My dear Readers Who Write,

You will know of me as the renowned author Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and have no doubt heard of the wisdom and erudition I have been putting forth in this highly enlightening series ‘The Thinking Quill’.

It is one’s intention today to depart from the pathways of rectitude and face squarely the chimera that is the erudite composition of a review.

“Now what,” I hear you ask, “has led our Ivy into these shark-filled shoals?” The answer, mes petits, is a review one recently received for that epitome of literary elegance that is the science-fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Some ignorant pensioner posted her abusive opinion and graded my magnum opus with a solitary gold-star. Her supposed ‘review’ was a single sentence in length: “This is the worst pile of crap masquerading as sci-fi I have read in over forty years.” One realised instantly the poor deluded female must be both menopausal, thus in her dotage, and also clearly the victim of dementia, so generously forgave her on the moment.

But it awoke me to the imperative of inducting the future generations of Readers Who Write into the subtle nemeton of the reviewers craft. No student of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV should be reduced to the single sentence, no matter how pithy when they are casting supreme judgement upon the literary ejaculations of fellow authors. So, it falls upon me to ensure you are equipped with the knowledge and skill to dissect the entrails of another’s corpus.

Now, there will be those misguided souls among you who have, until now, seen it as their deity-sent duty to encourage the writer and coddle his artistic soul with warming and conspicuously kindly rumination on the opus before them.

I rail against such foolishness. Nay, I cry. Nay, nay and thrice nay. The very existence of the reviewer demands a harsher task. Armour yourself with erudition, take up the sword of experience and the bows and arrows of superior lexicography, and sally forth to slay the mythical monsters of pusillanimous prose, insufficiently exquisite world building, flat ‘realistic’ characterisation, and unimaginative, ‘logical’ plot lines.

Take up your weapons and do battle.

Let your words and wit be as a scalpel with which you excise the necrotising flesh of mediocrity from the bones of boredom, the tendons of tedium, and the entrails of excruciating entropy.

Should any work not meet the most stringent demands of taste, texture and testicular terpsichory, one must be not afraid to consign the script to the dungeons known as ‘did not finish’ and to expostulate one’s redaction as coolly as a surgeon whose sharpened scalpel removes disease to save life.

Take as your talisman the words of that divine dame whose perfect pinkness and portentous prose shows all lesser mortals the direction in which the glorious Muse may be cajoled by an author of superlative talent and all superseding sensibility. Consider the exquisite gentility of her delicately virginal heroines and the craggy, all-embracing masculinity of her manly heroes. It matters not what the genre, take the advice of one upon whose knowledge you may safely depend and use the words of the divine dame as the yardstick by which you judge all literary pretensions.

Once you find a manuscript worthy of your attention, husband your gilded heavenly bodies with care, awarding each and every one as parsimoniously as if it were a child of your own bosom. Let not the spirit of generosity move you to sprinkle planetoids with a lavishness beyond the desserts of that which stands before you.

I present to you my own formula for asteroid assignation.

One heavenly body: some slight little thing. An example being Dying to be Roman, by those dreadful women who I allow to benefit from my enormous popularity

Two sleeping satellites: a book with sufficient eclat to hold one’s grudging respect. An example being  JRR Tolkien’s fantastical travelogue.

Three asteroidal amplifications: a volume where one is sufficiently engaged to need to peek at the ending to ensure one’s favourite characters survive. An example being ‘Game of Thrones’ – who’s bid for more shining lights was only scuppered by a little over fondness for violence within its pages.

Four twinklies: a work of superlative excellence. An example being the understated, linguistically purist, Gorean Saga

Five golden galleons: reserved for the work of the divine dame whose bejeweled pink slippers I am unworthy to kiss.

In conclusion, dear RWW, let your metaphysical pen be as feared in reviewing as it will become beloved in creation.

Lire Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

EXCERPT FROM MAN OF TWO PLANETS BY JUDITH ROOK

A bright red light flashed on the main systems panel. Quickly, Vaire brought sound from the bridge into the room.

“First Peer to the bridge. Priority call!”

Darland stared at his lieutenant with eyes that had narrowed. “Why haven’t they called you?”

“Your cousin isn’t stupid. Something’s happened. I’ll come with you, but I’ll stay well behind until we know if there’s a situation.”

All was quiet on the bridge. Every officer was at his station and did not move as the First Peer entered. The captain was in his chair. On the huge observation display, there was nothing to be seen; only the nearby stars and the blue planet. But below that, the smaller communication screen showed the figure of a man, smiling, at ease, seated in another captain’s chair with two officers sitting behind and to each side of him.

Darland heard the door close. Vaire had not entered the bridge.

“Well,” said Darland, moving to his own seat, only slightly behind the captain’s chair. “It would appear we have company. Considering that we are, in a sense, trespassers into your planetary space, perhaps I should begin the introductions.”

The First Peer was at his best; self-possessed, charming, charismatic. “I do hope you will understand if we do not provide all the information you feel you are entitled to, but one would be foolish to be too free until amicable relationships are established, do you not agree?”

The man opposite studied Darland carefully. “Very well,” he said. “Introduce yourselves and I’ll tell you when I want more.”

His voice was strong and deep. He was a mature man, burly, heavy, with hair that had once been black but was now steel grey. He used the common language, spreading from Earth two millennia ago and still understood by all humans, although accents and dialects had created variants. This man’s speech was clear and precise, but there was something about him which caused Darland to tread carefully.

“My name is Darland, First Peer of the Courvenier family, and this is Morence Courvenier, Captain in Chief of the space arm of the family. He commands this vessel. I am a simple passenger.”

“And yet you have your seat on the bridge. Don’t try to fool me, stranger. You may not command the vessel but you tell it where to go, that’s clear enough. Where have you come from?”

“Ah, well,” said Darland, “that is something I will hold in reserve, if you have no objection, but I can tell you we are not here through intention, and we hope we will be able to relieve you of our presence very soon indeed.”

“We saw your ship go into hiding. What drive do you use? And you need not bother to change your position. We have you fixed.”

Have you indeed? thought Darland, glancing at his cousin.

Judith Rook was born in the UK and is now living in Western Australia. Judith has worked as a music teacher, as a mentor for beginning teachers and as a music journalist. She began writing imaginative pieces in childhood and is now writing novels and short stories. She is an avid reader, with science fiction her favourite genre, followed closely by the great classics. From time to time, Judith stirs herself to rally around important social issues and has been known to take to the streets in protest, so long as there are good cafés along the way.

Judith’s Blog:   www.JudithRook.com

Judith on Facebook:   https://www.facebook.com/JudithRookBooks/

Judith on Twitter:   https://twitter.com/JudithRook2

DARLAND COURVENIER REFLECTS

It is not easy, being the First Peer of one of the five leading Families on the planet of First Home. Not easy at all, although some don’t appreciate the fact.

Why, only the other day, the idiotic Press linked me yet again with Adélaïde of Guignonne. I usually read “The Planet Voice”—it’s not stupid, like some of the other dailies—but Adélaïde… again? I’ll have to send my friend Vaire to speak to the editor and tell him to kill that particular story—or himself, if he prefers. It should never have appeared. As I say, it’s not easy being First Peer of Courvenier.

I do hope the Guignonnes are not feeling serious about getting me into a genetic partnership with their heiress. If they are, they’re going to be disappointed. They may need contracts with Courvenier, but Courvenier doesn’t need contracts with Guignonne. No, I can certainly pass on Adélaïde, but I’ll dance with her—very closely—at the next First Families ball and leave her hoping. That will be funny.

What I can’t ignore is Lewis Brock d’Haute-Forêt. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be the top First Peer, and one day, Courvenier would rule the whole of First Home. I’d see to that, and I’d do whatever might be needed to make it happen—and I mean, whatever.

I can’t do anything about it yet, because Lewis of the High Forest is always in my way. Lewis is too nice. He’s honourable, and I’m not. Scruples make for stupid moves, and you wouldn’t call me a stupid man.

The trouble is, the other Families like Lewis too much. He’s trustworthy, they say. Trustworthy? The man’s an idiot! Look at the opportunities for his own Family he misses.

He was sent to that funny little planet, Circe, to make contact with it again after hundreds of years, and he did nothing to get High Forest established as the main line of negotiation. Once he got back to First Home, he turned the whole thing over to the General Conclave and the Peoples’ Council, without keeping anything for himself.

But he did seem to make himself very popular while he was there, and he picked up a Circean woman, who’s a bit out of the ordinary, and I’ve got to admit, she’s taken my fancy. Vaire tells me to stop thinking about her, but that’s a bit difficult.

I made a bad mistake in following Lewis to Circe. How was I to know the place was so weird? It seemed to take a dislike to me—why, I can’t imagine. I’m a very reasonable fellow.

I was more than reasonable when we found that other planet Lantora, and I had to deal with their Primary Space Ops Director. He thought he could trap us. He suspected we have developed our time drive far beyond what they have, and naturally enough, he wanted it. But he made a mistake too. He thought force would do, when subtlety would have been far better. I am always subtle.

As it was, he lost out completely. I got the upper hand, and we left, but not before I had collected an intriguing fact which I think I will be able to use against Lewis.

Haute-Forêt is always on my mind. If it wasn’t for him I would be completely happy. But I’ve got time on my side, and I’ll keep on with my plans. I’ll have the Circean woman, and I’ll have Lewis d’Haute-Forêt, then the whole of First Home, as well. Just keep checking in with me. You should see some very interesting things happening.

You can meet Darland Courvenier in ‘Man of Two Planets’ by Judith Rook.

Planet Woman – Amazon Smashwords  

Man of Two Planets – Amazon Smashwords  

First Steps for a Hero –  Amazon Smashwords (A Young Adult Novella) 

It was a real shame that the company who had accepted the contract on Leo’s life already had a team of two men in Devon who were sure they could rub out a bloke who drew dogs for a living on the way back to headquarters. Sitting astride a Triumph Speed Triple in the village street, they were a little bit put out by the level of security at the house, but cheered up when they saw their target, and another man, bowl out of the drive in a bright red Morgan Roadster.
‘Easy enough to follow.’
‘Yeah, and I got the Glock with me.’
‘Shall we then?’
‘Yeah. Don’t look like it’ll be too difficult.’
‘Need to do it quiet. Don’t want to be dodging the filth all the way back home.’
‘Yeah. Gotta find a nice isolated stretch of country road.’
They followed the red car at a discreet distance, only closing up a little when they reached the A38.

In the Morgan, Clay shifted uneasily. ‘We seem’ he said tautly ‘to have picked up a tail.’
‘Yellow Speed Triple?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not precisely discreet, is it?’
‘Oh. I dunno. Around seventy per cent of people don’t see motorcycles at all. And of those that do it’s only aficionados who would recognise the make and model.’
‘True. So what do we do? I don’t reckon we’ll easily lose him. And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come again?’
‘This wants dealing with. Here and now. How ruthless are you?’
‘That’ Clay announced with some dignity ‘is my line. But since you are asking, I’m up for whatever. Although they will have a gun.’
‘I rather assumed that. A fast bike is ideal for a drive by.’
‘You are a cool customer ain’t you?’
‘My wife’s phrase is ‘hard bastard’. Now fish around in the glovebox in front of you. There’s a paintball pistol in there and it needs loading.’
Clay found the pistol and the paintballs. ‘Any particular colour?’ he asked facetiously.
‘How about red?’

Leo changed down and upped his speed to just shy of a hundred.
‘We’re about to turn off.’
‘Into the forest?’
‘Yep. I know it like the back of my hand. If those buggers come in after us you can be pretty sure they don’t. You’ll need to hold on tight for the first five minutes or so, because we can’t afford for them to come level with us until we’re further in.’

The red car swung off the dual carriageway onto what was little more than a single track. Leo gunned the engine and the Morgan sprang forward. He wrestled the car around a series of tight bends and kept the accelerator floored as they hit a long straight.
‘They coming?’
‘Yeah. But the twisty bit is holding them up.’
‘Good. We need to be around the next hairpin and climbing the hill before they catch us.’

The motorcycle was gaining on them, but not quickly enough, and the Morgan made it around a tight hairpin bend with about two layers of paint to spare. Then it turned sharp left up a steep drag.
‘Christ Johnson, that was fucking close. I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘Me too. Get your gun ready. I’m going to slow enough for them to get alongside us. Try for the driver’s visor.’

The Morgan slowed its impetuous rate and Clay watched the Triumph getting bigger and bigger in the mirror. It pulled alongside and he could see the business end of a big pistol. Leo touched the throttle and the Morgan surged forwards. Clay discharged two balls of red paint and had the satisfaction of seeing them burst across the visor of the driver’s helmet.

He was later to swear that the next fifteen seconds took place in slow motion. Leo took his foot off the gas and the Morgan dropped behind the struggling motorbike just as they reached the apex of the hill. With another deft touch of the throttle the front wing of the Morgan just touched the leg of the pillion passenger, ensuring that the bike went straight on. The road didn’t. Leo wrestled the sports car almost ninety degrees to the right before stopping the engine and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it. That was close. I nearly scratched the paintwork.’

From: Shall We Gather At The River

© jane jago

I am old as you rightly suggest
And often I don’t look at my best
But I just think sod that
And shove on a hat
And stick out my oversized chest

© jane jago 2017

Alex is a time-traveler from the 23rd Century.  Sean Kelly is his Great-great-great-great-great Grandfather (plucked from 1997 in this story), Jane Carmichael was rescued from certain death in 1969, and Steffi is the time-ship’s computer (recently sentient).  The time-ship is in the cargo hold of a stolen freighter plummeting to Earth.  Sean has run out of oxygen getting from the helm of the freighter to the cargo bay.

*********************************

 Alex and Jane quickly pushed and pulled Sean’s limp, weightless form into the front seat.  Alex had barely gotten himself into the back as the door slid shut and sealed.

“I’ve re-pressurized with almost 50% oxygen, so no sparks, people.”

Jane found the two buttons on Sean’s collar and pushed them.  The seal to the bubble-helmet released and she pulled it off his head.  “Is he breathing?” she cried.  “I don’t think he’s breathing!”  She pinched his nose shut and put her mouth over his and blew.  She pushed on his diaphragm, took a deep breath and repeated.  She put her ear next to Sean’s mouth to listen, then put her mouth over his again.  To her surprise, he started kissing her.

“That was not necessary,” Alex commented.  “Sean’s nanites can stimulate cardiopulmonary resuscitation from within.”

“Sometimes the old-fashioned way is better medicine,” Steffi said, the image on the screen smiling broadly.

Jane pulled back a few inches.  “Are you OK?” she asked.  Tears pooled in her eyes.

“I think so,” Sean replied.  He put both his hands to his temples.  “Major headache.”

“I’ll get to that after we jump,” Steffi said.  “The outer hull is over three thousand degrees centigrade.  It can’t hold together much longer.”

“Then why have you not shifted dimensions?” Alex demanded.

“This crate’s too big to completely burn up.  I’m calculating a new trajectory to make sure it hits the Pacific.  Firing rockets for new heading.”  The face on the screen grew solemn.  “Lex, there might be another problem.”

“With the course correction?”

“No.  That’s fine.  I fixed that.  I’m worried about the dimensional shift.  We have no idea what effect altering dimensions at this speed will have.  It might sling us clear into the Stone Age, or even further.”

“Have you calculated any other possible solutions to our current predicament?”

“I’m afraid there aren’t any.”

“Then execute the only available option.”

“I will,” Steffi assured him.  “I just wanted to say… in case everything goes completely wrong… I just wanted to tell you guys how much I love you.”

Alex’s jaw dropped.  “You are suggesting we risk annihilation?”

“I really don’t know,” Steffi replied.  “Maybe.”

Sean instinctively pulled Jane closer.  She responded by crushing her lips against his.  At the end of a long and torrid kiss, she slid her lips close to his ear.  “I love you,” she whispered as tears dripped on his shoulder.

He squeezed her even tighter.  “I love you, Jane.”  He glanced back at Alex and gave him a smile.  “I love you, too, Future-Boy.”

Alex blinked fiercely to control the tears welling in his eyes.  “That is most gratifying,” he said with a slight waver.  “I have also become emotionally attached to both of you.”

The image on the screen held both hands near her face, fingers crossed.  “Here’s hoping we’ll have a chance to laugh about this someday,” Steffi said.  “Gotta go.  The ship’s breaking up.”

As they shifted out of the fireball that was plummeting to Earth and into another dimension, Jane said, “Far out!”

From ‘…In One Basket‘ by Les Lynam.

We caught up with Les Lynam and asked him some profound and probing questions…

Q1: Puppies or kittens and why?

I am probably the world’s worst person to ask a simple two-variable either/or question.  I can rarely see the black and white of anything and tend to immediately demand clarifications to make a decision more palatable.  Puppies or kittens?  Do I have to live with them or just spend an hour playing with and/or watching them?  Assuming some type of short-term relationship, I would pick kittens because they are so lively and fun and play interesting games with each other and can easily be engaged by dangling a feather from a string.  I feel I must at this point quote Ogdan Nash: “The trouble with a kitten is that.  Eventually it becomes a cat”.  Therefore, in a long-term relationship, I choose the puppy as it will grow up to be man’s best friend, the dog.

Q2: Who would you prefer to be eaten by Godzilla or Cthulu and why?

Aha!  Another either/or question.  While the first one was figuring out which one might be more pleasant, this one is a ‘which one is the least offensive’.  Instead of questions, I fear I’d have to toss out a possible disqualifier.  Though I’ve certainly not seen EVERY Godzilla movie, I’ve seen quite a few and it strikes me that Godzilla (and other kaiju, for that matter) isn’t really a chomp-on-people kind of monster.  He’s more of a stomp-on-things kind of guy.  Examining my other choice, the first thing that comes to mind is how much I detest pretention. “High Priest of the Great Old Ones”… well la tee day.  Think you’re all that, do ya, Cthulhu?  I suppose one advantage of picking Cthulhu is that it’s been sleeping for eons.  Probably nap right through a meal and wouldn’t get around to eating me at all.  Rather than a coin toss on this one, I’ll go with a commonality I have with Gojira.  The first movie came out in 1954, the year I was born.

Q3 If you woke up tomorrow to find yourself living in a work of fiction which book/series would you least want to be living in and why?

Even more paralyzing than selecting from a binary choice is having a plethora of terrible living spaces to choose from.  An easy off-the-top-of-my-head choice is any of G. R. R. Martin’s GoT novels.  Whether a minor character or lead, it’s a good bet I wouldn’t make it through an entire thousand pages alive.  Closer to home (as an author) would be getting trapped in Stephen King’s Misery as the Paul Sheldon character (not only by a crazy lady, but also trapped psychologically by his publisher and readership).  Alexander Dumas’ Three Musketeers would be another bad fit for me.  I’m a little too old to be swashing any buckles and I’d hate to live in a time that was sans hot and cold running water and indoor bathrooms.  Though there are dozens of other ghastly places, I’m going to choose Hugh Howie’s Wool.  I’m a bit too claustrophobic to live my entire life in an underground silo and the cardio from all the stair climbing would probably do me in.

What fun… dog, Godzilla, and Wool.  Final answer.

You can find Les across the spectrum of social media Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Instagram and Pinterest.

The Seagull

Once upon a picnic beery, whilst I guzzled, drunk and cheery,
Over the tartan blanket spurious, spoke words which could only bore –
While I waffled, sometimes rapping, suddenly there came a flapping
As of some bird quickly crapping, crapping on my fresh coleslaw.
“Tis a bloody gull!” I shouted “Crapping in my fresh coleslaw
“Shoot the bugger!” I did roar.

And the seagull, never flitting, still is shitting, STILL IS SHITTING!
All across the tartan blanket and the bowl of my coleslaw!
Soon his evil squawk brings streaming every seagull near, it’s seeming
And the flock of flockers teeming do devour my picnic more,
Thus, my cup of fine Prosecco now is spilt upon the floor.
I shall picnic – nevermore!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join Ivy’s Fan Club!

Elron and his sister wife Elanda dallied in the dappled shade of the forest. They walked hand in hand, stopping every few steps to kiss and caress. Elanda slipped away and ran a few steps, for the sheer joy of him catching her in his strong arms and bearing her down into the sweet loam to ravish her with tender savagery.

They strayed closer to the homes of the human creatures than was their habit, standing for a while to watch as the white-clad and silent women of the sanctuary bore a wrapped bundle to the flat rock of sacrifice, leaving it there before scuttling away on silent feet.
“I wonder what gift they spare to the old ones,” Elanda spoke idly, even as her beloved’s clever hands worked their magic. He bent her over a convenient tree branch and they began their unending game yet again.

This time the little mewing cries did not come only from Elanda’s throat as they continued even after she drooped like a spent lily.
“It’s a child. The old one will dine on child tonight.”

Elanda walked on soft feet to where the babe lay and pulled back the blanket from his fair features. She gazed enraptured.
“Look Elron. Is he not beautiful?”
Elron looked, without too much interest, but found to his surprise that the child was indeed of surpassing beauty. Gold of hair, blue of eye, and possessed of skin so thin and white that the blue veins could clearly be discerned beneath their fragile coverlet.
“He is indeed beautiful. Shall we keep him?”
“We could. But what of the old one?”
“I will call him up a fat boar. He will like that better anyway.”

Elanda’s smile was a thing of witchery, so the deed was done. They retraced their steps, only this time The beautiful fae had a beautiful child in her arms. Once away from the grove of the old ones, she stopped and seated herself on a sweetly scented bank of wild flowers.
“The child must feed,” she declared opening her garment.
Elron expected to feel jealousy at the sight of another mouth at his beloved’s breast, and he was surprised to find that all he felt was excitement as the child’s perfect lips encircled Elanda’s long pink nipple.

He watched for some while, until, impelled by some appetite he didn’t know he possessed, he bent his handsome head to suckle the other breast.

As quickly as a bolt of summer lightning, the child stirred in Elanda’s arms and struck like a viper sinking sharp and yellowish teeth into the pulse that beat in the big male’s neck.

Elron was paralysed and could only groan in agony as the creature drunk his life force. The eyes that had looked so blue in the sacred grove now glowed red as the succubus fed.

Seemingly unknowing, Elanda crooned a lullaby and stroked the baby’s milk white skin…

You are old, when I ask what you say
To lovers of Fifty Shades of Grey
You are coldly dismissive
Of Doms and Submissives
Declaring that stuff’s had its day

© jane jago 2017