Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

The biggers were at it again: something about a trip to the Muffdives being cancelled.
Mother Bigger was throwing one: something about her tan. The teenagers, of course, were completely over the top.
Big Bigger started shouting, and the gnomes all ducked as something flew through a window that wasn’t open.
Everyone fell facedown as a flatscreen tv wound up in the pond, where it made a peculiar hissing noise and sunk without trace.
Big Bertha ambled over for a look.
“Best none of us was here.”
The gnomes faded as Big Bigger emerged to see what he had wrought.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.
Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.
Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.
“What makes you think you are worthy?”
“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”
“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”
Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.
The same yearning, the same questions.
Alone in her underground chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Maisie panicked when Sheena collapsed.

For a moment she’d no idea how to get out to get help. Then Maisie remembered the dog door and pushed herself through it, her skin scraping painfully as she did so.

Then what?

The main road ran past the drive and she ran up it as fast as she could. But how to stop a car?

Only one way.

The man who got out sounded disbelieving. “There’s a pig in the road. Just lying there.”

But he followed her and called an ambulance in time to save her owner Sheena from a heart attack.

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…

I scarce can bring myself to greet you, my pupil.

The only reason I am setting out these words is from the profound sense of duty that every pedagogue owes to his most devoted students. In happier times I was renowned for my science-fiction work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ – a light-hearted escapade of two heroes who could only ever conquer, written by one who then had a light heart, untouched by the ravages of love and loss.

For now I write to you from the very depths. This is a harsh lesson indeed and comes from one whose name is now sorrow, whose eyes see naught but pain, whose mouth tastes naught but ashes, and whose dreams are filled with tears. But this is no matter. Of such agony truth of writing cometh. Follow me and I shall lead you into a vale of tears from which your writing shall grow emotions of which you never hitherto dreamed.

Heartbreaks

In every story, in every lifetime, in every world, in every universe there is Heartbreak. Even should your compositional endeavours lead you to a place inhabited only by machines and sharply carapaced octopids there will still be unrequited love, or the gutwrench of a failed relationship, or death, or sickness, or the loss of all.

And as writers this is what we must deal with.

We must lift our prose to a plane from which sorrow drips like corrosive acid into the very souls of our readers. We must wring their withers. We must pull from them gouts of snot, bathfuls of tears, and sobs that leave their chests pained and torn.

We must use every adjective and adverb to our name. We must leave no emotional stepping stone untrodden, no hidden corner of sensibility unharrowed, no tiny morsel of love unstamped upon.

If we are to write grief, let us feel grief, let us cry ourselves to sleep as we contemplate the fate of our hapless lovers. Let us understand their hearts as our own breaks with them.

I offer a small sample that you may begin to understand…

It was a suburban garden, offering him little space in which to feel himself alone enough to allow the fullest extent of his misery to crash down around him like a tidal wave of unquenchable sorrow. Seeking solitude, and knowing there was no solace to be had under the unforgiving sun, he had crawled under the spreading leaves of a barren fig tree there to lie in foetal misery, too frozen to cry and too alone to face the world. Who knew how long he had been sunk in his own misery before he felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Turning, almost not of his own volition, he allowed himself the luxury of another’s embrace. The comfort of a shoulder clad in unromantic and somewhat bobbled and faded wool. He lifted his eyes to the worn and unromantic features of his mother, thinking in some corner of his tired mind that he could not remember the last time he and this woman had shared anything except vague mutual antipathy. She seemed to comprehend his distress though, as she smoothed his hair back from his hectic forehead with gentle fingers.

“Hearts don’t break,” she said softly, “it only feels like they do”.

Until next time.

Whenever that may be…

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.

Time. Thief of life
Celebrated in each tick
Clock faces smiling
Cogs turn too quick
Day climbs past night
Neither stops nor waits
No care for humans
Nor interest in their fate

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

December arrived with frosty nights and a great deal of festive jollity, accompanied by a great deal of work. Even with the college students I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, which I privately enjoyed though I’d not want to do it permanently.
It was the Sunday before Christmas and we were just finishing food service when Ed came out to the kitchen wearing a perplexed look.
“Geezer in the bar, begs the favourite of a word with Mrs Beckett. Seems genuine enough. Says you won’t know his name, but you might remember him as the nurse.”
“Chunky guy? Looks like he can handle himself?”
“Yes. What’s to be done?”
“I’ll come and see him. Ask him to please give me ten minutes. And Ed, can you find Ben.”
“Can do.”
With the bulk of the food sent away and only a few desserts to assemble I had no reason not to leave the kitchen, so I washed my hands and face and removed my soiled apron. Neil came to stand beside me.
“Do you think it’s the guy from the shiny Merc?”
“I do.”
“He’s probably come with a message from his boss.”
“Probably.”
In the bar, I found Ben talking to a man I had last seen in the back of a black Mercedes ‘ambulance’. He spotted me as soon as I stepped out of the kitchen corridor and made a sort of half bow. Once I could see his face I knew at least part of what he had come to say and I offered him my hands. He bent his head briefly before straightening his spine.
“Mrs Beckett. My employer passed away on Monday.” He paused and I waited for him to compose himself. “It was a far more peaceful end than I would have anticipated before that strange night in a rain washed orchard. For that I thank you.”
My throat felt a little clogged, so I elected not to speak. He seemed to understand because his somewhat grim features stretched into a surprisingly gentle smile. He reached behind him and picked up a small parcel from the table.
“My old friend chose this small thing and made me promise to bring it to you after his end.”
I took the box from his hands and placed it carefully on the bar before untying the ribbon. With gentle hands I lifted out the tiny cherry tree. It was exquisitely made and yet not ostentatious, being delicately enamelled metal without precious gems or anything that flaunted wealth. I touched a pink enamel flower and felt a tear run down my face.
“Thank you,” I said. “I will treasure this.”
He bent over my hand then left on silent feet.
Ben watched him go before looking at the little tree. “That’s a charming thing. Though scarcely a Joss thing.”
“True. It’s a dust catcher extraordinaire. But I can appreciate the symbolism.”
“Me too. But what will you do with it?”
I was flummoxed at first, but then I knew.
“I shall give it to Roz and Allie. They can have a cupboard of small, beautiful things like Ellen and Sian had when they were winkies.”
“Still do have.” Ellen spoke from behind the bar. “And I even know where there is an ideal cupboard.”
“You do? Where?” Ben was flabbergasted.
Ellen nodded firmly. “Wait here.”
Morgan popped up from behind the bar. “Gin and tonic madam?”
“I think I could do with one. Ben too?”
He nodded his agreement and we had just got our drinks in hand when Ellen reappeared. She was grinning.
“Bloody thing’s too heavy for me to carry so I borrowed Dad.”
Neil came in behind her carrying a miniature library cupboard. It was richly polished dark wood with decoratively paned glass doors. I thought it was probably an apprentice piece.
“Where did that come from?”
Ellen grinned. “Mrs A found it years ago. In one of the many cupboards in the function room. She cleaned it thoroughly, put it in the store, and promptly forgot about it. Dad saw it a few weeks back and him and Sian polished it up. She was going to suggest it as a special cupboard for the twins.”
Ben swallowed audibly. “It’s beautiful and they will love it. Ellen give Sian and Star a shout. I reckon your family needs to give the girls their cupboard. Then Joss can give them the tree. After she and I have had a big drink.”
Which is how a funny little alcove not far from the fireplace in our family room now contains an exquisite miniature library cupboard. One that fits the space so well Ben and I are pretty well convinced it was made to go there.
And the cherry tree? That has pride of place and Roz and Allie clean it carefully once a month, singing to Cherry and her little family as they dust and polish.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

The apartment was less opulent on the inside than it appeared from outside. There was fine furniture and a couple of pieces of wall art, but it all had a worn look about it. Only the small niche where the lares sat gleamed with what looked to be several gold items, and one penate holding a cornucopia with jewels pouring from it. Dai wondered if he had interrupted her private devotions; as there was a small offering bowl visible and the slight smell of incense.
Octavia must have seen the direction of his gaze, because she walked quickly over to the niche and closed the doors, pulling the beautifully embroidered hanging over them. Then she turned to face the men, standing with her hands clasped behind her, almost looking defiant, as if engaging in the worship of her own household gods in her own house was something less than acceptable.
“I know you’ll think it all silly superstition,” she said, lowering her gaze demurely, “but I find it very comforting.”
Dai felt Bryn stir behind him and give a soft cough of embarrassment.
“Not at all, domina,” Dai told her, wondering how such a naive innocent could have wound up with a cunnus like Urbanus Hostilius Rufus. “Perhaps you would sit down and we can talk, there is something we need to tell you about your husband.”
She smiled and moved to one of the couches, arranging her stola with an easy grace and reclining on it completely, cradling her head on one arm as she looked at them with sky blue eyes.
“He’s in trouble again?”
“I am afraid it is a bit more serious than that. Do you have any friends or family near by? Anyone you could ask to stay with you for a few days?”
Octavia’s eyes glanced involuntarily at one of the inner doors and then looked back to Dai. She had coloured very slightly.
Deo Damnatus, Dai thought and exchanged a brief look with Bryn, she has a lover in the bedroom.
“He’s been arrested?” she sounded surprised.
“No,” Dai said, his tone flat. “I’m afraid he’s been murdered.”
Her mouth opened and she uttered a low cry came which picked up in pitch and intensity until it was a full-blown scream.
Dai found himself beside her, unsure whether he should slap her or hold her. She made the decision for him, sitting up and pulling him close, her hands gripping into his tunic as she almost stifled his face in her bosom.
“My Roo-Roo! My poor Roo-Roo!” she wailed.
With some difficulty, Dai disentangled himself and managed to hand her off to Bryn, who was not at all averse to having a beautiful young woman pressing herself against him as she sobbed.
“I’ll find you some tissues,” Dai said vaguely and moved to the door that Octavia had glanced at before. He was about to open it when she squealed.
“No! Not in there.”
Trusting Bryn to keep her from getting in the way, Dai opened the door to what he fully expected to be a lavish bedroom and a naked young man. Instead it was an undecorated room, with a simple double bed and cardboard boxes stacked up with clothes visible neatly folded in them. On the bed sat an elegantly dressed woman, who got to her feet as soon as she saw Dai. Her designer stola was draped in soft folds of silk about her. It took him a moment to place her, to think where he had seen her before. Then he realised he hadn’t, but he had seen pictures of her and the odd moment on TV when the news was covering some swish event. She had been on the arm of Tribune Decimus Lucius Didero.
Instinctively he bowed his head.
“Domina.”

Part XIII will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Having to sit at home and talk to each other was highlighting the biggers’ mutual loathing, and big bigger had obviously decided to do something constructive.
He and middle-sized bigger waited at the gate while a lorry deposited a number of packages on the driveway.
Garry Gnome puzzled out the letters on the biggest box.
“Lux Yerry Tree House.”
“You sure Gaz?”
“Yup. And anyway there’s a picture of a tree house by the writing.”
The gnomes looked at each other in disbelief. How were the biggers going to build a tree house in a garden with no trees?

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Dying might not be so bad. It was living that had broken him. Taken from his family at eight years old, vowed to celibacy before he understood what the word meant, and sold to the highest bidder time after time. His sword had eaten the blood of so many enemies that he felt today was no more than reparation. As the hooded figure came to his side he looked into its compassionate eyes.
“Am I dead?”
“Nearly. Say farewell to your loved ones.”
The Knight spoke the saddest three words under all the stars.
“I have nobody.”
Then he died.

Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The humans were happily drawing water that the myora kept fresh and sweet for them.

Rescued from a dying world, the oddly appealing humans couldn’t shape reality mentally, lacked telepathy, and had an irrational urge to over-procreate. Some myora even considered humans to be sapient. Those who watched now didn’t care. They were here for entertainment.

The signal came and the culling began, with the smallest humans screaming as they were caught.

This way of managing animals came from the humans’ own history. And since the population had to be kept in check, why not have fun doing so?

E.M. Swift-Hook