K. Morris's Blog, page 833

Into Temptation

“You only live once” the girl said.

“Indeed we do” her companion replied smiling.

Should he allow this beautiful young lady to do something so intimate and potentially fraught with danger? If things went as he (and she) hoped they would then mutual satisfaction would be the result. A sense of fulfilment would flood his being and the girl would smile with delight at having made another man happy. The man would boast to his jealous friends about the wonders of this talented girl. They would, in return seek to avail themselves of the lady’s services. Even were he to allow the girl to perform this most private and embarrassing of services for him he wasn’t sure whether he could, on second thoughts  confide in even his most trusted friends. Even if he withheld the shocking secret from his dearest friends they would, undoubtedly notice something different about him which would give the game away. The smug smile on his face would act as a clue that he had given into that urge which oft afflicts men of a certain age and to compound the offence that he had done so with a girl young enough to be his daughter. Would allowing a lady of more mature years to minister to his intimate requirements be more acceptable? Perhaps so but the man wasn’t being tempted by a lady of his own age, he was being seduced by a gorgeous 20-year-old into doing something which he new, in his heart of hearts he might well bitterly regret. Never the less the man was tempted. What Could possibly be the harm? They were both adults. No doubt tongues would wag but let people gossip it was after all entirely a matter for himself as to whether he should give into temptation and allow the girl to ever so softly and with the greatest of care … dye his hair

Managing Writer's Block

Reblogged from diannaswritingden:

Many writers speak of writer's block, an inability to create new work or to finish a project. They discuss a mental wall stopping them from reaching the creative part of their brain. Hundreds, probably thousands, of articles have been written about writer's block, what it is and how to cure it.

Yet there are also hundreds, if not thousands, of writers who don't believe in writer's block.

Read more… 1,094 more words

A very interesting post irrespective of whether or not you suffer from writer's block.

Sounds borne on the wings of night

Sounds are incredibly evocative. My home is some 25 minutes walk from several train stations. Occasionally, when the wind is in the right direction and most often at the dead of night when the traffic has ceased I hear the whistle of a train. It is a mournful sound which induces in me feelings of sadness. I am not sure why this should be the case. Perhaps it flows from my perception that there is something about the sound, in and of itself which is evocative of sadness. The speed of the train also reminds me that life is passing by rapidly, we are here now but very soon, like the speeding night train we will be lost in the darkness which for me is symbolic of death.

At other times I hear the hooting of an owl as he hunts in the park next to my home. It is an erie sound which has, in many different cultures been associated with bad luck or death. In Macbeth it is the bird of ill omen which portends the death of Duncan

Lady Macbeth: ”hark! Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,

Which gives the stern’st good-night”.

Whenever I hear the cry of an owl it is of lady Macbeth’s words that I think. However, having said that I love listening to the owl as he hunts for his prey. I can stand for long periods by my open window harkening to his call.

Some sounds produce feelings of rest and contentment. I love listening to the sound of running water. It is hypnotic and soothes me when I feel tired or stressed.

Of course the lack of sound can be wonderful. To sit in tranquillity reading or just relaxing is very necessary to the human spirit.

Tweet Tweet

While browsing the Telegraph’s website earlier today I came across the following article, by Celia Walden which resonated with me, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/twitter/9831941/My-husbands-cheating-on-me-with-three-million-people.html. Walden argues that Twitter is about forsaking the present moment in order to brag about it later. For example the author points to the craze which is, apparently prevalent in America where people tweet pictures of their meals rather than sitting down and simply enjoying them! As I’ve remarked before technology is wonderful. It has, however lead some to be enslaved by the technology rather than allowing it to act as their servant.

I’m off now to make a cup of hot chocolate. Please watch out for the photograph of the steaming mug on Twitter. If you are lucky I may even include a full length video of yours truly drinking it. I’m sure you can hardly wait …!

 

Kevin

Sabrina (Part 1)

Have you ever desired something so intensely that the lack of it positively hurt? Tony’s waking thoughts where filled with Sabrina. Her long black hair and emerald green eyes dominated his consciousness. At times Tony fancied that he could smell Sabrina’s delicate scent, a wonderful cocktail of wild flowers comingled with the apple shower gel with which she soaped her lithe young body. The lack of Sabrina’s presence only served to entensify his desire for the girl. He longed to lose himself in Sabrina’s beauty, to bury his nose in the girl’s long black hair. He would drink in her scent his hands softly exploring Sabrina’s face. There lips would meet and then …

He pictured the two of them strolling hand in hand through the woods in springtime. The birds are singing and flowers line the woodland path. They enter a secluded glade shielded from the footpath by high oaks. Without speaking they fall as one to the woodland floor, Their love making being accompanied by the singing of many birds.

On other occasions Tony pictured Sabrina as a beautiful woodland nymph. At a little under five feet in height and being of slim build she was the living personification of the nymphs who populated the myths of which he was so fond. Tony saw Sabrina walking ahead of him in the depths of the forest. He quickens his pace, however the girl without ever appearing to pick up speed remains forever just out of reach.

“Sabrina” he calls.

“Catch me if you can” floats back to him on the spring breeze.

“Sabrina wait for me” he shouts but his voice is lost among the calling of the birds and the babbling of the woodland brook.

But what if he did possess the girl? What then?

“The rose is a thing of beauty much desired by man but, once picked it’s fragrance soon fades leaving only withered petals”.

Should he ask her out for a date? Where she to say no the intricate fantasies which Tony had woven for himself would vanish like snow in springtime. No more moments of delight with Sabrina flitting through the woods , just a big fat “no” to sap his confidence. Tony guessed that he could maintain the fantasy for some considerable time yet. He had a vivid imagination and his occasional encounters with Sabrina only served to heighten the intensity of his fantasising. Where Sabrina to say yes what then? Would growing familiarity start to breed contempt? He thought of his friend Jack. Some six months earlier Jack had, helped by the dutch courage provided by several brandies taken the plunge and asked Lucy, the barmaid in his local pub out for dinner. Their relationship had blossomed like the summer flowers but come winter it had fizzled out and died.

“Mate Lucy and I should have stayed friends. We had great laughs together, she was one of the lads but now she can hardly stand the sight of me” Jack had said sadly, slurring his words as he and Tony sat drinking cider in Jack’s house.

“I can’t go into the Fiddle (Jack’s local) anymore as Lucy can hardly bring herself to be civil and everyones either sniggering behind their hands or feeling sorry for me. I don’t know what’s worse” Jack said.

Maybe it was better to continue to worship his Venus from afar Tony thought. He took a sharp intake of breath. What if Sabrina chose to date someone other than Tony Juniper? Tony’s stomach turned over at the very thought. So far as he knew Sabrina was unattached. Certainly she wore no ring to indicate that she was in a relationship although the lack of a ring was not an infallible sign that a girl was available as Tony well knew.

“I’ll ask her out” Tony said to Smudge his black and white cat. The cat seemed decidedly uninterested not even deigning to acknowledge Tony’s announcement by so much as a sswish of his tail.

“Be like that then” Tony said lifting the cat off his knee.

Smudge rubbed himself against his owner’s legs craving attention but Tony’s thoughts where elsewhere. He was remembering the first time that he had set eyes on Sabrina.

“£30.37 please sir”.

Tony raised his eyes from the belt which had just conveyed his shopping to the cash register and came face to face with his goddess. A pair of green eyes gazed expectantly back at him

£30.37 please” the girl repeated glancing over Tony’s right shoulder at the growing queue behind him.

“Sorry” Tony said fumbling for his debit card while, at the same time trying to read the girl’s name badge. By craning his neck he managed to decipher the name. Sabrina the badge said.

“Sir can I help” Sabrina said annoyance fighting with mirth to gain the upper hand on her face.

“No I’ve found it. Sorry to keep you waiting Tony said extracting his card, inserting it into the card reader and punching in his PIN.

“Have a nice day” Sabrina said as Tony took his shopping and headed for the exit.

Tony knew that she said that to all the customers. It was, almost certainly company policy for the supermarket’s staff to offer this formulaic farewell. None the less Tony left the store with a huge grin on his face.

Ever since the day when he had first encountered Sabrina Tony had increased his twice weekly visits to the supermarket. He now visited at every possible opportunity. He would run out of milk and rather than popping into his local corner shop Tony would visit the supermarket in the hope of seeing Sabrina.

“Just the one item?” the girl said raising her eyebrows at the sight of Tony’s single pint of milk.

“Yes” he replied disconsolately. This girl wasn’t Sabrina. Tony had scanned the checkouts searching for her however following searching looks from the security guard he thought it prudent to go to the nearest till and pay for his milk.

Incidents such as this became increasingly common. On occasions Tony would strike lucky and find himself being served by Sabrina, however in most instances he paid for his single item at a checkout staffed by someone other than his Sabrina.

“His Sabrina”, of course the girl wasn’t his but try as he might Tony could not shake off the view that he and Sabrina where meant to be together. Like a moth to the flame Tony was drawn with ever increasing frequency to the store.

Does the devil still ride out?

On 23 March I wrote “The Collector” (http://www.freeproxy-us.appspot.com/newauthoronline.com/2013/03/23/the-collector/) which tells the story of an encounter between Brian and a satanic presence. Ever since reading “The Devil Rides Out” by Denis Wheatley I have had a passing interest in the supernatural. Wheatley as with many other Christians believes that the devil or Satan is a being or force capable of manifesting itself to those who worship Satan. In “The Devil Rides Out” there is a struggle between the forces of good (the right hand path) and those of evil (the left hand path) resulting in the triumph of the former and the destruction of the Satanist coven.

One might think that Satanists believe in a horned god who bestows power and prestige on his followers. There are certainly Satanists who hold that Satan is an actual force or being to be worshiped in return for wealth and power. However there are also so-called atheist Satanists who hold that Satan does not exist. To such people Satan is a symbolic figure representing the struggle of humans to be free from constraints, to live their lives as they choose. The main organisation promoting this view is the Church of Satan which was founded in the mid 1960’s. Yesterday evening I spent a couple of hours watching a documentary on the Church of Satan (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlQTLovsKaI).

The adherents of the Church of Satan believe in sexual freedom between consenting adults an idea with which many non-followers of the organisation would agree. Of concern is the organisations belief in a form of social Darwinism in which “the strong” have the right to laud it over “the weak”. As one believer expresses it in the documentary the “bum” on the street is of less importance than the CEO of a major company and society should be organised to promote inequality. Of course most people accept that to varying degrees inequality is inevitable and that a certain amount may be desirable  in a free  society. However this view is tempered by a belief in the moral obligation of people to assist the less fortunate via welfare programmes and/or personal charity. So far as I can ascertain there is no such belief among the adherents of the Church of Satan. Their rituals place emphasis on “tooth and claw” for, as animals we are part of the process of natural selection in which the weak will either perish or become subservient to the strong. Most religions emphasise compassion, not so the Church of Satan.

According to the Church of Satan there is no hell. They may well be right in this view. However the doctrines of the Church with it’s emphasis on the Satanic elites could result in the creation of hell on earth.

Take a Break

On 16 March I published Sting In The Tail (http://newauthoronline.com/2013/03/16/sting-in-the-tail/). The story attracted positive feedback with 12 bloggers liking it. I was delighted with the likes (who wouldn’t be?!), however on re-reading Sting In The Tail I noticed the following errors all of which have now been corrected:

The main actor, Matthew (a fraudster) never reveals his real name to his potential victims. He tells Laura a blind lady he meets in a hotel bar that his name is James. Unfortunately on looking through the story as it appeared on my blog I found that Laura addresses Matthew by his real name rather than his fake name (James). Oops and double oops!
On looking through Sting In The Tail as published on my blog I discovered that Matthew and Laura drink whine. While a guide dog does make an appearance in the story it neither whines nor wines, hence I have corrected the published version to reflect the fact that Matthew and Laura drink wine rather than whine!

How did these ttypos find their way into the published version of Sting In The Tail? Writing Sting In The Tail took some 4 to 5 hours. Having finished I was extremely tired. Instead of making a cup of coffee or going for a walk and returning to re-read my manuscript at a later point I instead read through the story straight away. I corrected a few minor typographical errors and as everything else seemed fine went ahead and published it on my blog! My resolution so far as future writing is concerned is to not publish in haste and repent at leisure. Rather I will save my manuscript, go and do something wholly unrelated to writing and return bright eyed and bushy tailed, at a later time to re-read my stories prior to publishing them. One can never wholly avoid mistakes when writing as even proof readers may miss errors, however it is always best to come at one’s work with a clear mind rather than a brain befuddled by tiredness.

 

The sun light on the walls

Does the fact that I am blind impact on my writing? This question pops into my head occasionally and it is one which I have been meaning to address for some time. First let me describe my level of vision. Sitting in my spare room (where most of my writing takes place) I can see my computer screen. The screen appears blank to me although I know that words are gradually populating it’s surface as Jaws (my screen reading software) announces each time I type a letter). IF I raise my eyes I see the outline of a poster with writing at the foot of the picture. I wouldn’t know what the poster is except for the fact that friends tell me that it shows rather a nice representation of a dolphin. To my right and left are book cases full of braille books. I can see the outline of the books but nothing else. The sun is shining, it’s light on my wall and the quilt make me feel happy. There is something about the gentle rays of the sun which I love and I’m grateful that I have sufficient vision to appreciate the sun.

The fact that I am registered blind does, I believe mean that senses other than sight feature more prominently in my writing than would perhaps be the case where I fully sighted. For example when describing Sam’s visit to Woolton Woods in my book “Samantha” the sound of Sam’s feet crunching through the leaves features prominently due to me loving the noise made when walking on newly fallen leaves. The crunch of freshly fallen leaves coupled with the gorgeous scents which rise from them make for a heady cocktail of sensory delight. Passing through Woolton village Sam is delighted by the fading splendour of the flowers in the hanging baskets which festoon the cottages. I can’t see those baskets but I know through having passed often through the village and having had the baskets described to me what a wonderful display they make. This is not the same as seeing objects oneself, however I do, I hope still manage to impart Sam’s pleasure as she looks on the fading blooms.

For me what is fascinating  about people is what makes them tick. Why individuals are as they are and act in the manner they do is a subject of endless interest. I am more interested in a person’s personality than in how they look which does, very possibly arise from the fact that I can not see people very clearly. Where a friend to pass me today in the street I would see a passing shape. Only when my friend speaks to me do I know that it is John, Brian or Jeff the identification being made by the distinctive sound of my friend’s voices. Living in a sighted world I do, of course fully appreciate the fact that most people are interested in the physical appearance of persons both in real life and fiction. Looks self evidently play a significant role in explaining what initially attracts one sighted individual to another. Talking to my sighted friends I know that physical factors are what first draws them to a person of the opposite sex. All this is not to say that looks are the be all and end all of attraction. Once most people fall into conversation with a person to whom they are physically attracted factors other than appearance come into play, for example does he/she make me laugh and does he/she have similar interests to mine.

Returning to the issue of writing, as a blind writer I find that I sometimes have to remind myself to describe the physical appearance of the people who populate my stories something which I suspect does not happen with writers who are fully sighted. As pointed out above, I am well aware that I live in a sighted world and physical attributes do play an important role in life as in story telling. In certain instances physical attraction is central to my stories. For instance the fact that Becky (a young graduate who enters the world of escorting in order to pay off her debts in “The First Time” is slim and blonde) plays an important role as many customers of sex workers like slim blonde ladies. Consequently it is important that Becky’s appearance is described as “The First Time” would lack authenticity where the central actor’s physical attributes to be overlooked. Having said that the primary point of “The First Time” is to explore the psychological effects of prostitution on Becky. I am more interested in how Becky’s engagement in sex work impacts on her emotionally so once Becky’s description is provided the story concentrates on Becky’s emotional state which is, in my opinion as it should be.

In conclusion my writing is no doubt influenced by the fact of my blindness. I do not believe that this is to the detriment of my craft I do however need to keep in my mind the fact that I live in a sighted world in which vision plays a pivotal role and ensure that where appropriate the visual aspect is reflected in my story telling.

Is the Game Up for Sweden’s Prostitutes?

A recent article in The Independent suggests that Sweden’s criminalisation of the purchasers of sexual services while leaving sex workers free to ply their trade has resulted in a dramatic decrease in prostitution. The Swedish approach is predicated on the view that prostitution constitutes the abuse of prostitutes by men who hold the levers of power. No woman would voluntarily choose to sell their body, consequently buyers of sexual services are exploiting vunnerable women and must be punished by fines or imprisonment for doing so.

A number of comments in response to the article question the view that prostitution is necessarily exploitative and (rightly in my opinion) point to the bias of the piece’s concentration on the opinions of the Swedish police force. Little if any room is given to voices questioning the effectiveness or equity of the Swedish Law on Prostitution.

For the article please visit http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/features/why-the-games-up-for-swedens-sex-trade-8548854.html

The Dinosaur

Lord Dudlum stood at the library window. It commanded a magnificent view of wooded hills and rolling pastures. It was all his, well the banks at any rate  for the estate was mortgaged upto the hilt. Once the Dudlums had commanded great prestige. Dudlums had served in several governments in high ministerial capacities while one of Lord Dudlums ancestors had fought alongside the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. As a child growing up in post-war Britain he remembered the House being full of guests with an extensive staff of servants to cater to their every whim. However his father’s liking for the gaming table and his entanglement with women of dubious reputation had left the family’s coffers empty. Well not quite empty, Lord Dudlum and his daughter (his wife had died in a riding accident shortly after the birth of their only child, Jessica) had sufficient funds to retain the family seat and employ a fulltime housekeeper, however the family’s finances groaned under the weight of the mortgage to the Halifax, the money generated from the estate’s farms barely covering the repayments.

Lord Dudlum’s eyes roamed lovingly over the leather bound books in the oak book cases. The complete works of Dickens, the Canterbury Tales, the complete works of Shakespeare he knew and loved them all as could be deduced from the worn leather bindings which testified to their frequent use. Lord Dudlum walked across to the book cases and reached for Golding’s Lord of the Flies. He was interrupted in his intent by a knock at the door,

“Come in” he said.

The door opened admitting Jessica a petite blonde in her early thirties. Dudlum had married in his early fifties to Amanda a girl 20 years his junior. He still haden’t got over the death of his mandy, he missed her terribly but as with many members of the British upper classes he made a point of not showing emotion in public, it just wasn’t the done thing for a man to admit to having feelings.

“Daddy have you signed those papers?” Jessica asked.

“No” he replied glancing in the direction of a bundle of documents from a prominent firm of London solicitors.

“We need the money daddy” Jessica said raising her voice in anger “and all you can do is sit in your bloody library reading Chaucer!”

“We can manage Jess. The estate brings in enough money to pay the bills” he said glancing unconsciously in the direction of his beloved books. He wished that his daughter would leave him in peace. All he wanted was to read in tranquillity, was that too much to ask?

“Daddy the ball room roof is leaking and Lisa (the housekeeper) told me that the oven is sparking. We’ll have a bloody fire on our hands if we don’t replace it!” Jessica said raising her eyes heavenwards in exasperation.

“Don’t use that language Jess” her father said mildly, “You know that I can’t abide swearing. I didn’t send you to that expensive girls school for you to use the language one hears used by dockers”.

“Sorry daddy but you don’t appear to understand the urgency of the situation. I can’t get through to you” Jessica replied.

“Jess if we sell Lawson’s woods they will build houses where you and I used to pick blue bells when you where a little girl. Is that what you want, for pokey little houses to replace those magnificent trees?” he said.

“Daddy the country is crying out for houses, don’t you read the newspapers?” Jessica said cclenching her fists in frustration.

“You know I read the Telegraph and the Guardian every day but building on historic woodland isn’t the answer to the country’s housing problems. I’m sorry to say this Jess, I really am but I think you care more about money than you do about this family’s responsibility to the countryside. We hold this land in trust. It will still be here long after you and I are dead and gone. Sometimes I think that you know the price of everything and the value of nothing” her father said anger and sadness mingling in his breast.

“Tim says that you can get a much better price for the land than they (pointing to the documents) are offering. That you can bargain with them”.

“Nasty little oyk, the only thing which Tim cares about is money. He has no feeling for anything other than cold hard cash. Do you know what he said to me the last time he was here?” Lord Dudlum asked.

“No but I’m sure that you are going to tell me” Jessica said with a sigh.

“He said “Rupert are those books (pointing to my first editions) really the genuine article?” and when I assured him that they where he said that they would fetch a packet on Ebay! The man’s a philistine, I can’t for the life of me understand what you see in him. I will never part with my books. The man just isn’t a gentleman”.

“If you won’t sell the woods then how about Leader’s Farm? Tim says that the farm is prime developer’s land, that a friend of his in the city would give his eye teeth for it” Jessica said.

“And what would happen to the Browns?” her father asked.

“That isn’t our problem daddy. We are living in a market economy, they will just have to find employment elsewhere” Jessica responded.

“Oh Jess I can’t throw them off the farm. The Browns have farmed that land since the 18th century. I/we have a responsibility to them” Lord Dudlum said.

“Daddy this is the 20th century not some bygone semi-feudal age where the landed gentry ruled the countryside and threw a few crumbs of charity to the tenantry. Those views went out with the ark”

Lord Dudlum became red in the face

“Tell me Jess is this world of economics where Adam Smith and Jeremy Bentham rule supreme more humane than the days when the local squire had a sense of responsibility to those who depended on him? Do you think that the factory worker on the production line is happier than the Browns? I went to their daughter’s wedding and I’m not about to turf them out of their ancestoral home” Lord Dudlum said.

“So you will let the house fall down around our ears because of some misguided paternalistic claptrap. The world in which Lady Bountiful dispensed charity to the poor while her husband held Christmas parties for his labourers have long since come and gone” Jessica said her face reddening with anger.

“So I’m a dinosaur am I? Better a dinosaur than a bloodless calculating machine” Lord Dudlum said.

“What do you really know about the lives of ordinary people daddy? Eton followed by Oxford followed by the life of a gentleman of leisure. At least Tim knows about the real world. Yes Tim who you despise so much, he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His mother was a cleaner and his father a builder. Tim got where he is through his own efforts unlike you” Jessica said shaking with anger.

Her father brought his fist crashing down on the oak desk scattering papers everywhere.

“Don’t lecture me about snobbery and living in the real world young lady. Your mother was the daughter of a publican. My parents didn’t want me to marry her but we eloped to Liverpool and married. Father was furious as was my mother but they eventually came round. So don’t you ever dare to tell me that I don’t know how ordinary people live. What do you know about ordinary people Jess? You went to an expensive girl’s school followed by Cambridge and then into the City where you met that social climber Tim. That hardly qualifies you to lecture me!” Lord Dudlum fumed.

“OK daddy so you will let this house not to mention me go hang just because of some outdated concept of noblesse oblige. A gentleman can’t possibly ssully his hands with financial matters” she said sneeringly.

“Get out” her father roared walking towards her fists clenched.

“What are you going to do? Whack me? That isn’t very gentlemanly now is it” Jessica said in the same sneering tone of voice but none the less she opened the door, backed out of the library and slammed the heavy door behind her.

Lord Dudlum sank back into his favourit old arm chair. It had stuffing poking through the bottom but he loved it and refused to throw it away.

What kind of girl had he raised he wondered sadly. Jess appeared to have no heart, to be wholly concerned with herself and making money. Perhaps it was his fault for sending her away to that girl’s school. Had she stayed at home with him and been home tutored things might have been different. He loved Jessica but as with so many people of his class and generation he shyed away from open expressions of affection. The only exception to this had been his love for Amanda, he remembered holding hands in public much to the chagrin of his parents and his wider social circle. However, Following the death of Amanda something had died in Rupert Dudlum. He became solitary retreating ever more into his library. Jessica had, if he was brutally honest about it been sent away to boarding school because she reminded him of her mother. The memory was acutely painful so the child was sent away. When he saw the way in which the Browns hugged their grand children he felt a pang of regret. Yes, had he been a better father then quite possibly that flinty young lady wouldn’t have turned out the way she had.

Lord Dudlum reached towards the scattered papers. Perhaps Jessica was right that there was no alternative other than to sign the documents but it went against all he believed in. He held the house and the surrounding land in trust, it wasn’t for him a question of mere economics. With a heavy heart he reached for his pen. He appended his signature, addressed an envelope, neatly placed the papers inside and sealed it.

Slowly Lord Dudlum opened the top drawer in the desk. Underneath assorted papers lay his father’s old revolver. He should have handed it back after his military service however, as with so many former soldiers he failed to do so. The gun was, he knew loaded. Lord Dudlum placed the barrel of the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a bang and then the peace which for so long had eluded Lord Dudlum came washing over him in waves.

 

The end