An Act of Madness (part 1)

2 Replies

He awoke to a thousand little imps banging their tiny hammers inside his skull. Tentatively he opened his eyes. The battered old chair on which he had flung his clothes the previous evening with such wild abandon swam into view. Cans of beer some still half full littered the threadbare carpet but it was the scent of sex, cheap perfume mixed with the sickly odour of rutting animals which made him lean over the side of the bed and vomit onto the filthy brown carpet.

The act of vomiting made him feel a little better. Slowly his mind cleared. He focused on the girl lying beside him. She lay her head resting on the filthy pillow, her right arm clutching a battered old teddy bear. The bear had been brown long ago but the years had turned it almost black. The sheet had fallen away leaving the girl’s body exposed. Her almost hairless vagina and barely formed breasts showed that she was in her early teens, 13 or 14 but no older.

“Christ what have I done?” the man said.

His words spoken out loud made the girl open her beautiful blue eyes.

“Please, please mister don’t hurt me again” she said clutching the bear protectively against her.

“I’m sorry” he mumbled attempting to put his arm around her in what was, he hoped a comforting manner.

“Please, no more” she pleaded her eyes swimming with tears.

Without another word the man got out of bed and flung on his clothes. As he reached the bedroom door he looked back one final time at the girl. She lay her head buried in that bear her shoulders shaking convulsively with deep sobs.

The man descended the rickety uncarpeted staircase, his feet seemed unnaturally loud to him in this silent place.

“God I need to get out” the man muttered as he descended the final stair.

“Enjoy yourself did you man?”

The man’s heart leapt into his mouth. He haden’t seen the Jamaican standing, in the shadows at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Little cutie isn’t she. Just turned 13. I told you that Jo could find you fresh young meat. I didn’t lie to you”.

“No she was lovely” the man said. He wished the Jamaican would step out of the way of the front door so that he could get the hell out of that stinking flea pit.

“OK man, remember Tom and the next time you want some fun give me a call”.

The man nodded and Tom stepped out of the way allowing him to open the front door and leave.

Prime Minister’s Questions

Leave a reply

The Leader of the Opposition

“Can the Prime Minister tell the House “how much is that doggy in the window?””

The Prime Minister

“The one with the waggerly tail?”

The Leader of the Opposition

“The Prime Minister knows full well which specific canine I am referring to”.

The Prime Minister

“my civil servants have made extensive enquiries and I am advised that, that doggy is not, in fact for sale. I do, however understand from my right honourable friend, the Foreign Secretary that “In Rangoon the heat at noon is just what the natives shun, but mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day, out in the mid day, out in the mid day sun””.

The Leader of the Opposition

“I have a little cat and I’m very fond of that but I’d rather have a bow, wow wow”.

The Prime Minister

“Perhaps the Leader of the Opposition could put  a doggy on his Christmas list, who knows what Santa might bring him. If the party opposite had handled the public finances more wisely when they where in office then more men and women would be able to afford to own a bow wow” (The Commons dissolves into laughter and Prime Minister’s Questions is suspended).

Night Terrors

Leave a reply

Why do you sleep with the light on? Is it the fear of the bogeyman who crouches in dark dusty corners ready to pounce? Or is it the dread of the hand which, when least expected glides out from under the bed to grab your leg and pull you down, down, down? What causes you when I get up in the night, to ask in a voice full of forboding

“Where are you going?”

Is it the ghastly ghoul which makes you hold me tight, pull me close as though you will never let me go?

You say that you have no recollection of anything bad happening in your childhood. Do I believe you? I don’t know but there is something not right when a grown woman must sleep with the light on. What painted devil do you fear my dear?

 

Autumn Leaves by Charles Dickens

2 Replies

Yesterday evening, lying in bed, browsing Youtube on my Ipad I came across Charles Dicken’s poem, Autumn Leaves on Youtube. I must confess to not having been aware that in addition to his novels, short stories and travel writings Dickens had, in addition written poetry. This one is well worth a listen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ESlzcQqEFY

The Cleaner

Leave a reply

I sit watching you making my surfaces gleam, my efficient cleaning machine. What do you think as you clean, my hard working cleaning machine? Do you see

a snob? A man to lazy to clean his own flat, with a good job? Do you see me as free, reading with a book upon my knee? Would you like to trade places with

me, To sit in comfort, while I toil with a book upon your knee? Tell me, my equal what do you think of me?

Forthcoming Book Promotion

Leave a reply

I hope to be in a position to give away my story, Samantha free for 5 days. I published Samantha using Kindle Select which allows titles registered with the programme to be provided, free of charge for a period of 5 days every 90 days. I originally provided Samantha free in early March so, by my reckoning I should be able to do likewise in June. Please watch this space.

Samantha tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution in the English city of Liverpool. Can Sam escape her life of sex slavery or will she end her days in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Docks.

The Bliss of Solitude

Leave a reply

I have just been sitting on my sofa listening to the rain falling. It is a soothing sound and provides a welcome change from the noise of the television which signified the presence of my mum and her partner. It goes without saying that it was wonderful to have my mum stay with me for a week. We ate out often and had a wonderful time including a visit to an historic palace. However the sound of the television and the presence of my mum and her partner made it difficult for me to concentrate on my writing. I require solitude and the absence of external distractions such as music while writing and this has been largely lacking for the past week. My two bed room flat is spacious but it is amazing how sound travels. The answer is obvious. I need to win the lottery, buy a large house in the country and retire to my study in the west wing when guests are present and I need to write. I don’t play the lottery so this may be a little difficult so, dear readers please send donations, however large to K Morris, PO box 252, the Bahamas! I can hear pens scratching already as you all rush to right out cheques for significant sums. I’m off now to check out mantions in England’s green and pleasant land. Kevin

Freedom of Expression

8 Replies

On 19 May I published a poem entitled “Her Mother’s Daughter” (see http://newauthoronline.com/2013/05/19/her-mothers-daughter/). In the poem I address how a mother oblivious to the fact that her young daughter is engaged in sex work would react if she discovered her involvement in prostitution.   My poem provoked the following response from a lady engaged in sex work

“This is fucking horrible. This entire project is vile. What the fuck are you even doing creating a whole project about sex workers as a non-sex worker based on shitty stereotypes, asinine paternalistic bullshit and inane drivel? As a sex worker myself, this is gross. For the sake of humanity, please stop. You are propagating stereotypes and lies about us and this causes us DIRECT HARM. STOP STEREOTYPING SEX WORKERS. Stop speaking for us. We can speak for ourselves.”

It goes without saying that sex workers can (and do) speak for themselves and that they have every right to do so. However I am extremely concerned regarding the implied view that anyone who is not a sex worker does not have the right to express a view on the issues pertaining to prostitution. If we follow this reasoning to it’s logical conclusion then only black people should speak about matters pertainig to blacks, only white people on issues relating to whites etc. This way of proceeding would stifle literary and, indeed artistic expression and would lead to a debased cultural landscape in which writers and society more generally is frightened of expressing an opinion as it might, just possibly offend some one or other. As someone who is blind I dislike the stereotypes which some misguided individuals hold concerning visually impaired people. However I have no wish to prevent the expression of opinion. If I disagree with views being voiced I can (and will) challenge those views, not by calling for their suppression but by arguing against them as any believer in freedom should do.

As regards the substance of the above quoted criticisms, the commentor makes no attempt to express a contrary perspective. Rather she indulges in that age old trick of shooting the messenger rather than attempting to engage him in debate.

In point of fact I accept the right of sex workers to sell sex and the right of clients to purchase services provided that both parties are of legal age and coercion in the form of threat or violence is absent from the exchange. However that is not at all the same thing as accepting that prostitution has no harmful effects on those engaged in it. Ultimately in a free society individuals have the right to make choices which may harm them (that is an important right which should be respected), however that is not the same thing as saying that one has no right to express concerns regarding said choices. In a democracy free and open debate is essential.