Category Archives: short stories

At Dead of Night

“Dalliance” was the first collection of poetry published by me. Or, to be absolutely accurate, the first collection of poetry (and prose) to be published by mme.

One of the poems appearing in “Dalliance” is entitled “Midnight”

You can find “Dalliance” here, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24498367-dalliance, and here https://www.amazon.com/Dalliance-collection-poetry-prose-Morris-ebook/dp/B00QQVJC7E/

A Short History of the Paperback

An interesting history of the paperback book, including information regarding “collectable” paperbacks, https://www.ioba.org/standard/2001/12/a-short-history-of-paperbacks/.

As a child growing up in the city of Liverpool, I well remember a glass bookcase full of paperbacks, in my grandfather’s house in Speke (a suburb of Liverpool).

Most Saturdays my Grandfather and I would go into W. H. Smiths and buy a paperback, often by Enid Blyton, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enid_Blyton.

I lost the majority of my vision at 18-months-old due to a blood clot on the brain. Consequently my grandfather would spend hours reading to me, as I was unable to read print books.

I think of my grandfather whenever I pass by a branch of Smiths. The scent of books and magazines eminating from the store brings the memories flooding back.

Sadly I no longer have the books my grandfather bought for me, Some of which where, no doubt collectable. However, where they still in my possession, I would not part with them as some things possess value which can not be measured in monetary terms.

Samantha by Kevin Morris will be free in the Kindle store!

My book Samantha will be available for free in the Kindle store from Tuesday 16th June until Saturday 20th June.

Samantha tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution in the city of Liverpool. Can Sam’s love for Peter, a man she meets in a nightclub, save her? Or will Sam end her life in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Dock?

To access the book, please click here for the UK and here for the US.

 

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Snowlilie’s Brother – Book Announcement by Author Victoria Zigler

Title: Snowlilie’s Brother

Author: Victoria Zigler

Book description:

“Getting a little brother is a good thing… Right?

When Snowlilie the West Highland White Terrier first meets her new little brother – a Cavapoo puppy, who tells her the humans call him Rascal – and realizes having a little brother means having a new doggy friend to play with, she’s excited. That is, until she realizes it also means sharing everything with him – including her favourite ball, some of her food, and Mummy and Daddy’s attention.

Will Snowlilie be forced to tolerate a little brother she doesn’t like? Or can she learn to like Rascal, and accept the changes having a little brother means?”

Available now as an eBook from…

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1022774

Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B088SZSDQS

…And other online retailers, such as iBooks, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

“And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.” ― Virginia Woolf, “The Waves” – a Guest Post by Veronica Sizova

“And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.”

― Virginia Woolf, “The Waves”

I was delighted when Veronica did me the honour of accepting my invitation to appear on my website, as I am a huge fan of Veronica’s writing.

Veronica Sizova

Veronica Sizova

It is a pleasure to meet you, lovely readers of K. Morris! I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Kevin. It is a great honour to be featured on the blog of such an excellent poet! His creative writing is an infinite source of inspiration and a beam of positivity in these uncertain times.

My name is Veronica Sizova, and today I am going to tell you how an eighteen-year-old girl has found her destiny in literature.

As soon as I’ve learned to read, the dream of becoming a writer encompassed my naive imagination. When I’ve opened a book of poetry for the first time, I was utterly spellbound by the power of words – the freedom of poetic expression, its infinite possibilities and irresistible charms have conquered my heart once and forever. My gloomy hometown, Yekaterinburg, an industrial city in the middle of Russia, is far from lyrical. Nevertheless, I have tried to find beauty even in its stern, wintry spirit.

The call for liberation from the confinement of an authoritarian Motherland has ignited my desire to study abroad. Two years ago, I got an incredibly lucky opportunity to attend a Canadian high school. This extraordinary experience not only enriched my cultural awareness but also inspired me to start writing in English. As unbelievable as it may sound, I have finally found my own voice – in an unfamiliar country, among people from different backgrounds.

The first poem I wrote in English was inspired by Bob Dylan’s timeless song, “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” Its lyrics capture the essence of tragedy with brilliant simplicity, and I was aiming to achieve a similar effect. Hopefully, this ode to the loss of a loved one will resonate with your soul.

I’m knocking on your Heaven’s Door

As restlessly, as reckless waves –

Remember – when they reached the shore –

You have succumbed to Death’s embrace.

The sun reflected in your eyes:

Its blinding, fatal afterglow –

A witness to the heart’s demise –

Took your ethereal, light soul…

This tiny door contains the world,

Replacing millions of words;

Shakespeare is writing there in gold –

The clouds are parchment, stars – the chords.

Please, let me in – the flames will rush,

Spilling themselves – my tears of love –

But there’s no lustre left so lush –

The earthly beacons aren’t enough!

I keep on calling through the mist;

Wings rustle softly with the tide,

As if an angel holds my wrist

And whispers: “Let me be your guide!”

I will stay by this Heavenly Door,

As the billions of centuries pass –

“Dearest, give me the keys,” I implore,

Still lamenting your final caress…

As the feeble thread sets us apart,

The Creator is honing his knife –

“Live or not to?” He asks every heart

While exclaiming – “How precious is life!”

I’m knocking on your Heaven’s door

For the myriads of desolate days:

No one answers me anymore,

Since you saw the oncoming waves…

Thank you for taking the time to appreciate my work – every new reader is a balm to the writer’s soul!

You can find more creative writing on my website: https://thewavesofpoetry.wordpress.com/

If you share my passion for capturing the fleeting moments, feel free to explore the Instagram profile: https://www.instagram.com/veronica_bloomsbury/

I hope to get in touch with you soon!

Ghoul (flash fiction)

“You know that I never wanted to buy the house in the first place, don’t you!”, he said.

“Don’t I just. You’ve never stopped wittering on about how you hate it here since we moved in! In fact I remember arguing all night before you finally gave in and agreed to sign the contract. Why the hell did you agree if you hate it here so much? Don’t tell me, its because it was so bloody cheap. That’s you all over, you’ve never been able to resist a bargain, even though your loaded, with all that dosh you got when your gran died!”, she said.

“Call me all the names you like. I’ve never felt comfortable here. There’s that strange whirring noise I heard when we first looked around here. I can hear it now. It gives me the heebie jeebies.

There’s that room downstairs as well. You open the door and its always cold in there, whilst the rest of the place is, I have to admit warm. Its not natural, that chill, I hate going anywhere near that room.

There’s that strange light also. It comes on whenever anyone opens the door to that place. I think we’ve inherited a ghoul. In fact I’ve half a mind to put the place on the market tomorrow morning!”, he said.

“Inherited a ghoul! How many times do I have to tell you, that’s the walk-in freezer Mrs Michaels included in the sale …!”.

Of literature, pelican crossings and escort girls in Liverpool!

I spent the Christmas period with my mum, her partner and my sister in Liverpool. Following a very enjoyable week with my family, I returned to London on Friday 27 December.

As my mum, her Partner and I stood at the pelican crossing outside Liverpool Central station, waiting to cross and make our way to Lime Street in order that I could catch my train back to London, my mum’s partner commented on a sticker affixed to the pelican, advertising the services of escort girls which (my mum added) had been rendered illegible by someone with a thick black marker pen)!

The above incident reminded me of my short story “Samantha”, which tells the story of an upper-class young woman forced into prostitution in the city of Liverpool, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00BL3CNHI/. “Samantha” has received a number of great reviews, including the below 4 star review by Paul S:

Samantha

“I downloaded this short novel when it was being offered free on Amazon Kindle and I was pleasantly surprised by how good it was. It had a gripping plot, good characterisation and plenty of ‘atmosphere’; things that can be lacking in short stories. I think there may be a couple of formatting issues as I found I had to re-read a couple of paragraphs as they initially seemed out of place, possibly due to a missing carriage return instruction or perhaps because I was reading the story too quickly as I wanted to find out what happened next!
I won’t expand upon the plot as I do not want to create any spoilers but I suggest that you give this short novel a look if you enjoy atmospheric crime thrillers that have an element of romance, a gripping story line, some really nasty villains and a quite dramatic, action packed, climax”. To read the review on Amazon please follow this link, https://www.amazon.co.uk/review/R2YUTS78WBRB01/.

Shy Girl

As the vicar spoke of hell fire, and how the wicked are condemned to eternal torment, the sexton gazed sideways at his youngest daughter – a girl with the figure of a dancer. A real heart breaker he thought, and yet she was pure as the newly fallen snow on the nearby moors, before the cattle had trampelled through the drifts, leaving their footprints and dung behind.

Alice, (his 18-year-old daughter) sat, her eyes half closed in the pew, a dreamy expression on her face. Her prayer book lay open (but unheeded) on her lap.

“Can I help you miss?”, the shop girl said to the young woman who stood, her nails digging into her palms at the counter.

“Yes err … err”.

The shop assistant repressed a sigh. She’d seen it all before,but couldn’t help getting impatient at times.

“Miss?”

“I’d …”,

The assistant smiled encouragingly.

“Do you have, whips?”, the young woman whispered, her face turning the colour of beetroot.

The assistant reached under the counter and withdrew 2 whips. One was of the fluffy, joke variety, whilst the other was of the kind used by jockeys.

“I’ll take that one”, the young woman said, pointing to the fearsome looking riding crop.

“Cash or card, Miss?”.

“Oh god, no card, cash!”, the customer said, her hands fumbling in her purse.

“This rounds on me”, the young student said.
“Thanks”, Marie said. And as her friend went to the student bar to pay for 10 drinks, Marie wondered, as she had on many previous occasions, where her friend got the money for those expensive clothes and the leather handbag she sported.

With trembling hands the vicar typed, “Saturday at 9 pm. Usual place. OK with you?”. Then moistening his dry lips he clicked send.

“There’s this new club opening in town this Saturday. Are you up for it?”, Marie said.
“Nope, sorry, I’m visiting my family this Saturday”, Alice said and, despite her best eforts her cheeks burned …

Hitman

He steaddied the rifle against the window ledge and, gazing along the barrel saw the target, on the beach far below.

Just another hit, he thought, as he watched the living dead hand in hand with a petite blonde. She was not his wife, he knew as much. That did not, of course bother him in the slightest. Other people’s sex lives where a matter of complete indifference to him. What was of concern to the hitman was the £20,000 he would receive once the target was neutralised.

She was pretty that blonde. He wouldn’t mind having her between his sheets, he thought as he lined up the rifle on the target.

The sea, far below roared and a gull walked, casually along the crumbling cliff edge.

It had been a stroke of luck finding this house abandoned at the top of the cliff path, he thought as his finger tightened on the trigger.

The man below bent to kiss the blonde, just as the finger of the hitman squeezed tight on the Trigger.

The report of the gun was, as he knew it would be, lost in the roar of the sea and the crying of the gulls.

As lips touched below, the bullet sailed high above the target’s head. Then the roar of the sea and the crying of the gulls was joined by another louder roar as the cliff, long the subject of erosion by wind and sea gave way, taking the house so precariously balanced at the cliff edge with it. The report had been the final straw that had broken the camel’s back, bringing house and hitman crashing down to the unforgiving waves below.

“Christ”, that was a near thing, the target said, as he gazed at the fallen rocks only some hundred yards from where he and his petite mistress stood, horror struck on the beach below.

The end

Looking for Business

This story contains some strong language. if you are offended by strong language, please read no further.

Bethany tasted blood and suddenly became aware that she was chewing her lower lip, No, not chewing, she was actually biting it hard enough to produce blood. How long had she been doing that for? Bethany had no idea.

She made a conscious efort to stop gnawing her lip but, in doing so became acutely aware of the cheap short skirt and the 6 inch heels on which she tottered.

“Fuck, what am I doing here?”, she thought, taking hold of the lamp post for support. Dam those heels, she could hardly stand in them let alone walk!

“Looking for business love?”. Bethany started, and became aware of 2 scruffily dressed guys in an old Ford. “No”. “Then what the hell are you standing there for, on the street corner?”, the driver said and, not waiting for an answer stuck up 2 fingers and drove away.

“Oh god this is all a fucking mistake”, Bethany thought, stamping her feet trying to keep warm. Shit, her right heel had snapped clean off. “cheap bloody shoes, horrid skirt”, she said outloud, starting to cry.

A car pulled over and a man in a clerical collar leaned out of the driver’s window, “excuse me, are you looking for business?”, “you know I bloody well am”, Bethany said climbing in next to the vicar.

They drove in silence, Bethany glaring at the clerical gentleman. “Chill out Bethany. You can’t deny that its authentic. I bet you will be the only girl at the Tarts and Vicars Party who can say that they have stood on a street corner, dressed as a tart and been picked up by her boyfriend, dressed as a vicar!”.

The end