Fatswhistle and Buchtooth by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV is seminal work of science fantasy sets the benchmark by which all others are judged. Where quest meets tragedy, and comedy meets despair. Critics are calling it 'the best ever cure for insomnia' and 'the book that finally persuaded me I hate science fantasy'.

A tiny weeny extract in which we explore the tender relationship between our hero and his trusty female companion.

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.”

Fatswhistle and Buchtooth is currently out of print as one engages in secret talks pertaining to the future of that piece of one’s very soul. Instead, here is a smidgin of impeccable verse

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

A bite of... Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Question 1: Who is your greatest literary influence? And why?

Dame Barbara Cartland is in one’s humble opinion a writer in the presence of whose excellence we should all bow our heads. And if you cannot see why then one washes one’s hands of you forthwith

Question 2: What is your guilty pleasure?

One must confess to a partiality for that very out-of-fashion but delectable cocktail the snowball. And to being wholly unable to resist white chocolate in any form.

Question 3: Would you rather be a hero or a villain.

On first glance one could only say hero. But closer thought made one discern that one’s hero is always heading for heartbreak whilst one’s villain had no such feelings to injure. Ergo one would be a hero with the moral compass of a villain.

About Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

The only offspring of a doomed union between the daughter of an English Country Gentleman and the unsatisfactory son of an American stomach pills magnate, Moonbeam resides with his maternal parent in leafy suburbia. His ruling passion is writing, and as he is fortunate enough to be in possession of a small private income he is able to write with only literary excellence in mind, being able to ignore the demands of mammon that may force his lesser colleagues into prostituting their art for a few pieces of silver.
Fatswhistle and Buchtooth was a whole decade in its gestation, and you may expect the next magnum opus to take even longer as Moonbeam hones his craft to ever more delicate points.

In the meantime, one’s his fans may catch more of one’s his highly distinctive wit and wisdom in a slim volume facilitated by the rather boring women who run this blog assisted by one’s his maternal parent – How to Start Writing a Book: The Wit and Wisdom of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

He was as duplicitous as he was handsome, and proud to have left a trail of broken hearts.

He set his eyes on country-bred Kate and wooed her singlemindedly. Sure of victory, he became bored, but decided to relieve her of her virginity before moving on.

Set on seduction, he bowed over her hand, and nibbled on the skin of her palm.

Somehow the evening didn’t quite end as he had planned. 

Is hard to feel seductive when you wake up on a park bench dressed in a tutu and with a placard round your neck reading:

‘April Fool’

©️jj 2019

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was snowing in Paris, and Anna and Patsy walked gingerly from the burly four-wheel drive vehicle to an anonymous wooden door. Anna tapped a message on the tiny keypad in her pocket and Rod replied in her earpiece.
Patsy pressed the doorbell.
“Oui.”
“Madame Cracksman pour voir Madame Valentina Stephanovitz.”
“Entrez.”
The door opened quietly and the two women stepped into a well-lit hallway. The sound of footsteps to their left alerted them and they turned to face a middle-aged woman wearing a simple brown habit. Her eyes passed over Anna’s denim and leather clad figure more or less unseeingly, but widened at the sight of Patsy wrapped in mink and made up with a lavish hand. Patsy met those judgmental eyes coolly and it was the nun who blinked first.
“Gospazha Stephanovitz is expecting you.” The woman spoke in a carefully modulated and unaccented voice.
“Lead on then sister.”
Anna was pleased to still be able to hear Rod in her left ear. He chuckled mirthlessly.
“Pats not going down too well I take it.”
Anna ruthlessly smothered the desire to laugh and followed the nun’s disapproving figure down a short corridor. She tapped on a set of double doors.
“Gospazha. Your visitors are here.”
“Well show them in and go away.” The voice was tetchy and less beautifully rounded than that of the plain-faced nun.
The woman who sat in a deep window seat watching the snowflakes fall from a purplish-grey sky was so thin the light almost shone through her. She turned a wide brown gaze on them and almost smiled.
“Mrs Cracksman. And?”
“Mrs Henderson,” Anna supplied. “We are sisters.”
The woman in the window seat visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry to appear unwelcoming, but I have received some odd visitors from time to time.” Her English, though careful, was excellent and Anna breathed a silent sigh of relief.
Patsy put out a tentative hand.
“I just bet you have. People seeing you as a conduit to your son. Which is what I’m doing, and I’m sincerely sorry for that.”
“I have no problem with you coming to see me. Your honesty is refreshing. So tell me how I can help you.”
“I’m rather hoping you will be able to persuade your son to leave my sons alone.”
“That may be difficult. He believes he is owed a life.”
“I believe he is not. But if he was I would offer myself to protect my children.”
“I understand that. But the lengths you will go to to protect your sons are the reason my son seeks revenge against your family.”
Anna looked over at Patsy to see a bleak, closed look come across her friend’s normally cheerful face and stepped in before Patsy’s anger could blow the top off this meeting.
“How so?” she asked quietly.
“It is understood,” the woman spoke in a carefully uninflected voice, “that your son got into something over his head. And that when he wanted out you took mayhem and murder to his aid.”
Anna silenced Patsy with an upraised hand.
“How can a child get in over his head?”
“In our world a teenager is not a child.”
Anna began to see the edges of the problem. “A teenager? We are not talking of the same child. When they kidnapped him last year, William Cracksman was eight years old.”
The woman took that like a body blow.
“Kidnapped? Eight years old?”
Anna just nodded.
Their hostess turned and stared out at the thickening snow. Then she squared her thin shoulders.
“Alexei. Will you come out please.”
A door in the white panelling opened quietly, and a bulky but beautifully tailored man stepped into the room. He walked over to Patsy and took her chin in his hand.
“Do you swear to me that your ‘sister’ speaks the truth?”
Patsy broke his hold on her chin with a contemptuous slap to his wrist.
“Before we get to any swearing I think you need to introduce yourself.”
Anna closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. What in hell was Patsy up to? Then she realised. Whoever this was, it almost certainly wasn’t the billionaire who was financing the war against anybody called Cracksman. That man was called Yuri. Anna tensed and tapped out a message to Rod to watch his six. Meanwhile, Alexei shaped to slap Patsy, but a firm command from the window seat stayed his hand.
“This is my husband’s nephew. He heads up Yuri’s personal security, and was sent here to protect me. Although it begins to look as if I am not in need of his services.”

Jane Jago

There was a human cub in the wildwood. Lost. Crying for its mammy. The rabbits huddled in shocked bunches, the rodents laughed their sharp-toothed laughter, and the snakes and lizards decided it was none of their business.

The hiccuping cries awoke Old Brock, who quickly found the sobbing small one. Not speaking human, he leaned gently against the mancub and it grabbed at his fur for security. 

Thus attached, Brock gently tugged the cub to where he could hear the footsteps of its dam. He left it in her path and ambled home, shaking his stripy head and smiling.

©️jj 2019

I bought a book today
And dived beneath its skirts
It took my mind away
And shook it till it hurt

It took my preconceptions
And turned them outside in
There was not one exception
It found out all my sins

Today I bought a book
With little expectation
My certainties it shook
And brought me complication

The words the author found
Expressed each small emotion
And brought my mind around
Heartbreak and devotion

I bought a book today
Wherein my soul left earth
There is no more to say
Except that books have worth

©️Jane Jago 2019

Holly dragged a couple of very heavy bags out of the back of the Land Rover and hauled them into the kitchen. She went back for a second load, and as she was passing the staircase Alan’s voice floated down.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Bring it here and let me see it before you wrap it up.”
“As soon as I’ve finished hauling groceries.”
There was the sound of movement overhead and for one delirious moment Holly actually thought he was coming down to help. But then she heard a door slam. Her slender shoulders drooped, and she soldiered on alone.
Some half an hour later, she trudged up the stairs holding a small box in her left hand. Walking into Alan’s office she placed it carefully on the desk in front of him. He looked up from his computer screen.
“At last. Knowing how much I want to see this, I’d have thought you could have brought it to me before now.”
“I could. But then the groceries wouldn’t have been put away before the twins get home from school.”
He opened his mouth to make a scathing retort, but his wife was already on her way out of the room. Instead, he opened the box and looked gloatingly at the heavy gold bangle in its layers of tissue paper. It had cost a great deal of money and meant he wouldn’t be buying his wife or his twin sons Christmas presents this year, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the image of his daughter with the bangle clasped around one slender wrist. She was going to love it.
Downstairs Holly got on with preparing the evening meal, presenting the world with her usual face of calm good sense. Inside, however, she was far from being serene and happy. Not for the first time in the ten years of her marriage, she wondered what maggot had entered Alan’s brain. How could a man who was constantly bewailing his own poverty possibly justify spending four thousand pounds on a bracelet? She allowed herself one small kitten-like snarl, before popping a huge shepherd’s pie in the oven. She was just putting the kettle on when the back door slammed.
“Paddy, Sean, shoes,” she shouted. “And before anyone considers arguing, I have fresh doughnuts.”
There was the sound of masculine laughter, and a couple of minutes later the kitchen door opened and two huge young men all but fell in. They surrounded her and subjected her to a certain amount or good natured rumpling, before sitting down at the scarred wooden table.
“You are,” Sean said, “very possibly the nicest stepmother in the world.”
“She is,” his twin concurred. “Which begs the question of how the miserable miser upstairs ever persuaded her to marry him.”
“Behave, you pair,” Holly couldn’t help laughing, as she put a huge mug of very strong tea in front of each and a plate of doughnuts between them.
While they were eating, Holly looked at their broad, good natured features and did her own wondering. She wondered exactly how two such self-centred people as Alan and Corinne, came to have produced a matched pair of nice sons. Paddy grinned at her.
“Stop frowning Stepmama, you’ll put wrinkles in your pretty forehead.”
She smiled at him, and he shoved a whole doughnut in his mouth.
“He’s been practicing,” Sean explained with simple pride. “That’s school over until January. So what now?”
“Tomorrow. Nothing. Unless you’d like to go shooting.”
“We would,” the boys chorused. “How did you swing that?”
“I have my methods.”
“And after tomorrow? What are you softening us up for?” Sean was the quicker on the uptake of the duo, although Paddy was the leader.
“Sunday your mother arrives.”
The boys groaned. “And what else?”
“Christmas Eve, Anna and Christabel will be here. Staying until the day after Boxing Day.”
“Oh won’t that be fun. The two ex-wives at each other’s throats except for when they join forces to have a go at you. Plus the most spoilt young woman on the planet, Daddy’s darling Christabel, expecting to be waited on hand and foot.” Paddy looked at Holly. “I dunno how you stick it. And don’t say it’s for love of our despicable father, because you aren’t that stupid.”
“I stick it because I promised myself I’d be here for you two until you were old enough to leave home. When that happens…”
The boys looked at her with round eyes before getting up from the table and enveloping her in a group hug.
“I’d give a great deal,” Sean said, “to know what the old bastard has done that’s gotten you rattled enough to admit that.”
Holly waved her hands distractedly. “I shouldn’t have said it. And I don’t want you two to be thinking about it…”
“Okay. We won’t.”

From Team Holly a short by Jane Jago.

He was killed for who his grandfather was. To the old men in their castles, the death of a seventeen-year-old boy meant nothing except one more move in the eons-old feud between two powerful houses. 

Those who ordered his death thought nothing about she who bore him and loved him, and whose bitter tears watered his grave. They didn’t even know her name until it was too late. The creatures that besieged their castles were as pitiless as winter and as unstoppable.

He was killed for who his grandfather was. But avenged by what his mother was. 

©️jj 2019

I’d rather be a hayseed
I’d rather your contempt
I’d rather not fit in your box
To my own detriment
I’d rather be the wrong-shaped peg
To fill your right-shaped hole
I’d rather bear your harsh contempt
Than give to you my soul
I’d rather be a reprobate
Beneath consideration
Than pretend to give a f**k
For your appreciation

©️ jane jago 2019

Challenge Accepted is an anthology of speculative fiction, featuring people with disabilities who rise to the challenge. You can enjoy the opening of The Invisible Event, which is a Fortune's Fools story by E.M. Swift-Hook.

There were two of them.
They walked into my office looking as if they’d just come in on a low-end freetrader’s scrapheap and hadn’t found time to freshen up since. I’d not known they were coming and that suggested something urgent, which meant something dangerous.
The good news was I knew one of them. Halkom Dugsdall—taller than most who were tall, dark red-brown hair that always stuck out as if he’d not combed it in days, and eyes like the business end of an energy snub.
His work brought him out here two, maybe three times a year, sometimes more and we’d shared stakeouts and bar tabs enough that we’d got to know each other pretty well. Him, me and Commander Burgas who headed up the local police here until his retirement three cycles back. We’d made a formidable team.
The last time I’d seen Dugsdall must have been at Burgas’ formal retirement event. He’d missed the private party after because of work commitments. But then he was the Coalition Security Force’s ‘go-to’ operative for hunting the very worst criminal scum. His frequent visits were down to the fact that my patch attracted a lot of them. It was at the sharp end of a frontier sector on the Periphery. After you left it, there was a mess of wildcard prospecting and mining concerns, a few low-tech Protectorates and a cluster of thinly populated Independent worlds which the Coalition couldn’t be bothered to stretch its hand out to grasp. The butt end of the galaxy and all my very own.
Even though I’d already figured that this visit was far from being a social call, I mustered a warm smile.
“Good to see you again, Grim. Who’s your friend?”
She reacted with blank surprise to my use of that name. Alright. Not a friend. She was tall too, but where Grim was leanly muscled, she was just skinny. Shiny black hair with a metallic lustre and cheekbones that seemed keen to get out ahead of her nose. A challenge, as her nose was pretty prominent itself. Cold eyes scoured me from above it. Seemed she didn’t like me already. Or maybe she didn’t like the voice I’d chosen from the handful I kept on my favourites menu.
“Good to see you too, Saj.” Grim gestured between me and the woman. “Sajmar Dyep—Tak Tanka.”
We nodded to each other and, introductions out the way, I let them sort themselves out to sit down and reached over to the synth to serve up a tray of mild stimulant drinks. They looked like they needed that.
“Thanks,” Grim said, helping himself to one from the tray and passing another to his companion as he carried on talking. “Sorry to descend on you like this, but it’s one of those fast action things. You know what I do, and Var Tanka here is a specialist in matters relating to the Legacy.”
Var Tanka? So formal. Definitely not friends then. Or maybe she was just so senior, us regular street-level operatives weren’t going to make it onto her link-list of contacts.
“We don’t get much trouble with the Legacy here,” I told her. “They tried once, but those terrorist fanatics could never make any ground with the sort living on my patch. People here are all about how they would like more Coalition involvement, not less.”
“I find the facts are more valuable than speculation, Dyep. But your opinion is noted.”
Oh my! Underling know your place…
Grim cleared his throat.
“Sajmar has some expertise on the Legacy herself, Var Tanka. She worked undercover in a Legacy cell before she took on the local CSF office here.”
“Oh? Really?” The cold eyes flicked away from mine. “That must have been some years ago then. There’s been a lot of change in the Legacy’s approach recently.” She wasn’t going to give me any ground.
Grim met my gaze and held it just long enough whilst the other woman was busy pulling up screens and pinning them over my desk.
“This is who we are here for.” She stabbed a finger towards one of the screens and my heart sank. “Ozrin Walorn. He has a history of low-level smuggling, but evidence links him with a recent incident of piracy in the Varn Sector and”—she impaled another screen with her nail—“his name’s occurred in relation to a Legacy-backed attack on a planet called Kesser. We think he helped supply the rebels there, resisting Coalition integration against the local government forces.”
Oh Ozzy! What have you been getting involved with now?
“We have reason to believe Walorn is registered as a resident in your area,” Grim added.
What could I do? I moved my head forward the small amount allowed by the couple of fused vertebrae of my neck. It approximated a nod.
“He is someone who’s crossed my screens before,” I admitted. “If he’s at home, I can find him for you. Where’re you staying?”
“We didn’t get that far yet,” Grim said.
Tak Tanka waved me away. “I don’t intend to be here long. This is a courtesy call. We could have linked you for the information, in fact, instead of wasting—”
Grim cut in.
“In fact, we realised that your local knowledge would be of immense value in locating our target, which is why we are here. And as that might take a short time, we’ll take rooms in the spaceport stopover.”
Maybe she’d more sense than I’d thought, because Var Tanka snapped her mouth shut as Grim spoke across her.
“I’ll be in touch later today,” I promised him. “Let me see you out.”
Tak Tanka had already risen from her seat and was stalking to the door, her entire body from her stiff, erect spine to the set of her shoulders screaming disapproval. As I moved around the desk to be polite and escort Grim, I glanced up and caught his eye again. He was a hard man to read, his face more a mask for his emotions than a mirror of them, but I was pretty sure I could see the dislike there.
I stopped at the door and Tak Tanka turned, didn’t notice me for a moment, then looked down and her mouth opened slightly. Pity or horror? I always made a private bet on which it would be. But this time it was surprise followed by the same dismissive coldness as before.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said and opened the door to free her from having to reply. Grim gripped my shoulder briefly and followed her out.

You can continue reading this story in Challenge Accepted which is now available to purchase.

The first Abbie heard of them was seven-year-old Porter.

“New neighbours got a Range Rover, Mum.”

“Can’t have.”

“Do.”

“Okay.”

By the time Barry came home from work two Range Rovers were blocking the communal driveway, and that was just the start.

Things were building to a head on the night they heard hysterical screaming. Abbie and Barry ran, to find Mister Neighbour collapsed facedown. He wasn’t breathing, so Abbie started CPR while Barry called triple nine. 

Mister recovered, but he never spoke to Abbie or Barry again. It was easier to sell up than say thank you.

©️jj 2019