Nav Logan's Blog, page 20
March 8, 2015
Spooning With a Loved One
Our first date was going well. I’d remembered to eat with my mouth closed and swallow before responding to her light conversation.
The starter had been a challenge as I’d never eaten shrimp before, but the main course was a doddle. What could go wrong with steak and chips?
Dessert arrived.
She suggested spooning together, and I was all for it. My heart beat faster at the thought of snuggling up to her fabulous arse. What can I say, I was an optimist.
Naturally, I was gutted when she produced a second desert spoon and helped herself to my cheesecake.
The starter had been a challenge as I’d never eaten shrimp before, but the main course was a doddle. What could go wrong with steak and chips?
Dessert arrived.
She suggested spooning together, and I was all for it. My heart beat faster at the thought of snuggling up to her fabulous arse. What can I say, I was an optimist.
Naturally, I was gutted when she produced a second desert spoon and helped herself to my cheesecake.
March 6, 2015
The Moon
I look up into the night sky and wonder about the huge floating lump of rock that I see floating amongst the stars. It’s such a strange looking planet.
Sometimes, I stumble across space wreckage and wonder if this alien material comes from that far off planet.
I’ve tried communicating with the mysterious alien world, rolling rocks together to form patterns, but they haven’t replied yet.
Sighing, I slink back into the underground caves, and wonder if anyone lives up there, looking at the sky toward me. Is there someone wondering the very same thing living on the blue-green planet?
Sometimes, I stumble across space wreckage and wonder if this alien material comes from that far off planet.
I’ve tried communicating with the mysterious alien world, rolling rocks together to form patterns, but they haven’t replied yet.
Sighing, I slink back into the underground caves, and wonder if anyone lives up there, looking at the sky toward me. Is there someone wondering the very same thing living on the blue-green planet?
March 5, 2015
The Murder Raps
The Murder Rap (1)
They broke into the house at 4a.m. Blue lights flashing to wake the neighbours and sirens blaring. I will never live down the shame. Handcuffed, I was driven away for questioning.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked continuously.
Finally, they told me. “We have a confession you made about murdering you’re wife. You might as well come clean and make it easy on yourself.”
“Murdering my wife! What’re you on about? I never murdered my wife?”
“Oh really,” the detective sneered, “Where is she then?”
“She’s at my mother-in-laws, for crying out loud. I never wrote any bloody any confession.”
The Murder Rap (2)
“Mr. Logan, I’m sure you’ve heard of the wiki-leaks scandals …”
“What about them?”
“Well, the bit about the police forces monitoring your phone calls and internet use … that bits true, though that’s off the record.”
“What’s that got to do with me murdering my wife?”
“You posted a confession on a social medium page,” explained the detective.
“Social media, Sarge.”
“That’s what I said …!”
The constable did not correct his superior officer a second time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I advised.
“You did write this hundred word story, did you not?”
The Murder Rap (3)
I stared in disbelief at the print out the Detective held out. It was a story I had posted on facebook.
“That’s just a drabble I wrote. I’m an author, you know.”
“That looks like a signed confession to me,” gloated the detective.
“What do you mean, signed confession? It’s a screen print! There’s no signature on it.”
“Ah! That’s the wonders of modern technology, ya see. This here is what we in the business call a digital signature. You see, when you post on the internet, we can trace it back to your P.I . address,”
“I.P.” corrected the constable.
They broke into the house at 4a.m. Blue lights flashing to wake the neighbours and sirens blaring. I will never live down the shame. Handcuffed, I was driven away for questioning.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked continuously.
Finally, they told me. “We have a confession you made about murdering you’re wife. You might as well come clean and make it easy on yourself.”
“Murdering my wife! What’re you on about? I never murdered my wife?”
“Oh really,” the detective sneered, “Where is she then?”
“She’s at my mother-in-laws, for crying out loud. I never wrote any bloody any confession.”
The Murder Rap (2)
“Mr. Logan, I’m sure you’ve heard of the wiki-leaks scandals …”
“What about them?”
“Well, the bit about the police forces monitoring your phone calls and internet use … that bits true, though that’s off the record.”
“What’s that got to do with me murdering my wife?”
“You posted a confession on a social medium page,” explained the detective.
“Social media, Sarge.”
“That’s what I said …!”
The constable did not correct his superior officer a second time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I advised.
“You did write this hundred word story, did you not?”
The Murder Rap (3)
I stared in disbelief at the print out the Detective held out. It was a story I had posted on facebook.
“That’s just a drabble I wrote. I’m an author, you know.”
“That looks like a signed confession to me,” gloated the detective.
“What do you mean, signed confession? It’s a screen print! There’s no signature on it.”
“Ah! That’s the wonders of modern technology, ya see. This here is what we in the business call a digital signature. You see, when you post on the internet, we can trace it back to your P.I . address,”
“I.P.” corrected the constable.
March 2, 2015
My Feck It List
I hit the ramp at top speed and fly.
My crash is spectacular, and a little painful to say the least. Spitting out a mouthful of snow, I gingerly get to my feet and assess the damage. Nothing broken, though my ankle protests. Perhaps a sprain, but it was worth it.
Snowboarding – check. Another item checked off my fuck-it list.
People are rushing over to check I’m okay.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” I assure them.
One young skier points to the ground at my feet, at the yellow snow pooling there. “Dude, that ain’t cool, Man!”
My catheter has burst.
My crash is spectacular, and a little painful to say the least. Spitting out a mouthful of snow, I gingerly get to my feet and assess the damage. Nothing broken, though my ankle protests. Perhaps a sprain, but it was worth it.
Snowboarding – check. Another item checked off my fuck-it list.
People are rushing over to check I’m okay.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” I assure them.
One young skier points to the ground at my feet, at the yellow snow pooling there. “Dude, that ain’t cool, Man!”
My catheter has burst.
March 1, 2015
The Puppeteer
A slightly edited version of the short story that came second in the recent competition.
The Puppeteer
They said that Phan Thi Chu created magic with his fingertips, but he dismissed their praise. Still, it pleased him to hear the gasps of the crowd as they watched his creations in action.
Years ago, his grandfather had given him the secret of success.
His cruel grandfather had taken in the orphaned boy and taught him how to bring the puppets to life and make their water theatre something special.
For years, Phan Thi Chu had slaved under the old man’s cruel regime, getting paid a pittance as he served his apprenticeship. It probably would have stayed that way had the old man not stood on an old landmine.
His grandfather had survived, though he could no longer perform. As the water theatre was their only means of income, he reluctantly told Phan Thi Chu the final secret that would bring their puppets to life.
“Each new moon,” he instructed, “You must sneak into the temple and bath the dolls in the Pool of Life.”
“But why, Grandfather?” Phan Thi Chu asked, astonished.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, boy, just do what you’re told,” his grandfather scolded. “You must do it while the monks are asleep. They’ll be furious if they catch you desecrating their sacred pool.
“Is that it?”
“No,” he advised. “You must repeat the following prayer.”
Handing Phan Thi Chu an ancient scroll, he forced his grandson to read and re-read the words until they were memorised.
Finally, the boy could recite them accurately, and the new moon approached.
“Tonight is the night of the new moon, Grandfather,” he announced. “I will perform the ceremony after this evening’s show.”
“Very well,” his grandfather grunted. “In that case, you must go to the market and buy a chicken; a fat healthy one. You’ll need to bring that with you.”
“Why, Grandfather?”
“You’ll need to slit the bird’s throat, and drain the blood into the pool. The better the sacrifice, the more lifelike the puppets will become, so don’t skimp on the Dong for the chicken. Pick a healthy bird.”
“Does it have to be a chicken, Grandfather?”
“No. Usually I buy a goose, but we cannot afford that at the moment. Our takings have been poor recently. When things improve, you can buy a better gift for the gods, but for now a chicken will have to suffice.”
That night, the boy crept into the temple, carrying my blood sacrifice over my shoulder. Laying the bound and gagged sacrifice beside the pool, he whispered the prayer that he’d been taught, and then slit the throat. Phan Thi Chu gave thanks that the loss of his grandfather’s legs to the landmine had made the old man easier to carry up the hill.
The puppets glowed with life after the ceremony, and Phan Thi Chu’s fortunes increased rapidly as word spread of his magnificent water theater.
Once a month, he would stalk the back alleys of the city, looking for his next sacrifice before the new moon.
Check out the other winners here: http://thecultofme.blogspot.ie/2015/0...
The Puppeteer
They said that Phan Thi Chu created magic with his fingertips, but he dismissed their praise. Still, it pleased him to hear the gasps of the crowd as they watched his creations in action.
Years ago, his grandfather had given him the secret of success.
His cruel grandfather had taken in the orphaned boy and taught him how to bring the puppets to life and make their water theatre something special.
For years, Phan Thi Chu had slaved under the old man’s cruel regime, getting paid a pittance as he served his apprenticeship. It probably would have stayed that way had the old man not stood on an old landmine.
His grandfather had survived, though he could no longer perform. As the water theatre was their only means of income, he reluctantly told Phan Thi Chu the final secret that would bring their puppets to life.
“Each new moon,” he instructed, “You must sneak into the temple and bath the dolls in the Pool of Life.”
“But why, Grandfather?” Phan Thi Chu asked, astonished.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, boy, just do what you’re told,” his grandfather scolded. “You must do it while the monks are asleep. They’ll be furious if they catch you desecrating their sacred pool.
“Is that it?”
“No,” he advised. “You must repeat the following prayer.”
Handing Phan Thi Chu an ancient scroll, he forced his grandson to read and re-read the words until they were memorised.
Finally, the boy could recite them accurately, and the new moon approached.
“Tonight is the night of the new moon, Grandfather,” he announced. “I will perform the ceremony after this evening’s show.”
“Very well,” his grandfather grunted. “In that case, you must go to the market and buy a chicken; a fat healthy one. You’ll need to bring that with you.”
“Why, Grandfather?”
“You’ll need to slit the bird’s throat, and drain the blood into the pool. The better the sacrifice, the more lifelike the puppets will become, so don’t skimp on the Dong for the chicken. Pick a healthy bird.”
“Does it have to be a chicken, Grandfather?”
“No. Usually I buy a goose, but we cannot afford that at the moment. Our takings have been poor recently. When things improve, you can buy a better gift for the gods, but for now a chicken will have to suffice.”
That night, the boy crept into the temple, carrying my blood sacrifice over my shoulder. Laying the bound and gagged sacrifice beside the pool, he whispered the prayer that he’d been taught, and then slit the throat. Phan Thi Chu gave thanks that the loss of his grandfather’s legs to the landmine had made the old man easier to carry up the hill.
The puppets glowed with life after the ceremony, and Phan Thi Chu’s fortunes increased rapidly as word spread of his magnificent water theater.
Once a month, he would stalk the back alleys of the city, looking for his next sacrifice before the new moon.
Check out the other winners here: http://thecultofme.blogspot.ie/2015/0...
February 27, 2015
Cauterizing the Wounds
The fire burns brightly in the night, sparks flying towards the stars.
My skin blisters in the heat of the bonfire, but I feel no pain. I am numb.
Lifting up the next plastic bag, I cast it into the heart of the blaze. It becomes engulfed, melting, and clothes spill out. The sight of them pierces my heart, a bitter pain that is without end.
I turn away and lift up the next sack.
This one contains photographs; all of our captured memories together. The wind buffets the flames, sending sparks skyward. The memories follow you into the heavens.
My skin blisters in the heat of the bonfire, but I feel no pain. I am numb.
Lifting up the next plastic bag, I cast it into the heart of the blaze. It becomes engulfed, melting, and clothes spill out. The sight of them pierces my heart, a bitter pain that is without end.
I turn away and lift up the next sack.
This one contains photographs; all of our captured memories together. The wind buffets the flames, sending sparks skyward. The memories follow you into the heavens.
February 26, 2015
The Early Bird Becomes the Jailbird
Standing in the dock, the charge is read out. “You’re accused of being too enthusiastic in the morning. How do you plead?”
“Hang on a minute. That isn’t a crime!”
The judge frowned down at me through his pince nez. I would get no sympathy there. I looked over at the jury, hoping that I would get some mercy, but half of them were still asleep and the other half were clearly not amused.
“I’ve heard enough already. You’re sentenced to a public flogging,” declared the judge.
“That’s the last time you’ll sing in the bloody shower,” gloated my wife.
“Hang on a minute. That isn’t a crime!”
The judge frowned down at me through his pince nez. I would get no sympathy there. I looked over at the jury, hoping that I would get some mercy, but half of them were still asleep and the other half were clearly not amused.
“I’ve heard enough already. You’re sentenced to a public flogging,” declared the judge.
“That’s the last time you’ll sing in the bloody shower,” gloated my wife.
Retribution
It took a long time, but my righteous wrath kept me fuelled throughout the long and arduous hunt. Finally, I had you in my sights. Capture was inevitable. Your belief in your own invulnerability would be your ultimate downfall.
Looking down into your tear-filled eyes, I see that you still don’t comprehend your guilt. You plead innocence. Slamming the boot, your muffled pleas become almost inaudible.
Throwing a shovel into the back seat, I start up the car and head towards some isolated woodland.
This will be the last time you send me Candy Crush invites on my Facebook page.
Looking down into your tear-filled eyes, I see that you still don’t comprehend your guilt. You plead innocence. Slamming the boot, your muffled pleas become almost inaudible.
Throwing a shovel into the back seat, I start up the car and head towards some isolated woodland.
This will be the last time you send me Candy Crush invites on my Facebook page.
Charming
Mankind has always had a sense of the mystical when coming across an albino wild animal, perhaps this is the root cause of the tales of Unicorns. The white stag, or the white raven are equally held in reverence. Some cultures considered them sacred, and would not hunt an albino creature. The whiteness of their pelt was associated with purity, spirituality, and wisdom.
Even the white rabbit is associated with magic, though more by association these days, rather than being touched by the gods. Sadly, we might have lost some of our mysticism for albino wildlife, as we have also lost much of our intuitiveness for Mother Earth.
In reading the novel: Bolt Out Of The Blue, by Rick Haynes, I am reminded of the powerful imagery of the albino. Bolt, the wild albino rabbit, is indeed a spirit guide to the families at Home Farm. In modern Christian beliefs he could indeed be viewed as a guardian angel. He arrived at a time of great need, and through his intervention he saved the day.
This book could be summed up in one word: Charming. Nowadays, that word has lost its true meaning and can be mistakenly used to speak ill of something, but I refer to its earlier meaning.
It is a beautiful heart-warming tale of hope overcoming despair. It is founded on the idea of karma. In life, we get what we deserve. It is a powerful and yet subtle tale that resonates within my soul. It is an ideal novel for snuggling around a fire and reading aloud with the family. Its message can be understood by young and old alike. I suspect that hidden within this book you may find a little magic dust. Perhaps you will also be touched by it.
http://www.amazon.com/BOLT-OUT-BLUE-R...
https://www.amazon.co.uk/review/creat...#
Even the white rabbit is associated with magic, though more by association these days, rather than being touched by the gods. Sadly, we might have lost some of our mysticism for albino wildlife, as we have also lost much of our intuitiveness for Mother Earth.
In reading the novel: Bolt Out Of The Blue, by Rick Haynes, I am reminded of the powerful imagery of the albino. Bolt, the wild albino rabbit, is indeed a spirit guide to the families at Home Farm. In modern Christian beliefs he could indeed be viewed as a guardian angel. He arrived at a time of great need, and through his intervention he saved the day.
This book could be summed up in one word: Charming. Nowadays, that word has lost its true meaning and can be mistakenly used to speak ill of something, but I refer to its earlier meaning.
It is a beautiful heart-warming tale of hope overcoming despair. It is founded on the idea of karma. In life, we get what we deserve. It is a powerful and yet subtle tale that resonates within my soul. It is an ideal novel for snuggling around a fire and reading aloud with the family. Its message can be understood by young and old alike. I suspect that hidden within this book you may find a little magic dust. Perhaps you will also be touched by it.
http://www.amazon.com/BOLT-OUT-BLUE-R...
https://www.amazon.co.uk/review/creat...#
February 25, 2015
A Fantasy Come True
The following is perhaps how Fifty shades would go, if it was written by a man...
A Fantasy Come True
I was feeling a little despondent as my fortieth birthday was stalking ever closer, and my twentieth wedding anniversary was due this weekend, so I decided to treat myself and book a massage at the Health Spa, after my Thursday Aerobics class.
I’d just come out of the sauna and was about to enter on of the private massage rooms when I heard my name being called. I turned around.
“You are Mrs Davidson, I take it?” the young man asked again.
He was a bit more rugged than I’d expected for my masseuse, but he was handsome with it. He was dressed in work overalls, none too clean. The top half had been rolled down and was tied around his waist revealing his sweaty, snug fitting t-shirt beneath.
“Yes,” I replied. “Can I help you?”
“I gather ya rear end needs some pummelling.”
I noticed his sexy Scottish brogue for the first time, and was a little distracted by his melodic accent. “I beg your pardon?”
“It needs beating, ma’am” he explained. “Your husband called mae and set the whole thing up. He told ma to give ye a thorough going over, no expense spared. I’m to give ya a full service and fix ya up right for the coming weekend. I gather it’s your anniversary. He told mae to sort out a wee spray job for ya too, if it was needed, and finish it off with a waxing.”
I was a little taken aback. Our marriage had become a little stale over recent years and my efforts to spice up our love life with BDSM had been spurned. I’d once suggested getting a spray tan, and a Brazilian wax, but his response to that had been, “Don’t talk daft, woman.”
“He booked me in, you say?” I asked, just to make sure I’d heard correctly. That Scottish accent of his was like a triple brandy. It was effecting my concentration. I’d always loved that accent.
“Aye, just a wee one to sort out your rear. It’ll only take an hour or so.”
Although I’d never been unfaithful before, my imagination had run rampant in the desert that was our bedroom. Anyway, it wasn’t really cheating if it was with my husband’s blessing, was it?
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I took the young man by the hand and led him into the privacy of the room. Locking the door behind us, I strutted over to the massage table and undid my towelling robe. Slipping it from my shoulders, I bent over the table in my best submissive pose, and looked over my shoulder at the young hunk who was about to tan my derriere.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I purred. “Don’t hold back, Master. I’ve been a very naughty girl.”
He stood there, gazing in surprise at my nakedness.
“Well?” I prompted, already quivering with excitement at my fantasy coming to life.
“I think we’ve got our wires crossed, lassie. I’m a panel beater. I work in the garage across the street. Your husband said you’d crashed the car, and he wanted to get it fixed. I just popped over to pick up ya car keys …”
Mortified, I dropped my head in embarrassment. “Oh God!”
I remember vaguely my husband saying something over breakfast, but to be honest, I hadn’t been listening. I’d been in a world of my own. “Oh, God,” I repeated, feeling sick. “What must you think of me!”
The mechanic looked at his watch, and then back at me. Finally, he answered, “I’m due a tea break right about now. I guess I can paddle ya sweet behind for a wee while, too …”
A Fantasy Come True
I was feeling a little despondent as my fortieth birthday was stalking ever closer, and my twentieth wedding anniversary was due this weekend, so I decided to treat myself and book a massage at the Health Spa, after my Thursday Aerobics class.
I’d just come out of the sauna and was about to enter on of the private massage rooms when I heard my name being called. I turned around.
“You are Mrs Davidson, I take it?” the young man asked again.
He was a bit more rugged than I’d expected for my masseuse, but he was handsome with it. He was dressed in work overalls, none too clean. The top half had been rolled down and was tied around his waist revealing his sweaty, snug fitting t-shirt beneath.
“Yes,” I replied. “Can I help you?”
“I gather ya rear end needs some pummelling.”
I noticed his sexy Scottish brogue for the first time, and was a little distracted by his melodic accent. “I beg your pardon?”
“It needs beating, ma’am” he explained. “Your husband called mae and set the whole thing up. He told ma to give ye a thorough going over, no expense spared. I’m to give ya a full service and fix ya up right for the coming weekend. I gather it’s your anniversary. He told mae to sort out a wee spray job for ya too, if it was needed, and finish it off with a waxing.”
I was a little taken aback. Our marriage had become a little stale over recent years and my efforts to spice up our love life with BDSM had been spurned. I’d once suggested getting a spray tan, and a Brazilian wax, but his response to that had been, “Don’t talk daft, woman.”
“He booked me in, you say?” I asked, just to make sure I’d heard correctly. That Scottish accent of his was like a triple brandy. It was effecting my concentration. I’d always loved that accent.
“Aye, just a wee one to sort out your rear. It’ll only take an hour or so.”
Although I’d never been unfaithful before, my imagination had run rampant in the desert that was our bedroom. Anyway, it wasn’t really cheating if it was with my husband’s blessing, was it?
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I took the young man by the hand and led him into the privacy of the room. Locking the door behind us, I strutted over to the massage table and undid my towelling robe. Slipping it from my shoulders, I bent over the table in my best submissive pose, and looked over my shoulder at the young hunk who was about to tan my derriere.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I purred. “Don’t hold back, Master. I’ve been a very naughty girl.”
He stood there, gazing in surprise at my nakedness.
“Well?” I prompted, already quivering with excitement at my fantasy coming to life.
“I think we’ve got our wires crossed, lassie. I’m a panel beater. I work in the garage across the street. Your husband said you’d crashed the car, and he wanted to get it fixed. I just popped over to pick up ya car keys …”
Mortified, I dropped my head in embarrassment. “Oh God!”
I remember vaguely my husband saying something over breakfast, but to be honest, I hadn’t been listening. I’d been in a world of my own. “Oh, God,” I repeated, feeling sick. “What must you think of me!”
The mechanic looked at his watch, and then back at me. Finally, he answered, “I’m due a tea break right about now. I guess I can paddle ya sweet behind for a wee while, too …”
