Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Life is like a sweet-smelling rose,
The pollen gets right up your nose!
But the petals unfold
And the heart is of gold
And the ending…? Well nobody knows.
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,
As I must always – please let me introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV author of both this loquacious and erudite series of lessons on ‘How To Start Writing A Book’ and of the increasingly highly-regarded and hard to put down, soon-to-be classic in the genre of speculative fiction “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”.
The formalities out of the way, let me tell you how I came upon the theme of today’s peregrination into the perfection of prose. I had ventured forth from my writing space and after blinking a little in the overbright sunshine of a winter’s afternoon. I found Mumsie seated in front of that obnoxious rectangle of recreation known as the television. By seated, I mean she was lounging as might a Roman courtesan upon the more well-cushioned of our settees and by ‘television’ I mean a high-tech, high-definition, high-priced object which covers a goodly portion of one living room wall.
I do not recall what was showing on the screen, something with children and dogs I think because I was too distracted by the gentle burps and sniffles emanating from my maternal parent as she dabbed her eyes. “So sad,” she was murmuring to herself, oblivious to my intrusion. “So, fucking sad.”
Not wanting to disturb her evident immersion and enjoyment in some overacted televisual drama, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my writing cavern and realised it was time to initiate you, my beloved students into the dark arts.
You, my dear RWW, must be as a magician and a puppet-master. Your prose must produce profound palpitations deep within the psyche of your reader. You have only words with which to weave this wonder but fret not, for I shall make plain the mysteries for your eyes only.
The secret lies in the profuse and prodigious application of adverbs and adjectives. Let dozens of delightful descriptors dance from your fingers. They shall be as the flash of lightning which brought life to Mary Shelley’s creature of parts. By that same magic, they will bring the glory of gut-churning emotion to your predictably flat writing.
Allow me to demonstrate.
Tears flowed from her eyes.
This tells your reader nothing of what is occurring within the breast of your beautiful heroine. Mayhap she was chopping onions or perchance these are tears of mirth. No, it needs the artistry of a literary maestro to tease out the subtle nuances that allow your reader to enter into the moment and feel as one with the character.
Like soft pellucid rain-drops flowing freely and unstoppably in the grim dark deluge of a bitter summer storm, slow and copious tears ran from her reddened eyes achingly, ardently and arrestingly, sliding slowly down her curvaceous cheeks, glistening as they glided gracefully drawn by both the gravity of this blessed earth and the gravity of her perilous situation.
But, I hear you say, sometimes I need to set the mood in a moment, what should I do then, oh sensei of the written word? First, I would chide you for your impatience and for selling both yourself and your reader short. You owe it to your art to take the time and the words needed to amply fulfil the emotional needs of the story. But yes, I hear you riposte, we don’t all have the effing time to dance around with all this fancy crap, Ivy. So I shall lift my hand in silent admonition and admit there is another way. The punchy, no-nonsense give-it-to-them straight style:
She felt shite.
I hope you have read and learned my dear RWW. If not, go back to the top of the page and start again.
Bon ecrit.
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.
January explodes upon the world
With fireworks and cheers
And auld lang syne.
Then creeps she neath her soft blankets
Of snow and mist
Within her house walled with ice
And rooved with frost
And on the casement panes
She prints star patterns,
Draws icicles on eave and gable,
Paints the lawn from green to white
And with bony fingers reaches
Like the leafless trees
To caress the greyness of the sky.
In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…
Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all-wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all-wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived all-wheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the all-wheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the all-wheel back onto the road as the cliff edge approached at a frightening speed.
The sheer momentum of the heavy vehicle made Dai’s task impossible. He could see no way to force the turn and even as he fought the inevitable, his thoughts seemed to lift away from his body with images of Julia and the children. Then it hit him in the stomach. This was not just his life, Aelwen was with him. There was no way he was going to let her end up at the bottom of the cliff being picked over by scene of crime officers.
No.
Way.
From the The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Dying for a Present, a novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
Milla had lived in Wrathburnt Sands for as long as she could remember. It was a good place to live compared to some of the outpost camps like the one out at Terraraptor Gorge or the guard tower at Wraith’s Watch. Those places were dangerous, overrun by monsters and undead. Here the worst hazards were the landsharks and the sandylions, but they kept away from the village and regular hunting parties of Visitors made sure they were never a problem.
Wrathburnt Sands was a small ryeshor community of a dozen small hovels and the rubble remains of an ancient stone monument nestled in a bay on the shores of the Silent Sea. Most Visitors arrived by boat from one of the great cities of the lands beyond. Occasionally one would come from inland to trade such rarities as dragon scales or harpy talons before heading back out on their ventures. Milla often wished she could go on a venture, but she was a Local and only Visitors could do that. Still, it didn’t stop her dreaming of going on one as she combed the beach for small treasures with Ruffkin, a scruffy little hound who seemed to have adopted her as his owner.
Milla had a small hut on the foreshore which she shared with Ruffkin. They shared what little she could scavenge from the beach directly, or sometimes she might find a large decorative shell, which she would trade to get fresh fish for them both from One Eye Rye.
But times had been hard recently with few Visitors coming to the village. Somedays none came at all. Which was why when she shaded her eyes against the sun, Milla was surprised to see a couple of them were already on the pier catching fish to give to One Eye. He would buy the catch of any new Visitor who needed a bit of silver, even lending them a rod to fish with, and his stall by the pier relied on their fresh catches.
As she got closer, Rufkin trotting at her heels, snatches of speech reached her from the pier, slowly coalescing into a full conversation, but little of it made much sense to Milla. Then very little of what the Visitors said and did ever made much sense to her. One Eye Rye said it was like they were from another universe.
“… been too long…came back early…need to grind WBS faction to over eighty percent…”
“…the kind of crap you get…devs nowadays.”
“Yeah. No thought for those of us who might be returning for the Expansion.”
“This fishing quest repeatable?”
“No. But there’s one to kill sandylions. Guy in the tent at the back. By the camels. Easy to solo, decent XP and a wad of faction too. It unlocks once you’ve done this one.”
“Sounds good. I’ll try that soon as I’ve caught these frigging fish.”
“Just hope the new expac is worth it.”
“Screenshots look awesome and the trailer hints at some really cool new group runs and raids.”
“And the new gear? You seen that? Shiny stats!”
You could always tell the Visitors even if they never said a word. Their weapons were all enchanted with spells and charms. They dressed in the most outlandish clothes and smothered themselves with magical rings and wristlets. Milla had just one magical item. Her hand went to touch the precious pendant. In truth, she had no idea what it did and sometimes wondered if it was just in her own mind it had any magical power at all. But it seemed to. Sometimes, at night, she was sure she could see it glow.
One Eye Rye had sniffed when she asked him about it.
“Who’s to say? You’d need to get to one of them big city mage types. Get it ‘eenalized’ as they calls it.”
And that was never going to happen. Even if she had the silver to pay a big city mage, the boats that brought Visitors wouldn’t take locals and there were no other boats she knew of heading to the cities across the Silent Sea.
Her thoughts seemed to conjure the reality and a sail appeared offshore tacking past the headland and into the bay. Then a second followed. And a third. Each carrying at least one Visitor maybe more. The dock was just past the fishing pier and she couldn’t see how many got off, but before she had finished climbing the steps from the beach to the houses, she could hear them chattering excitedly.
One Eye Rye thanked a Visitor politely and paid them for their fish then held out a rod to another who was waiting, tipping a quick wink at Milla to show he’d seen she was there and threw a scrap to Ruffkin who snuffled it up. He would talk to her when he’d dealt with the rush of new arrivals.
There were the usual assortment of elves and dwarves, halflings, gnomes, kittafolk, wolfenfolk and even a human. Their conversation was as baffling as ever.
“Anyone got a speed buff blessing?”
“Shadowcaster LFG!”
“You don’t need more deeps, you n00b, you’re a fragging tank!”
“Word is the ryeshor become a playable race in the expac.”
“Will be. But only if you upgrade for the bonus DLC.”
“Don’t think it’s going to be worth it anyway. Their racials suck.”
“Frick! I forgot I banked my heal pots.”
“No rush. ‘Overkill’ have half their guild out camping the boss by TG.”
“Got to go anyway. Boyfriend faction running too low.”
“Anywhere around here sell mounts? I’d like a camel!”
The small crowd of Visitors swelled around them like a wave rolling up the beach, then split into smaller groups or singletons headed to the tavern, the fishing pier or the stables, leaving Milla and One Eye Rye standing alone by his stall.
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for 2nd 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.
When the council allocated plot 1B to a young family from the nearby high rise, there was some scuttlebutt about giving an allotment to such people. But the old gardeners watched through rheumy eyes, withholding judgment.
The strangers proved good gardeners, with quiet children. So the old men relaxed. If the new lot grew some funny stuff, that was their business.
Summer was dropping into autumn, when Reg fell from his ladder. Nobody would have known what to do for him, but the sari-clad woman from 1B knelt at his side in the mud.
“I’m a doctor,” she smiled.
A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…
arror (noun) – inaccurate missile fired from a baw
baw (noun) – piece of bent wood with string, specifically designed for firing missiles at one’s own foot
cehck (verb) – the action of exploring the nasal cavity with an extra long fingernail
doog (noun) – a modern dance involving the raising of one’s right leg and symbolic sniffing of one’s partner’s posterior
ewach (noun) – small marsupial usually found under the bosom of spectacularly fat women
frabkly (adverb) – to complete an action in a sideways and scuttling manner reminiscent of a crustacean
gentrifly (verb) – to render an area yummy mummy free
gragoyle (noun) – stone carving heavily besmirched with pigeon shit
maffin (noun) – fat-free, sugar-free, gluten-free flavour-free muffin
mohtre (verb) – the act of reluctant parenting characterised by the ritual clip round the ear and excessive use of the naughty step
ognon (adjective) – of breath, being offensively scented with allium
poek (verb) – the act of eating stringy meat
quuck (noun) – very bright yellow ‘cheese’ with absolutely no flavour and the texture of a rubber ball
sking (noun) – the scummy bit on the top of elderly custard
tooe (noun) – small digging rodent renowned for its crusty nails and unpleasant odour
understanking (verb) – crawling through a tunnel under a tank full of piranha fish
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Life is, as the poets do say,
A time to wassail and make hay.
Your time’s better spent
With joyful contempt
For those who deny themselves play.
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,
I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”
The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.
So, to business. The new year is upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.
It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.
I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.
Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.
Happy New Year!
The Old Year sits, and knits her shroud
It will be done tomorrow
Although it’s white and soft as cloud
It’s weighted down with sorrow
And every tear the year has shed
Has put a knot in snowy thread
And where her wrinkled hands have bled
Brown stains mourn for children dead
The Old Year sits, and knits and waits
And only half remembers
January’s child who grew, to
Wrinkle-faced December
When Father Time his anvil strikes
The Old Year’s thread is spun
While Young Year’s thread is gold and bright
With hope for everyone
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