Winter

From the frozen park - a swan's feather and a leaf skeleton. I love winter, its sparseness and austerity. Time to fall back and make only small movements.

Monochrome and silence.

Meanwhile, I'm writing a story involving the Prime Minister. Is that allowed? AM Homes wrote a fantastic story about the Reagans that terrified and exhilarated me. I wonder about libel and slander.

Of course, I haven't specified which prime minister...

Love at first sting

I think I can whoop about this now. Can I? Okay, I'm going to anyway 'cos I feel like a little whoop. My story 'The '76 Revolution' will be featured in 'Love at First Sting', edited by Alison Tyler and published by Cleis sometime this summer. It's the punkish, bondage-esque story that I did all the obsessive Strawberry Switchblade research on. Altogether now, Whoohoop!

(If the final line-up doesn't include my story, you should check the book out anyway. Shanna Germain's got a great story in it about a camping trip, and the cover's lovely!)

Ode tae a Rabbit

photo from hargo

I'm a day late. Apparently the rest of the world takes Burn's day more seriously than we do here in Scotland. The haggis is sitting in the fridge forlorn and forgotten.

Continuing an occasional series of re-worked poems, here's my skewed and smutty version of Burns' Ode to a Haggis. Rab was a joyful carouser in his day, and I think he might approve. Plus, maybe I'm reading this with blue-tinted glasses, but some of it sounds filthy just as it is.





Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the sex-toy race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
The dildo or five finger jam,
Weel are ye wordy of a grace worthy
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trench there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them oot their thrills so fair,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking tease
That fails tae please

But if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a rabbit!



- Translations

Sonsie - cheerful
Hurdies - buttocks
Pin - skewer
skinking - watery

Insomniaaargh

Bolt upright at 5 am, writing since then. Body clock erratic. Story needs brutal pruning. Damn low word counts. Blue glow from a white screen - no other light. Unable to form sentences, eyes crossing, sleep is a strange machine.

Back to the witch in the forest, incantation, incubus -

Daylight hour approaches, Siberian temperatures forecast. Batteries low.

Nap.

Flick

I was very tickled this morning to hear some of my stories being read aloud by a stranger!

Way back last year, I wrote a load of stories for Whispers Audio. Now they're available for your listening pleasure!

Most of the CDs are collections written by different authors, but there's one that was all my own work. I'm delighted to present - Flick's Diaries. Felicity was a great character to write - sort of screwball comedy erotica.

Click for little excerpts from three stories.

Perfect

...day for writing. It's snowing! - 'Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.'

And everything turns magical. Which will help with my story - full of moors and hills and rivers and witches.

At my oak desk with a pot of tea brewing, with the fire on next to me and a story that is waiting, waiting...I thank you The Great Whomever for snowy days and time to write.

Regime de Vivre

(with apologies to Lord Rochester)

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven and the next thing I do,
I send for my man-whore, when for fear of a clap,
I get him to eat me and come in his trap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the prick growing bold, to my fanny does creep.
Then slyly he leaves me and to revenge the affront,
At once he bereaves me of filling my cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar and I fall in a fury,
and missing my judge, I shag the whole jury.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.

Contessa Nikki de Glasgow

(The original version was written in the 17th century. Thought it was time to update it.)

Spring

I walked to the park yesterday. The sun was yellow and gold everywhere, and the air was so sweet.

I helped a lady find the first crocus shoots, and we smiled at the unexpected day - spring in midwinter. Green shoots and a clear sky.

The best days are those where nothing much happens and you float around listening to the quiet voices in your head.

Stranger and stranger...

Got the cover proofs for 'Sex with Strangers' yesterday. You can see right up the girl's skirt!

The book's out in June, and features two of my stories:

The art of fucking - set in an artist's studio. It gets messy, but in a good way.

A whole new city - the story of an uptight travel agent and the customer who shows her life in a different light.

In other news, I've had two stories accepted for anthologies I'm very excited about (but can't really whoop loudly just yet). And am working on a twisted orchid story for another...busy bee working hard for honey here...

Just curious

What expression falls out of your mouth when you hurt yourself? If proof were needed of how deeply ingrained our upbringing is on us, here's an example:

I burn my hand on the cooker and reflexively shout:

'Einau blixem Maria Fuck'

Thanks to my mongrel heritage. (Anyone who can guess where my forebears hailed from wins a gold star.)

Now I'm curious as to other people's personal verbal knee jerks. What have you got?