Author Archives: K Morris Poet

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About K Morris Poet

The purpose of this website (kmorrispoet.com) is to showcase my writing. For details of my published works, please click on the 'About' page of my blog.

If Only I Had The Time

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One of the difficulties of holding down a full-time job is that it affords insufficient time for writing. By the time I return home during the week I’m often to tired to expend the time and concentration required for writing. On the few occasions when I have expended time writing during weekday evenings I’ve found myself to be extremely tired come the morrow! As a consequence most of my writing takes place during the weekends.

A close friend who has retired spends every weekday morning writing. Indeed if I e-mail him I’m unlikely to receive a response until the afternoon which I, as a writer totally understand. While writing I turn off my mobile and ensure that my e-mails are closed so as to avoid distractions. Technology is a boon as computers enable us to make corrections etc without the need for copious amounts of correcting fluid! Again for me as a blind writer computers have given me the freedom to write by employing software (Jaws for Windows) which converts text into speech and braill on a Windows PC.

I need to win the Lottery, retire to a big house and write. Alternatively any donations, however large would be welcome. Please send to:

The Struggling Writer’s Fund

Care of K Morris …!

Waiting

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4:30, barely 5 minutes since I last looked at the clock but when your life is hanging in the balance time does strange things. “for each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard”. Stop it, quoting Wilde will only depress you. But I feel like the condemned man in The Balad of Reading Gaol. Don’t be so melodramatic man, they don’t hang men anymore in the UK and besides you are no Oscar Wilde, stop being so bloody pretentious. But I’m an English teacher pretentiousness goes with the job or so the tabloids would have you believe.

And the first witness for the prosecution is Mr Hersay.

“Mr Hersay can you tell the tribunal, in your own words what happened on the afternoon of 22nd June 2012?”

“On 22nd June Molly innuendo told me that she heard, from an impeccable source that Mr Patrick Colins was seen behaving inappropriately”.

Hearsay, Innuendo and Tittle Tattle have strutted and played their hour upon the stage but will they, like the poor player be heard from no more? No they are even now sitting down over tea and cakes with Ms Gossip Monger eagerly awaiting the announcement of the tribunal. “I’ll be the judge, I’ll be the jury, I’ll be the hangman and condemn you to death”.

A male teacher working in a girls school, “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” that’s what the average tabloid reader thinks when he reads about a male teacher accused of inappropriate conduct with one of his female pupils.

Its not easy all those hormonal teenage girls. Even though I say it myself I’m not a bad looking man for my age. Going a little grey at the temples but lots of girls seem to find that sexy, the father figure and all that. Short skirts, girls sitting with their legs far apart I’ve seen it all. One would have to be made of stone or gay not to be tempted. I’m not gay by the way despite my love of Wilde. A fine writer who should never have been imprisoned for the love that dare not speak its name but I don’t share his liking for male flesh.

4:40,. This is barbaric. In Roman times they threw Christians to the lions. It was a horrendous death. Society is more humane today, we throw teachers on the tender mercies of public opinion or, more accurately on the mercy of the tabloids, “power without responsibility, the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages”. You really are a pretentious prick Patrick, always showing off with your quotations. That appeals to a certain type of young impressionable girl. They love a man who can summon up a quote at the drop of a hat particularly when he takes an interest in them. Of course it’s my job to take an interest in all my pupils, there is nothing whatsoever inappropriate about a teacher nurturing his pupils. Good educators are like gold dust and ought to be cherished. I am a first rate teacher. Don’t just take my word for it. You should have heard the glowing references from several former pupils. It wasn’t just former pupils, several parents spoke glowingly about how I’ve instilled a love of literature in their daughters. Try as I might I couldn’t hold back my tears.

The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. I can’t stomach these biscuits or what passes for tea in this place. 4:51, get a move on my palms are red raw. I can’t help digging my nails into them, Christ I’ve drawn blood!

When does a girl reach womanhood. The law sets the age of consent at 16 in the UK but prohibits sexual relationships between teachers and students even where the pupil has reached 16. The law is to protect young people from being exploited by those, like teachers in positions of authority. Some of the girls, 13, 14 and 15-year-olds aren’t above using their sexuality to wrap men around their little fingers. As an adult you have to have self control, to remember that they are, contrary to what they may think still children. “I can resist everything accept temptation”. Good old Oscar but that isn’t a quote one would employ when facing a charge of inappropriate conduct with a minor, not if you had any sense you wouldn’t!

Maybe I should get up and leave now. I could do that. This is a disciplinary tribunal not a court of law. I could walk out that door, jump on a plane and make a new life in Thailand or China. They are crying out for English teachers in those countries.

The Director of Public Prosecutions looked at the case but came to the conclusion that there was insufficient evidence to prosecute, however I’m still subjected to the circus of this tribunal. You jump through one hoop only to be faced by yet another. Mud sticks. Even if I’m cleared tongues will continue to wag, “You don’t want to send Gemma to that school do you? That’s where Mr Colins, the pervy teacher works. Of course he was cleared but there is no smoke without fire, don’t you agree?”

—

Cleared and free to return to teaching without a stain on my good name. I’m more grateful than I can ever express to all those who supported me. My backs sore from all the congratulatory slaps I’ve received, “Well done Patrick, I never doubted you for a single moment”. “Congratulations Paddy I never believed the rumours”. Thank the lord I’m free to return to the job I love.

—

Sophie, her pretty face convulsed with crying trying to conceal her grief at the back of the classroom. The bell rings. Pupils file out

“Sophie can I have a word please”.

The final girl leaves closing the door behind her.

“What’s wrong Sophie” I ask very gently.

“Its my gran sir she had a stroke last night and they don’t think she will” Sophie breaks down burying her face against my shoulder. Her scent, the warmth of her face close to mine. God forgive me …

Run For Your Life

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Wanker flirting with that barmaid like that. He says that he was just having a laugh but I’m sick of it. Everytime we go out it’s the same

“Oh its just a laugh Lucy. Just chill out, get a life”.

“I’ll get a life without you” I told him as I threw my vodka and coke in his face. He was furious but give him his due he didn’t retaliate. He’s a womanising arsehole but he has never been violent.

Its dark walking home. Still its only 20 minutes from the pub to my flat. He’d better not think of coming back there, tosser! Shit its raining. I’ll be drenched. I new that I should have called a cab but I was so het up, not thinking straight.

That blokes been following me for the past few minutes. Don’t panic Lucy it’s a coincidence. He just happens to be going in the same direction as you. I can’t see his face. That hat pulled down almost hiding his eyes, I don’t like it. Christ he’s walking fast, almost running. Keep calm he just wants to get home out of the rain the same as you. But he’s running straight at you. Fuck the alley’s empty just this weirdo and me. Scream, call for help. But he hasn’t done anything, he’s only running. Shout anyway it will scare him away.

“Help, help someone please help”.

There are no houses around here. No one can hear me. I shouldn’t have gone down this short cut, It saves 5 minutes but its taken me away from the main street. Oh Christ why didn’t I call a cab. Please, please god help me. He’s running now. I can here him calling for me to stop. You must be fucking joking mate I’m not stopping for you! I can’t run in these heels. Off they come. I haven’t been to the gym for ages. God I’m so out of condition I’m wheezing like an old man. My chest’s killing me and I’ve a stitch in my right side. Must rest. Can’t rest he’ll catch you. Must stop for a moment. I can’t. Oh fuck he’s still gaining on me I wish I’d kept going to the gym with the girls. Please, please no he’s almost on top of me. Run, Run Lucy, must get away. I can see the street lights up ahead. Just one more spurt and your back in civilisation.

He’s waving. What the hell does he expect me to do, I’m not stopping! Oh Christ he’s caught up with me. He’s got something in his hand and he’s pointing it at me. God is it a gun? Why me?

“You left this on the bar. God lady you where in a hurry. I thought I’d never catch up with you. This is your mobile isn’t it?”

Frustrated

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I spent a frustrating half hour or so yesterday evening trying to enrol my collection of short stories, The First Time in KDP Select. My other collections: Sting In The Tail and An Act Of Mercy (together with my short story, Samantha)are all enrolled which provides me with the ability to promote them, free of charge for upto 5 days in any 90 day period. However The First Time just wasn’t playing ball! I’ve emailed Amazon and await their reply. In fact I suspect that I know the answer. The First Time unlike my other books was published using the services of a self-publishing company who, among other activities had responsibility for sending my book to e-book outlets in order that it would appear in their catalogues. I’m drawn to the conclusion that only the self-publishing outfit possess the ability to take action in respect of The First Time which is rather a pain in the neck!

The above highlights the importance of authors understanding what, precisely we are signing when it comes to contracts. Yes I did read the document prior to appending my squashed spider scrawl otherwise known as a signature but the fact that I wouldn’t have full control regarding the distribution of my book never registered. If I use the services of a self-publishing company again I’ll be sure to ensure that I retain the flexibility to send my work to publishers etc.

This above all to thine own self be true

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How not to write? Now that is a big question!

The primary rule when writing is to express oneself honestly. Write what you need to and let the consequences go hang. I am not encouraging aspiring authors to go out of their way to offend people. Such an approach is purile and smacks of the school boy who uses filthy words in order to gain a reaction from adults. What I am saying, to quote Shakespeare is “this above all to thine own self be true”. There is no point in writing if the author is constantly looking over their shoulder to see if anyone is wagging fingers in his or her direction. To write under these constraints will, almost certainly result in the production of stilted compositions. Writing with integrity may result in criticism, some of it expressed intemperately so you will need to develop a duck’s back so that the immoderate criticism runs off you without causing major problems. Intemperately voiced criticism does hurt, however if you believe in your project the pain will be worthwhile.

Don’t write while you are tired. Almost always this will lead to you producing work which is below the standard of which you are capable. If you feel your brain wandering or your eyelids heavy with sleep take a break, go for a walk or simply go to bed! Coming back to your writing with a fresh mind will make all the difference to the quality of the final composition.

I can feel myself tiring now so I’ll stop. My fatigue is entirely my own fault and results from me getting up at 6 am! Good night or do I mean good morning!

When is a short story not a short story?

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I began writing short stories in mid 2012. At least I thought that my compositions where short stories (I knew of no other means of describing them), however I now realise that many of my compositions are, in fact flash fiction (a term wholly unfamiliar to me until comparatively recently). Wikipedia describes flash fiction as follows

“Flash fiction is a style of fictional literature or

fiction

of extreme brevity.

[1]

There is no widely accepted definition of the length of the category. Some self-described markets for flash fiction impose caps as low as three hundred

words, while others consider stories as long as a thousand words to be flash fiction”. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flash_fiction

I have never consciously aimed at producing flash fiction (indeed, as mentioned above I was unaware of the label until quite recently) but many of my stories none the less fall into this category. See, for example my story entitled Chicken, http://newauthoronline.com/2013/09/15/chicken/. To be frank I haven’t counted the words but I guess that they total 1000 give or take a few either way!

Other stories most definitely can not be classified as flash fiction. Rather they fall into the category of short story, (see, for instance my long short story, Samantha which runs to approximately 29 pages, http://www.amazon.com/Samantha-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI).

To the best of my recollection all of my flash fiction has been composed in one sitting while my short stories have been written over a longer time-frame (Samantha was written over a period of several months).

To me it is irrelevant whether a composition is, technically a piece of flash fiction or a short story. What matters is that the story gives pleasure and (hopefully) causes people to think about the world in which they live. If I can achieve that in a thousand words or less then all well and good, however if it takes longer to convey my “message” (if that doesn’t sound too pompous)! Then that, also is absolutely fine. Ultimately it is the production of a meaningful tale which matters rather than how many words I as a writer have churned out.

 

Chicken

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Julie took another swig of cider and passed the bottle to her friend Lizie.

“How’d you get it Jules?” Lizie asked taking a gulp of the dark liquid.

“How you think I got it. Bought it didn’t I” Julie replied taking another swig from the bottle which her friend had just handed back.

“But you aint old enough to drink Jules”.

Julie threw back her head and snorted with laughter.

“So fucking what. You aint old enough either but I could swear you’re drinking with me. Got it in that offie on Duke Street. Owner doesn’t give a stuff about how old you are, just cares about cash”.

“Its bloody good stuff Jules” Lizie said taking another mouthful.

“Its your turn next time Liz. I aint taking the risk every time. It aint fair. I got it last time as well”.

Lizie paled.

“But you look older than me Jules. You look all mature, I look like a little kid. I’ll never get served”.

“Chicken. Course you will. Borrow some of your mum’s make-up and those glittery heels your sister wears and nobody will have a bleeding clue that your 14”.

“Mum will fucking murder me if she finds out” Lizie said.

“Who’s going to tell her? I aint no grass. Just wait till she goes to work and nick a bit. She won’t notice” Julie said flicking a strand of long blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Angela’s mum went ape shit when the cops brought her home” Lizie said drumming her fingers nervously on the wooden bench.

“That stupid cow tried to buy cider in Sainsburys. Fucking idiot. Supermarkets are red hot on, oh what do you call it?” Julie asked.

“Age verification I think” her friend replied.

“Yeah, that’s it. Age verification. Why do you think I always go to the offie? Cause Mr Patel doesn’t give a shit. He’ll sell to anyone so long as they have the cash”. Julie said.

“Mum’s a teacher. She’ll kill me if I get caught. In fact it will be much worse. She’ll give me that I’m so disappointed in you Liz, how could you bring shame on me look. I can’t stand it when she does that. It makes me feel so small” Lizie said holding her hands six inches above the ground.

“I get it. Its fine for bimbo Julie to stick out her neck and maybe have it cut off but that little angel Elizabeth Cox won’t buy cider cause she doesn’t want to disappoint mummy. Well I’m pissed off. Go and find someone else to hang out with because I’ve had enough Lizie” Julie said jumping to her feet.

“Don’t go Jules” Lizie said taking hold of her friend’s sleeve.

“I want a friend not a fucking chicken” Julie said wrenching free from Lizie’s grasp.

“OK I’ll get it next time, promise” Lizie said running after Julie as she headed towards the park gates.

“You promise?” Julie asked turning towards her friend.

“Yeah I promise Jules” Lizie replied.

 

—

 

Lizie looked up and down the street for the third time. At 8:45 on a wind swept and rainlashed Monday evening Cobden street was deserted with the exception of an elderly man fighting a losing battle with his umbrella. As Lizie watched the wind caught the umbrella and carried it away with the elderly gentleman in hot pursuit. Taking a deep breath Lizie pushed open the door to the off licence. The sound of the bell caused her to start guilterly. Funny that. She haden’t felt guilty while drinking Julie’s cider in the park but somehow the prospect of purchasing alcohol herself made Lizie feel sick.

“Can I help you?” Mr Patel said looking through the wire grill which acted as a safety barrier between those serving and the customers.

Lizie swallowed.

“I’ll have this please” she said placing a bottle of Woodpecker cider on the counter.

£3.75” Mr Patel said.

Lizie reached into her pocket for the money. Shit she could have sworn that she had £10 in her purse. It wasn’t there now, she must have left it on the chest of drawers in her bedroom.

“Sorry I’ve forgotten my money. Can I pay you tomorrow?” Lizie asked.

“Its only £3.75. Forget about it” Mr Patel said placing the cider in a plastic carrier bag, “but you could do me a small favour if you have a moment” he continued.

“What kind of favour?” Lizie asked.

Mr Patel grimaced with pain and massaged his back.

“I’ve hurt my back. The doctor says that I shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting but in this job I have to carry heavy boxes. I’ve a box of wine out the back. Could you carry it in here for me?” Mr Patel asked.

“I’m meeting a friend” Lizie said glancing at the time on her mobile.

“It will only take a minute. I can unpack the box, I just need your help to carry it into the shop”.

“OK, where do I need to go?” Lizie enquired.

Mr Patel gestured towards a door at the back of the shop which stood slightly ajar.

“The box is just inside, straight ahead as you go through the door. Don’t trip over it” he said laughing.

Lizie entered the stock room. The box was straight ahead of her just as Mr Patel had said it would be. Lizie bent down to pick it up. As she bent forward to pick up the case of wine Lizie heard the click of a latch followed by a burst of bright light as Mr Patel flicked a switch. Lizie blinked dazzled by the flurescent lights. A hand was clamped over her mouth.

“Lets have some fun. I won’t hurt you if you are a good girl and don’t struggle” Mr Patel said.

Lizie could feel bile rising in her throat. The smell of Mr Patel’s sweat mixed with the scent of his garlicky breath made her wretch. She threw up all over his shirt. Mr Patel released Lizie and began dabbing at his shirt with a tissue.

“You fucking bitch. I’ll kill you” he screamed at Lizie.

Lizie made a dash for the stock room door. Fuck the bastard had locked it. She turned to see that Mr Patel was almost on her. Lizie had no option accept to run. She dashed to the opposite end of the room and stood with her back against a stack of boxes. Desperately she looked around for a means of escape. There was none and Mr Patel was almost on her. Lizie squeezed into the tiny gap between the boxes and the wall. What a crazy thing to have done Lizie  thought. She was well and truly trapped. Mr Patel reached the boxes.

“Come out bitch or I’ll drag you out”.

Lizie could feel her heart banging like a sledge hammer in her chest. She took deep breaths attempting to calm herself. She needed to think.

“Right I’m coming in” Mr Patel said attempting to force himself into the small gap between the boxes and the wall. Unlike Lizie Mr Patel was overweight and he struggled to force an entrance. Lizie tried to think of a way out. She was about to be raped and there wasn’t a thing she could do to prevent it. Her gaze alighted on one of the boxes. It had split open and several cans of Heinz baked beans, the ones with the ring pulls protruded from the box. Lizie grabbed a can. She pulled back the lid and with a jerk of her hand detached it from the tin. Mr Patel had managed to force his way in.

“Don’t struggle and it will be over quicker” he said grabbing for the girl.

Lizie drove the serrated edge of the lid into Mr Patel’s face ripping open his left cheek. He bellowed in pain his hands protectively clutching at the wound. Lizie  drove her foot into his groin. With a pearcing scream Mr patel doubled over. He lay rithing on the floor animal noises coming from his mouth. Lizie bent down and felt in Mr Patel’s pockets. There it was. With a feeling of relief she retrieved the key and pausing only to kick the prostrate man in the face she walked to the door and unlocked it. The shop was empty. Lizie gazed out onto the deserted street. With a final glance up and down the empty pavement she stepped out into the rain swept evening.

Autumn has come in all her beauty

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The sun has chased the rain away here in Crystal Palace although he is no doubt waiting in the wings for an opportunity to pounce again.

Autumn has come early. The ground is strewn with leaves and the air is perfumed with the scent of rich earth. Damp ground and newly fallen leaves mingle to delight the senses.

I love autumn. A gentle sun combined with the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, who could ask for more? Autumn reminds me of the cyclical nature of time. The growth of spring and summer is superceeded by the slow retreat into death of autumn which culminates in winter. The dying of the year is exquisetly beautiful, melancholy intimately mingled with profound beauty, perhaps symbolic of life itself.