A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

chellenge (verb) – the action of drinking a pint of Very Fizzy beer in one go

consonentn (noun) – the bit in the bottom of the marmite jar you can’t reach with any implement, including your fingers/tongue

disturn (verb) – of barbecues the act of forgetting to turn over the burgers thus presenting one side raw and one charcoal

eggro (noun) – fight caused by somebody being a big head

farder (adjective) – of corporal punishment the act of being administered with a rolled up newspaper 

gung (noun) – the lickings in the bottom of a mixing bowl having been used to create chocolate cake

histpry (noun) – an old woman who sticks her nose in everyone’s business

immersian (noun) – native to the island of Immers (somewhere near the centre of Lake Titicaca)

messgae (noun) – a man who cooks but don’t clean the kitchen after (mostly just a man, then)

munge (verb) – to mix together foodstuffs until of a homogeneous texture and uniform khaki colour

persoanl (adjective) – of or pertaining to the bum crack

proverbail (noun) – legal terminology meaning the release of a story after payment of a large sum of money

remmeber (noun) – small burrowing rodent of the genus fartus fartus renowned for the unusual odour it leaves behind it

skart (noun) – garment worn randomly somewhere between the waist and the knees

vesnion (noun) – bright yellow garment worn by cyclists and elderly dog walkers

whsiky (noun) – a type of alcoholic drink beloved of those already too inebriated to speak properly

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.

Vodka

The secret of living is plain,
It’s not about pleasure and pain.
It is simply enough
To take smooth with the rough
Then grab for the vodka again.

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…

Mes chers lecteurs qui ecrit,

It is one, the ever exquisite Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV…  world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient writer of these handcrafted bon mots with which I seek to educate, inform and inflame the imaginative juices of my adoring followers. Fret not, mes estudas, that you may never be as talented, or beauteous as your teacher. Follow in the footsteps of one’s infinite wisdom and even your poor weakling Muse shall be uplifted of the wings of a Moonbeam

The Write Beginning

It is a truth that cannot be overemphasised that the first sentence of a book is the bait with which to put hooks into the soft underbelly of your putative reader and claw him into the world you have been so painstakingly crafting. Choose your words with care, craft and calculation, my children. For each and every book can only have one first sentence…

For myself, I find the creation of the first words in any work as full of pain as that delicate beauty who is my own Mama found giving birth to me.

“Moony,” she often says, “if I’d known how much squirting your oversized cranium out of my fanny would hurt, I’d have been a fucking sight more proactive with the hot baths and the gin.”

But one digresses. Opening lines.

Let your hooking of the reader be as sharp as the tongue of an ungrateful child, as cutting as the condemnation of a disappointed mother, as innocent as the first kiss of a virgin mouth, as knowing as the compère in Cabaret, and as gnomically engrossing as the dragons of literature who overfly your work. Take as your inspiration the works of she whose rose-coloured prose makes beat faster the heart of your beloved tutor. Use your very first sentence to introduce the proud beauty in whose trials and tribulations you intend your devoted reader to invest time, love, worry, and, of course, the pecuniary outlay necessary to purchase your elegant work.

Make your sentence long and include all the information you can. Do not be fooled by those who counsel brevity. They are the basest dogs of conventionality, the creeping rats of mediocrity, and the unsound practitioners of a black art that seeks to sap you of your creative juices.

No my children, in the symphony that is literary exposition at its finest let us begin with a crescendo. Let the conductor bring down his baton on a crashing chord of instrumental noise that will reverberate within your reader’s head forever. Begin With A Bang.

In conclusion, there is one more point to consider. And that one is moot to our whole lesson. Let us ponder momentarily those unfortunates whose books are remembered for their first lines and very little else – as in Mister Orwell’s oddly distorted historical drama and Miss Austen’s rather anodyne love story. To them I can only say one thing. You began well; shame about the rest of your book.

And there it is mes enfants, the secrets for a perfect beginning.

Until next.

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.

I thought I had a hobby-horse, but it’s an elephant
I ride it round a lot, of course, it’s not so elegant
I bring it in to argue whenever there’s a chance
I’m always up for fresh debate, so it can have a dance.

As soon as I get up to speak, I’m in my element
I’m anything but mild and meek, I’m always eloquent
My hobby-horse will carry me above and far beyond
It is amazing just to see, I’m cooler than James Bond.

Those who hear as I declaim, declare me eminent
They see I’m right to place the blame on each development
They stand in awe as I lambast, demolish and defeat
They lift their hands in much applause, they cheer and stamp their feet.

I’ll take the basic premise and I’ll add embellishment
I’ll never be remiss because it’s not my temperament
The ones who do deride me say that I am malevolent
But they are those whose opinions I think irrelevant…

E.M. Swift-Hook

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…

Even when he was supposed to be focused on the case, Dai found himself looking again at the selfie of Julia in the sun and wondering how she was. It had got so the image was always popping unbidden into his mind, leaving his thoughts distracted. He had no idea what he should say to her and dreaded that what he said might be the wrong thing. So he made no further attempt to contact her and as time went on he felt as though the opportunity to say anything, ever was slipping away from him.
“… which means we can effectively eavesdrop on him. Unless he wises up and turns it off.”
He was sitting in Bryn’s office in the Vigiles HQ in Viriconium and it took an effort to refocus his thoughts on what his senior investigator was saying.
“Eavesdrop?”
“Yes. You know how Tony Talog’s using that AI PA system? Mercuria? Well, turns out we can apply to have a listening ear put on it. I put in for it last night and got permission through first thing.”
“So we can spy on him using his own electronics?”
“That’s about the size of it. In fact, we have been for the last few hours.”
“I somehow don’t see him being that indiscreet, but we can hope.”
Bryn laughed. “Bard, you have no idea how people can be with these systems. They think of them as a one-way thing – something they control completely. They tend to forget that it’s connected to the entire internet and not just to their own home.”
“Remind me not to get it installed at the villa.”
“So I don’t think Tony will see it as being indiscreet, it won’t even occur to him there is an issue in the privacy of his own four walls.”
Dai frowned. “He has it at home as well as in his office?”
“Yep. He’s the kind who likes to make out he’s up with all the latest trends. Odd for a man who makes his living from the past, don’t you think?”
“Would be odd if he actually loved the past – Tony Talog doesn’t, he just exploits it.”
“Oh and we have a lunch date,” Bryn said. “Justina Cynddylan says she may have some information for us and wishes us to join her for lunch as her guests.”
“And she can’t just tell us because…?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But she says she booked a table at an out of town place. Posh one too, Bene Placito, you may have heard of it.”
Dai nodded. It was one of the most exclusive eating places in the area specialising in the finest Roman cuisine. The kind of establishment where your meal would be sparse but served artistically and the fact you felt hungry at the end of the meal would not matter because one sight of the bill would remove what remained of your appetite. Dai had been toying with the idea of taking Julia there for her birthday as a surprise but was not entirely convinced she would want that. There were times he realised just how little he knew her.

As far as discreet went, Bene Placito served that up in buckets. The place was in one wing of a small villa, presumably also the home of the chef who owned it, that nestled in the hills behind Viriconium. The villa had a long private driveway which wound past fields of vegetables and livestock, showing off the produce that they would soon be eating.
Dai and Bryn were greeted at the door by a simply dressed waitress who asked their names and explained that each party or individual was given their own secluded dining room.
“Domina Cynddylan is in the Rose Room. If you will come with me…”
Bene Placito was a small slice of Roman elegance and opulence thrust into the British countryside. The decor and furnishings were all items that might grace the pages of patrician’s lifestyle magazines and set in amongst the modern, sophisticated, decor were exquisite examples of ancient Roman statuary and other artefacts.
The Rose Room turned out to be well named. It had a window onto a small walled rose garden, though at this time of year the bushes were little more than pruned back twigs, and there were several pots of indoor miniature roses sitting on small pedestals. Dai’s heart sank as they were shown in. he should have expected it, but somehow he had not. It was a triclinium. The three couches had been set to overlap, in three sides of a square with the table in the middle.
Justina Cynddylan was already ensconced on the central couch, helping herself to some olives from a bowl on the table. She smiled as the two men were shown in and made a sweeping gesture to the empty couches on either side of her.
“Thank you for joining me, please make yourselves comfortable and we will see what the chef is providing today.” Dai eased himself on to a couch, feeling awkward, but noticed with surprise that Bryn seemed completely unperturbed and slid onto his couch as if patrician born.
“You will have to excuse me from getting right down to business, but we can’t be assured of complete privacy until the meal has been served. The timing of that is always a little uncertain as Chef can be very temperamental.”
“I understand,” Dai said, though he was not sure he really did. But he sought an alternative topic of conversation. “There are a few antiquities here I see.”
“Oh yes. I have sold several genuine ancient pieces to Chef. He is a bit of a connoisseur of Etruscan art and it has been my pleasure to help locate and arrange the purchase of one or two for him.” She lowered her voice “To be honest he is a little obsessed, he is convinced he is descended from Etruscan ancestors, but when one is such a great artist as he is, one can be forgiven such foibles.”
The door opened as she was speaking and the waiting staff piled the table with heated stands and small covered pots, as well as plates with a few multi-coloured leaves strewn over them. A bottle of good wine and glasses completed the spread, then the staff withdrew.
Justina lifted a few lids and helped herself to some of the contents, and made the same imperious sweeping gesture with which she had greeted them. “Eat up. We can talk and eat.”
Dai eyed the items on her plate with some suspicion. He went for a plentiful portion of the grains and vegetables and only a couple of the more innocent looking meat slices, spooning garum over the whole lot to disguise any odd flavours. Bryn, meanwhile, was cheerfully piling his plate with samples from all that was on offer.
“The flamingo is excellent, don’t you think?” Justina nodded towards the meat Dai had chosen. He had some in his mouth at the time and chewed and made himself swallow before managing a nod. Why did the Romans insist on eating such things?
“Look, I really appreciate your – uh – generosity in inviting us here -”
“Oh, not so generous, Chef always gives me a discount,” Justina said quickly.
“Yes. Well, the thing is we are a bit pressed for time, so if you feel we are private enough now, perhaps we could get to what it was you wished to tell us.”

From Dying for a Vacation a Dai and Julia Mystery by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

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

Whatever else the Expansion had done, the beach steps were the same. And so was the fishing pier. The beach itself was unchanged too and it didn’t take her very long to realise that wherever Ruffkin had gone, he wasn’t there.
Beginning to feel concerned now, she ran back up the steps and headed for One Eye’s stall. But it was gone. For a moment she felt her throat constrict with misery and fear. Her eyes misted with tears.
“Hey up young’un!”
The familiar voice had her spinning round. There, across the way from where the stall had been was a proper shop with a sign outside that read ‘One Eye Rye Provisions’. One Eye himself stood in the door grinning like he’d just caught the biggest fish in the Silent Sea.
Milla had to resist the temptation to rush over and throw herself at him. Instead she managed to restrain herself and dodging around some barrels, followed him into the shop.
One Eye swept his arms out to show the crowded shelves and bulging baskets all around. “Seems like we had the Expansion and I have to say I think I like it. I’m no longer having to buy fish from those Visitors, now they have to come to me to buy their provisions.” He grinned again and gestured towards her. “And look at you.”
For the first time, Milla glanced down and realised she was wearing a very different outfit from before. Now she was dressed like all the adult ryeshor, the elegant shimmering robes, split to accommodate her tail and her body was longer, sleeker and smoother.
“Oh my!” It was a very odd feeling.
“See? You are all growed up now.”
But Milla barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the pendant which was now definitely glowing and maybe even pulsing slightly. Holding it up she showed One Eye.
“What do you think…?”
He wrinkled his snout. “No idea on that young’un. But I’m aguessing you’ll be finding that out before too long. That’s how things go after Expansions.”
Which was what reminded Milla of why she had come to see him. Letting the pendant fall back around her neck she spoke quickly. “Have you seen Ruffkin? He wasn’t there when I woke up. I thought he might…”
Something in One Eye’s expression sucked the last words into silence and the breath from her lungs. He reached over and patted her shoulder gently.
“Well that is the thing about Expansions. We don’t all… Well, some times some of us just… Well…”
“Well what?”
“Vanish. Some people just aren’t there anymore.”
Milla shook her head.
“No. Not Ruffkin. What did he ever do to deserve vanishing?”
“Excuse me.”
The door was filled by a robe-clad ryeshor, wearing amulets, rings and wristlets and holding a staff that glowed, runes dancing in the air around it.His red robe glimmered and shimmered around him almost as if it were a living thing.
Clearly a Visitor.
Oddly, a ryeshor Visitor.
Milla blinked.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, good people. I’m not from around here but if I could be of any assistance? I do run to a location spell.”
Visitors had never spoken to Milla before. She had thought for a while they maybe couldn’t see her, until she found they would step around her if she was in their path. She looked instinctively towards One Eye but he just gave her a reassuring grin.
“I – I would be most grateful,” she mumbled, wondering if the Visitor could hear her now.
It seemed he could because he gave a slight grin and gestured with his staff. A spray of sparkling runes exploded around him as he released a spell.
“I hate to ask,” he said as the dazzling shimmers faded again, “but I am a little short on the essentials for my ventures. Is there anything available as recompense for locating this canine?”
Milla shuffled her feet a bit.
“He wants to know what’s the reward for helping you find Ruffkin,” One Eye said.
“Oh!” She knew her collection pouch was empty and she didn’t have anything else except… “You can have this.” She held up the pendant. She had no idea what it did but whatever that was it wasn’t going to be worth more than Ruffkin’s life.
The robed ryeshor Visitor bowed elegantly. “That is a treasure beyond price. For that I will not only locate the encaved canine, I will travel with you to ensure you redeem him safely.”
“Er… Right. Encaved?”
The Visitor nodded. “My location spell is telling me that even now your beloved companion animal is beneath the ground. Under that pyramid over there, in fact, if I am not misled by my magics.”
“Under?” Milla squeaked the word. “Poor Ruffkin! I’ve got to find him.”
“Fair lady, I shall accompany you and keep you safe from all danger.”
“I’m Milla,” she said quickly, wondering why it was whenever they spoke to locals the Visitors all began sounding like this, but amongst themselves, they seemed much less formal.
“And I am the noble Firecaster Pewpowerpwnsyou.” He bowed lavishly. “Your servant, Lady Milla.”
Behind her One Eye cleared his throat.
“You’d better take this, young’un if you going on a venture. Provisions.”
Milla took the small pack One Eye was holding out and shrugged it onto her shoulders. Yes, she supposed she was.
She was going on a venture.
With a Visitor.
Her.
Little Milla.
On a venture with a Visitor.
It was unbelievable. If she hadn’t been so worried about Ruffkin she would have been out and out excited at the thought.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 4th 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.

Although the peacock feather fan was old it was as glorious as the day it left Constantinopolis in the baggage of a queen.

Beauty cared not that fans were thought unfashionable. She set fashion, and the swishing feathers perfectly expressed her moods. A jealous hand came over her shoulder and snatched the pretty thing, throwing it pettishly towards the roaring log fire. 

But somehow it fell short and a handsome gentleman returned it with a bow and a smile.

She whose hand sought destruction felt as though she had grasped both fire and ice. Her palm bore the cicatrise forever…

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

aminal (noun) – furry critter that lives in an ozo

arsenule (noun) – pet name of the former Gunners manager

arsonal (adjective) – prone to spontaneous combustion 

beson (noun) – horned animal ridden by brave witches

cgiar (noun) – smoking material rolled on the thighs of retired steelworkers

cosret (noun) – tight undergarment prone to autowedgie

csent (noun) – cheap perfume hugely reminiscent of aerosol flykiller

enlior (noun) – a shy elfin creature that can be found hiding behind a big fat woman with a bad attitude 

exspoe (noun) – experimental novella mixing hard science fiction with pornography and colouring

gebril (noun) – flower hugely valued by florists having the face of a sleeping rodent at its heart

lana (adverb) – of walking, a peculiarity of the gait looking as if there is some obstruction of the rear passage

pino greego (noun) – red wine beloved of motorcyclists 

poage (noun) – wet breakfast comestibles made from toast soaked in gin

radeo (noun) – loud music played during bull riding events

runign (adjective) – of noses the attribute of retaining a dewdrop for many hours 

scrachc (verb) – to poke a bottle brush between the cheeks of one’s bum

tnaks (noun) – dinosaur testicles

wnaky (adjective) – of or pertaining to autoeroticism. Unsuccessful 

zodiak (noun) – street racing vehicle constructed by the uneasy marriage of an elderly Ford car and a go-kart. Characterised by immense instability when cornering and crap brakes

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.

Having a Blast

The secret of living, I know,
Is all about having a go.
You don’t have to be fast
If you’re having a blast
A comfortable screw can be slow!

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,

One cannot help but feel that one scarcely needs to trouble oneself with an introduction. The trademark quill? 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 my life’s work.

And, as Mumsie so eloquently put it, “Moony, you little tosspot, you have been  writing that freaking crap for so long now – if the poor unfortunate sods who read it don’t know your name by this time they ain’t never gonna learn.” As I recall it, she then spat reflectively into the fire and a gobbet of saliva and mucus bubbled gently on the artificial logs.

And so to our next lesson. Sit up straight and pay attention. There may be an examination later.

The Write Price

Yes my panting little followers, let us for just one moment pretend that you have come so far as to be able to offer a book of your own creation up for the delectation of that cruel and capricious bitch that is the reading public. You have crossed every eye and dotted every tee, you have edited and subedited, you have begged the opinion of many readers (none of whom will agree on any point, leaving you to either start again from scratch or ignore them all) and placed your precious manuscript into the hands of the holy angel Kindle. All is going swimmingly, and then you are asked what price you wish to place upon this darling offspring of your imagination. Your mind will be in turmoil. What should I do? The question reverberating around the cold, damp, muddy canyons of your simple little psyche.

Is it wise to charge the mean 99p/99c? For those whose virginity had yet to be breached in this area of life, this is the smallest moiety Dame Kindle allows her charges to place on their literary efforts. Many so-called wise heads will tell you that this is the course of wisdom and the road by which your little effort may reach the hearts and minds of the greatest number of possible new lovers of your precious prose. These prophets of doom will say unto you that you are a new author and you should be properly humble and have low expectations of the sales and monetary gain to be expected from a self-published novel from the pen of an unknown.

I say. Fie upon them. And again fie upon them.

Let not such smallness ever press its skinny little fingers into the soft pink marshmallowiness of your flesh. Let not such paucity of ambition sully the pristine pathways in your little head.

Never price a book below Ten Pounds Sterling.

Whatever that may be in colonial currencies (eleven euros or thirteen dollars, Mumsie tells me). Whether she be correct or as far off the beam as the mad old bat usually is matters not here. We are speaking of principle here, of the sale of our heart’s blood, of the prostitution of the children of our mind. Therefore let us at least ask a fair price for our endeavours. 

Ten Pounds Sterling – and not a penny less!

And while the rightness and wrongness of pricing is on my mind there is one other thing we must discuss. The promotion. The book sale. The freebie. The so-called  holy grail of marketing, supposed to garner you sales ranking and reviews. Well it’s just so much pish and tush. I am here to tell you not to bother. One, having once been inveigled into allowing one’s masterpiece to be offered free of charge for a whole week, knows of what one speaks. And how many downloads did that garner? And how many reviews followed? One download (which turned out to be Mumsie who was too stingy to buy it before). I repeat One Download And No Reviews.

So don’t do it. Price in a way that reflects the love and inspiration you have put in your magnum opus – and stick with it.

Until next. Remember to wash behind your ears 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.