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The Date

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Laura slipped on her favourite blue dress, the one with primroses embroidered on it. The dress showed a small amount of cleavage but not an excessive quantity for a first date Laura thought as she slipped on her black leather shoes.

God she hoped that this guy was better than the man she’d met last Saturday. John had spent the entire evening talking about his prowess in the world of gaming.

“You know I often get home from work at 6 and the first thing I do is turn on my Windows 8 PC. It is top of the range much more powerful than the computers which sent the first men into space. Anyway as I was saying I turn on the computer and start gaming straight away. I lose track of time. When I start its 6 but when I look at the computer screen often its after midnight.”

“So what else do you do?” Laura had asked.

John had turned to her a look of genuine puzzlement on his face

“What do you mean?”

“What about your friends, you must go for a beer on a Friday evening sometimes?”

“My world is gaming. I know lots of people through gaming. We have never met but that doesn’t matter, we play online, it’s cool!”

Laura had manfully persisted

“But surely you have the odd social event with colleagues?”

“Oh at Christmas everyone goes to the work’s do. I hate these things but I go to keep my boss happy but as soon as the meals over I make my excuses and leave. Anyway as I was saying gaming is absolutely fantastic, there are so many different games that its impossible to get bored”.

John broke off suddenly remembering something

“What do you do Laura?”

“I’m a secretary in a solicitors office but in the evening I like to go to the cinema, read or”,

“There is this really cool game” John had continued cutting Laura off mid sentence.

Please not another gamer Laura preyed as she exited the taxi and walked the short distance to the restaurant.

—

Laura recognised Tom immediately. At well over six feet in height and with his cropped blonde hair and pearcing blue eyes he was unmistakable. At least he looks like the man I’ve been chatting to online Laura thought. That was surely a good omen.

Tom stood up and pulled out a chair for Laura. The gesture touched her. Tom was a perfect gentleman. The evening was going to go well Laura thought as she sank down into the cushioned seat.

“Its lovely to meet you Laura although we have been chatting for so long online that I feel we are old friends already”.

“Its good to meet you too Tom” Laura said taking Tom’s strong hand. Laura flinched involuntarily under Tom’s strong grip. Her poor fingers felt like dainty wild flowers which have been crushed under the hob nailed boots of a farm labourer. “You are hurting me”.

“Sorry I don’t know my own strength sometimes” Tom said releasing Laura’s hand.

Laura rubbed her fingers trying to massage some life back into them.

“What would you like to eat? I can recommend the rump steak with fresh vegetables. It really is delicious” Tom said handing Laura a menu.

“OK I’ll join you in the steak”.

“Great. What would you like to drink? The house white is excellent”.

“I’ll just have an orange juice thanks”.

“OK” Tom said beckoning to the waitress, “two steaks please. An orange juice and a bottle of the house white”.

Laura raised her eyebrows. Surely Tom wasn’t going to drink an entire bottle of wine. Evidently he was and perhaps she shouldn’t judge him to harshly as Laura and her best friend Amanda had on occasions polished off a couple of bottles of wine on a Friday evening between the two of them.

“You are much prettier in person than on the website”.

Laura blushed

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment”.

“You look very English with that lovely blonde hair and your corn flower blue eyes. Are your parents English?”

“Yes why do you ask?”

“It is important to me that the English way of life is preserved”.

Laura looked confused.

“England used to be a great nation. Half the world showed red on the map. Who built up Africa and India? Who constructed the railways and stopped the natives from tearing one another apart? I’ll tell you who did all that. It was us, the English we bestrode the globe like a great colossus. We where the workshop of the world. Birmingham, Liverpool and Manchester produced cotton and other manufactured goods which where sent all over the globe. Do you know how we managed all this? Because we the English race have the blood of warriors running through our veins. Saxons, Vikings and Romans mingle in this great nation to make us what we are, a people who’s destiny is to rule the world”. Tom stopped a far away look in his eyes.

“Are you a conservative?” Laura asked. Tom’s views where well to the right of anything which her Daily Telegraph reading father had ever voiced but perhaps Tom was on the right of the party.

“Conservatism and Socialism its all part of the same old corrupt social order. Socialism and Capitalism are both responsible for bringing this once great land to it’s knees. There is a conspiracy to destroy us the white race to make Britain a racial hell hole in which through race mixing an inferior breed of muddy brown people emerges who the emerging world government can control”.

Tom broke off as the waitress brought over the wine and orange juice.

“Just look at her” Tom said once the waitress had moved out of earshot. Obviously mixed race. Some people have no pride. I mean how can a patriotic English man or woman sleep with a black? They are betraying the race and diluting the blood of our country. Can’t you see that Laura soon it will be to late if we don’t act now. We need a government which will put a stop to the rot. Kick out the immigrants and institute a programme of national regeneration”.

Laura didn’t know much about politics but she was feeling increasingly uneasy.

“But Tom that girl was almost certainly born here. She speaks with a south London accent like mine. Where should she go back to? Her home is here”.

“If a pig lives among swans it remains a pig. No amount of dressing it up to look like a swan will make it a swan. That girl can never be British (Tom said refilling his glass), she is a half breed who will be rejected by her own community and those English men and women who haven’t been juped by the jew infested cesspit which some call the media”.

“Tom you are frightening me. Those are the kind of views which lead to the concentration camps” Laura said her face turning deathly pale.

“Laura you have swallowed the same lies as most of the population. The so-called Final Solution is a fiction cooked up by international jewry to gain support for the state of Israel. The next time we meet I’ll let you have a copy of a little pamphlet I have called “Did Six Million Really die?” It comprehensively debunks the myth of the holocaust”.

“So my great grandfather thought against the Nazis for nothing, is that what you are saying” Laura said. She could feel her hands shaking in her lap and tears pricking at the back of her eyes.

“The war should never have happened. Hitler wasn’t interested in conquering Britain. We could have allied with Germany and ruled the world together. India and large parts of Africa not to mention Sri Lanka would still be ours. Imagine Laura a proud nation striding ever onwards into the sunlit uplands of prosperity. A strong, healthy white race untainted by foreign blood dominating the world. The wrong people where tried and executed at Nuremberg. Churchill should have swung from the end of a rope along with the other conservative, labour and liberal politicians who led this once proud people into a war against our European brothers. Look at young people today. They have no sense of belonging. The race soul is dying. The world is turning into one great Disney playground in which people move aimlessly from one thing to another without ever truly believing in anything. We need, desperately to reconnect with our great past, to become great again and dispel the sense of hopelessness which is destroying our people. Nationalism, sod it I’ll call it what it is as I’m not ashamed of what I am, National Socialism is the only solution to the insanity of race mixing. We need a new order in which the white people of the world join together retaining their national identities but federated in a commonwealth or union, all working together to preserve western civilisation. Have you ever read Mein Kampf, it’s a truly awe inspiring book. Hitler was a genious who’s feet Churchill wasn’t fit to wash. I’ll lend it to you when we next meet”.

The steaks arrived. Tom picked up his  cutlery and began to attack the steak with relish.

“Aren’t you hungry Laura?”

“No. Tom I’m not interested in politics but one thing I do know. I’m proud to be British but that pride has nothing to do with race. We are for all our faults a tolerant country. In the 1930s the UK took in a lot of refugees from Nazi Germany many of whom would have undoubtedly died had we not done so. David Erving and others who either downplay Nazi atrocities or deny that they happened are either stupid or they are deliberately trying to whitewash the past so that foolish people will embrace, oh what’s the word (Laura screwed up her pretty face in concentration), neo-nazi ideas. Quite frankly you make me want to throw up. You want to turn Britain into a nation of unthinking swastika waving robots all singing the same songs and marching to the same tunes. That isn’t what makes the country which I love great. It is the values of tolerance and the liberal democracy which you so detest which makes this land one I’m proud to call home. My dad often says that the English just want to be left alone to cultivate their gardens. Funny I used to think that dad was an old reactionary but, having met you I can see the inate decency in him and the other small l liberals who just want to be left alone to live their lives as they see fit”.

“Are you Jewish Laura? You spout the kind of poisonous rubbish pumped out by the Jewish controlled media”.

“I feel sorry for you Tom. You are so full of hate” Laura said standing up and reaching for her coat. Don’t contact me again”. Laura headed for the door and without looking back stepped out into the evening gloom.

The end

The Fascist In Your Bed

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Imagine that you are in the dating game and that the man or woman of your dreams appears on the sceene. This is, I understand what happened in the case of a certain young lady who was in search of her knight in shining armour. Well not quite, for the man in question turned out to hold views which would have had him expelled from any centre-right (conservative) party. He was, in short a Fascist who openly avowed his admiration for Adolf Hitler. Needless to say that when the lady in question discovered the true colours of her date she removed herself so rapidly out of his clutches that one could not see her for dust.

The lady in question is not known to me. I am, however acquainted with a friend of hers and can vouch for the authenticity of the incident.

It occurred to me that the above incident would make for an interesting story without (obviously) naming the people involved or providing any clue to their identity. I hope to write a (fictional) story along these lines over the coming weeks.

Russian Roulette Part 2

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Below is the final part of my story Russian Roulette. For part 1 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/08/10/russian-roulette-part-1/. The actions of John are stupid in the extreme and I do not in any way endorse them. However the duty of a writer is to describe the world in all it’s facets not just the pleasant aspects and this is what I attempt to do in the story below.

 

John felt that familiar tingle of excitement as he entered the flat. His stomach lurched and his penis twitched with anticipation at the delights to come.

“Money darling”.

The girl spoke with a thick Eastern European accent. John wondered idly where she was from. Poland or Bulgaria he guessed as many of the prostitutes operating in London where Polish or Bulgarian.

“Is bareback included? It says on the site that BB is included in the price”.

“No darling I don’t do it without a condom”.

John could feel the excitement draining away.

“But it says on the site that you do unprotected sex”.

“No darling, everything with a condom”.

John walked towards the front door.

“OK darling you can do BB for £200” the girl said stepping between him and the front door.

“It says on the site £100”.

“100 with a condom and £200 BB”.

“I have £150 here, I can’t give you any more” John said holding out the money.

The girl hesitated for a moment before taking the cash and placing it in her handbag.

“You like nice relaxing massage?”

John nodded. The girl gestured towards the bedroom the door to which stood ajar. He entered closely followed by the girl.

“Take off your clothes darling”.

John undressed and lay face down on the bed. With a barely audible sigh the girl slipped out of her flimsy dress and tiny skirt. Moving across to the bed she began by massaging John’s shoulders. The tension began to drain away and John’s body relaxed. The girls’s hands glided over his back. John grunted with pleasure as she parted his legs and began to stroke his penis.

He rolled over and the girl moved to sit on his engorged penis.

“Not yet” John gasped. He loved to savour the moment prior to penetrating a woman. God what a thrill. There was nothing like it, the feel of a penis unencumbered by a condom sliding in and out of a wet pussy. The possibility of contracting HIV added an extra frisson.  Life was boring he needed a little spice and the possibility of getting infected made him sick with desire and excitement.

The girl’s vagina rubbed against his penis sending shivers of delight throughout his body. Eventually he could stand the temptation no more. With a moan he entered the girl. In a matter of minutes it was all over. Without a word John dressed and without a backward look left the flat.

Lying in bed that night John, as was always the case following unprotected sex with a prostitute began to reproach himself. Russian roulette. That was what he was playing and in such a game sooner or later the gun would go off. He tried to rationalise his behaviour. He knew from his researches that the chances of a hetrosexual man contracting HIV from one encounter with an infected woman was in the region of 1-2%. The chances increased depending on the viral load of the infected woman and whether she was taking medication to reduce her HIV symptoms. Indeed he knew that some people taking anti retroviral drugs had an almost undetectable viral load. But however he tried to rationalise his actions John was playing with fire and he knew it. But playing with fire was thrilling. You could get burned but that was, if he was brutally honest with himself the primary reason why he had unprotected sex with prostitutes – to relieve the tedium of his humdrum life working in his 9-5 job in the bank. So what if he did get infected? With modern drugs he could live an almost normal life so the prospect of infection didn’t bother him unduly. Sooner or later the luck of the boy who had played Russian roulette with his father’s gun was going to run out.

 

The end

Russian Roulette Part 1

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As a boy of 9 or 10 he had found the gun. It lay hidden in his father’s wardrobe, underneath a pile of old jumpers wrapped in a blue bath sheet. The boy had replaced everything as he found it and returned sheepishly to his bedroom. He shouldn’t have been in his father’s wardrobe let alone in his room. If dad found out that he had been there a beating would be the result. John shook with terror as he imagined his father removing his belt. He new only to well the swishing sound the belt made as it flew through the air. Swish followed by excruiciating pain as the buckle bit into flesh. Ever since he had returned from military service in Iraq dad had changed. The gentle giant much loved by John and his sister Anna was transformed into a brooding ogre. The slightest misdemeanour was likely to send him into an uncontrollable rage. After the beatings his father would hold his children close and mumble incoherent apologies as tears ran down his face. It proved all too much for the children’s mother. One day while John and Anna where at school and her husband was drinking with former members of his platoon Amie James took an overdose. It was John who had found her on his return from school. She lay on the sofa her blonde hair streaming over the cushion on which she rested.

“Mum” there was no answer.

“Mum” still there was no response.

His mum looked like a ghoul out of one of those horror movies which his parents had forbidden him to watch but which nevertheless the boy had seen while visiting his friend Mark who’s mum and dad  where more relaxed about such matters. Her face was the colour of chalk and a stream of spittle had run down Amie’s face.

“Mum” he said again reaching out his hand to touch her face. It was icey cold.

Feeling as though he was in a nightmare from which he would soon awake John had called for an ambulance. He recollected making the telephone call but everything following on from that was a blank until he woke up to find himself cradled in his father’s strong arms. Very gently mr James had broken the news to John and Anna of their mum’s death. Thinking back it was the last time that John could recollect his father as having shown any genuine tenderness or regret.

John couldn’t get the gun out of his head. He longed to take a closer look at the weapon, to aim and fire the gun as the cowboys did in the westerns which he so loved to watch. Desire to possess the prize contended within the boy with the fear of the consequences if his father discovered the loss of the gun. He would only borrow it for a few minutes the next time his father went out.

“I won’t even fire it. I’ll just hold it and imagine that I am a cop or a cowboy. Dad will never find out that I borrowed the gun” John reassured himself.

One evening, a week or so following the discovery of the weapon Mr James went out for the evening to drink with friends from the platoon. He new that he shouldn’t leave young children alone in the house but he felt that his head would explode if he didn’t get out for the evening.

“Kids grow up quicker these days. John is old enough to look after Anna” he told himself.

“I’m going out for the evening. I’ve got my keys so don’t answer the door to anyone or you’ll wish that you had never been born! Don’t answer the phone either. Do you understand?”

“Yes dad” they had both replied.

For at least 10 minutes following the slamming of the front door John sat in the living room his ears straining to detect the sound of returning footsteps. Mr James had become very forgetful as a consequence of the head wound which he had sustained while serving in Iraq and was likely to return for his wallet or some other item which he had forgotten. However after the elapse of 10 minutes John felt reasonably certain that his father would not return for the next few hours. He must, for once have remembered to take his money and would now be drinking in the local pub with his former comrades.

John gingerly ascended the stairs. Glancing round the door of his sister’s room he saw Anna engrossed on her laptop. She was, almost certainly chatting with friends on Facebook John thought. Well all the better for him as Anna was unlikely to disturb his examination of the gun.

Slowly John opened the door to his father’s bedroom. As he entered a movement caught his eye. John’s heart jumped into his mouth. He stood stock still for what seemed an age. He could feel the sweat running down his neck and soaking his t-shirt. The sound of breathing reached his ears.

“Hello” he whispered.

Thump, Thump came the response. John felt relief flood through him It was Jet dad’s black Labrador which had somehow got into the room and was now reclining contentedly on Mr James’s bed.

“Get down Jet” he said. Reluctantly the dog jumped off the bed and with a click of claws on the uncarpeted floor he was gone.

John opened the wardrobe door. What if the gun had gone or had been a figment of his fevered imagination? All the adrenaline would have been in vain. Tentatively he reached out his hands and lifted the jumpers. It was still there. At any rate the blue bath sheet remained where he had last seen it. With trembling hands John opened the towel. The pistol stirred back at him.

Sitting on his father’s bed John took a closer look at the weapon. The gun had a black butt and a silver barrel. The metal felt cold against his skin. John shivered. Had his dad killed Iraqi insurgents with the weapon? How many people had died?

Inexpertly John fiddled with the magazine. After a minute or so it opened. The gun was empty. John delved into the depths of the bath sheet. His hands closed around several circular pieces of metal. With a thrill of excitement he withdrew the bullets. Such tiny pieces of metal but with the capability to snuff out a life. John’s excitement increased. What if he inserted a bullet into the magazine? He wouldn’t fire the weapon (that had only been a silly day dream) but he could at least see what it was like to aim a pistol.

John wiped his sweating palms on his handkerchief. Holding the barrel away from him and with shaking hands he inserted one of the bullets. It took several attempts but, eventually the bullet clicked into place. John felt a surge of power rush through him as he pointed the gun towards the door

“Come in here and I’ll blow your brains out” he said.

Of course he would do no such thing but the thought of the power which he could release by a mere compression of his finger thrilled John beyond anything he had ever experienced before.

Looking around the room his eyes fell on a picture of his mother and father on their wedding day. His mother looked so beautiful and proud standing there her arm linked through that of her husband. It brought a lump to his throat

“Fucking dad you killed my mum. Arsehole you killed my mum” he sobbed burying his head in the pillow the gun quite forgotten left lying on the bedside cabinet. Gradually his sobbing ceased. He tried to remember happier times. He remembered sitting on his mum’s knee as she related stories of her ancestors. Amie’s great great grandparents had fled Russia at the time of the Bolshevik revolution in 1917. They where liberal aristocrats with no love for the Tsarist autocracy, however to the newly installed Communist government anyone of noble birth was suspect and discretion being the better part of valour Amie’s ancestors had fled to Britain leaving all their possessions in Russia.

John and Anna had listened with rapt attention as their mother told them tales of her Russian ancestors. John recollected one story in particular.

“Darlings you should never play with guns. One of my ancestors, Count Gorky lived a wild life. He used to get horribly drunk with his friends. He loved excitement. One evening when he was very drunk and all his friends had deserted him the count feeling bored took out his revolver. He placed only one bullet in the chamber, spun the barrel and placing the gun to his head fired. Nothing happened. The chamber had room for 8 bullets and when he spun the magazine it ceased revolving on an empty chamber so, when Count Gorky pulled the Trigger he avoided death by pure good luck. Well children (she continued holding them close) Count Gorky continued to play Russian Roulette for the remainder of the evening and, eventually the inevitable happened – the Count pulled the trigger on the loaded chamber and put a bullet in his brain. So John/Anna promise mummy that you will never play with a loaded gun, they aren’t toys”.

At the time neither John or his sister had imagined that they would ever have the opportunity to do any such thing and being frightened by the story they had promised faithfully never to play with weapons.

John reached for the gun. What where the chances of the gun going off? As with Count Gorky’s pistol the weapon had 8 chambers only one of which was loaded. John felt sick with excitement.

“I’ll be OK. I’ll only spin the magazine once and pull the trigger. I’ll be lucky, wow what a thrill it will be”.

John spun the magazine and placing the gun against his head began to ease down on the trigger.

The door flew open.

“I forgot my wallet”

Mr James trailed off stirring at his son in horror. Very gently he said

“Son put down that gun right now”.

John let the weapon fall to the floor.

“Christ you where bloody lucky that didn’t go off. Thank god I didn’t load it” his father said.

John swallowed hard.

“There is one bullet in it” he muttered hiding his face in his hands.

Mr James’s face took on the colour of chalk.

“You stupid, stupid boy” he said “You should never, ever mess with guns.”

John shrank back. He knew that he was about to receive the beating of his life. Instead Mr James caught his son tightly in his arms.

“I love you son. You could have been killed. Please never ever let me catch you playing with guns again or I’ll beat the living day lights out of you”.

 

End of Part 1

The Case Of The Flying Laptop

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I will soon be famous. Let me rephrase that. I will soon be famous in my own locality for at least 15 minutes. It will be as a consequence of my writing. The reason I hear you ask? Have I written a short story which will wow the inhabitants of Crystal Palace and it’s environs when it appears in the local newspaper? No not quite. I am however fed up to the back teeth with my laptop which is not behaving as it should. To take just one example when I visit websites the machine frequently freezes and the only way in which I can close the internet is by resorting to the use of task manager! I have on several occasions been on the point of hurling the hapless computer out of the window. What a satisfying crash that dratted machine would make as it hit the ground. I can see the headlines now

“Mad writer flips his lid and throws laptop out of window accidentally braining neighbour”!

Well on the basis that all publicity is good publicity can someone open the window please, there is a mad writer on the loose.

The Joy of Housekeeping

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I hate housekeeping and I’m not talking about housework although as it happens I dislike that also. I’m refering to the need to update the static content on my blog. While I enjoy blogging I find it a chore to update my About, My Books and My Reviews pages. It is a necessity but it’s importance makes it not one jot the more interesting! Oh well I’ll stop belly aching and get on with adding my collection of short stories, Sting In The Tail And Other Stories (http://www.amazon.com/Sting-tail-other-stories-ebook/dp/B00DFK6R54) to my static pages. Oh hold on a minute I fancy a nice soak in the bath not that I’m putting off the dreaded task you understand …

Just When You Thought That It Was Safe To Turn On Your Computer

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On 15 June I published my collection of short stories, Sting In The Tail And Other Stories, on Amazon (see http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sting-tail-other-stories-ebook/dp/B00DFK6R54). I thought it would be interesting for me (possibly painful for my listeners) where I to make a recording of a chapter from Sting In The Tail and place it on this blog. With the help of a sighted friend I may even record a video. I’m planning to make the recording in the next week or so, you have been warned …!

Sting In The Tail And Other Stories By K Morris Availible In The Kindle Store

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Following on from my post of earlier today (17 June) in which I announced that my collection of short stories, “Sting In The Tail And Other Stories” is available on amazon.com, I am pleased to confirm that the book is now available on amazon.co.uk. To learn more about “Sting In The Tail” please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sting-tail-other-stories-ebook/dp/B00DFK6R54/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1371459274&sr=1-1&keywords=sting+in+the+tail+and+other+stories. To learn about my other books please visit my Amazon author page which can be found here http://www.amazon.co.uk/K.-Morris/e/B00CEECWHY/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Shutting Myself off, Not Quite!

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Working full time has it’s advantages not least among them being the ability to meet those piffling little obligations known as bills together with other living expenses! The downside to being in full time employment is that I am usually fairly tired by the time I return home in the evening and my ability to write is, as a consequence diminished.

I want to spend time on long term writing projects which will entail me devoting less to blogging. My intention, at the moment is to cut down on my blogging to approximately 2-3 posts a week affording more time for long term composition. Some weeks I may blog more and others less. Rest assured that I won’t be disappearing so don’t break open the champagne just yet or, if you do, invite me along for a drink!

 

Kevin