I must go down to the beach again, to the crowded beach and the sun
And all I ask is a wide-brimmed hat and a towel to lie upon
And an ice cream van playing nursery rhymes and sand in the sunshine baking
And a deckchair for Auntie Clair and the sound of the donkeys braying.

I must go down to the beach again for a walk on the promenade
Is a wide prom and a clear prom which is seen in every postcard
And all I ask is a sunny day with no grey clouds a-trying
To spoil the queues of endless folks, cold drinks all a-buying.

I must go down to the beach again to the chippy by the pier
To taste the salt – and the vinegar – just like yesteryear.
And all I ask is a seafront pub called ‘The Wild Rover’
To welcome us in with beer and gin when the sunbathing day is over.

E.M. Swift-Hook

My dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, author of the science fantasy classic (or SciFan as we cognoscenti prefer to say) ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mummy was the one who identified the genre for me when she had been sipping on her fourth pernod and organic Greek yoghurt smoothie. “Moons, if you think that anyone is ever going to call that poop science-fiction you are living in a frigging fantasy.” I recall she spat the stone of an olive she had fished out from the bottom of her glass with the final words, so they impacted me deeply.

Today mes estudas, after our brief plunge into the murky pond of reviews and reviewing, we will return to the primrose paths of prose preparation.  To those of you who have had the supercalfragilistic fortune to be winnowing worth from my words of wisdom I say welcome back, and to those who have only just discovered my delightful calligraphy I say sit quietly at the back of the class and be sure to revise later.

And thus, my happy followers, my RWW, I propose to you the finest flora and bejeweled gems of my inestimable intellect. Read carefully, learn assiduously, and ingest intestinally that you may benefit from the experience of one whose writing skills are superior and sans pareil.

How to Start Writing a Book –  The Write Character

When creating fantabulous fiction, one of the building blocks one should consider perspicaciously is the characteristics of one’s characters, the pontification of one’s protagonists, and the mentality of one’s mendicants.  May one humbly suggest the ritualistic dismemberment of the dichotomy of despair is the first essential in the realisation and roundaboutification of perfect protagonists.

As we are fast becoming closely intertwined, one feels comfortable in sharing some of one’s own little ritual-ettes for the construction of credible character traits. Place upon the table a virgin sheet of the most beautiful of papers and upon its sensitive surface inscribe certain informations about the person growing in one’s psyche. Once you have these facts inside your cranium attempt to dress your shrinking physique in the insubstantial anatomy of your putative creation. Once having assumed this physical envelope, model it as carefully as if you were a supermodel on the catwalk and allow it to permeate every pore of your being. Only then can you begin to set it down with its contemporaneous companions inside the delicate framework of your histoire. Tread gently and allow each one of your persons to speak in their own tones, to walk in their own shoes, to listen with their own ears, to feel with their own hearts, and to expostulate to you of their hopes, dreams, passions and personalities.

Never, mes enfants, permit yourself to press your own expectations upon the psyche of those who inhabit your writings. Rather let them fly on their own wings and listen with your inner ear as they speak to you of their lives and their loves.

Ah mes estudas, quel excitement, quel bonheur, as your little people walk the pages of your magnum opus and clamber around in the canyons of your consciousness. Let your creativity be as verdant as the grass, and allow your imagination to be impregnated by the words of those persons who have grown up to inhabit your worlds with the organic ossification of their beings.

And there we will leave the characterisation of Calliope and her sisters until next time when we shall consider the impact of those most precious people of our imaginations on the mundane and dour dross of everyday life.

Ecrit bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Get a grip!
Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day.
To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….
So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.
Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.
Again I say crap.
If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

Masked killers tore down tapestries, ransacked cupboards and dressing chests, and urgently questioned the few servants to be found in the family wing of the palace. All to no avail, the princess appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.
As the massive battering ram began to take effect on the brass-bound outer doors, the leading killer gave a low whistle and gathered his men. ‘It’s no good, the bitch is gone, and his fancy lordship didn’t pay enough for any of us to get dead.’ There were nods of agreement and the group vanished swiftly into the tunnels from which they had emerged just as the outer doors gave and the heavily armed palace guard surged into the apartments.
The carnage that met the gaze of the largely ceremonial palace soldiers had more than one falling to his knees and retching helplessly. One grizzled veteran held the head of his commanding officer as he deposited his breakfast on the shining marble tiles of the antechamber floor. ‘Come along son, there are messages to be sent’, the sergeant said in a steady voice as he hoisted the young aristocrat to his feet.
‘Messages?’
‘Yes, sir, you’ll be wanting to send an eagle to the Sanctuary of The Sky, and as many pigeons as you can get hold of to the northern kingdoms. All hell is going to break out here very soon, and we’ll need all the help we can get’.
‘All hell? Why?’
‘Emperor dead. Imperial family dead. No successor. There’s going to be one almighty scramble for power, and we’ll be right in the middle of it.’
The officer may have been young, green, and a political appointee, but he was no fool and quickly grasped the reality of what his sergeant was saying.
‘We need to hurry then. Is there anybody steady we can leave in charge here?’
‘Bilwil’ the sergeant bellowed, and a short, bandy corporal with acne-scarred cheeks bustled forward. ‘Take charge here, and try to make sure nobody makes this mess any worse.’ Bilwil snapped a salute, and, casting a sardonic eye over the group of assorted idlers, pensioners, and green lads still vomiting began to bawl out his own set of orders. The sergeant and commander left at a flat gallop heading for the signal tower at the northern corner of the palace complex.
It is a sad comment on human nature that Sergeant Gandy’s prediction proved to be so accurate. Within twelve hours of the royal hunt setting out from the palace, the city had become a virtual war zone.
Gangs of armed men prowled the streets, while looting and casual violence became the order of the day. The city seethed with armed and dangerous dangerous people, from paid assassins reducing the size of the pool from which a new emperor would be chosen, through career thieves, to groups of noblemen’s sons seeking to avenge imagined slights. The ordinary populace stood little chance against armed toughs and mostly chose to retreat behind closed doors and wait out the worst. Those who had no doors to wait behind fared very badly indeed, prey to casual violence and with no help forthcoming from any direction: the temple guardsmen and the members of the watch, the very men charged with keeping the peace in the city, having prudently retired behind the sturdy doors of the temples and watch-houses leaving those on the streets to survive, or not, as best they might.
Thus matters stood until just after dawn on the tenth day after the palace massacre, when a force of about five hundred men entered the city from the east. The Church had taken a hand. Seasoned soldiers, in scarlet cloaks and bronze breastplates, flooded the streets and the ordinary citizens breathed a collective sigh of relief. A few of the less intelligent among the younger sons and roaring boys who had terrorised the city weren’t fast enough to make themselves scarce, and a number of messy object lessons were handed out before order was restored.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.

Because life happens…

If you start from your own garden gate
Then run for a hundred days straight
At ten kay a day
You’ll be quite far away
And for dinner you’re gonna be late

Jane Jago

Dense morning fog cloaked the vast mountains that flanked Madelyn Lawrence’s wooden hut. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and drew a long breath of the Peruvian air she had grown to love. In her eleven years as a cultural anthropologist, she had never known a more peaceful place than the Ashaninka village.
Moving to the edge of her hut, where one facing was open to the world, she looked out upon the landscape. From her location on the outskirts of the village, she could see the dozens of huts similar to her own that spackled the lush valley she had called home for the last two years. A profound sense of contentment made her smile. Early morning was her favorite time of day. Nothing but nature’s rhythmic song to accompany her thoughts. Would she ever be willing to leave this place once her research was completed? It wasn’t altogether uncommon for someone in her profession to remain living amongst the people they studied. Many cultural anthropologists had done so from the earliest days of the discipline.
A shrill dinging sound ended her musings. She glanced over at the tablet she kept on a stand next to her bed. The screen flashed once, then went dark. Madelyn frowned—the one piece of modern technology she had brought with her; it was as foreign here as her hut would have been back in Seattle. A small blue light near the top of the tablet blinked on and off in short intervals, leading her thoughts down a difficult path.
Moments ago, she had contemplated staying here with the Ashaninka people, completely disregarding the promise she had made to finish the work she needed for her ethnography and return to her fiancée, Jonathan, within three years. What would he say if he knew? Guilt constricted her throat. He had been nothing but supportive of her taking the trip that would steal three years of their relationship.
Sure, they had realtime chats at least once a day, but that wasn’t the same.
She made her way over to the tablet.
“Check messages.”
“You have one message from Jonathan.”
“Play message.”
The hologram of a well-built man projected from the screen. “Hey, Maddie, I know you don’t really want me to bother you about calls you get while you’re in the field, but I think the message I got last night might be really important. It was from some guy named Mathew Hodgson with the International Space Federation. He said he’s been trying to reach you via email for weeks. He didn’t say what he wanted, but it sounds like the Federation is really interested in contacting you for whatever reason. You might want to inquire. Love you.”
The message ended and Madelyn stood still, her eyes fixed on the tablet. Someone from the International Space Federation was trying to contact her? Why on Earth would they want to contact a cultural anthropologist? She played the message again, more to buy herself time to think than anything. After it ended, she decided to research the man.
“Search Mathew Hodgson of the International Space Federation.”
“Mathew Hodgson is an aerospace engineer and physicist who is best known for his work on the ground-breaking efforts that sent the first satellites into interstellar space in 2174. He is also known for his—“
“Dismiss.”
A famous engineer and physicist was trying to contact her? It had to be a mistake. She put the thought out of her mind and busied herself with fixing breakfast.
Sitting down to a plate of sliced fruit and mixed nuts, she noticed there was still a blinking light on her tablet. Had she somehow managed to miss her realtime with Jonathan? She checked the time. It had only just turned 8:00 a.m. He was two hours behind her time zone, so it was only 6:00 a.m. there. He wouldn’t take lunch for another three hours. It wasn’t like him to contact her while he was on the job.
Curious, and a little concerned, she said, “Check message.”
“You have one message from unknown contact.”
“Play message.”
The hologram of a man she didn’t recognize materialized above the screen. “Hello, Miss Lawrence, my name is Mathew Hodgson. I apologize for this intrusion, but I feared I would not reach you in time if drastic measures weren’t taken. I have been trying to contact you for several weeks now. Please respond to this message as soon as you can. I would love to offer you a brief amount of information about my motive for contacting you, but the information is sensitive, and I would much prefer to relay it to you on a private stream. I hope to hear from you soon.” He finished by giving his private stream code.
The projection retreated into the screen, and Madelyn was staring at the place the man’s image had been. Had she even blinked? What the hell was going on? Words like ‘reach you in time’ and ‘the information is sensitive’ made her uneasy.
How had Hodgson gotten her stream code? She’d given it to Jonathan and her best friend Ashley, no one else. She could hardly fathom the idea that either of them had given out the code.
Mind still churning, she made a small fire under her clay burner so she could brew a cup of tea with the hopes of easing her anxious thoughts, but that did little to help.
It wasn’t long before she gave in to the inevitable.
“Contact Hodgson on the number he left me.”
A holographic loading symbol appeared. “Contacting—Mathew Hodgson.”

From Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Queuing in the sunshine for an ice cream. The place has about forty flavours and a strict queuing system. Today’s flavours are displayed on a blackboard. Beside this there is a notice saying.
‘Please choose your flavour before entering so that other people aren’t kept waiting any longer than necessary.’
There’s also a little girl popping up and down the queue asking people to please choose their flavour from the blackboard.
I know the two women in front of me are too busy blethering.
In they go.
“What flavours have you got?”, one says brightly.
Read the fucking notice, assholes.

They had set out for Alfor many days later than the last of the other caravans that had wintered in the city, guarded by a scant force of children and old men, with a woman caravansi and no trade goods aside from the caravan’s own. It was not surprising that the good citizens of Ratzal were laughing behind their shutters as the caravan passed by on its way through the gates.
In the eight days that followed, only one thing had occurred to lift Alexa’s spirits and that was the discovery that Caer, for all his youth and apparent inexperience, was superb at his job and kept the caravan in better order with his ill-assorted, under-strength company, than her father’s captain had managed with a full complement of experienced Zoukai. Indeed, they had already made up over a day of lost time in distance on the road.
At least that had been the only thing to lift Alexa’s spirits, until last night when she had heard the roar of thunder overhead and seen the dark bulk of the spaceship come to rest on the mithan plateau only to explode soon after.
If the samples Caer had brought back were anything to go by, the plunder they could scavenge from the wreck would be worth at least five times as much as the entire caravan – all its goods, wagons and livestock and her own personal possessions included. With such wealth she could afford to pay rates that were she a woman, a man or a talking pony, she could still attract the best Zoukai. And then she could afford to ignore the bigoted merchants and expand the caravan to carry more and more of her own trade goods. It would make her self-sufficient and as rich as the wealthiest caravansi on the roads. Then let them laugh behind the shutters if they dared.
All she had to do was to collect the treasure and deliver it safely to the Alfor Fair.
Except, of course, it would not be as simple as that.
Quite apart from the bands of brigands and outlaws which were the scourge of the wastelands, other caravans would also have seen the explosion and sent their own Zoukai scouts to investigate. For such a prize she did not doubt that almost any caravansi would think nothing of attacking – and Caer’s small troop of Zoukai would be a poor defence against them.
Then there was Caer himself. Although the Zoukai brethren were renowned for holding to a high code of honour, such wealth could easily turn the head of one as precocious as her young captain – and that was something Alexa was not prepared to allow. The brigands and other caravans were an unavoidable hazard, but with Caer, she could be more certain.
The two girls had finished their work and she sent them to find her favourite robe, whilst she anointed herself with a rich, musky perfume. Her eyes narrowed critically as she examined her face in the polished metal hand mirror, and then she smiled. Caer would think her beautiful, of that there was no doubt and for herself, the thought of Caer was not unpleasant. He was unbearably arrogant, but young, healthy, strong and if not exactly her ideal of good-looking, he was very far from unsightly. At need, Alexa could make a virtue of necessity, but in this case, necessity linked hands, pleasantly, with her own inclinations.
The girls brought the robe and helped her to dress. It was of fine gauzy crimson stuff, almost transparent, woven with threads of gold and belted with a tasselled girdle. Alexa added the finishing touches to her make-up and shook her hair, letting it cascade unchecked down her back. One of the girls brought her jewellery box and she selected a gem-studded comb for her hair, several costly rings and a necklace of precious stones.
Satisfied at last Alexa assumed her place on the couch and allowed the flimsy robe to fall open around her legs to reveal the luxuriant inner curve of one thigh. The two slave girls stood staring at her, their eyes wide. She scowled at them in annoyance.
“By the lost gods,” she snapped. “Stop gaping like imbeciles the pair of you. Mari, fetch wine and two goblets. Rissa, go and find the Zoukai captain and tell him to come to my pavilion.”
The two girls scurried to obey their mistress and Alexa’s scowl turned itself into a secret smile. Her mind was looking forward to seeing the expression on Caer’s face as he came into the pavilion – and her body was looking forward to what would follow.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

Because life happens…

A challenge to use the word swaining
Requires some significant braining
As there’s so little chance
Of me writing romance
Then poor taste is the one thing remaining

Jane Jago

The Cursed Titans is the second book in the Tempest Blade series by Ricardo Victoria. 

The triennial Chivalry Games have returned!
After helping to destroy the Withered King, Alex and the rest of the group find out that saving the world has consequences. While he is secretly battling with depression and with the Alliance on the verge of collapse, a diplomatic summit and the Chivalry Games—to be held in the far off Kuni Empire—may give everyone the opportunity to turn things around. Alex builds a team to represent the Foundation in the Games, facing off against the best fighters in the world. When an ancient being tries to raise legendary nightmares known as Titans using the peace talks as a trap, Alex has to find a way to save everyone before it is too late. Alex must learn that he is not truly alone to save the world from the chaos of the Titans. In a world where magic and science intermingle, anything is possible.

Alex jumped from the third floor of the parking lot, using the Gift to slow the fall, and landed on top of the van, leaving a large dent. The noise startled the robbers, who stopped what they were doing, dropping the stolen boxes from the comic book shop.
“Who are you?” one of the robbers asked, startled.
“A hero who rises to beat the crap out of criminals like you,” Alex stood up, pointing at the man.
“Is this guy for real?” a second robber asked the first.
“A movie by Silver Harvest,” Alex continued narrating. “Soon in theatres.”
“Where did you came from?” a third robber asked.
“I can tell you, it wasn’t from that sewer,” Alex looked at his opponents, four grown, burly men in ski masks. One was carrying a bat. He smiled. There was no need for him to draw Yaha or even his bow. He wanted to win, but in a fair fight. And he didn’t want to kill them, just hurt them some.
“Since you don’t seem to be carrying heat, I will go easy on you.”
Alex jumped from the van’s rooftop with a double kick, hitting the two closest robbers in the face. He landed with ease, standing in a combat guard position, left hand and leg in front, leading, right hand and leg back. Both hands in a fist. A third robber ran towards Alex, trying to hit him with the bat. Alex pivoted slightly and caught the bat with his left hand. He took a moment to see the brand and the signature on the bat.
“A Pepe Cansino bat? Tell me you didn’t pay money for this,” Alex broke the bat with ease and punched the robber in the face with his right hand. “No, I’m pretty sure you stole it because no one would pay money for this shit.”
Alex then threw the broken half of the bat he was holding into the head of one of the robbers he had kicked, knocking him down once more. The three remaining robbers attacked all at once. Alex blocked the attacks to his left and right with both forearms, and then jumped to kick the one in the middle in the face, breaking his nose. The robber to his right charged once more at Alex, who received him with a strong kick to the stomach. The impact made the man throw up. Alex then proceeded to punch the robber to his left with a right hook straight into the union between the jaw and the skull. A crunching noise was heard.
“Sorry ‘bout that. I guess you will have to eat through a straw the next few months,” Alex said as he stood in the middle of four large adults knocked out cold, lying on the ground.
A few whimpers echoed in the parking lot. He heard a click and he sensed a small explosion of energy. Alex barely had time to dodge the bullet, leaning to his right. The projectile impacted on the van behind him. A fifth robber, who had come out from the back door of the shop looked startled, and his shaking hand pressed the trigger three more times.
Alex tried something very, very stupid and risky. Focusing the Gift, he reached with his mind to the electromagnetic field that emanated from his body when he was ‘on’. The same energy that fed his vest. Extending his hands, he directed the electromagnetic field to make it stronger in front of him. It felt like trying to push water. The more he pushed, the more resistance the field offered. But the small amount Alex managed to nudge it was more than enough, as it deflected the bullets away from him.

A Bite of… Ricardo Victoria

What have you most enjoyed about revisiting the world of Tempest Blades?

It was awesome. It was like making a trip to a new place with an old friend. It allowed me to work through some personal issues while having a new adventure. As well it allowed me to explore and expand upon the world of Theia and share more of it with the readers. There is so much to share and not everything made it into the book. I hope I can keep revisiting and exploring every corner of it. Also, seeing how the character have changed after their first adventure together, adding new members to the group made it feel like watching someone growing up.

Why does the anime style of fantasy hold such appeal for you?

I grew up watching cartoons and anime, so I like the idea of freedom it allows by mixing different, sometimes apparently contradictory concepts and make it work. The story becomes more about the characters and less about a rigid group of tropes. Anything can happen and that’s liberating as writer. I also enjoy the action packed, cinematic feeling it has, which contrasts nicely with the more heartfelt or dramatic scenes.

If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self as a writer, what would it be? 

Be patient, write for the fun of it and don’t let writing absorb you so much that you forget about taking care of other aspects of your personal life. For you writing is therapy, not a job.

A glimpse into the mind of eccentric, toy addicted genius Ricardo Victoria…

Born in the previously frozen landscape of Toluca, Mexico, Ricardo dreamed of being a writer. But needing a job that could pay the rent while writing, he studied Industrial Design and later obtained a PhD in Sustainable Design, while living in the United Kingdom. There, he did a few things besides burning the midnight oil to get his degree:
-Trained in archery near Nottingham
-Worked in a comic book store to pay for his board game & toy addiction
He is back now in Toluca, living with his wife and his three dogs where he works as an academic at the local university. has short stories featured in anthologies by Inklings Press and Rivenstone Press. He was nominated for a Sidewise Award 2016 for the short story Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon, co-written with his arch-nemesis, Brent A. Harris. You can reach Ricardo on Twitter or on his own website/blog or via email: scifantastique@gmail.com