Tag Archives: social issues

Community Living?

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For some time now I have had the idea of writing a story about what happens when a group of people join together to form a commune. I am fascinated as to whether such a project in which all would share the tasks of the community could work and, if not why not. Any such community would be inhabited by individuals from different backgrounds, from diverse ethnic groups and by people of different genders. I envisage that such a project would attract persons with differing agendas ranging from those who wish to escape from “the rat race”, people who wish to create a mini utopia through to individuals who perhaps have a more sinister agenda.

I work full-time so the main problem I face is that of finding the opportunity to sit down and write. Perhaps the story will be a short piece, perhaps a novel. At this stage I really don’t know the answer to that question. I do, however feel an urge to write this story.

For my Amazon Author’s page please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/K.-Morris/e/B00CEECWHY/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Chicken

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Julie took another swig of cider and passed the bottle to her friend Lizie.

“How’d you get it Jules?” Lizie asked taking a gulp of the dark liquid.

“How you think I got it. Bought it didn’t I” Julie replied taking another swig from the bottle which her friend had just handed back.

“But you aint old enough to drink Jules”.

Julie threw back her head and snorted with laughter.

“So fucking what. You aint old enough either but I could swear you’re drinking with me. Got it in that offie on Duke Street. Owner doesn’t give a stuff about how old you are, just cares about cash”.

“Its bloody good stuff Jules” Lizie said taking another mouthful.

“Its your turn next time Liz. I aint taking the risk every time. It aint fair. I got it last time as well”.

Lizie paled.

“But you look older than me Jules. You look all mature, I look like a little kid. I’ll never get served”.

“Chicken. Course you will. Borrow some of your mum’s make-up and those glittery heels your sister wears and nobody will have a bleeding clue that your 14”.

“Mum will fucking murder me if she finds out” Lizie said.

“Who’s going to tell her? I aint no grass. Just wait till she goes to work and nick a bit. She won’t notice” Julie said flicking a strand of long blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Angela’s mum went ape shit when the cops brought her home” Lizie said drumming her fingers nervously on the wooden bench.

“That stupid cow tried to buy cider in Sainsburys. Fucking idiot. Supermarkets are red hot on, oh what do you call it?” Julie asked.

“Age verification I think” her friend replied.

“Yeah, that’s it. Age verification. Why do you think I always go to the offie? Cause Mr Patel doesn’t give a shit. He’ll sell to anyone so long as they have the cash”. Julie said.

“Mum’s a teacher. She’ll kill me if I get caught. In fact it will be much worse. She’ll give me that I’m so disappointed in you Liz, how could you bring shame on me look. I can’t stand it when she does that. It makes me feel so small” Lizie said holding her hands six inches above the ground.

“I get it. Its fine for bimbo Julie to stick out her neck and maybe have it cut off but that little angel Elizabeth Cox won’t buy cider cause she doesn’t want to disappoint mummy. Well I’m pissed off. Go and find someone else to hang out with because I’ve had enough Lizie” Julie said jumping to her feet.

“Don’t go Jules” Lizie said taking hold of her friend’s sleeve.

“I want a friend not a fucking chicken” Julie said wrenching free from Lizie’s grasp.

“OK I’ll get it next time, promise” Lizie said running after Julie as she headed towards the park gates.

“You promise?” Julie asked turning towards her friend.

“Yeah I promise Jules” Lizie replied.

 

—

 

Lizie looked up and down the street for the third time. At 8:45 on a wind swept and rainlashed Monday evening Cobden street was deserted with the exception of an elderly man fighting a losing battle with his umbrella. As Lizie watched the wind caught the umbrella and carried it away with the elderly gentleman in hot pursuit. Taking a deep breath Lizie pushed open the door to the off licence. The sound of the bell caused her to start guilterly. Funny that. She haden’t felt guilty while drinking Julie’s cider in the park but somehow the prospect of purchasing alcohol herself made Lizie feel sick.

“Can I help you?” Mr Patel said looking through the wire grill which acted as a safety barrier between those serving and the customers.

Lizie swallowed.

“I’ll have this please” she said placing a bottle of Woodpecker cider on the counter.

£3.75” Mr Patel said.

Lizie reached into her pocket for the money. Shit she could have sworn that she had £10 in her purse. It wasn’t there now, she must have left it on the chest of drawers in her bedroom.

“Sorry I’ve forgotten my money. Can I pay you tomorrow?” Lizie asked.

“Its only £3.75. Forget about it” Mr Patel said placing the cider in a plastic carrier bag, “but you could do me a small favour if you have a moment” he continued.

“What kind of favour?” Lizie asked.

Mr Patel grimaced with pain and massaged his back.

“I’ve hurt my back. The doctor says that I shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting but in this job I have to carry heavy boxes. I’ve a box of wine out the back. Could you carry it in here for me?” Mr Patel asked.

“I’m meeting a friend” Lizie said glancing at the time on her mobile.

“It will only take a minute. I can unpack the box, I just need your help to carry it into the shop”.

“OK, where do I need to go?” Lizie enquired.

Mr Patel gestured towards a door at the back of the shop which stood slightly ajar.

“The box is just inside, straight ahead as you go through the door. Don’t trip over it” he said laughing.

Lizie entered the stock room. The box was straight ahead of her just as Mr Patel had said it would be. Lizie bent down to pick it up. As she bent forward to pick up the case of wine Lizie heard the click of a latch followed by a burst of bright light as Mr Patel flicked a switch. Lizie blinked dazzled by the flurescent lights. A hand was clamped over her mouth.

“Lets have some fun. I won’t hurt you if you are a good girl and don’t struggle” Mr Patel said.

Lizie could feel bile rising in her throat. The smell of Mr Patel’s sweat mixed with the scent of his garlicky breath made her wretch. She threw up all over his shirt. Mr Patel released Lizie and began dabbing at his shirt with a tissue.

“You fucking bitch. I’ll kill you” he screamed at Lizie.

Lizie made a dash for the stock room door. Fuck the bastard had locked it. She turned to see that Mr Patel was almost on her. Lizie had no option accept to run. She dashed to the opposite end of the room and stood with her back against a stack of boxes. Desperately she looked around for a means of escape. There was none and Mr Patel was almost on her. Lizie squeezed into the tiny gap between the boxes and the wall. What a crazy thing to have done Lizie  thought. She was well and truly trapped. Mr Patel reached the boxes.

“Come out bitch or I’ll drag you out”.

Lizie could feel her heart banging like a sledge hammer in her chest. She took deep breaths attempting to calm herself. She needed to think.

“Right I’m coming in” Mr Patel said attempting to force himself into the small gap between the boxes and the wall. Unlike Lizie Mr Patel was overweight and he struggled to force an entrance. Lizie tried to think of a way out. She was about to be raped and there wasn’t a thing she could do to prevent it. Her gaze alighted on one of the boxes. It had split open and several cans of Heinz baked beans, the ones with the ring pulls protruded from the box. Lizie grabbed a can. She pulled back the lid and with a jerk of her hand detached it from the tin. Mr Patel had managed to force his way in.

“Don’t struggle and it will be over quicker” he said grabbing for the girl.

Lizie drove the serrated edge of the lid into Mr Patel’s face ripping open his left cheek. He bellowed in pain his hands protectively clutching at the wound. Lizie  drove her foot into his groin. With a pearcing scream Mr patel doubled over. He lay rithing on the floor animal noises coming from his mouth. Lizie bent down and felt in Mr Patel’s pockets. There it was. With a feeling of relief she retrieved the key and pausing only to kick the prostrate man in the face she walked to the door and unlocked it. The shop was empty. Lizie gazed out onto the deserted street. With a final glance up and down the empty pavement she stepped out into the rain swept evening.

Lady in Red

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“It’s Friday evening and that means clubbing. Yeah I can’t wait to get out there on the dance floor. The thud of the beat and all those guys watching as I strut my stuff gives me such a buzz. They can’t keep their eyes off me and their paws too. I can wrap any bloke round my little finger. The power of sex, use and abuse it, get what you want and move on.

God I feel sexy. What will it be? The tight red dress and matching skirt? Yeah that looks great. Where are my stilettos? Got them, I must have thrown them under the bed when I had that bloke last weekend. Mum never says anything about the blokes. As soon as she gets her benefits she’s down the pub picking up her own guy. She tried telling me what to do once.

“You’re a fucking slapper. I’m not having you bring blokes back here. You’re a disgrace. I didn’t bring you up to behave like a little tramp. I’m not putting up with it any more Kylie!”

I told her to fuck off and stormed out of the house. What right has she got to tell me how to live my life. Fucking waste of space she is. When it was happening she did nothing. She says she didn’t know. She didn’t know, my arse! If she had no idea then she bloody well should have known. To fond of the drink to care about me.

Well here I am. Club’s heaving, it always is at the weekend. Look at that bloke he can’t keep his eyes off me. He’s actually drooling. Pathetic loser, I’ll chew him up and spit him out like a piece of chewing gum. His hands are all over me the dirty fucker. He wants it bad. OK mate you asked for it,

“Want to come back to mine” I say grinding against him. Of course he does, the dirty fucker.

Sometimes I let them finish before I say anything. Other times I tell them while they are screwing me. Stupid twats you should see their faces when I tell them the truth. I just say casual like

“I’m 15 wanna see my school uniform”.

It’s a great little earner. No bloke wants to be called a nonce. They beat the crap out of nonces in prison but you know that anyway don’t you? Course you do. Anyway I’ve got more cash than all my mates put together. Blokes are stupid, they deserve everything that comes to them.

Sometimes when I’m by myself I can’t stop crying. Just 10 I was when that bastard slipped into my bed while mum was asleep. The things he made me do. Just a little girl and mum says she didn’t no, bollocks mum, bollocks world!”

The Media Is The Message

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Musak fills the vast void with soulless sound, like a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The seductive blandishments of advertisers like sweet poison fill our heads. To purchase is to exist. Consume, only consume be part of the great consumer boom.

Endless soaps, beautiful people flickering like ghosts across the wide screen. With a flick of a switch the mirage vanishes leaving us bereft. Never mind there is so much choice, no need to switch off the TV, we can float forever in a world of entertainment and a myriad shopping channels. The nice lady, the one with the barbey doll looks and her head filled with straw tells us to keep tuned lest we miss something exciting.

No time to think. Thank god for 24 hour entertainment for it kills the pain, stifles the nagging doubts that asail even the stupidest ass on occasions. But, when the lights go out what do you do with the thoughts which crowd unbidden into your head?

The Joy Of Feedback

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Yesterday evening I met up with my friend Brian for a couple of pints and a curry. Brian has just returned from France and I was delighted that while there he read my story Samantha while relaxing in the grounds of a beautiful French chateau (now there is a man who knows how to live the good life)! Brian was extremely complimentary about Samantha stating that the story is exciting and well written. Receiving feedback from close friends is wonderful particularly when they express a liking for your work. Of course there is the danger that friends and family will hold off when providing their opinion due to not wishing to cause offence (how many mothers would tell their son that they don’t like their literary or other artistic creation for example?!). However I have known Brian for many years and I know that he would not hold back in providing feedback irrespective of whether or not he liked my writing. For my story Samantha please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/Samantha-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI

An Act of Madness Part 4

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Below is Part 4 of my story, An Act of Madness. For Part 3 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/06/02/an-act-of-madness-part-3/.

 

Ian felt that sense of forboding which often afflicts one before the breaking of a powerful thunder storm. He craved yet feared the coming of the thunder and lightening. His temples throbbed and he needed release but how and when that deliverance would come Ian did not know but the thought of it thrilled and scared him half to death in equal measure.

The pent up sexual frustration churned around inside Ian struggling to get out. He became careless. Ian had long regarded Anna, the teenage daughter of the Browns who ran his local news agents as material for his fantasising about teen girls. At 14 Anna was tall, slim and blonde. She stood not quite on the cusp of womanhood and this state of becoming drove Ian wild with desire.

One morning as Anna pushed The Guardian through his letter box Ian, to her great surprise opened the door.

“Morning Anna. It is a beautiful sunny day. You must be hot, would you like to come in for a drink?”

It was indeed a baking hot summer’s day and Anna hesitated before answering

“No thanks Mr Right. I have water with me but thanks for asking”, then with a smile and a waive Anna turned and headed for the next flat.

Once the door closed Ian stood shaking uncontrollably in the hallway. He knew that had Anna accepted his invitation to come in and have a drink that he would have offered her the £50 he had in his wallet for sex. Had he done that Ian knew that Anna’s reaction would, almost certainly have been to run straight home and report

“that filthy pervert from number 5) to her parents. The police and possible imprisonment would have been the almost inevitable result.

“Thank Christ that she didn’t come in” Ian muttered.

It would, he thought be far safer to call Tom who could provide a young girl to cater to his needs with minimum risk of discovery. If he didn’t call Tom then Ian knew that sooner or later he would do something which would lead to him getting caught.

Ian wondered whether the number he had for Tom would still work. He guessed that people like Tom changed their numbers and location frequently to keep one step ahead of the authorities. It had been almost six weeks since he had visited that hovel in Brixton so it was quite possible that Tom (or whatever his real name was) would have long since moved on. There was only one way to find out. With a trembling hand Ian picked up his mobile and located Tom in his contacts. His finger froze on the call buttond. It was so easy to make that call and so simple to delete the number. Yes he would delete the number and seek counselling for his addiction. Obviously he wouldn’t tell his counsellor that he had sexually abused a child (they would be obliged to inform the police). He would, however confess to a liking for young girls and do whatever was necessary to co-operate with the counsellor in tackling his perversion. But no, he was beyond redemption. Once a paedophile always a paedophile. Slowly, almost imperceptibly Ian’s finger pressed down on the call button.

“Yeah?”

“Is that Tom?”

“Yeah”

“Its Ian not sure if you remember?”

“I thought that you had forgotten old Tom! I’ve something very special for you. Two girls, one you saw before, Lisa and the other, Angel. Angel’s petite and black. Real cute. You’ll like her. I like you man. You can have both girls for £600”.

Ian’s hand was trembling so much that he almost dropped the mobile.

“Are you there man?”

“Yeah”

“Wanna come over?”

“OK, is it the same place?”

“Yeah, see you in half an hour?”

“No, say an hour”

“OK man, see you then. You will love Angel, Tom don’t provide no rubbish”.

 

—

 

Ian sat on the top deck of the bus as it wended it’s way towards Brixton. Looking out of the window he saw a park full of bright flowers. The reds, purples and whites combined to make a magnificent floral display. Someone rang the bell. Ian half rose from his seat,he was tempted to get off the bus, forget about Tom and spend the day walking in beautiful parkland. His groin twitched at the prospect of the two young girls Tom had waiting for him. With a wistful look back at the now receeding park Ian returned to his seat.

Paid for: My Journey into Prostitution by Rachel Moran

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I am currently reading “Paid For: My Journey Through Prostitution: One Brave Woman’s Account of the Violence that is Prostitution [Kindle Edition], by Rachel Moran (see http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00C7735X8?ie=UTF8&ref_=oce_digital). The author grew up with two mentally ill parents. Her father committed suicide when she was still a young girl.  Rachel’s mother’s schizophrenia worsened following his death leading to increased pressure on Rachel and the other children of the family to grow up before their time. For example the author relates how she had to collect her younger sister from the hospital unaccompanied by her mother while still a young child.

The pressure cooker environment leads to Rachel leaving home in her early teens. She moves from hostel to hostel experiencing periods of homelessness in between. Due to hunger she turns to shop lifting but not being adept at it frequently ends up in the local police stations.

At the age of 15 Rachel’s 21-year-old boyfriend suggests that she enters prostitution. Believing that sex work will empower her Rachel agrees to this suggestion and at the age of 15 enters street prostitution.

I am under half way through the book and have therefore not formed a view as to it’s overall merits. What I can say is that Rachel Moran knows how to string a sentence together and that the reader feels compelled to agree with her assessment that given her chaotic childhood the author’s entry into prostitution was predictable (I don’t think that one can say inevitable).

I will post a full review once I have finished reading Moran’s book.             

Dream Girl

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Never in his wildest dreams had Tom imagined that a girl like Bethany would be interested in a guy like him. Tom was the first to acknowledge that he was no Cupid. His beer belly bulged obscenely over the top of his threadbare trousers and his tangled hair was in urgent need of a wash and comb. However for some inexplicable reason here he lay next to a gorgeous blonde bombshell who had only just turned 20.

Softly Tom stroked Bethany’s firm young breasts. They felt like beautiful ripe pairs bursting with juice under his hands.

“God your skin is perfect just like silk”

Beth’s response was to kiss Tom full on the mouth. He wanted to explode, to shoot pure spurts of joy into this goddess. Tom reached for the comdoms which lay conveniently placed on the bedside table.

“Yes baby I want you inside me. Come on honey I need you”, Bethany moaned.

“God you are so wet” Tom exclaimed.

Suddenly it was all over. The background whirr ceased. The lights flickered and went out leaving Tom stirring disconsolately at his computer screen …

 

 

Every man has his price

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According to Marxists prostitution is merely one manifestation of the middle class family (Engels held that marriage often degenerates into prostitution) see, for example an article in Slate Magazine, “Socialist Hoares: What Did Karl Marx Think of Prostitution?” (http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/explainer/2011/11/socialist_whores_what_did_karl_marx_think_of_prostitution_.html). I am no Marxist. I am however interested as a writer to explore why certain people (primarily women but men also) take a conscious decision to sell their bodies in return for financial security. In my story Rent (http://newauthoronline.com/2013/03/15/rent/) for example, Leah a girl from a tough council estate in East London’s Tower Hamlets becomes the girlfriend of Ian, a wealthy stockbroker as a means of escaping her grim existence. Leah makes the calculation that sleeping with Ian is a price worth paying to escape from a world in which drug addicts inject themselves on the stairs and the lifts stink of urine. However Leah’s fine clothes and expensive jewellery come at a high price – she sells her soul. Leah doesn’t love Ian (his contemptuous treatment of a young waitress in an expensive restaurant revolts her). She is, however unwilling to break away from the luxurious existence which Ian’s wealth allows her to enjoy.

Again, in my story Damned (http://newauthoronline.com/2013/03/10/damned/) a young Thai girl, Nan determines to seduce her western employer in order to benefit financially when he dies. As a girl of 14 Nan knows that by encouraging John to sleep with her that he is breaking the law and, as such Nan has the power to blackmail him by threatening to inform the authorities if he doesn’t agree to leave her financially secure on his death. Nan has experienced hardship (prior to meeting John she sold food on the streets of Bangkok) and in order to better her condition she calculates that having intercourse with John is a price worth paying.

There are obvious differences in the two stories. Leah lives in the UK where despite her life being grim the welfare state will prevent her from starving (her life in the tower block is horrible but she won’t die). In contrast there is no welfare safety net in Thailand and Nan must work or die. So is Leah more “culpable” than Nan when she determines to provide sex in return for economic security? On one level this is true. Nan is a child who, arguably does not possess the capacity to make an informed choice about selling her body. As an adult John could have resisted her advances however, being weak willed he fails to do so. In contrast Leah is an adult who possesses the intellectual capacity to make informed decisions regarding her own body. One may argue that economic circumstances push Leah into the arms of Ian, however many other people in the same situation as Leah do not opt to sell their bodies by becoming the mistresses of rich men so, ultimately Leah does make a conscious choice. Whether her decision is right or wrong is a matter for my readers to determine. For my own part I am wary of passing moral judgements on others. We are all fallible human beings. Life is rarely black and white, it tends rather to be made up of shades of grey.