A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

ahsa (noun) – of writers the dreadful feeling experienced in the moment when they realise a plot line is not going to work

awamped (adjective) – slightly damp and smelling of embrocation

lieks (noun) – soup vegetable with the flavour of elderly socks

berhand (adjective) ambidextrous when under the influence of rough cider

clamerous (adjective) – of children in the back of a car demanding to know if we are ‘there yet’

concrend (noun) – inferior building material

delting (verb) – of BDSM the beating of a willing slave with barely cooked spaghetti

enxt (adjective) – attempting to camouflage anxiety by the wearing of a lot of beige knitted clothing

finsih (noun) – minor Scandinavian dialect

nemies (noun) – small Andean rodents often kept as pets by geography teachers

perdick (adjective) – resembling a flaccid penis

probaly (adverb) – of finger pointing very specific threat level

taht (noun) – estuarine pronunciation of tart

wasteat (noun) – the pointed end of the right breast

wriign (verb) – of country dancing or folk singing the action of being persistently half a second behind the beat

yjay (adjective) – birdlike and maliciously inquisitive

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…

It never seemed fair to Tammy. Why was it when autumn came that all the trees kept their green except the River Tree? 

Sitting in her wheelchair, she wondered if he was sad when his glorious green mantle turned red and gold, then lifted away with the wind, leaving him standing gaunt on the riverbank.

He alone must die whilst those trees around him stayed green and strong.

Tammy watched the sunset, golden behind the River Tree. At least he would come alive again in the spring. Maybe she would still be too, so she could see him return.

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…

Beloved Readers Who Write,

Although a reminder of my superb credentials and exquisite sensibilities is becoming increasingly superfluous, it is possible that a tiny minority of the denizens of cyberspace may, as yet be unacquainted with the masterful intellect that is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft. Ecco, mes estudas, here one is. Prepared to pedagogueise…

Developing your Characters

For today’s little tutorial, one’s fickle Muse leads one further along the bridleways of characterisation and the building of those sprites which shall infuse your works with life and loveliness. Follow in one’s footsteps, mes enfants, and you will surely find that the strength of one’s pedagogical peregrinations shields your tender little souls from the hurricanes of blandness, excessive ‘realism’, cold bare prose, and that all-devouring vampiric creature whose name is critic.

Ergo, mes enfants, when you have your protagonistic personifications placed in your psyche allow them to speak within the pristine pergola of your mind. Listen as they tell you of their lives and loves and leisure pursuits. Speak with them aloud as their insubstantial forms draw flesh from conversation with their creator. Fear not the idle sneers of ignoramuses, listen not to well-meant advice wherein those less sensitive to etheric beings counsel against speech with those entities none else can see or hear.

Be brave and enter into such dialogues as the children of your encephalon will vouchsafe to you. Dispute with them, should that be their will. Declaim aloud your fractious floccinaucinihilipilification. Shout to the skies when Erato and Calliope send unto you an actor of such ferocious intractability as to madden the very core of your sensitivities. Sing lullabies to soothe the merciless breast of your insubstantial interlocutor. Eat only that which their nourishment requires, abstain from tobacco, strong drink, and hallucinogenic substances so that your soul can be pure and your psyche open to the voices from beyond.

In the ultimate analysis, when you have a protagonist who walks by your side directing your steps you have succeeded beyond mere measure, and you can allow yourself to be led by the hand into the labyrinthine lusciosity of lustful lubriciousness that is literature lubricated by genius.

Ah yes, mes estudas, when your careful construction takes breath into its own lungs your work is done. Cry tears of joy as you inscribe into insubstantial cyberspace the passages of pusillanimous prose your protagonists dictate to you.

When their clamour will not let you sleep, you will know you have achieved the ultimate in character creation!

I shall conclude with advice on antagonists. They are the bad people, everyone knows what a bad person is like, we all have neighbours, work colleagues or relatives we despise. So there is no need to explain them or their motives in more than the briefest of detail. Less is more.

Écrit bon…

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.

Can you walk into a cloud
And leave your cares behind
Cast sorrow like an icy shroud
Bring comfort to your mind
The cloudscape as a mother’s arms
Inviting teary eyes
Come run with me, says siren charm
You will no more cry
But clouds are just vapour
And poems words on paper

©️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. 

Finoula seemed to be communicating with a person, or persons, nobody else could hear, but whatever she was hearing seemed to be easing a tension in her. She turned her sightless gaze on me.
“You may remember,” she said slowly, “that I was summoned to the Memorial Garden to speak with those who reside there.”
“I do remember.”
“Well. I was told that there was something of untold value hidden nearby. But that I wasn’t to mention it and I was not destined to find it. I asked why I was being told, and got the usual guff about how I would know when the time came.”
“And now is the time?”
“Apparently. And the spirits say that ‘ratting out’ one group to the other is precisely the correct thing to do.”
Mark’s smile just about split his face. “I don’t remember ever having my actions sanctioned from the other side.”
The air became a little thicker and a vague aroma of roses tinged with decay made my nose itch.
“Is that you Esme?”
My ghostly ‘daughter’ laughed. “It is. I’m here to tell you that the young ones will find treasure.”
I felt the touch of cold lips on my cheek and she was gone.
Jonas and James looked at me as if I had grown a second head.
“It ain’t my fault,” I said, “we found Esme’s remains in a well and she was grateful to be able to move out of that place of pain and degradation. For some reason she has never chosen to explain she decided to stick around, and she sees me as a sort of surrogate mother.”
Finoula opened her mouth and I quickly intervened.
“If you were about to tell me why Esme is still here, please don’t. Let her keep this one secret. She had bugger all in this life, so the least we can do is allow her her privacy in the next.”
She reacted as if I had slapped her and I felt awful, but Jed leaned across and said something to her in Rom. She rested her forehead against his shoulder and I could feel her absorbing strength from the gentle young giant. He smiled at me and I was warmed by the depth of his understanding.
Finoula lifted her face and turned to look at me. It was as if her sightless eyes saw through my skin, but it wasn’t as creepy as that sounds.
“Sorry Joss,” she said. “I was about to overstep. I needed a reminder that being able to do something doesn’t necessarily mean doing it is a good idea.”
“It’s not a big deal. But I wouldn’t feel right walking through Esme’s mind.”
“No. And I have no right to do so. Which she just reminded me. I think she might have been angrier had she not understood that I meant no harm and had not her mother showed me the error of my ways.”
I felt the touch of Esme’s little hand on my cheek. She spoke in my mind. ‘Tell the clairvoyant to mind her own business, or I will be angry with her.’
I replied in kind. ‘She knows already. And you will do well to remember that she is under my protection.’ I palliated the severity of the reminder by blowing her a mental kiss. Her giggle sounded all around the room, but only I could hear her promise to behave.
“Have you marked Esme’s card?” Ben asked.
“I have. And she has promised to behave.”
“That’s okay then. But I think you’ve scared some of our visitors spitless.”
I looked at Jonas and James and saw their struggle.
“Look you pair,” I said severely. “It’s no use you looking at me like that. I didn’t ask for the supernatural stuff. In fact, given the choice, I’d have had bugger all to do with it. Only I never got the choice. So I deal. And you get to deal too unless you’d prefer me to clip you round the ears.”
Jonas laughed, at first it was the dry sound of bravado, but then his sense of humour raised its head and he chuckled.
“I don’t reckon you could reach to clip me round the ear.”
I regarded him with mild belligerence. “I can jump.”
For some reason, all the men found this extremely funny and they laughed loud and long.
Finoula reached for my hand and I grasped her fingers.
“Why are they all on the edge of hysteria?” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” I said, “The ghost thing put the shits right up the Spanish contingent. The loud laughter is their way of reaching for balance.”
“I thought that might be it, but it’s sometimes frustrating not to be able to see.”
I moved my chair closer to her and we leaned on each other while the boys got themselves together.
Once they had rearranged their faces, Mark took over. At first I thought Jonas might be a bit difficult about being elbowed aside by his son, but Esme had spooked him so badly that he was glad to step aside and let Mark deal.
“We have fairly strong indications of who both sides of the equation may be. I have no love for either group, but in the interest of protecting my family and friends, I’m willing to contact the right people and drop the involvement of the others into their, hopefully receptive, ears.” He stopped talking and turned his diamond bright gaze on me. “The thing is, Joss, they are bound to want to talk to you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are known to be the business brain around here.”
“And…”
“And they are going to need convincing of your motivation for buying the land.”
“Oh well. That’s going to be easy isn’t it.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that we bought the land because it was going cheap. Because the field will be a useful addition to our thriving market garden. Because I wasn’t a bit keen on anyone buying the orchard and paddock as they adjoin the pub – the spectre of someone greasing someone’s hands and a few overpriced houses full of Karens and Kens getting built on my doorstep. Oh and because my husband is a quixotic bastard, who also had a pipe dream about buying our children ponies. Which is NOT happening.”
“If you put it like that, I’m guessing they’ll buy it.” James smiled at me.
“Who are ‘they’?” Ben asked.
Finoula spoke softly. “The spirits of the garden tell me they are the people who had the stone bench carved.”
I felt cold fingers touch my spine.
“That’d be the men with the musical accents and the cold dead eyes, then. The ones whose patronage scared a stonemason with hands like feet absolutely shitless.”
“Yes. Them.” Mark bit the words off as if they tasted bad.
Esme spoke in my head. ‘It’s okay. They will believe you. They are bad men. But they understand truth.’
I came back to the room to find an argument already blowing up. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled sharply. Everyone turned to look at me.
“According to my ‘daughter’ on the other side, the ‘bad men’ will believe me. So you lot can quit it with the macho stuff and tell the man who needs to know. I can do the rest.”
Jonas opened and shut his mouth a couple of times before grinning ruefully.
“I don’t remember you being so bossy when you were beating my arse at backgammon.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Your place. Your rules. But this is my place. So we play by my rules or we don’t play.”
“Does your husband have no say in the matter?”
Ben snorted. “It ain’t me being asked to deal with a very bad guy.”
“But if you had a say. What would you say?”
Mark chuckled. “Very little if he knows what’s good for him.”
It was Ben’s turn to laugh. “Something like that. If Joss and me didn’t have trust in each other we couldn’t be…”
Jed ran a big hand over Finoula’s head. “That’s the truest thing anyone has said today.”
Which about adjourned our meeting. Jed and Finoula went to meet some pygmy goats, the Brown contingent went to talk to some bad men, and me and Ben went to work.

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.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

A group of four sinuous bodied females were skimming across the waters of the lake towards them, propelled by their finned serpentine tails, their long blue and green hair covering some of their upper torso and a diaphanous fabric crossed beneath their breasts into a kind of trailing skirt which outlined where they had human-like bottoms and thighs before their legs became snakelike. Their expressions were of feral anger and they each wielded weapons – swords, daggers or staves
Milla was not surprised they were so angry. It must be terrible not having proper legs.
“And this,” Pew said as he held his own staff aloft, “is why we needed a tank and heals. We get two waves of four then the boss who comes with two more and can summon an add every ten percent.”
“By the power of My Skull!” Glory slashed out at the nearest of the Lamia as Pew sent a fireball over her shoulder and two of them exploded into stars.
“Got their healer,” Pew said with satisfaction, and then waded into the fray using his staff as a blunt weapon. The two remaining Lamia hissed and writhed. One clawed at Pew and Glory shouted “No you don’t you fat cow!” which enraged the Lamia so much she returned her attention to hitting Glory, who was looking a bit beaten up.
A few moments later it was over and the lake was tranquil once again. Glory moved her arms in a gesture of supplication and her injuries faded as if they had never been. Then pulled her bow from over her shoulder.
“If we can down one before they close it’ll be easier,” she said just as a new group of Lamia came over the lake towards them.
Two arrows and a spray of mini fireballs sank one, the other three were subjected to a mouthful of abuse from Glory, depreciating their physical characteristics, their philosophy and their parentage. Milla’s ears burned with it and she wondered how Glory could come up with such vile things. But it kept the Lamia fully focusing their ferocity on the elf as Pew sent spell after destructive spell into them doing far more damage than Glory was. This time Milla had to send the power from her pendant to stop Pew from exhausting his magical powers before the fight was done.
Then the two Visitors were breathing hard and the last of the Lamia had disappeared into thin air.
“Alright this is the big one,” Glory said, wiping a golden gauntleted hand ineffectually across her brow. “Milla you are going to have to be our off-tank. The encounter needs one or we won’t make it.”
“No!” Pew’s protest combined with Milla’s squeak of horror.
“We have to, Pew. You know that. Once in the fight the mob will charm whoever is holding aggro and make them useless. The only way to avoid that is to have someone to take the aggro. If you put your aggro transfer on Milla, then the moment I get charmed and stop taunting, it’ll drop to her and I’ll be back in the fight.”
“I’ll take the aggro.”
“No. You mustn’t. You’ve got to keep the damage going or the Queen’ll start to self heal. For fracks sake, that’s why the whole thing is set up this way. It’s meant for a full group not… not whatever we are.”
“But Milla could get hurt!”
“If she doesn’t do it we’ll all get dead!”
Milla held up a hand to silence them. She could already see the waters of the lake beginning to boil and was pretty sure that meant they were out of time.
“I’ll do it. And shut up Pew, it’s my choice not yours.”
She heard his mouth snap shut, but her eyes were fixed on the lake where the Lamia Queen had just appeared in a spume of mist and bubbles, her body about half as big again as her Lamia sisters, was clad in two thongs, one around her rather impressively large chest and one around her hips, that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 25th Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

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

Big Brenda decided to investigate the mysterious goings on behind the compost. The smell almost beat her back, but she was made of stern stuff. Pushing her way past the terrible trio she found herself in the presence of an old margarine tub in which something was heaving and bubbling and emitting a smell guaranteed to turn even the strongest stomach. Keeping a firm hold on her breakfast she grabbed Oisin in passing and dragged him protesting in her wake.
“What the frag is that?”
“It’s fermenting potato. For the poteen.”
“Get rid of it.”
“But Bertha.”
“Bury it. Today!”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

abjective (adjective) – crap at describing things and very apologetic about it

asrisk (noun) – a very chancy bet

bedeffen (verb) – of folk singers the act of blocking the ears before singing 

cormflack (verb) – abuse from the seed of an orchid 

downstaris (noun) – small marsupial found in the understairs cupboards of suburbia

eafle (noun) – unimpressive bird of prey

lement (adjective) – of underwear being prone to crawl between the bum cheeks

nadke (adjective) – of clothing, becoming transparent when wet

nppli (adjective) – bumpy and prone to the cold

reabi reder (noun + adjective) – trainee preacher whose sole function is to recite the scriptures during dull bits in the service

rgeat (noun) – green cheese with bits of gravel in it

sayrt (noun) – tongue in cheek folk wisdom

shatreted (verb – past participle) – having rubbed diahorreah on one’s spouse in a fit of pique

ther emay (proper noun) – any one of many fuzzy-haired wannabe guitar legends – natural habitat social media

vitupus (noun) – the excretions of angry acne

wharever (conjunction) – southern Belle speak for wherever

yaest (adjective) – liberally bedaubed in marmite 

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…

Oh yes, we’re still friends and the kids get to spend time with me and SiraPlus and my-ex and his AlexiExtra. In fact our sixteen year old daughter has had a relationship with her BoyfriendBen for six months now. She said she saw how happy we both are with our companion bots.
Of course she’d tried dating! But real boys are all just a touch too awkward or not quite sensitive enough or didn’t always understand her.
Grandchildren?
Oh I’m sure she’ll find a real boyfriend one day. She’ll grow out of this bot thing…
Me? Well, that’s completely different!

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,

Or dare one call you RWW as we are such chums now. To those few who still may not know who I am, I bid you welcome. My name is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – that’s Ivy to my friends, of which number one is sure you will soon count yourself. You will no doubt have acquainted yourself with my brilliant and inventive novel, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”. It is, one feels, a book that speaks to the very soul of humanity and artistry.

But quietly now my children, while one picks for you the finest flowers of one’s exceptional mind…

Preparing to Write

There is a myth among one’s less stellarly talented detractors that to write is but to be seated in front of the writing machine. Ah, would that it were so simple. Would that one could summon the Muse from her flowery bower by the simple application of the buttocks to a suitably cushioned chaise.

The facts are rather more heartrending, residing as they do in the depths to which creativity can drag the artist in search of the mot juste. Our forefathers placed their faith in the inspirational qualities of the demons that are alcohol and addictive substances. Do not tread that route my pupils, for therein lies the route to perichondriation. The body of a genius is a temple to the goddesses of beauty and truth, and the divine Calliope may only be summoned to enter such a plot of fertile soil by the twin stratagems of aromatherapy and meditation.

My own secret recipe of essential oils and the contemplation of my perfectly white and clean toeshells seldom fails to bring the lady of letters to stand at my shoulder and sprinkle the stardust of genius upon my words.

However, one must caution you against certain verboten fragrances, aromas known to congest the senses and impede the ingress of inspiration. Patchouli, that siren of psychedelia, is one such unfriend as is everything with ‘musk’ in the name. That word itself is descended from the Sanskrit for ‘testicle’ which is sufficient reason of itself to delete this foul precursor of sexual depravity from your lexicon of preparatory perfumes. Also to be avoided is anything that belongs in the department culinaire which, by virtue of close affinity to victuals, bestirs the stomach and curdles creativity – cinnamon and ginger, vanilla, basil or bay – unless one is writing a recipe book, of course.

So, as the siren song of the Muse fills the exquisitely receptive, virgin marble temple of my mind, I must leave you, my RWW chums. I shall ease this parting with a little homework for your starved and tiny souls. Seek your perfect writing aroma and have it by your side when I return to pontificate upon the correct orchestral accompaniment to the mental struggle of bringing your vision of the ultimate histoire to the blank screen affront your eyes.

Until soon my disciples. Ecrit Bon!

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.