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A review of my short story, “Samantha”

I was pleased to receive the following recent review of my short story, “Samantha” on Goodreads:

“A powerful and well-written story”.

You can find the above review here, https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1260963716?book_show_action=true&from_review_page=1.

To read more reviews of “Samantha” or to purchase my book, please visit, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00BL3CNHI/.

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The Free Promotion Of Samantha Ends On Friday 12 June 2015

The free promotion of my book, “Samantha” ends on Friday 12 June 2015.

Samantha tells the story of a young woman forced into prostitution in the city of Liverpool. Can Sam survive the brutality of her pimp, Barry or will she end her troubled existence in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Dock. To download “Samantha” free please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/Samantha-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI.

If you read “Samantha” or any of my other works I would very much appreciate it if you would please consider leaving a review.

Many thanks,

Kevin

Juliette

Marcus Fielding gazed fixedly at the kitchen knife.

“Look old chap why don’t you put that thing down and we can chat over a whisky like civilised human beings”.

The visitor made no answer save for the sickly smile which slowly spread across his sallow face.

“Look here old man if you leave now we will say no more about it. You where never here. A nods as good as a wink to a blind horse and all that”.

The stranger’s smile broadened. He shook with silent laughter.

Marcus wondered if he could reach the panic button on his key ring. If he could do so then the private security firm who guarded the house would be there in a matter of minutes. Why the bloody hell had they not stopped his unwelcome guest from reaching him in the first place?! Marcus casually reached towards his pocket.

“I wouldn’t do that if I where you”. The stranger’s voice was flat and expressionless but the coldness in his eyes caused Marcus to shiver involuntarily.

“As you like. I was only retrieving my handkerchief” Marcus said placing his hands on the desk. “Is it about a girl?”

“Ah Mr Fielding we all know your reputation with the ladies don’t we? I bet there is a queue of irate husbands wanting to punch that smug face of yours, not to mention the angry fathers baying for your blood. You like them young I understand, anything over 16 and, preferably below 30”

“Was it Jenny” Marcus asked thinking back to the leggy blonde he had picked up on Friday evening. God she had been as thick as two short planks but Marcus didn’t care. It was whether they where good in bed which interested him.

“Who is Jenny?”

“You haven’t come about Jenny. Then who have you come about?”

“Juliette”.

A look of puzzlement flitted across Marcus’s face. His position as a leading literary critic enabled him to bed more or less any girl of his choosing. A few well chosen words about how he could create a best selling author had the ladies eating out of his hand. It was lies of course and it never ceased to amaze Marcus that so many girls fell for the yarn, hook, line and sinker. He couldn’t remember the name of every lady he had had the pleasure of sharing his bed with, however he was almost positive that none of his conquests where called Juliette.

“No, sorry I don’t believe that I have had the pleasure of meeting Juliette”.

“I can assure you that you are intimately acquainted with Juliette”.

“I honestly can’t recollect having met the lady in question”.

“She is my dearest possession and you destroyed both me and her”.

Marcus was convinced that he was dealing with a mad man.

“What does she look like? If you describe her then perhaps I may remember her”.

“She is the love of my life. We spent many happy years together. She began as a tiny thing and grew into a beautiful creation. But you destroyed her!”

“She is your daughter? How can a night of passion ruin the life of a young lady? You are upset but young ladies have the right to choose who they date. Painful as it no doubt is there comes a time when a father must let his little girl go out into the big bad world and explore”.

“She is here with me, my Juliette”.

Christ he really was dealing with a lunatic Marcus thought.

“Here she is” the visitor said extracting a crumpled manuscript from his breast pocket. “You trashed my labour of love, my Juliette. Do you know how long it took me to write Juliette? 2 years. Yes 2 years of burning the midnight oil. It cost me my marriage and you, you go and wreck my literary career with half a page of newsprint. Half a bloody page is all it took to destroy my life. I’ve come here to finish it. To let you know what you have done before the grim reaper strikes”. The visitor raised the knife. Marcus closed his eyes preying that it would be quick. There was a gurgling sound followed by a thud. Marcus opened his eyes to see his visitor sprawled across the floor blood soaking into the expensive carpet.

PROMOTION!

My short story Samantha will be available, free, in the kindle store from the 29th November until the 3rd December.

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?

You can find Samantha here for the UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Samantha-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI/ref=la_B00CEECWHY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385578397&sr=1-1

And here for the US: http://www.amazon.com/Samantha-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI/ref=la_B00CEECWHY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385578397&sr=1-1

You can view reviews of my books here: http://newauthoronline.com/reviews-of-my-books/

 

Review of my short story ‘Samantha’

I was delighted to receive my third 4* review for my short story Samantha. For all of my reviews, please visit http://newauthoronline.com/reviews-of-my-books/

Sweeping Up

“another bloody pervert” Sergeant Ben Marshal said as he looked down contemptuously at the man lying on the living room floor.

“How can you be so callous?” constable Haley Dixon asked.

“Look Haley when you have seen so many weirdos as I have kill themselves while getting their kinks you will feel just as pissed off as I do. We should be out there catching criminals not investigating the deaths of pervs who get their kicks out of tying vacuum cleaner chords around their necks to obtain sexual gratification. Its an obvious case of accidental death while he (pointing to the corpse) was getting his jollies.  I bet you £20 that the coroner finds that this is accidental death”.

“I don’t gamble”.

“Pitty as it’s a dead cert that £20 would be coming my way if you did”.

 

 

The elderly man leaned heavily on his walking stick as he approached the front door. These days it took him several minutes to get from the arm chair to the door by which time many callers had given up waiting and left leaving only an empty space when he finally opened the door.

“I’m coming” he called in a quavering voice.

Finally he reached the front door. He fumbled with the latch. His arthritic fingers could barely manage to cope with the simple mechanism. Eventually the latch clicked and he opened the door.

A gloved handwas pressed over his mouth.

“Get inside. If you make a sound I’ll use this” the caller said the flick knife glinting in his gloved left hand.

The man shrank back into the hallway.

“I’m going to remove my hand but if you try to summon help I’ll use this” the visitor said holding the knife so that it’s blade was a mere millimetre away from the elderly man’s neck.

“The money is in my bedroom under the matress. Just take it and go” the old man pleaded.

“Oh Bert don’t you remember your own step son? I’m truly hurt. Don’t you recall the times we spent alone in this very house?”

The elderly man squinted short sightedly at his unwelcome guest. Slowly recognition dawned.

“You always liked a joke didn’t you Johny. Always larking around you where but the jokes over now. Put that away (pointing to the knife) and lets have a cup of tea”.

“No lets play a game. You always liked to play games when I was a child”.

“I’m to old for games Johny. My old body is falling to bits”.

“Oh you are never to old for games. Do you remember the hoover game?”

“The what?”

“The hoover game” Johny said patiently as though he was addressing a particularly stupid child.

“No I don’t remember that son”.

“Really you do surprise me. If you can’t remember then I certainly can. Where do you keep the vacuum cleaner?”

“The vacuum cleaner?”

“Oh dear I can’t be making myself clear today. Yes where do you keep the vacuum cleaner, the hoover, the thing which is designed for removing dirt like you”.

“What do you want the vacuum cleaner for” the elderly man asked in a quavering voice.

“Don’t you like surprises? I do. If I tell you then it won’t be a surprise will it and that will take all the fun out of the game” Johny said with a smile.

“I can’t remember”.

“That’s OK. I’ll help you. I remember that it used to be kept in the cupboard under the stairs. Is it still there I wonder? Well there is only one way to find out Johny, to go and look. Walk in front of me so that I can keep an eye on you. That’s right, stay to the left of the cupboard where I can keep an eye on you. Ah it’s the same vacuum cleaner. Who would have believed that it’s the self same hoover after all these years. Take it out and we can play a game”.

“I can’t manage it Johny. The lady from social services vacuums when she comes round on a Thursday afternoon”.

“Really! As a child of 10 I could barely manage to hold that machine above my head but I had to play the game. Do you remember making me hold the hoover above my head? God my shoulders ached but I knew that if I dropped it then I’d suffer even more. Christ holding that thing at the top of the stairs was scary. I felt as though I was going to topple down and be crushed by it”.

“I don’t know what you are talking about Johny” whimpered the old man.

“Yes you fucking do now get that out of the cupboard or I’ll cut you” Johny said advancing on the shaking man with the knife.

Slowly Bert reached into the cupboard and with great effort pulled out the vacuum cleaner.

“There now I told you that you could do it didn’t I? You aren’t quite so weak and feeble as you like to pretend are you?”

“You where always a naughty boy Johny. You deserved to be punished. It was for your own good”.

Johny rraised his right arm as though to stab Bert with the knife full in the neck. With an effort he contained himself.

“A little boy that is what I was. A terrified little child holding a fucking vacuum cleaner above his head. Do you remember the cushion game? Perhaps we can play that after we’ve finished with the hoover. Would you like that?”

“No please”.

“Why not cushions are nice and comfortable. Don’t you like a nice soft cushion? I remember the feeling of the fabric as you pressed it down on my little face. Why didn’t you kill me? I’ve often asked myself that. Perhaps you gained more satisfaction out of having me alive and watching me suffer than you gained from the prospect of killing me. Anyway lovely as it is to chat with my step dad I don’t have all day. Unwind that cable”.

 

The end

Bath Time

They found him lying face down in his bath. Donna, the barmaid in the Grapes where the elderly man had been drinking on that fateful Saturday afternoon,informed WPC Margaret Thomas that, to the best of her recollection he had consumed at least 10 pints of lager. The post mortem revealed a blood alcohol level consistent with Donna’s testimony and there being no suspicious circumstances surrounding the incident a verdict of accidental death was returned. As his friends remarked

“Poor Stan must have banged his head on the bath, lost consciousness and drowned”.

 

 

George hated the bathroom. Nothing unusual about that one might say and, indeed as a small boy he shared with his friends a detestation of cleanliness. Playing football, getting caked in mud was all tremendous fun but washing constituted barbarism perpetrated on children by unsmiling adults. In the case of his friends bath time meant gentle cajoling to enter the water. If they refused to wash then their parents driven to distraction might, to howls of protest take hold of the recalcitrant child and soap him from head to toe with imperial leather. Years later George’s friends smiled as they recalled bath time, not so George.

Have you ever felt the cold enamel of a basin as it touches your face? Yes very possibly you have my dear readers. Let me rephrase the question, have you ever felt strong hands holding your head under water? Have you felt the panic rising in you, the terrible unspeakable fear that you would drown? Have you wondered why man does evil unto man? I hope that the answer is no. Little George could unfortunately answer yes to all these questions. He lived in terror of the man. Outwardly charming, the life and soul of the party. He was such a charmer was Stan, no one would have dreamed that he was abusing his step son. Oh reader is that really the case? Shouldn’t someone have seen the terror in George’s eyes when Stan was in the room? Some no doubt remarked on the fact that when Stan was absent how George seemed happy and relaxed. Had someone acted then would Stan’s fate have been averted? Would he have died peacefully in his bed rather than struggling for breath as his lungs filled with water? Perhaps we should ask George but he, like Mccavity wasn’t there, or was he?