Category Archives: literature

Amazon Campaign For Cheaper Ebooks

Amazon are campaigning for the price of ebooks to be reduced, http://www.readersunited.com/. Much of what Amazon says makes sense. The cost of producing and distributing an ebook is negligible compared to traditional books and yet many electronic texts are only marginally less expensive than their venerable hard and paperback cousins, indeed some ebooks cost more than the tomes on sale in book stores which can not be justified.

As an author myself I want as many people as possible to buy my books. Reading is for everyone and yes, of course I want to make a little money!

Take a look at the above link and make up your own mind as to whether Amazon’s campaign is worthy of support.

The Free Promotion Of Street Walker Ends On 9 August

The free promotion of my collection of short stories, Street Walker And Other Stories ends on 9 August. To download Street Walker free please go to http://www.amazon.co.uk/Street-Walker-other-stories-Morris-ebook/dp/B00HLRNDP4 (for the UK) or http://www.amazon.com/Street-Walker-other-stories-Morris-ebook/dp/B00HLRNDP4 (for the USA). If you download Street Walker please do consider leaving a review at Amazon.

 

Many thanks,

 

Kevin

Matilda By Hilaire Beloc

I first came across Beloc’s poem while browsing through a book of poetry in the school library. I think that I first read “Matilda” in the Oxford Book Of English Verse, although it may have been another anthology. The endings of Beloc’s characters are often grizly as in the below poem and in Henry King who, it will be remembered expired as a consequence of eating string. Grizly though they undoubtedly are, we smile none the less at Beloc’s verses.

 

—

 

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,

It made one Gasp and Stretch one’s Eyes;

Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,

Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,

Attempted to believe Matilda:

The effort very nearly killed her,

And would have done so, had not she

Discovered this Infirmity.

For once, towards the Close of Day,

Matilda, growing tired of play,

And finding she was left to alone,

Went tiptoe to the telephone

And summoned the Immediate Aid

Of London’s Nobel Fire-Brigade.

Within an hour the Gallant Band

Were pouring in on every hand,

From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow,

With Courage high and Hearts a-glow

They galloped, roaring though the Town,

“Matilda’s House is Burning Down”

Inspired by British Cheers and Loud

Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,

They ran their ladders through a score

Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;

And took Peculiar Pains to Souse

The Pictures up and down the House,

Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded

In showing them they were not needed

And even then she had to pay

To get the Men to go away! . . . . .

It happened that a few Weeks later

Here aunt was off to the Theatre

To see that Interesting Play

The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.

She had refused to take her Niece

To hear this Entertaining Piece:

A Deprivation Just and Wise

To Punish her for Telling Lies.

That Night a Fire did break out-

You should have heard Matilda Shout!

You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,

And throw the window up and call

To People passing in the Street-

(The rapidly increasing Heat

Encouraging her to obtain

Their confidence)-but it was all in vain!

For every time She shouted “Fire!”

They only answered “Little Liar!”

And therefore when her Aunt returned,

Matilda, and the House, were burned.

 

Streetwalker and Other stories by K Morris free in Kindle stores from 5th – 9th August!

My collection of short stories Streetwalker and other stories will be available for free in the Kindle stores from the 5th – 9th August!

In this collection of flash fiction we meet a variety of characters, many of whom have been deeply damaged by life. The stories range from a young prostitute who walks the dangerous streets of London to tales of vengeance and comeuppance. Serious issues of abuse of power are touched upon. Anyone who is looking for a comfortable read should avoid this book.

Purchase Streetwalker and other stories here for the UK http://www.amazon.co.uk/Street-Walker-other-stories-Morris-ebook/dp/B00HLRNDP4 and here for the US http://www.amazon.com/Street-Walker-other-stories-Morris-ebook/dp/B00HLRNDP4

To visit my Amazon author page please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/K.-Morris/e/B00CEECWHY/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

If you read any of my books please do consider leaving a review on Amazon, on your own blog or by commenting here!

Thank you

He Who Sups

“Have you seen my long spoon?”

“No, why do you need that bent old thing anyway? It’s caked in rust and falling apart”.

“I’m off to sup with the devil”.

“Ah, I understand, he who sups with the devil should use a long spoon”.

“Precisely so”.

“But you are God, surely the lord of the universe doesn’t require a long spoon to protect himself from the prince of darkness?”

“You don’t understand. It’s a tradition. Without tradition where would we be?”

“But, with respect, you are the supreme being, can’t you create a new long spoon?”

“But I was extremely fond of the old one. Where can it be?”

“Perhaps the devil is using it to stir up trouble on earth”.

“That is a terrible joke and unworthy of an ark angel”.

“No, seriously sire your long spoon is ideally suited for stirring up humanity”.

“You may have a point. Really it isn’t good enough. Satan should be content with that fearsome pitch fawk of his but, no he has to go and steal my long spoon”.

“Excuse me sire, what is that you are sitting on?”

“Oh, its my long spoon, heaven be praised. Oh heavens I’ll have to apologise to Lucifer, fancy accusing him of stealing it like that”.

“Well sire I guess there has to be a first time for everything …”.

What Is The Point?

What is the point? The point of what? The point of anything? Anything? Yes. What is the point of the question for, if there is no point why ask what the point is? I don’t know, why engage me in conversation if there is no point. But, you my friend asked what is the point. Indeed I did so perhaps to ask the question is, itself to assume there is, somewhere a point for if there is not why should I bother to engage in this fruitless internal dialogue? So there is a point then? Yes, maybe or perhaps I am entangling myself in overwiseness, showing off for effect. Maybe you are but, if so what is the point of such narsasistic behaviour? I don’t know, what is the point of anything? Oh I refuse to argue with you. This whole debate is, ultimately pointless. Why engage in it then? Silence

Adultery By Carol Ann Duffy

I came across Carol Ann Duffy’s poem, Adultery while leafing through “The New Poetry”, edited by Michael Hulse, David Kennedy and David Morley (Bloodaxe Books), yesterday evening. It is a powerful poem which speaks of the guilt and excitement of adultery, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cjLftgJuuM

Something Lurking

Lurking in the headmaster’s office, the unspeakable punishment which awaited we unruly boys and girls. A thing joked about, part of school mythology but, deep in our subconscious we half believed (feared) that it was real.

I can not recollect, at this distance in time, from whence this fantastical object which aroused such terror mingled with glee in the minds of we children came. Perhaps it was the headmaster himself who first mentioned the existence of the thing. Equally plausibly it may have been one of us children who invented the instrument of punishment in order to strike fear into the hearts of his fellow pupils.

“If you are very bad you will get the …”.

I smile, removed as I am in time from my school days, at the remembrance of the ultimate punishment. No one, to the best of my recollection ever experienced or admitted to having experienced the full force of the headmaster’s displeasure. I among others received the full force of his wrath expressed in tones which brooked no opposition. We stood outside his office not daring to speak for fear of arousing the fearsome power which lurked within.

What was it which inspired such dread? and dread it we did despite our protestations to one another that such a thing could not possibly exist. Was it the swish of the bamboo prior to it bringing out welts on our unhappy legs and arms?

Imagine the most homely of objects, a slipper. Grandfather sitting by the fire in carpet slippers drinking tea or maybe smoking a pipe. Warm red slippers, now there is nothing to alarm one in such a homely sceene. Ah, but wait a moment what if grandfather in a fit of anger at the misbehaviour of his grandchild where to remove one of those homely objects, bend the child over his knee and slipper him? Not such a benign object then.

In our case it was no ordinary slipper we boys and girls feared. It was a slipper of demonic proportions, one possessed of an inner life which would deliver a slippering never to be forgotten by it’s unfortunate recipient. We feared, my dear reader the electric slipper.

Now I have no idea whether the slipper plugged into the mains or whether it was operated by batteries, none the less the demon slipper was the talk of the dormatories, the malign presence, always lurking just out of sight but waiting to wreak a terrible vengeance on anyone who aroused the ire of the headmaster sufficiently.

Did I and my fellow students really believe in the existence of the electric slipper? It was, largely a school myth designed and perpetuated by we boys and girls to add a frisson of excitement to the relatively humdrum existence of school. However I well recall passing by the headmaster’s office as night fell and feeling a shiver at the thought that something terrible might, just possibly be lurking inside.

School Days

A row of basins, cold and clinical in their perfection of pure white. Carbolic, it’s scent floating down the years, pungent, smelling of boarding school.

The scent of freshly polished floors. Teachers scolding girls who trip along in high heels

“You will ruin the floor. Those shoes are unsuitable”.

Polish, carbolic, the smell of food wafting from the refectory.

An institution functioning like a well oiled machine? The bullying in dark corners. Teachers generally kind but lacking eyes in the back of their heads.

Baths in the communal bathroom, the scent of vim (now called jiff I think). Water running down plug holes, getting dry thence to bed.

Lights out. Children whispering.

“Who’s talking?” the voice of the house master booms. Silence,

“OK you can all stand outside in the corridor”.

We stand a sense of pride that no one told tales. Sometimes, shame to say one of we boys would crack and, pointing the finger at such and such would escape the corridor only to be ostracised by our peers for “being a grass”.

Sometimes happy, other times sad, oh distant school days.