mon – or the Isle of Anglesey
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
Having made the fruit tea in a small pot on her own hearth, Milla poured it into a pottery bottle and put a stopper in the top. Then armed with cookies and tea she headed back to do battle negotiating with the drakkonettes to enter the pyramid.
They had been right about Visitors.
Pew was hiding behind a clump of palm trees, peering nervously around the trunks at the drakkonettes. He spun round staff held high as she approached then relaxed again, looking very relieved.
“I thought they must have kil… um kidnapped you. I was close to reporting the quest as bugged.”
Milla resisted the urge to point out it was not she who had been killed. “If you wait here I’ll talk to the guards and then we can go in.”
“But…”
Milla fixed him with the most menacing glare she could muster. The same glare One Eye always managed when she tried to slip an extra fish to Ruffkin without him noticing. Only as she had two eyes she was pretty sure her glare would be twice as menacing.
Pew’s crest flattened and he swallowed hard. “Yes. Fine. I’ll wait here then.”
The drakkonettes were delighted with what she gave them.
“That’s so kind of you, dear,” the maternal one said and puffed a small smokey breath. “So much nicer than the ten raw terraraptor eggs we used to get in the Gorge, don’t you think Gordon?”
The other drakkonette had taken the stopper from the pottery bottle and inhaled the steam with his eyes closed. “Much. And why did we have to have a jar of water from Rancid Pond?”
“It was horrible, wasn’t it?”
“Picnic, Abigail?”
The two leaned their polearms against the gate posts and wandered off claw in claw.
Pleased with a job well done, Milla hurried back to where she had left Pew and was disturbed to find him talking to a very odd looking ryeshor. The stranger had a purple flush to his skin with orange tinted scales and a crest that seemed much too spikey and much too green. He was wearing a sparkling chainmail tunic, belted with a rune-woven sash, a gleaming peacock and phoenix feathered cloak, and sandals that seemed to have black wings sprouting from the ankles.
“It has to be a shareable quest. Stop messing me around you ratstab!”
“I’d share if I could, but there’s no way to do it.”
The stranger saw Milla approaching before Pew and started shouting at her as she walked towards them.
“Hail Milla! Hello Milla! Greeting Lady Milla!” He stamped his foot. “Why won’t you answer me? Fraggin en-pee-cee.”
She stopped, wrinkling her snout. She was not sure what she was being called but she was pretty sure it was some kind of insult.
“Who is this?” she asked Pew, but even before he answered she knew what he would say.
“It’s String. He made a ryeshor alt and spent a load of gold on the auction market to twink it. I can’t believe he did that.”
The String ryeshor convulsed in a peculiar way and then hawked and spat.
“Well look at that? Even the lizards can do it.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and leered at Milla. “So, sexy lizard lady, you gonna share your sweet, sweet quest with me?”
Milla took a step back. The thought of having anything to do with this rude and ugly man made her feel ill.
“If you want to help me find Ruffkin you need to be able to do something useful.” She gestured to the other ryeshor. “At least he can do something useful, can’t you Pew?”
There was no answer.
“Pew?”
He continued staring into the distance as if she wasn’t there – or he wasn’t.
“He’s ninjad,” String said then hawked and spat twice in quick succession.He grinned as if immensely pleased with himself.
“Ninjad?” Milla found her snout wrinkling in confusion.
“Back now.” Pew stretched and grinned at her. “Had to take a fast afk for a bio before we go into the dungeon. We’d better get moving or the mobs on the gate might reset.”
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 7th 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 biggers must have had one hell of a party. Big came into the garden with both arms full of cardboard and bright paper. Stopping only to vomit in the herbaceous border he disappeared.
Little Frankie puzzled out the words on one of the discarded boxes.
“Fes Tiv Fa Ther Chris Mas G-Nome. Wassa G-Nome.”
“It’s a nome. The G is silent.”
Frankie stared incredulously at the oldest nome who sat on her toadstool knitting purple bedsocks.
“Is you Ranny then?”
Only the quickness of Big Bertha’s hamlike fists stopped ‘Ranny’ from hurling Frankie into the cement pond.
A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…
abotu (noun) – tribe of directionally challenged nomads
amind (noun) – the inability to think
beign (noun) – colour between beige and green often seen in the cardigans of off-duty geography teachers
bif (adjective) – descriptive of overweight men on gymnasium equipment
cotrive (verb) – cooperative toe sucking
doign (noun) – in architecture a big fat lump of stone serving no apparent purpose
ealier (comparative adjective) – of fish, longer
ewere (noun) – computer savvy half wolf
godness (noun) – pagan deity known for shortness of temper and thick ankles
irrlevent (adjective) – of authors motivated by angst and poverty
migth (noun) – biting insect similar to the Scottish midge, but native to the underwear of skinny women
myslef (noun) – small supernatural being with chronic anxiety
ne4ed (adjective) – being in possession of four knees
otu (noun) – Zimbabwean marsupial subsisting on beer and rich tea biscuits
presetner (noun) – woman on daytime TV who sits on the sofa next to an oily creep without cringing
pruruent (adjective) – of porridge being flavoured with prunes
shulk (verb) – to remove the calloused skin from the feet by means of a handy cheese grater
someoen (adjective) – of dogs or women, fond of an afternoon nap and liable to bite if rudely awoken
terhe (noun) – language spoken by the inhabitants of a small island in the North Sea whose attempts to enlarge the gene pool have led to some unfortunate encounters with irritated marsupials
zomie (noun) – a zed list homie
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.
Life is a glorious dance
Where your partner is much down to chance.
You might find your true mate
On a casual date
Or from friendship develop romance.
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…
Face the front, class and present your fingernails for inspection.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV is in the room. Your beloved pedagogue has arrived. For those, newly joined here, whose education may have skipped over the genius that is one, I am the orchidaceous creator of that classic of superlative speculative fiction ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and the selfless purveyor of wisdom whose tablets of stone bring you ‘The Thinking Quill’ – wherein one strives against almost overwhelming odds to bring to your dreary little scribblings some iota of the polished grandeur of one’s own published words.
It’s a lovely autumn day, and the crispy, crunchy leaves make your Teacher think of the golden flakes in his breakfast bowl, drenched with icy-cold milk. We were, if memory serves, going to discuss the essential points of cover art, but my mood is too lightsome for such an arduous task today and my spirit is too refined to be constrained by such febrile chains of commitment. In brief, I can’t be arsed.
Instead, we shall touch upon a topic so close to my soul as to be all but embedded in my skin. Yes, my children, rejoice, rejoice. Today we shall speak of verse…
Oh what joy it is to write in the iambic pentameter. Oh how one’s soul rejoices at the birth of a sonnet. How the haiku spears one’s very vitals, and how the execution of the perfect marriage of rhyme and metre donates a pleasure as visceral as masturbation.
We shall begin with the haiku. Hands up if any child in the class can tell me what this exquisite word connotes.
Yes. The rule of seventeen. What joy. What bliss.
A flower petal
Weighted down under raindrops
Visceral delight
The purity of oriental form within that which enriches the soul must be expressed in seventeen syllables. Five. Seven. Five. With nary a drop wasted. The distillate of overwhelming emotion into a corseted form that screams of pain and coercion. Think, thou of forcing the white wobbliness of English thighs into the snug elastication of skinny jeans. Feel that pain, but think of the sculpted beauty that emerges from the chrysalis of dimpled flesh and apply that sharp constriction to your work.
Too difficult? Do not fret, mes petites, haiku is the quintessence of the poetic form and not a plaything for the amateur.
Very well. Let us look instead at rhyme and metre.
Hibiscus bloom of palest pink
I have not words, I have not ink
To speak of love’s bepetalled face
Watch from afar who walks in grace
Who walks in beauty as the dawn
Who in my breast true love doth spawn
Who shines like effervescent gold
Who shall not wither, nor grow old
Hibiscus bloom thy petals ope
And face the sun and dash my hopes
Hibiscus bloom of palest hue
Who murders hope with lies untrue
Hibiscus bloom of stainless steel
Who stamps my love beneath her heel
Read this, the least of my works, aloud and ponder my skill with the runaway horse that is metre. Admire my virtuosity as I wrestle the alligator of rhyme. Beguile your commonplace little intelligences with the mind-pictures drawn by a pen whose skill you can never hope to emulate. See how the hibiscus blooms in your very soul as you read and envy….
Then try a little verse of your own.
Should you be pleased with your tiny efforts then by all means post them on my Facebook page where I shall be sure to make the effort to read them. If I am not too busy.
Until a sennight. Dormez bien 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.
February comes with snowdrops
Green spears through frost-shot soil
As reaching up through snow and ice
Their small white flags uncoil
Proud banners soon a-flying
The vanguard of the spring
They hold the first pure promise
Of what the year will bring
Like resurrected martyrs
In dresses all of white
Beneath the ground just yesterday
Then rising overnight
The ones beside my window
I look for every year
To see the modest stand return
And know that spring is near
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