Fifty Shades of Fucking Grey.

‘So, what do you say?’
She hears him say.

‘To a roll in the hay?’
She hears him say.

He’s after some sex.
She peers over her specs.

‘I’m trying to read.’

‘But I have needs.’

She rolls her eyes
At his sulky sighs.

‘So, what do you say?’
She hears him say.

‘I’m reading Fifty Shades of Grey.’

‘But isn’t that book very rude?
Shouldn’t it get you in the mood?’

‘Alas, rather sadly,
It’s written quite badly.’

He takes out his copy of Readers Wives.
Her natural instinct is to chastise.

But she continues to read her book,
Of faux erotic mindless muck.

The quilt moves direction
With his giddy erection.

He’s a visual man,
Her husband, Stan.

When had she last touched the old fella?
Before beginning this best-seller.

She’s had enough of Mr. Grey,
He’s not that sexy anyway.

She throws the book off the bed,
Now unloved and half unread.

At least her Stan is real.
Perhaps they can cut a deal?

She’ll admit she’s in the wrong,
If he’ll do that thing with his tongue.

She remembers when she had a voice
To use for loud orgasmic noise.

She would like to remove her frown
And scream the bloody house right down.

‘So, what do you say?’
He hears her say.

‘To a roll in the hay?’
He hears her say.

‘Bloody hell, it’s about time too,
I think my balls are turning blue.’

She pulls out his best gimp mask.
‘Marjorie, I thought you’d never ask.’

Fun with Wordle.

Random words taken from my short stories.

The House by the Sea

Sarah takes care of tomorrow’s lunches, lovingly cutting the crusts off four different kinds of sandwiches. Sarah disinfects the kitchen surfaces and sweeps the crumbs from the lino floor. She puts everything back where it belongs. Sarah works quietly and tirelessly for her family, without thanks, recognition or uttered comment. She is a shadow in her own life. She suspects that her family have forgotten that she’s here.

Her husband watches the television and clips his toenails. Sarah informs him that she’s going outside to bring in the last load of washing from the line, but he doesn’t seem to hear. The football’s on.

She closes the door and walks straight past the billowing line of clothes. She strides through the garden gate and skips down the dusty path. It is dark now, the moon reigns over the blackness and stars pepper the sky. She begins to run as she approaches the pier, she can’t get to the end fast enough. She throws off her clothes and her shoes and races along until her heart beats faster and the blood pounds in her ears, reminding her that she’s alive. She’s out of breath and sinks to the ground, listening to the soothing lapping waves. Her hands feel for the handle, she finds the door; the cold steel on her fingers makes her smile. She taps, just once, and it slowly opens.

A wet scaly hand brings her down the hatch. A salty moist kiss lands on her hand. She is carried down, deep into the depths. She hears a murmur, which becomes a hum, which becomes a song. It is a song of worship, of gratitude, love and celebration, lyrics of the sea, second chances and transformation, a tune of beauty, passion and old magic.

Sarah is placed upon a glassy throne; a garland of cockle shells is presented to her. Her slippery tail emerges and her hair is brushed and decorated with an oyster’s pearl crown. The mermen bow as Sarah surveys them. Her eyes halt at the sight of one so young, strong and handsome that she is blind to the others. She observes his long blonde hair, his sultry lips and chiselled torso, she has found this evening’s mate. She points in his direction and his green eyes shine in agreement. The chamber is hushed as she leads him away by the hand.

Their tales flip and swim, further and further down into the sea. It’s a love like no other, each kiss is exquisitely electric. Tiny touches, lips against lips, ripple the water and become crashing gigantic waves overhead, a beautiful storm of overturned boats, a beloved and ancient tradition, a perfect freak of nature, a passionate collision, ocean versus ocean.

Sarah is adored and stroked, revered and desired, wanted and yearned for, the mysterious mythical princess from the shore. Her hands run up and down his spine and as they became one being, the sea whispers secrets, spills treasures and devours the sand. She spends the night in his arms, reading and caressing his soul.

She bids farewell and returns to the pier with her human legs. A rich salty aroma is thick in her nostrils and deep in her heart. She scoops up her clothes and shoes and walks back to the garden. She slowly pulls the washing from the line.

As she enters the house, not a moment passed, the football cheers blare from the television and startle her. Still her husband clips his toenails; still he does not notice her.

She tells preoccupied ears that she is going to wash the pots. She submerges her hands into the bowl of bubbled water, swirling them around, satisfied and at peace.

Book Review Club: Fear Blog Tour *Giveaway, Interview and Book Blurb...

Book Review Club: Fear Blog Tour *Giveaway, Interview and Book Blurb...: We want to welcome Author Laura Huntley to Book Review Club with this awesome interview a blurb from her book Fear A Modern Anthology of H...

The Delivery.

‘Be still,’ she mutters to her stomach, the movements tickle like bubbles bursting against the surface. Her eyes flicker, she’s regaining consciousness.

‘Miriam, thank goodness,’ her mother weeps with relief.

Miriam opens her eyes, she recoils as she realises that she’s in the hospital until her eyes fix upon the bright light above her which helps her to feel at peace.

‘Miriam, what’s happening?’ asks her mother.

Miriam’s hands instinctively clutch her abdomen. A fierce pain rips through her. It is time. Her mother shrieks and hides behind a nurse.

Miriam props herself up on the wafer thin white pillows and grits her teeth, beads of sweat glisten across her flushed face. She calmly seizes a scalpel and slits a bloody line across her stomach, the skin is tougher than she had imagined.

They flee immediately, escape, and break free, greeting the universe, embracing the precious light and flapping their wings, Miriam’s whisper of moth babies. 

Remembering Harry.

Everyone kept asking if I was sure that I wanted to be alone on a night like this. I managed not to scream at the top of my voice that of course I don’t want to be alone, I want Harry. But I can’t have Harry. Harry’s gone. And now it’s official since we just said our goodbyes at his funeral.

As the coffin arrived, I looked back at the sea of black garments and sad, red eyes. I tried not to but I kept looking at the curtain that I knew would soon swallow him up and really mean the end. Music blasted though and that felt good, I could feel it humming in my veins. Sinatra. Harry’s favourite, he’d have loved that, Frank’s crisp, haunting voice sending him off, the final lullaby.

Then the words, true ones, proud ones, happy ones, sad ones, all about my Harry. It was odd really; it felt almost rude to be talking about him when he wasn’t here to chip in with a smattering of spicy details. All I could smell were the flowers. I’ve never seen so many flowers in my life and although the floral tributes were kind and touching, the pungent aroma stuck in my nostrils and distracted me further.

After that was the wake. My daughter, Isla, fussed and bothered me with tasteless sandwiches on a paper plate. She was just trying to look after me but I couldn’t eat more than a bite, my throat felt too dry. So I had a cheeky tipple of Harry’s favourite scotch, a big old tumbler full with clinking ice cubes. It went straight to my head and I had to go and stand outside to wait for the brain fog to clear.

Then the obligatory stiff hugs, taut bodies wanting to appear caring but not wishing to actually touch, a peculiar affectionate gesture that didn’t pay off. I just felt tired and wanted to be free of the company. I wanted to come home and sit still and let it all sink in. and here I am. Except that now it’s silent to the point that I can’t stand it and I’m afraid that I let them burn him into a pile of insignificant ashes that I will sprinkle somewhere some day. I don’t want to remember him like this. I pick up the old biscuit tin of photographs and take the first one out. I smile immediately, despite suddenly feeling so desolate and lonely that I wonder if I could too die of this terrible pain inside me.

It’s a picture of us, me and Harry, so long ago, our faces so young and fresh that I barely recognise us. We’re laughing because he’s trying to take the picture of us from an awkward angle and he’s only just made it into the photo at all. At once I’m back in that field, that picnic, on that glorious summer’s day. I can actually smell the newly cut grass that tickles my legs. I feel the burning heat of the sun on my skin; I have to squint every time that it pokes out from behind the gently swaying trees.

I hear a river nearby, a slow satisfied trickle of water. I hear nature in the sky, birds calling out to one another and bees buzz past my ear. I don’t hear people or traffic because we’ve made sure that we won’t be interrupted, this is our special day. I have been excited all week. Harry feeds me a strawberry. I don’t always particularly care for strawberries but this one is more succulent than any I’ve tasted before, juice trickles down my chin and he laughs at me, kissing it away until his lips find mine and I taste the sharp, dry white wine on his tongue which is a heady mix with the delicious fruit.

I feel the trail of his fingertips dance down my spine and by the time it reaches the bottom, I am a shivering delight. Crawling scarlet blushes sear my cheeks at what I am feeling and thinking. As though he reads my mind, Harry makes us comfortable on the grass and we melt at the very same time, sensibility disappears and it is replaced with a mighty passion that we cannot ignore today. We touch each other intimately. I hear our matching rapid breaths and soft moans of pleasure as we make love for the very first time. He holds me afterwards, for over an hour, I fall asleep for a little while, so safe and happy and relaxed, feeling like a woman, not a girl any more.

I open my eyes and wish Harry was here. I would stand in the doorway with my hand on my hip and ask him if he remembered the picnic. He would smile his slow, mischievous smile that I loved and we’d kiss like we were still teenagers, desperate to be as close as possible, super glued together, body temperatures rising.

I place the photo down on the arm of the chair and reach in for another. It’s us again, the happy couple on our wedding day. Again, I inhale at the shock of the youth looking back at me. Simultaneously, it seems like such a long time ago and just like yesterday. I scan Harry’s face, he hated wearing that suit, some fuss and nonsense about double buttons, but I thought he had never looked so handsome. All day long I had felt like we were starring in our own film, everything was so elegant and idyllic.

Closing my eyes again, I remember putting on the silk white dress and the gasps from my mother, my father in curious tears at giving away his little girl (they didn’t know that I had actually become a woman, of course). I recall how my face hurt from smiling; it actually ached due to the permanent beam spread across it. It was magical.

My senses come alive and place me back there; my lips part to kiss him in front of the crowd of joyful faces. Harry kisses me so sweetly that my head spins with the sensuality of it and for the overwhelming love of him. I float outside, on his big, strong arm and confetti is thrown into the air, it’s snowing pastel coloured paper and it gets stuck in my hair but I don’t care. I can hear Harry’s raucous laughter in my ear, I feel him squeeze my hand tightly.

I see us sitting down for our meal, I smell the Filet Mignon and I realise just how starving hungry I am. The nerves are gone, it’s done, we’re married, and I’m his. The butterflies have left my stomach and now it growls at the sumptuous scent of the food before me. I’m actually drooling and impatient. I look across at him and he has the same eager face and we erupt into an understanding chuckle. We dig in and it’s like I’ve never tasted food before. It’s so tender that I forget my manners entirely and wolf it down.

The reception was the most magnificent fun, the big band, the fizz of the champagne, the sweet smell of the cake with the pink icing. Moonlight Serenade plays, our first dance, starting off slow and serious but ending up crazy, struggling for breath as we take up the whole of the floor, my mother rolling her eyes at our antics, Harry’s mother doing the same.

Finally going to bed together and it’s allowed, no more sneaking around, this is it. Waking up feeling him next to me in the morning and knowing that the rest of my life will be spent with him, I am truly content.

I open my eyes and see that I am tapping my toe to the beat of the reception music in my head. It’s amazing how powerful memories can be, that a smell, a song, a touch can send you right there in your own private time machine. It hurts to feel all this, knowing he isn’t here, that I will never see him again, but I need this. I need this time, I have to remember and feel it, put it all together in a folder in my brain to access again and again and again. I can’t be remembering coffins and ashes. Harry was my everything. I put down the picture and turn the next one over. Instinctively, tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away. Just for a moment I don’t want to be sad, I want to be as happy as I was in all of these photographs.

Us again, but now we’re joined by a tiny little special person who tuned our world upside down and made us yet happier, our little baby Isla, just born. Harry has the biggest smile here; he’s so proud and has such intense love in his eyes for his brand new daughter. He has a protective arm around me as I cradle her. In seconds, he has become a dad, and what a kind, selfless dad he turned out to be. I could not have picked a better man; there never was a better man.

My senses jump and try and run away as I remember the excruciating pain that it took to get this tiny, heavenly creature out of my body. So long ago now, but I still wince and cross my legs. It’s so difficult to describe, a low pain, dull but it builds to a point where you really are certain that you can’t take it. I remember a few expletives left my lips at certain points, I apologised to the hospital staff afterwards. They weren’t bothered; I suppose they must hear it all the time?

My mind plays out the moment of her birth and that terrifying second of silence where I held my breath in anxiety. And then it came, the most perfect sound that there ever could me, the shrill yet feeble cry of the newborn. It changed me forever that sound, I knew at once that every time I heard that voice, I would come running. I was scared when they gave her to me, she looked so delicate and helpless, and what if I held her wrong, and would I hurt her? I felt the soft cellular blanket and peeled it back so that I could really see her. I wept at the miniscule finger nails, the softest skin in the world. I kissed the crown of her head and discovered a shock of dark hair, just like Harry. She had my small button nose, but other than that she was all Harry, I could tell straight away. The rush of awe and intoxicating love was like some wonder drug. She changed us, right there and then; we were her mum and her dad.

I’m crying now, properly crying. Tears blur my vision and my nose is leaking, sobs catch in my throat. How can I live without him? I know now, it isn’t a nightmare, and he isn’t waking up. Why didn’t he wake up? My whole body heaves and trembles. I want him back. I want to run to the crematorium and explain that I’ve made a dreadful mistake. They can’t have him, he’s mine. I know it’s too late but I just feel so bloody useless and heartbroken and empty.

I put the photographs back in the gaudy old biscuit tin, out of fear of spoiling them with my falling tears. I sit like this for some time, the pain goes nowhere but after a while the tears gradually become quiet and contained, they dry until it’s more of a whimper. I look at the clock, one of our wedding presents, and realise that it’s not quite as late as I had assumed. I reach for my shoes and put them on. I grab the pad of paper and Harry’s perfectly sharpened pencil and write my list: Strawberries, Filet Mignon, Scotch. I’ll go to the supermarket and make myself a memorial supper, toast my wonderful husband and see if I can keep my special memories going tomorrow. And, perhaps, the day after that.

The Purple Room.

Stop. I remember that I am not supposed to go in this room. It’s just that I can’t remember why. My fingers loiter on the door handle. It’s locked. If only I had the key. I keep thinking about my father’s decanter in the drawing room. It’s a hazy memory but it’s the only one that I have.

Go. My father is asleep on the brown leather armchair; his newspaper has dropped to the floor. I tiptoe by and quietly search around the decanter. The key is behind it, on the silver tray. I glide back to the hallway.

Stop. The key almost burns in my hand, I don’t like the way it feels within my sweaty palm. I shouldn’t have it. I should go and put it back. I know that I should not enter the locked room. It’s just that I can’t remember why.

Go. I’m tired of being told what to do, of being an adult but still having my mother choose my clothes and brush my hair. I put the key inside and hold my breath. I close my eyes in case I see something bad, something that I don’t want to really see.

Stop. What could be in here? Why can’t I remember? I’m frightened and my hand hesitates now that the key has fully turned.

Go. I will only find out if I go inside. I poke the door open a little, wide enough for my left foot to fit inside but not far enough for me to see. I feel around for the light switch and flick it on.

Stop. I feel uneasy. I feel sick. I feel as though someone has their hands gripped around my neck and that I can’t breathe. My head hurts and I feel cold. I think I might be coming down with a bug.

Go. I walk into the room and gently close the door behind me. Maybe it is okay if I don’t open my eyes? How scary can this room really be?

Stop. It is scary; it’s full of terror and a huge palpable agonising pain. I shouldn’t be here. I just can’t remember why.

Go. I must do it. I must take a peek. Suddenly, I remember being a tiny girl; I’d got into trouble for sneaking into next door’s garden. My mother apologised to Mrs. Drabble with a red face and told her that I had always been an inquisitive child. Sometimes I feel that I will always be that little child, I don’t think that I am allowed to grow up. I can’t explain it.

Stop. I want to open my eyes but the churning mixture of half memories keeps them scrunched tightly shut. I want to open them. I want to open them. I want to open them.

Go. I’m in the purple room. I remember the purple room. The purple room is lovely and pretty. The walls are lilac and mauve and the curtains have tiny daisies on them. I think this was my room, when I was a little girl. Why am I not allowed in here? Why did I change rooms? There’s my rocking horse and my dolls. I pick up the floppy fabric doll with the smiling face and blonde woollen hair. I’m sure this was my favourite, but I have forgotten her name.

Stop. Something’s not right. Something is wrong with the purple room. It’s covered in dust and it smells funny. I don’t think anyone has been in here for a long time. I don’t understand what is going on. I’m breathing too quickly and I need to slow down. My heart is beating wildly.

Go. I glance at the book spines on the case, I remember all of them. I used to be such a bookworm. I wonder why I don’t read anymore.

Stop. My own reflection startles me. I see myself in the dusty old dressing table mirror.

Go. I have to laugh at my silliness. I am being ridiculous, I’m in the lovely purple room with teddy bears and other loves and precious things. I should be rejoicing the return of my childhood treasures. When did I become such a jittery jumpy girl?

Stop. My mother’s at the door and she looks cross with me. She asks me what I think I’m doing.

Go. I tell her that this is my purple room and that she can’t keep me from it anymore.

Stop. She shakes her head, her eyes look tired, and her face looks blotchy. She tells me that this is not my room, that it belongs to Lydia.

Go. I laugh in her face. I tell her that nobody here is called Lydia, she doesn’t exist.

Stop. My mother weeps into a sodden tissue full of holes. She tells me that Lydia is dead; she whispers that I can’t remember.

Go. Who was Lydia? Who was Lydia? I scream out the words until my chest hurts.

Stop. Your twin sister, my mother says, shaking her head. We went through all this yesterday, when I came into the purple room.

Go. I tell her that I haven’t been in the purple room for years, nobody has, and I scrape a thick layer of dust from the shelves to show her. I tell her that these are my things.

Stop. She quietly informs me that I came here yesterday and that we had the same conversation. Lydia was my twin sister; she died when we were seven years old.

Go. I sob. I tell her that I don’t remember.

Stop. She says that it’s because my brain won’t let me, it’s damaged, I’m sick, because I pushed Lydia out of the window after a petty squabble.

Pause.

Rewind. I see it. I see a little girl with the same face and honey blonde hair as I had. I see her at an awkward angle on the floor below. I remember peering out of the window and my mother’s scream that didn’t end until after that first year.

Stop.

Go. But this is my doll, I say.

Stop. No, my mother says, it belonged to Lydia; all of this belonged to Lydia. She says that it’s late and that I should take my pills and go to sleep. She says that she’s picked out a soft cotton nightgown for me and that she will brush my hair and sing my favourite song if I come now.

Go. I let my mother lead me out. She closes and locks the door behind us. I take my pills and feel weary. I long to place my head on the pillow and sleep. The soothing brush strokes make me feel warm. My mother tucks me into the bed sheets. She tells me not to go into the purple room again.

Stop. What purple room, I yawn.

Stop.