K. Morris's Blog, page 838

Beyond Mere Words

On Tuesday evening I had dinner with an old friend. During the meal I remarked how as I walked up the hill towards the restaurant the sound of birdsong filled the air. Listening to the song of the birds almost made me weep and yet I was unable to put into words why that should be so.

Several days later my friend sent me the below quote who’s origin I have been unable to trace. It expresses beautifully my feelings on that evening as I listened to birdsong on my way to meet my friend

“I walk a path after rain between trees.

I hear birdsong

 

And weep inside for something lost.”

Sick In The Head

A theme running through my story, Samantha is that of evil. Barry (a pimp who owns an escort agency) drugs and rapes Sam. When she wakes he shows her pictures of the sexual abuse and threatens to send the photographs to Sam’s father unless Samantha agrees to work for him as a prostitute. Not wishing to induce another heart attack (Sam’s father has just undergone a heart operation) she agrees to work for Barry and enters a world of physical and mental abuse.

On discussing Barry’s personality with a close friend he remarked that I should consider endowing him with one redeeming feature or including in my narrative one act of kindness by Barry. I thought long and hard as to whether I should follow my friend’s advice, however Barry possesses no saving graces and I decided to portray him as the unfeeling psychopath that he undoubtedly is.

Barry possesses many of the classic traits exhibited by psychopaths. He is superficially charming (it is his charm which convinces Sam to accept a drink from him which unbeknown to her contains the date rape drug GHB). Barry has no conscience, he beats one of his girls, Tanya because she is unable to work due to being high on Crack and in the final chapter Barry attempts to kill Sam because she has had the temerity to tell him to “Go fuck yourself”. Barry is egotistical. In his world it is only Barry O’Connor who matters, the prostitutes he controls are mere means to his profit. Barry does not acknowledge that anyone other than him possesses feelings or if he does accept this, he shows no sign of caring about them.

To acknowledge that Barry is a psychopath with no redeeming features is not the same as saying that we can feel no empathy for him. In chapter 7 (http://newauthoronline.com/2012/12/18/samantha-part-7/) Barry has a nightmare in which he is, as a six-year-old thrown into a dark cupboard under the stairs by his mother. He bangs his head on the gas meter and is left bleeding there while his mother watches television. The terrible abuse which Barry has suffered as a child warps his view of women “they are all bitches and deserve everything that men do to them”. We rightly abhore and condemn Barry’s view of women and the abusive behaviour which flows from it. We can however understand (but in no way excuse) why Barry behaves as he does.

Barry is at bottom a thoroughly nasty piece of work. We can shed few tears when he meets his grizly end However had Barry experienced a loving childhood rather than one filled with abuse, would he have turned out as the cold hearted pimp he is trawling the streets of Liverpool for girls to entrap into prostitution? .

Feeling Bereft

I feel bereft. Since December 2012 I’ve been working on my story, Samantha and yesterday (20 February) I completed the manuscript. For several months Samantha and the other people in my book have been my more or less constant companions. While walking to the station to take the train into work my mind has been busy thinking about the storyline and rehearsing dialogues. Suddenly all that is over, ends have been tied up and the story put to bed.

 

Since December the actors in Samantha have become real to me, they have lived in my brain and become part of my life. At a fundamental level I know that the persons in Samantha are mere figments of my imagination, however to write convincingly one must believe in the people you create, they do at some level take on a life of their own. When Sam is abused by her brutal pimp it is a mere will of the wisp, a nothing which suffers. Sam does however represent those who are forced into the sex industry against their will and, as such she is real. Her pain represents the suffering of actual sex workers who have been compelled to become prostitutes so, at another level Sam does, most definitely exist.

 

I said at the start of this post that Samantha has been completed. This is not quite correct. While Samantha exists in draft form on my blog (http://newauthoronline.com/2013/02/20/samantha-part-16/), It is my intention to edit the book with the view to publishing my manuscript as an ebook. During this process changes will be made although the fundamentals of the story will remain the same.

Samantha Part 16

Below is Part 16 of my story Samantha. For Part 15 which links back to previous chapters please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/02/17/samantha-part-15/.

 

Barry stirred uncomfortably in the armchair. His ribs hurt, his right arm throbbed painfully where it lay strapped to his chest and he breathed with difficulty through his broken nose. Essential tasks such as taking a shower where rendered incredibly difficult, indeed Bary didn’t know how he would cope if Billy haden’t temporarily moved in. Billy cooked, made drinks and, basically enabled Bary to live independently. “Thank Christ I’m ambidextrous” Bary thought. Bary’s ability to use both hands with equal facility had always been useful, however given the current situation it was now proving invaluable. Bary’s work mobile rang (he had two mobiles one for personal use and another which he used for conducting business). “Damn I thought I’d turned the bloody thing off” Bary muttered as he rose painfully from the chair to answer the mobile which lay next to the television in the corner of the living room. “Cuddles, can I help you” Bary said. “Yeah I’d like a young girl, slim. I like schoolgirls so someone who looks young”. “I’ve just the girl for you sir. She’s 18-years-old but looks younger, slim with brown hair”. (Sam was 20 but it was common practice in Bary’s business to tell clients that girls where younger than their actual age. Many clients liked young girls and one had to satisfy the customer. “OK, how quickly can she be with me?” “What’s your address?” The man reeled off an address in Toxteth. “45 minutes to an hour sir. How long do you want?” “An hour”. “That will be £80”. “Do you take cards?” Bary laughed “No sir cash only, its much simpler that way for both of us!” “OK, I’d like to see the girl. What’s her name?” “Angel, she’ll be with you in an hour maximum”. Bary ended the call.

 

—

 

The man thrust his tongue down Sam’s throat. Sam wanted to be sick. The client’s breath stank of cigarettes, beer and curry. “I told you I don’t kiss” Sam said attempting to pull away. “You will do what I fucking want you to do. I’m paying so just shut the fuck up bitch” the client said slapping Sam hard across the face.

The sound of Sam’s mobile ringing cut through the nightmare.  For a few moments Sam lay there feeling confused. Sam rummaged on the bedside cabinet, retrieved the mobile and without looking at the phone’s screen she answered it, “Hello”. “Guy wants to see you. Billy will pick you up in 15 minutes”. The anger which had been festering in Sam over the last six months boiled over. “Go fuck yourself” she said and ended the call.

Bary stirred in disbelief at the mobile in his left hand. How dare that little hoar speak to him like that. Bary redialled, “The number called is temporarily unavailable”. The bitch had turned her phone off! “Billy drive me to that fucking bitch’s. I won’t be spoken to like that” Bary shouted shaking with anger. Billy entered from the kitchen, “What was that Bary? Drive you where?” “To Sam’s. The little hoar’s turned her phone off. I’ll teach that little tramp some fucking manners” Bary said. “I’ll go and speak to her Bary” Billy said. “Just do what your fucking told. If you won’t drive me I’ll get a taxi and you can find another job!” “OK Barry” Billy said reaching for the car keys.

 

 

The car turned into Sam’s road and pulled up next to Sam’s. “Wait here” Bary ordered as he opened the car door. Barry strode across to Sam’s building. The street door gave way following several powerful kicks from Barry’s right foot. Barry winced in pain as the force of the kick travelled up his leg. God his ribs hurt. Barry ran up the few steps to Sam’s front door and again applied his powerful right foot to the wood. The door was made of cheap material and splintered after two blows. Bary flicked on the hall light. He could see a half open door to his left and framed in the doorway the face of a terrified girl. Barry lunged forward the flick knife glinting in his left hand. Seeing the knife the girl stepped back but not quickly enough to avoid the blade slicing into her shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound. Barry moved forward his arm poised to deliver a fatal blow to the heart. His eyes met those of the girl. He paused momentarily. This girl was mixed race, it wasn’t Sam. Bary’s confusion gave way to a feeling of acute agony as a fist crashed into his broken right arm. So intent had he been on the girl standing in the doorway that he had failed to see Sam approaching from the bed. Bary screamed in pain the knife dropping from his hand. Despite her bleeding shoulderLisa dived for the knife. Bary threw himself forward attempting to grab it before Lisa could obtain the blade. Sam got there first. As Billy burst into the bedroom he saw Sam plunge the knife into Barry’s throat. Barry clawed at the knife blood pouring from the wound. He began to choke blood pouring from the wound and bubbling out of his mouth.

 

 

The Crown Prosecution Service had initially considered bringing a charge of murder against Sam. However following the evidence of Lisa and that of Billy the CPS had determined that “it was not in the public interest” to charge Sam. Billy had provided detailed evidence of Bary’s brutality towards Sam and the other girls and this had been a key factor in the CPS’s decision not to press charges.

Sam was undergoing intensive therapy. She was making progress but she knew that it would be a long time before she could put the events of the last six months behind her.

Soon after her rape by Bary Sam had given up her studies at university, however she now felt ready to recommence her degree and had been accepted at Liverpool University. She was looking forward to starting afresh in the new academic year.

Lisa’s shoulder had healed well but she still retained a small scar which caused her pain from time to time. The two girls remained firm friends and met up regularly. Lisa loved spending time with Sam on her father’s estate in Oxfordshire. It was so peaceful, such a contrast to the hussle and bussle of city life.

Peter had made contact with Sam following the traumatic events of that fateful night when Bary had breathed his last. The two of them where gradually rebuilding their relationship but only time would tell whether they would remain more than just close friends.

 

The end.

 

 

I Won’t Harken To Your Dreams

Last night I had a series of bizarre dreams. They flashed through my sleeping brain and as with most of the dreams I experience my recollection of them is hazy now. As a child I actually tried to physically retain my dreams. I have a clear recollection of waking up, attempting to clench the dream in my hand and lock it away in a drawer in the bedroom. Of course as an adult this recollection makes me smile. Dreams are insubstancial things which it is impossible to grasp. One might as well attempt to confine the wild wind in a sack, it can not be done!

My most recent dreams brought to mind the encounter in Wuthering Heights Between Catherine and Ellen (Nelly) Dean. Where I to attempt to relate some of my dreams would you join with Nelly Dean and remark “I won’t harken to your dreams?” I wonder. I quote the relevant passage below because it is one of my favourite passages in english literature and it is relevant to the above

“‘Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?’ she said, suddenly, after some minutes’ reflection.

‘Yes, now and then,’ I answered.

‘And so do I. I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through

water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one: I’m going to tell it—but take care not to smile at any part of it.’

‘Oh! don’t, Miss Catherine!’ I cried. ‘We’re dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and like yourself!

Look at little Hareton! He’s dreaming nothing dreary. How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!’

‘Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing: nearly as young

and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to listen: it’s not long; and I’ve no power to be merry tonight.’

‘I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!’ I repeated, hastily.

I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which I might shape

a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short

time.

‘If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.’

‘Because you are not fit to go there,’ I answered. ‘All sinners would be miserable in heaven.’

‘But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.’

‘I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I’ll go to bed,’ I interrupted again.

She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.

‘This is nothing,’ cried she: ‘I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth;

and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will

do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there

had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him:

and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s

is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”

Samantha Part 15

Below is Part 15 of my story Samantha. For Part 14 which links back to previous chapters please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/02/16/samantha-part-14/.

 

Sam lay curled up in a ball on the floor. “Sam” Lisa said gently touching her shoulder. There was no response other than the muffled sobbing which emanated from behind Sam’s hands which remained tightly pressed against her face. “I’m here for you Sam if you want to talk” Lisa said kneeling next to her friend. “I’m only a hoar. Peter didn’t say it but thats what he thinks. I am nothing Lisa. Don’t waste your time on me” Sam said between huge wretching sobs which convulsed her slender frame. Lisa gathered Sam up in her arms. She was so light Lisa thought compassion for Sam rising in her.

Lisa sat on the sofa cradling Sam in her arms. “You matter Sam. You are a sweet girl who has been horrifically abused. You aren’t a hoar. Your Samantha a precious human being who needs help”, Lisa said. “I wish you haden’t found me. I wanted to take those tablets and die. Why did you interfere?” Sam said giving way to a fresh flood of tears. “You are important Sam. Your father loves you (I know that because of the loving way in which you speak about him). Peter is very hurt but his pain comes from the deep feelings he has for you. I’ve known Peter for a long time, trust me Sam he cares and given time I think that he will return to you. You have so much to live for Sam. Once this is over I’ll help you to find a therapist. Christ you have been raped and terribly abused its not surprising that you feel like you do”. “I lied to Peter Lisa, I’m a liar” Sam said turning her tear stained face to Lisa. “You where (you are) terrified of Barry Sam. People lie and do other things which go against their conscience when they are in fear for their lives”. Sam took Lisa’s right hand in her’s and squeezed it tight. She didn’t speak but the pressure of her fingers told Lisa that her words where getting through to her friend. “I’ll stay with you tonight Sam and in the morning I’ll come with you to the police”. “But what about Mark? I’ll be OK Lisa. I feel much better now. I’m not going to”,  Sam paused, “do anything silly” she said eventually. “Mark is fine. I’m staying Sam. No ifs, no buts” Lisa said. She smiled as she spoke but Sam could see the steely determination behind the smile, Lisa wasn’t going anywhere.

Lisa glanced at her watch, “Gosh its only just gone 10 but I’m absolutely worn out”. “Me to. There is only one bed but I can sleep on the floor. I’ll be fine with a couple of pillows and my old quilt”. “We can top and tail” Lisa said. “Really I haven’t done that since I stayed over at friends during my school days” Sam replied the ghost of a smile flitting across her face.

“Do you mind which end of the bed you sleep at?” Sam said leading the way into her bedroom. “No you choose” Lisa said. So exhausted where the girls that both fell asleep soon after their heads touched the pillow.

Samantha Part 14

Below is Part 14 of my story Samantha. For Part 13 which links back to previous chapters please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/02/10/samantha-part-13/.

 

Sam and Peter sat on Sam’s threadbare sofa. It had been cream at some point in the dim and distant past but the passing years had turned it’s colour to a dirty brown. Sam fidgeted uncomfortably feeling the sharp point of one of the springs digging painfully into her back. “Sam sweetheart I’m so worried. Please talk to me, tell me why you”. Peter couldn’t say the words “Why you tried to kill yourself” they stuck in his throat like a chicken bone. He couldn’t spit them out. “I” Sam looked at the floor unable to continue. “Sam I love you, whatever it is we can work it out together” Peter said putting his arms around Sam and pulling her to him. “I’m an escort”. Sam spoke so softly that Peter couldn’t hear. “Sorry darling what was that?” “I’m an escort” Sam repeated. She couldn’t bring herself to use the word prostitute. It was the most burningly accurate description of her work but she couldn’t use that word. It was filthy, she was a dirty hoar, a worthless lying tart who sold her body to sad and lonely guys who had no life. No life! Sam laughed bitterly. Who was she to sit in judgement on her clients. It was she who had no life “birds of a feather flock together” Sam thought. “An escort? You mean that sometimes when you are caring for the elderly and disabled that you take them out for trips, to the seaside, that kind of thing. Is that what you mean Sam? Why are you laughing? I don’t understand Sam” Peter said a look of utter perplexity showing on his mobile face. “I’m not a carer or a nurse I’m a prostitute. I was date raped by my pimp Barry. He has pictures that he took while I was unconscious. Photos of him and another man I’ve never seen before raping me. He still has them, the pictures, he’ll send them to daddy if I go to the police. That would kill daddy, his heart is very weak. I can’t, I can’t go to the police”, she articulated between sobs. Sam broke down completely burying her head in her hands. Peter Jerked away from Sam,“You lied to me Sam. How could you? Fuck we had sex without a condom Christ only knows what you have given me”. “It was only with you that I didn’t use protection. I always used condoms with the clients. Its because I love you that I didn’t use anything. I love you my darling” Sam said moving to take Peter’s hand. Peter pulled away and got to his feet. He felt anger like a huge furnace burning in his chest. He must get out before he said or did anything further which he would later bitterly regret. “hoar, slut and slag” where on the tip of his tongue. With a supreme effort Peter swallowed the words and instead said . “I’m going. Don’t contact me ever again. We are finished Sam”. “Pleas Peter” Sam pleaded kneeling at Peter’s feet and holding onto the bottom of his jeans. Peter jerked free, turned and without a word exited the tiny lounge. The room opened into Sam’s small kitchen where Lisa sat on a stool drinking coffee. “Peter?” “I can’t deal with this Lisa. Sam needs you” Peter said heading for the hall. “She needs you Peter more than anyone else”. “I can’t cope Lisa. I can’t” Peter said biting his lower lip and trying desperately not to give vent to his emotions. Peter walked passed Lisa, entered the little passage which passed for a hallway and pausing only briefly to unlatch the front door stepped out into the evening gloom.

Help Wanted With Writing About The Experiences Of Muslim Ladies Growing Up In The United Kingdom

Once I have finished my present project (my book Samantha which tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution by her brutal pimp, Barry in the city of Liverpool) I’m considering writing about the experiences of a young muslim girl/lady growing up in the UK. I want to explore the conflicting pulls of the west and Islamic worlds. This will entail a great deal of research in terms of reading both online and traditional paper books. It will be a long term project and I’d welcome any help which anyone can offer. In particular I would be interested to hear from muslim ladies (either practicing or non practicing) who have been brought up in the west. Please do get in touch either by leaving a comment on this blog or, alternatively by sending an email to newauthoronline@gmail.com.

 

Many thanks,

 

Kevin

Was Enid Blighton A Racist?

Plans to celebrate the work of the children’s writer Enid Blighton have led to controvasy in the Buckinghamshire town of Beaconsfield (United Kingdom) where the author lived for a significant portion of her life. Some inhabitants are claiming that Blighton was a racist and a snob and, as such her life and works should not be celebrated. Others argue that Blighton and her work should be viewed in the context of the mid twentieth century when atitudes to race and social class where less enlightened than they are today.

I have happy childhood memories of my grandfather reading the Famous Five and other books written by Enid Blighton aloud to me. At that time it never occurred to me that Blighton might be a racist, a snob or any of the other unflattering labels which her detractors are now pinning on the long deceased author (she died in 1968).

Racism and snobbery are obnoxious traits and are rightly deplored by civilised individuals. It is right that we have laws to prevent discrimination on the grounds of race, however it is unfair to judge Enid Blighton by today’s standards. As pointed out above she grew up in an era when Britain still possessed an empire and this shaped her view of the world and, very possibly inbued the writer with attitudes which most people rightly condemn today. However Enid Blighton was far from unique in holding such views and if we follow the logic of her detractor’s then surely Kipling’s works should also be consigned to the dustbin as he was (undoubtedly) a racist and an imperialist.

The fact is that a writer may possess views which we disagree with very profoundly. We may, however still regard them as great writers. Are we to stop reading Kipling because his words “lesser breeds without the law” (see his poem Recessional) jar with our modern sensabilities? The answer has to be a resounding no!

We must so far as is possible separate the writer from their work. Some say that Enid Blighton was not a nice lady. This may or may not be true, however it is irrelevant as a writer’s niceness or lack of it does not (and should not) affect how we view the worth of their literary output. A man (or woman) may have treated their family terribly, however if they are a great writer then that is what they are.

In the case of Enid Blighton people of every race and religion continue to enjoy her work which does, surely say a great deal about the quality of her writing.

I don’t like witch hunts and the whole Blighton issue has the potential to turn into something rather nasty. Lets judge authors on their writing and leave aside so far as is humanly possible whether they are “nice” or any other label one cares to put on them.

For the Telegraph’s article on Enid Blighton please visit http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/9870065/Town-torn-over-celebrations-of-Enid-Blytons-racist-work.html.

I Don’t Like Your Book

I write because I believe that I have something to say. Also I write because I must. I have an itch which must be scratched. Human nature being what it is I hope that people will enjoy my writing and I’m thrilled when they do so. However not everyone likes what I write. I sent a gentleman of my acquaintance a complimentary copy of my collection of short stories, The First Time (at his request I should add). About a week later I bumped into my acquaintance in the street and he remarked that while he had liked the first part of The First Time he’d found the rest “not to my taste”.

To put my acquaintence’s comments into context it is necessary to know a little about The First Time. The main story, The First Time relates  how Becky, a graduate with a first class degree in English literature enters the world of prostitution, as an escort in order to clear her debts. The book deals with the physical and emotional effects of working as a prostitute on both Becky and her fellow escort and friend Julie. In The First Time a tragedy befalls one of the girls and it is this which made the gentleman of my acquaintance remark that the story was not to “my taste”.

At one level I am sorry that my acquaintance did not find The First Time to his “taste”. As I said at the beginning of this post I hope that people will derive pleasure from my writing and being only human it gives me satisfaction when my work is praised. However I can not change my stories to please the gentlemen of my acquaintance or anyone else. In the real world as opposed to the world of fairy tales people do not always “live happily ever after” and The First Time reflects this truth. I wrote what I believe to be an accurate portrayal of the world of prostitution not a fairy story. Consequently while I am sorry that some will find The First Time not to their “taste” I’m pleased that others have understood it and derived enjoyment from the story.

I will continue to write as I do. I can do nothing else.

For the First Time by Kevin Morris please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-First-Time-ebook/dp/B00AIK0DD6