Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

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…

Bonjour mes petites!

I am your practical pedagogue in the arcane art of literary logistics, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, Ivy to my friends and much acclaimed author of the science fantasy masterpiece ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Those necessary formalities having been removed, it behoves me to explain how the topic of today’s teaching entered the arena of my awareness.

Last week, you may recall, you learned from my loquacious lecture of literary lore which explored the concept of Voice – the unique belling of tone, taste and texture which each and every author brings to their work. But when I told Mumsie of my pedagogical piece de resistance, she stopped buttering her toast and reached over to wack me on the back of the hand with the flat side of her cutlery.

“You are a muppet, Moons,” she told me in her usual loving snarl. “Voice is not some literary fa-di-da subtle imponderable thing, it’s grammar!” And nothing would satisfy her except my writing to explain to you, my dear Reader Who Writes, that there is another use of ‘voice’ in the literary kingdom – the grammatical usage.

The Passive Voice

There are, as I am confident you will already know, two grammatical voices. The active and the passive. This is, of course, as applied to verbs. Verbs? Did I hear somebody say the word verbs with a questioning note in their voice. Depart immediately for the naughty step and sit there considering your ignorance while I enlighten your classmates. And desist the whining. Verbs are, as if explanation were needed, doing words. In the sentence Adam chased Eric around the classroom. The verb is chased. Hands up all of those who knew that already. If you didn’t put your hand up one is ashamed of you.

But to our muttons. To quote some dry old grammarian or another: the passive voice is when the subject of the sentence is acted upon by the verb, rather than the subject of the sentence verbing.

Simple explanation:
John smacked Alec’s bottom. Active voice.
Alec’s bottom was smacked. Passive voice. And an intriguing question. Who did the smacking?

This is the wonder of the passive voice, it opens up multifarious imponderables for the reader’s eager speculation to latch onto and expand within the nemeton of his or her own imagination. Take this example and see how the mystery is enhanced and the sense of inevitable doom is heightened:

The final blow was dealt when the mighty Robot Lord was empowered. Falling to the ground, the Queen’s head was cleaved cleanly from her shapely shoulders. Her face was smashed beneath the boot of the victor. Fate was satiated and destiny was fulfilled.

From the point of view of the humble scrivener, the wiseacres out there will tear their sparse and greying locks and cry despairingly – use not the passive voice lest the house of cards you have constructed upon the shifting sands of your enfeebled imagination collapse in a whining heap of pips and smirking pictures. Well I am here to reassure you my little students. They speak of that which they wot not. A beautifully turned sentence is a beautifully turned sentence irrespective of whether the quick red fox jumps, or the lazy dog is jumped over.

Ignore the small minded and febrile who would collar your creativity in the bonds of grammatical usage or common phraseology.

Or look at it this way if you have eyes to see.
John Smith wrote a book. Meh. Blah. Boring.
This example of the authorly genus was made with skill and love by the fair hand of Johannes Smythe.
I rest my case.

Until next my fuzzy little bunnies.

May your voices be passive and your heroes erect.

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.

The sun it is melting
The internet cried
We see it is dying
With our crying eyes
They publish the pictures
They crumble and cry
Conspiracy theorists
All fooled by AI

©️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.

I took a reviving belt just as Ben reached us. He sat beside me and wrapped a warm arm around me.
My companion looked at us in what appeared to be genuine distress.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Beckett, I should have been more tactful.”
“Than what?” Ben’s voice was dangerously even.
“It ain’t his fault, Ben. I’ve just found out what we’re going to discover on our land.”
“What?”
And.
“Going to discover?”
The two men spoke together. Of course I answered Ben first.
“The body of a pregnant woman, murdered some forty years ago.”
I turned my eyes to Seanmóir.
“We have a resident ghost, who tells us that it is time for that which has been hidden to reveal itself.”
Our visitor looked sourly sceptical, but as he opened his mouth to pour scorn on me, Esme revealed her presence with a snatch of plaintive song before speaking in my ear. ‘He believes in me now.’ She giggled and stepped back.
I handed him back his brandy and he downed what was left before staring at me through haunted eyes.
“How do you stand a presence from beyond the grave around you? I’d never sleep.”
“She’s here. And she is who she is. And I believe it comforts her to speak to me.”
He sort of shrunk into himself though he managed a sarcastic half grin.
“Are you telling me you find it simple to do the job of mother church and all her saints,” he snarled.
“Oh, it’s simple enough if you’ve a clear conscience.”
He took that like a blow and Ben shook his head.
“Joss. Please.”
“Sorry. But he had that coming.”
“He did indeed. However.”
I felt Esme very close again and she started to sing something in a language I didn’t understand. Seanmóir slumped in his seat and I thought he was about to faint.
“Esme,” I said sharply, “stop that.”
She stopped singing.
“Óró sé do bheatha abhaile.” One of the younger guys by the bar came over bearing another brandy which he put down in front of his boss. “Here Da, drink this.”He looked at me. “Our grandmother used to sing that.”
“I’m sorry, it didn’t come from me.”
“No. It’s his own fault. He disrespected a ghost. We’d a bad experience when our aunt fell in with a false clairvoyant. Since then he’s set his face against anything that smacks of the supernatural. And he’s not learned to hide his contempt.”
“We found Esme’s abused and drowned remains, among others, when we investigated some strange goings on before we bought the pub. The other ghosts have more or less moved on, but Esme adopted my wife as a sort of surrogate mother.” Ben explained gently.
To my surprise the young man took my hand and almost bowed over it. “You’ve a strong spirit Mrs Bennett, and I’m sure my father will see that.”
His father had straightened up and managed to return to his normal urbanity.
“That’s enough, now, boy. I’m fine and I owe Mrs Beckett an apology.”
His son went back to the bar where a fresh coffee awaited him.
“I’m sorry Mrs Beckett. I was a long way out of line there.”
“And Esme slapped you right where it hurts,” I smiled my understanding. “If it’s any comfort to you she doesn’t like clairvoyants any more than you do.”
His smile grew more natural. “Strangely enough. It is.”
I drew serenity around me like a blanket. “Tell me what you want from us.”
“We don’t want anything, though we would ask a favour.”
“What sort of a favour?”
He opened his mouth to speak as the pub door crashed open allowing about a dozen men armed with pickaxe handles and sawn-off shotguns to boil into the room.
“You’ve two minutes to clear the place before we start shooting.” The front runner shouted. Which would have been impressive had not one of the Brown boys currently busy bussing tables put down the tray he was carrying and felled him with a kick to the gonads. What with that, and a fair amount of scientific persuasion from our security detail and the visiting hard boys, the whole thing was over almost before it begun.
Ben stood up and grinned his most engaging grin.
“Security exercise.”
One of our regulars looked up from his dominoes. “Oh aye,” he remarked, before spitting very accurately into the face of one of the shotgun carriers. “It’d be a hem do if’n he was to try and shoot that thing. It’d blow his fule arm off. Even a bloody eejit oughter know you don’t cut a shotgun down so short and fire the darned thing.”
I looked at Ben, who shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“The blast would probably spread sideways immediately and cause the most damage to the shooter and anyone standing beside him. Could even blow his fool arm off.” Seanmóir sounded drily amused. “You might have the odd poacher among your clientele.”
“Retired,” the dominoes player snapped, “but I’d still back myself to creep up on you in any dark night.”
I found myself chuckling and the better for it. Seanmóir Smiled me a nice smile.
“Will you permit me to deal with this offal?”
I looked at Ben who shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ll give Mark a courtesy call.”
“Good idea.”
A quick call having established that Mark had absolutely no objection to delivering our problem into the warm embrace of Seanmóir‘s family there was nothing to do except await their transportation. A coach with darkened windows turned up swiftly and bore away two dozen very frightened men. Twelve from the pub, six from the ice cream parlour, and six from the house if you’ve been counting. I suppose I should have been concerned about their fate but in all honesty I was so fed up with people turning up intent on causing grief to me and mine that I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Seanmóir took my hand and bent over it in a courtly fashion.
“We’ll bid you farewell Mrs Beckett, and I’ll make it my business to see you are not disturbed by any more rude incursions.”
I must have looked as sceptical as I felt, because he raised his eyebrows.
I lifted a shoulder. “You aren’t the first to promise that. So far to no avail.”
His smile was something different altogether, and, although I knew he posed no danger to me, I felt an icy finger crawl up my spine.
“Precisely.” He said and his voice was completely uninflected. “It wasn’t me doing the promising before. Now it is. You will have no more trouble. Though I may be tempted to return for a meal when I’m in the district. Speaking of which…”
He reached for his wallet but I forestalled him with an upraised hand.
“If you can really stop assorted idiots from attacking my family and friends, then please accept the meal as a small token of my gratitude.”
He bowed again. Taking a small square of pasteboard from his wallet he passed it to me.
“Would you be kind enough to telephone me should that which is hidden indeed reveal itself?”
“I will. But I’ll also be telling the police.”
“Understood and appreciated.”
Then they were gone, leaving me feeling like a worn out dishrag.
“Sheesh Benny. That guy gives me the heebies.”
“Me too. But at least he seems kindly disposed to us.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket and the twins voices demanded that I answer at once. Ben looked apologetic.
“I think that is currently a misplaced joke,” he said.
I mimed a punch before answering. It was Sian.
“The gruesomes are fine. Out in the garden ‘explaining’ the happenings to Bud and Lew. Our handymen were brilliant, and the inept bad guys got nowhere near us. Plus, they managed to have the twins believing it was all an exercise to test our readiness should there ever be trouble. I think I’m in love with them.”
“That’s a relief. And I’m given to understand that was the last of it.”
“I hope so. But I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You didn’t meet the man who made the promise. He really is an alpha predator.”
“Fortunately he likes our food,” Ben put in.
Sian chuckled and ended the call.

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.

I

Anno Diocletiani MDCCLXXVII Maius

“Notebook entry. Confirm date, Post Ides, Maius. Time, night watch, at two twenty three, and location Augusta Arena, Londinium, Britannia Maxima. Looks like the report of a murder was not wrong. He seems pretty deceased to me.”
Under the brilliant lights of the pitch, which turned night into day, the body would have looked gruesome anyway. It had no face. But laid out as it was on a white sheet, the injuries seemed to stand out more. There was no blood but…
Dai wished he had not put quite so much garum on the chips he had been eating less than an hour ago. Even after more than eight years in the job he still found he had little stomach for the messier end of it. At least the hands seemed to still be intact, which made part of the process a lot easier. He pressed the touchscreen of his identipad against one finger and then entered the other necessary details. DNA and fingerprint checks both came up. Which was unusual as most murder victims were unregistered on either database. But when he saw the image he knew why this one was different.
This had once been Treno Bellicus ‘Big Belly’: one of the leading lights of the Caledonian Game team here in Londinium for the Games. That had to be more than ironic.
Dai, like every schoolkid in Britannia, knew that an arena had stood here since before the Divine Diocletian had rebuilt the Empire under his heavy hand, spreading his brand of Romanisation as far as his arms would reach and at the same time snatching back the privilege of being a full citizen from all born outside Italia. Back then, the arena had staged the kind of barbaric and bloody spectacles ex-patriot Romans expected. And now? In all honesty, Dai could not say it was too much different. It might include a ball as a sop to those who wanted to call it sport, but the brutality remained the same. The Games in all their unrelenting savagery. Those who couldn’t be there in person to taste the dust and smell the blood could freely watch the spectacle on the screens on every street corner and in every public building. Bread and Circuses.

The prize that lured the finest athletes of the provinces to risk life and limb was otherwise unattainable Roman Citizenship, and this poor bastard had been a star player. A broad-featured face looked out of the screen on Dai’s wristphone, wearing a manufactured snarl; behind him was a virtual backdrop with sports drink logos and other product placements. Well, those sponsors had just lost one of their money-spinning assets.
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the body and bent over it to peer at the visible injuries as he made his initial informal observations. It was as much talking himself through coping with the gruesome scene as anything of real value.
“Victim ID biometrics confirmed. Body is supine. Been dead the last four hours. He looks like he has been laid out all ready for anointing and Charon’s obol. But placed on a white cloth that I’m willing to bet half my next salary is going to be a bed sheet. Body was bled out, through the throat – ugly gash there – and cleaned up before being put here. The other half of my pay is going on the certainty there will be nothing on the body we can use to ID the killer. Other injuries I can see -”
One of the disadvantages of being a plainclothes investigator was it seemed to lead to less respect from civilians, especially from Roman civilians.
“Llewellyn?” the voice was coolly condescending.
Even though he had told his decanus to keep everyone away, Dai was grateful for the excuse to straighten up and stop looking at the corpse.
The woman who stood there was in her thirties, with classic Roman features; she wore her fashionably short stola over close-fitting leggings and boots. For someone who must have been dragged out of bed in the small hours, she looked very well turned out and made Dai wish he could cover the small stain on his tunic where he had dropped a chip when the call to attend this crime came through. Her name badge declared her to be ‘Annia Belonia Flavia’ and said she was Curatrix Prima. No doubt in charge of this arena. She was frowning at him and he realised he must be staring.
“That is indeed who I am, domina.”
Behind her back he could see Bryn, his decanus, looking guilty. So he should, but Dai had the feeling this woman was not the kind to be easily put off.
“Do you you know how this happened?” she demanded, as if it was Dai’s fault the body had been left in the middle of her pitch.
“Investigations are already underway,” he told her smoothly. “We have identified the victim and my people are questioning everyone who might have seen anything here.”
He had tried to put himself between her and the body, but she sidestepped and looked. Her hands went up to her face and the skin behind them looked almost as pale as the corpse, leaching into a light hint of green. To her credit, she recovered without vomiting, but she stepped back and took a breath before restoring the gravitas expected of a Roman matron.
“Who is it?”
“Treno Bellicus. You may have heard -”
“Of course I have.” She cut across him rudely as if wanting to reassert herself after the moment of weakness he had witnessed. “He is one of the contestants. He was reported missing days ago but you useless vigiles have done nothing about it.”
Dai took a breath and met her accusing glare with his own brand of gravitas.
“Well, you can be certain we are giving the matter our full attention now,” he assured her.
She snorted and stalked off.
“It strikes me that after two thousand years of unbroken Roman rule and all the incredible technological advances that has brought to the world, they would have figured simple things like that,” Bryn said, watching her retreating figure.
Dai glanced at his decanus, saw his expression and decided to bite.
“Things like what?”
“How to run a decent criminal investigation service. I mean clearly these vigiles she speaks of are cack. That poor woman, having to deal with such incompetents. It must be very trying for her.”
“I’ve met a few who really are,” Dai agreed, grinning, “but Roman Citizens just have to man up and make do with the inefficiencies and restrictions of Imperial rule out here in the provinces. She should just be glad we have the most essential basics like hovercars and the internet.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how the poor dears manage here in this primitive and barbarous land, so far from Rome where everything is always perfect.”
“If I didn’t know you better I might think you were abandoning Stoicism to become a Cynic, Bryn.”
“What? You have met my half-Roman wife? My mother’s half-Roman too. With those women folk I’m a Stoic, man, through and through. I have to be.”
Dai laughed and shook his head, then they both turned their attention back to the very unfunny reality of the corpse at their feet.

Part 2 will be here next week or if you can’t wait to read on 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…

Big Brenda was asleep in the afternoon sun, when she felt a polite tap on the sole of her boot. Opening her eyes, she saw the honeysuckle fairy accompanied by a whole cloud of beez.
“What’s the trouble Honeysuckle?”
“It’s that Chiggers ma’am. Keeps trying to steal hunny.”
Brenda rubbed a hand over the stubble on her chin, making a dry scraping sound.
“All right. Tell the beez I’ll have a word.”
Picking up her knobkerrie she strode over to the greenhouse.
“People what don’t want me to come down there and break their toy, better leave the beez alone.”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

ashsole (noun) – bottom of a clog

attentin (adjective ) – when used to describe standing indicates a slipshod attempt at uprightness. As in: the guard’s attentin stance was clearly indicative of a wish to be elsewhere

barve (verb) – to vomit at high velocity 

befe (adjective) – muscular but not necessarily intelligent 

barzillion (adjective) – of pubic hair having the appearance of having been cut with a knife and fork 

chesee (adjective) – being possessed of large and obviously fake breasts

davish (adjective) – prone to laugh at one’s own jokes

galnd (noun) – hard bogey stuck in much-used handkerchief 

greese (noun) – goose fat

haircat (noun) – member of any one of an almost infinite number of tribute bands

huming (verb) – the noise made by a haircat trying to sound like Mick Jagger

jma (acronym) – juicy male athlete

prevert (noun) – the stage before sexual misconduct 

snoze (adjective) – asleep and snoring with one’s mouth ajar

wanj (noun) – a small, pale being who always has at least one hand in his pocket

weethe (verb) – to wriggle in what one vainly hopes is a sensuous manner

wonam (noun) – confused female

xcrap (adjective) – bad porn

zrbra (noun) – the largest size of brassiere 

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

The face smiled, belying the words it spoke. “We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath. “Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.” A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it. “You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It has come to my attention that there may still be those amongst you who are not entirely au fait with who I am and my impeccable credentials for penning these pieces of perfect pedagoguery. More on why I fear this in a moment, but for now, I must yet again remind you, it seems that I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, Ivy to my friends, author of the science fiction and fantasy classic, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Mayhap it is because I have temporarily withdrawn this gem of literature from the maw of an unappreciative public whose ability to discern quality is clearly lacking.

The issue of having one’s fame less recognised than it should be, came to one’s attention when Mumsie returned from an evening at our local hostelry ‘The Pink Wigeon’. She stumbled into my writing room cursing and swearing about not being able to see as I had been writing by the light of a single candle to enchant and encourage my Muse.

“You’re wasting your bloody time, Moons,” she declaimed as she picked herself up from the floor. “No one has heard of you and no one ever will. I asked in the pub and no one had any idea. No one. Not one of the bastards.” Then she staggered back up the step from my underground lair and vanished into the night. Had she remained to hear it, my bright witticism of a reply came to me scant minutes later. “Mummy,” I would have said, “prophets are never honoured in their own hometown.” She would have had no answer to that one, I am sure!

Voice

You may have heard it said that every writer has their own ‘voice’. But I suspect, dear Reader Who Writes, that no more enlightens you than it did myself when I first encountered that phrase many days ago now. But allow me to explain so you may acquire this essential aspect of your actualisation as an author.

Your voice is how you speak and your writing Voice is how you speak to your readers. It is that simple. When you choose the precise posy of willing words from the diverse dictionary of your capacious creativity, this – this dear reader Who Writes – is your own unique Voice.

‘But, my beloved teacher,” I hear you say, “Is this not what I already do? Am I not thus, fully fledged from the outset with my own vibrant Voice?” And I reply ‘Nay! And Nay! And thrice Nay! Oh ignorant one.” This is why is I who am the teacher and you the humble pupil, sitting at my metaphorical feet to benefit from my knowledge and wisdom in matters pertaining to the literary arts.

That which you fondly consider your Voice at present is merely your own fumbling effort to present prose in a manner that at least is not too distasteful to a reader. Consider yourself as an aspiring cook who has acquired sufficient skill not to burn their offerings. You will acknowledge that is a long way from being a Master Chef!

Your Voice is only achieved at the end of a long apprenticeship. It is the end result of your hard work. Of those long hours spent burning the candle at both ends (though I have yet to find a candle holder that permits this myself) so that you can emerge from the chrysalis of mere imitation into the fully fledged speckled butterfly of your own Voice.

For therein, dear disciple, lies the secret of attaining your own Voice. Copy that of your literary betters until you have imbibed their Voice and imprinted it upon your own. After all, who are you to think you can write with a more compelling Voice than those whose literary feet you are not fit to touch?

Until next we meet.

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.

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

E.M. Swift-Hook