5.0 out of 5 stars KEMP SETS THE BAR WITH THIS ONE! A MUST READ FOR ALL!! HOME RUN… BRAVO MR. KEMP BRAVO!!!, December 9, 2013
By Daniel Jones – See all my reviews
This review is from: Why? (Paperback)
Daniel Kemp’s new book WHY? sets the bar very high, even for him. I found Why? a pleasant read full of complex and compelling social issues. The players in this story were likeable but conflicted and came to life right before my eyes as I read the pages hungrily. Every man remembers fondly back to the day when sex was new, exciting and a test to his manhood. Why? by Danny Kemp, captures that magical time in the pages of his latest offering Why? Mr. Kemp is a master story-teller in every sense of the word. Writers like Daniel Kemp only come along but once in a lifetime. This story was full of sexual tension and the fumblings of youth trying to find their way in the suburbs of modern England. This read was refreshing and mildly erotic; but not salacious in any way. Danny Jones author, writer, speaker.
Why are you yet clamoring for this correspondence? Can no one else reply to this boy with any success? I swear I am advising Spot as best as I can, but the strange conduit that my postal service has provided me into the future makes me wonder… Besides common sense, what else doesn’t translate in the centuries ahead?
My servants are desperate for each of his letters and it appears that the exchange is now entertaining my entire street and everyone in my narrow acquaintance. My reputation is forfeit! If the papers get wind of this surreal friendship, I will be lost!
All that said, I cannot abandon the boy. He is in URGENT need of assistance (or the care of a good physician who specializes in mental maladies…)
There. I said it.
Dearest Auntie all-knowing, all caring, Alice, everything was good but alas, is not NOW!
Myrtle and I were holed up, (I like that expression. So much better than: in hiding or concealed don’t you think? Adds a certain amount of American cowboy culture to the whole thing. I can see the brave Apache warriors coming over the horizon now and, well, I suppose I better stop fantasising and get on with this report. Fantasising will get Spot nowhere, and into trouble no doubt) I wish I had proper English spelling on this iPad belonging to that Danny Kemp as I keep getting Z’s coming up everywhere. No matter, onwards and upwards as they say.
I was saying that to Myrtle, in a roundabout way with flag poles still playing heavily on my mind, when her mobile telephone rang. It was Brenda.
Yes, there I was, with the love of my life, when that kind woman interrupted us, at least at that time I thought her kind. No longer do I. I shall explain in my own inimitable way, direct and to the point. There is a ‘hue-and-cry’ out for all of us.
SPOT IS ON THE WANTED LIST!
£10,000,000 is being offered as a reward for any of us, on capture. At first, on hearing this, I was not in the slightest bit interested; as you know I am adept at disguising myself and I thought that Myrtle was so beautiful that she could pass as Marie Antoinette if necessary. The squint could be covered over with a pair of sunglasses, and the lisp need not be too pronounced, nor remarked upon, if we were careful. As for any other deficiencies she may have, clothes could have made a huge difference. But it’s not to be, Auntie. Myrtle is a traitor and BRENDA no better than a…despot! (Sounds a bit like a toilet that word, despot, don’t you think?) I have been deceived and being blamed for everything. I overheard my, (past tense should be used there) Myrtle say that if I had not fancied Lionel, I mean Lily, then the silly notion of being a reincarnated Queen of Wales would never have arisen. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?
Myrtle said, and I quote; ‘I will knock him off mum, and then we will be rid of him.’ What does….knock me off mean, Auntie?
Next came Brenda’s reply, leaving me in a state of exasperation. Clever word there, eh! Spot is going up in the world’s vocabulary. Bet you’re impressed Auntie dear. She, that’s the self-delusional one Brenda, then said to lure me to Wales onto the mountain where she and Mack are in hiding dressed as sheep, they would then, in her words; deal with me there. It’s called Mount Taffy by the way. She added, as way of an aside, that her husband, Thomas The Tank Engine, was in for a deathly surprise. Sounded ominous and frightful.
I don’t like the sound of it all, not one tiny minuscule of it! What do you think Auntie, should I dump Myrtle and take flight, OR, holster up my six-shooters, put on my spurs and ride up to Boot Hill, alias Taffy mountain, thereby becoming the new Wyatt Earp?
In need of advice,
“Knock you off” means if I am properly informed, to do you great harm. And by harm, I mean, murder. I draw this from context mainly but I feel very confident that your Myrtle means to end your life, bury you in an unmarked hole and then head off with her bedlam-set mother to whistle a happy Welsh tune. In other words, you’re about to be snuffed out.
Unless you follow the clear advice of my previous dozen missives and RUN!
At last, a ray of hope! You must disavow these horrible people once and for all! But, as I am a practical woman who is well aware of the cost of candles, I wish to persuade you to make the most of the moment. It may seem mercenary, my dear boy, but let’s recall that anyone who seeks to destroy not only the quiet calm of good hard-working Englishmen enjoying a pint, end the monarchy and overthrow a perfectly good system of government but ALSO to kill my sweet if addled friend (I mean, you, Spot.); they do not deserve mercy.
Let the authorities deal with them. But as you yourself have been bruised, kidnapped, assaulted, and much abused, I think you’ve earned that reward money!
Turn them in and collect your due. Then with the money, you can finally return to the sanctuary of home and hearth where you are undoubtedly missed and wanted!
Ah, I must end my letter here. My household staff are starting to place bets regarding your survival and it falls to me to regulate the odds.
Dearest all protective Aunt Alice,
Spot is desolate, how could I ever have thought well of Brenda and Myrtle? They led Spot down The Desolate Garden path, and WHY was that?…….Anything But Hackneyed, I say.
Auntie, please believe me when I say that it was not me who typed those three incoherent sentences; it was that rogue Danny Kemp. You can tell by the illiterate style!
It’s a good job that he and that Renee Bernard don’t know each other, else we will be having people wearing Diamonds, Pearls and Opals all over the place. Never do!
Back to business. Spot has done, did, do it. Took your advice and turned the heathen in! All three of them WERE in custody. Note I used the past tense of ‘is.’ To be or not to be, that is the….IT’S him again, that Kemp. There, I’ve blocked him, but he is getting closer. We might have to do something drastic to delete him….permanently!
So, here comes the tale, or as they say at the race course; we’re off and running.
I tied Myrtle hand and foot, put her in a sack, slung her over my shoulder and deposited her outside radio Siren’s front door, a world renown broadcasting station. As I was leaving, a young beautiful, becoming lady, by the name of Tracey, stopped me. I had to explain what I was doing, Auntie. And I had to share the reward money to get her to cover my own withdrawal. But was I cute, or was…I cute!
She wanted a quarter of the £10,000,000. I took no truck from her. I beat her down relentlessly, offering only a third, and she accepted it. Spot’s a good egg at maths, eh! It was she who notified the police of Brenda and Mack’s hiding place and helped in my getaway..
She gave me a brownie cake. I think she loves Spot, Auntie. She has given me her Skype handle! Oh er, I’m in there all right! I will attempt to plant my flag pole in her office at some later date.
The news of Brenda and Mack’s escape came over her radio station’s network. Yes, she owns the radio broadcasting service, AND has connections. Big ones too! There was an unfortunate scene that I could hear part of, coming from the police intercom. I distinctly heard Brenda say…. ‘It’s Igloo Time Baby! Then the connection went dead, but I found this recording afterwards.
‘I knew I should have stored them English pilots in the igloo! But they said they were GENTLEMEN! They have obviously told the tale of when I exposed the best of myself! And now all of England has paid £10,000,000 to have me, and to hold me forever in their custody!
Well England, for the albeit quite complementing use of force, I thank you for your mighty interest, but no matter how strongly your fighting men want to keep all of my intimate details to themselves, and no matter how much leaving their bondage saddens me, I must leave you now. For I am the soon to be Queen of the Isle of the Mighty.
Can ya hear me now SPOT??? How about you, Mister Who Wants To Rugby A lot??? I am loose and on my way to steal your newly earned £10,000,000, and use it to help me win the crown and become Queen of Wales. Woohoooo… OFF WITH SPOT’S GUM CHOMPING HEAD!!! And let’s not forget that Pigeon Loving Myrtle’s Dad!!! REVENGE!!!’
As I was listening and shaking in my boots something really, really strange happened. Tracey, she does giggle a lot by the way, made me a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. (I hope you have forgotten that rhyme about tea, Auntie) She asked if I liked pickle on my cheese and when I said yes, she asked me to open the jar. As I did so, an ugly genie jumped from it. He was covered in white hair, on his head and face with bright shining teeth and a supercilious grin, said his name was Dickie Branson. I asked if he meant, Richard but he said no. Has a brother by that name apparently but he doesn’t live in a jar of pickles!
Anyway, the thing is he gave me three wishes Auntie, but I can only tell you one.The others must remain secret…..I hope you are seated, and feel quite stable. I would suggest that if you haven’t got sherry nearby then you rectify that situation….immediately.
I am now in possession of a …….Time Traveling Machine courtesy of Branson Pickles!
Where shall I go, Auntie?
Your ever obedient,
My greatest consolation is that since pickle genies are notoriously unreliable as well as, quite naturally, non-existent, your question is purely speculative and very entertaining. If it is a time machine, then the issue is not “where” but “when”.
I, for one, have always been curious about the middle ages and imagine that a civil feast with King Arthur would be extremely entertaining. But I do enjoy the modern conveniences. Soap, gaslights and of course, my medicinal sherry.
Spot, my dear. I have no idea what a radio is but I fear it sounds a bit…nebulous. And as this Tracy person has also cheerfully robbed you of more money than you probably have sense, I must refrain from endorsing this new friendship. I shall reserve my judgment since giggling women who consort with foreign demons who pop out of preserve jars—well, it just doesn’t sound properly British!
But then, pickles always did give me a touch of indigestion and at my age, one must avoid upset at all costs.
As we are on a lark here, by all means, feel free to drop off your calling card here after you tour the building of the pyramids of Egypt… Silly boy!
Can the British Pickle Industry ever be the same? Will Virgin Airline withstand the rumours of producing GENIES? Will Tracey become head of the BBC….The British Bottling Corporation and will Female First ever be published…AGAIN?
Can you wait for next week’s edition? I’m so sorry, but you must!
What can you tell us about your new book Why?
Why? is a story of love, complicated by both sex and violence. It is a fast paced tale of how one man’s crippling injuries, caused by an unprovoked and vicious attack, ruins the lives of all around him including Terry Meadows, the nineteen year old boy who fell in love with his daughter Laura twenty-seven years before the opening of this novel.
The pair only ever spent four days together, but the love that Terry had for Laura, and she for him, lasted until their deaths. It is somewhat autobiographical. The opening scene took place, and there was a girl who interrupted the proceedings who I then when on to date. We featured together on a UK televised dancing competition and I was absolutely besotted by her.
Why is love such a powerful emotion to write about?
It’s my favourite subject. I don’t like the ‘hearts and roses’ kind, more the Margaret Mitchell type of relationship in Gone With The Wind, between Rhett and Scarlet. Deep down I’m an old romantic with a heavy touch of realism. Without the love of, or from, someone we don’t amount to much do we, but it’s a complicated emotion and not easy for some to enter into.
I wrote this simple poem to express that:
A laugh is infectious, a tear shed alone.
A love never offered, is a fear never shown.
I have a collection of poems, entitled Anything But Hackneyed, which is now available through Amazon as a Kindle.
People always say that the second book is the hardest, so how did you find the experience?
I loved it. I’m writing another one now, whenever I get the time. I’m reintroducing Lord Harry Paterson from The Desolate Garden into one I haven’t yet titled. I did a short story based on him some months back and it was well received so it seemed the logical thing to do. I still have Mitzy Collins to finish, and one day I will tell that story in full.
You write regularly for Female First, in the forms of short stories, letters and pomes, so do you have a preference between them?
Poetry takes my mind off the real world and often it’s what’s happening around me that inspire those poems. There are some poems, relevant to the story, in Why?
My favorite contribution to the magazine is the Aunt Alice and Spot saga that I write in conjunction with Renee Bernard and now Vonda Norwood, both successful authors from America. I simply love it! They are great fun to work with.
What is the best feedback you have received from a writer about your work?
The very first review I had on The Desolate Garden from a kind Scottish school headmistress Fiona Johnson, who compared my novel to The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan. It was both unexpected and highly complimentary. I don’t think I could ever read something that shocked me quite as much as that did again!
Can I add an answer regarding a reader Lucy, and a special reader at that?
The smile on a fourteen year old girls face, one Saturday, when her grandfather bought The Desolate Garden for her, and I signed it with her name; Ruby. The enthusiasm on her face almost made me cry.
Which author would you have dinner with if you could?
Oscar Wilde or Ernest Hemingway. If neither of them were available then Jackie Collins. Now that would be a laugh.
What is your writing process?
I run the story through my head for a few days, seeing how far I can take it. If I’ve got a reasonable amount, just in my imagination, then I know I can build on it. By reasonable I mean something plausible, and worth enlarging on.
If you could pass on any advice to those who are looking to write a book what would it be?
I’m not being blasé but the writing is the easy part, what comes next is the really difficult bit. You will have to manage your expectation; expertly. The chances of becoming an overnight sensation are slim at best, and non-existent in reality. There will be only you to promote your work, market it and take the knocks that critics throw in your direction. Expect no help from anyone and you shouldn’t go too far wrong. The biggest help I have had has come from Female First.
Your work will be amongst millions of others, and in some cases with the authors giving theirs away with no value attached. Competition is vile.You will be told lies. One tactic is: ‘I’ve bought your book, will you now buy mine?’ False reviews can be, and are, posted on Goodreads and Amazon. Some can be spiteful, especially if you’ve stood proud, and ignored the fools and liars you will come across.
What is next for you?
If I’m lucky, then the start of filming of my debut novel The Desolate Garden. When that begins things will be so different, both financially and in the matter of time available to write. I might just have a holiday as well!
Read more: Female First.
Why?… Signed editions and first chapter.
Chapter One A Mishap
The first time I saw her was twenty-seven years ago to this very day, but it is not she who lays in this coffin. She is in my memory and will never die. “What the fuck!” Were part of the first words I heard from this woman and again a coincidence, because that’s what I said when I saw her, except mine were said silently and for a completely different reason. Some may say that we were connected by fate, if that was true, then fate was not kind to either of us.
Sammy Swale was thirty-four, I was nineteen and for neither of us was it a first time experiment in casual sex. We were in the garden of her detached house in the leafy suburbs of Mottingham, close to London but a fair distance from where she worked and I lived. We had met late on the Friday, preceding this sunlit August dawn, at the Face Club in Soho’s Dean Street, my normal second port of call at the beginning of the weekend. I had gone with my usual two pals, scoring some coke as we had arrived. We were out for the weekend with no need of sleep and only one thing on our minds, and it wasn’t dancing! I had literally bumped into Sammy earlier in the evening, exchanging only a few words on that occasion. A more detailed introduction came later.
I’d tired of the young things with the 80’s bob-and-bang hairstyles and the giggles that erupted every time I mentioned sex. I was direct, maybe a little course but I had a passion for playing with girls of my own age and an insatiable appetite that normally I could satiate adequately, but not tonight. One quick fondle with a quicker, up against the wall in a corridor at the Four Eyed Cat, having been the sole beneficiary of my expertise so far, before her boyfriend played more heavily on her mind and my ardor was left dangling in mid-air. I was frustrated and eager for more sexual pleasures. Graham and Keith had left the club. They also were bored. Whether they did go on to somewhere else, as they told me, or off to their homes in Bermondsey where I lived too, I neither knew nor cared. I had a need and only an hour or so to fulfil it, not sufficient time to find pastures new to wander.
At that point in my life I had never been out, let alone had sex, with a black girl. At fast approaching 3am, it looked as though that missing part to my sexual education was about to be filled. The truth was black women frightened me, making me shy away from them. I was not discriminate because of colour, it was a fear. I had admired their beauty more than once but I had heard stories of well-endowed black men and how the women would frown upon whites, believing them inferior in that department. It wasn’t as though I could show any samples to get an introduction, if you catch my drift.
Our first encounter had been brief. I had inadvertently brushed against her on arriving, causing her to drop a cigarette, which was unusual as I was light of foot and not in the habit of bumping into women, accidentally. “Oops, sorry, that was clumsy of me.” I said, to which she had made no reply simply picking up the almost unsmoked cigarette and stubbing it out in the silver, bullet shaped, ashtray beside the door. The white blouse that she wore with a contrasting bra caught my eye more than the rest of her.
“Did you get enough of an eyeful mister?” Dispassionately she asked, not staying for an answer. The club was still busy but beginning to empty out as it neared the time that it closed. The dance floor was less full than when I had arrived, now with couples paired off or more in closed groups. I moved rhythmically amongst them in my quest to satisfy my desires but all I could see was unattractive mediocrity with expressionless faces packed into lookalike packages that held no appeal. My previous smoking acquaintance was behind the bar speaking to two other black girls, seated in front of her, with their backs to me. At the exact moment I noticed her she smiled in my direction then swayed effortless across the floor and approached.
“Been watching you, you’re a good dancer. Got any money on you boy? I’m hungry and not just for food. Wait for me right outside the door when we close. I’ll be the last one out, it won’t be until after four. My car is round the corner and I’ll give you a lift. Can you wait that long lover boy for the time of your life?”
That was it, and not just because I was desperate. She was a beautiful, sexy woman and I was flattered. I was hooked and flying and I was to be carried in her car. Never been with a black girl, never been with a girl with a car. I was thinking that it was turning out to be the day of my life. Little did I know, that was precisely what it was about to become.
She locked the door to the club with a swagger of importance then linked her arm into mine and with an exaggerated bounce, and roll of her bum that kept touching my own, we walked in silence for a few paces. I was having kittens in expectation! “How old are you?” She asked, as we were entering an underground 24-hour car park. “Twenty-three, been round the block a few times I can tell you,” confidently I replied. To which she laughed and pushed me gently. As I pretended to regain my balance one of her hands went around the back of my neck and she kissed me, driving her tongue deep into my mouth as her other hand rubbed the front of my jeans, playfully pulling down, then up, the zip. “I’ll save that for later,” smugly she said. “Let’s eat first shall we? I know a place where the ‘T-bone steaks’ are as tender as me.”
I was in no mood to argue but neither was I eager to let her go. I held her hand there for longer, asking, “like what you feel do you?” “I’ll let you know…Cock…ney!” She replied with a wink and a deliberate splitting of the word. We had reached her car and I was driven away by a goddess. She suggested an all-night restaurant in New Cross, that I knew of, but I didn’t want to go there and made excuses saying that I owed money to the proprietor and wasn’t in a position to pay. That wasn’t the reason though. I’ll be honest, there was a part of me that was wary.
The year in which this took place, white men with black women seen together was rare, and it must be said, where I came from; frowned disapprovingly upon. I was excited yes, beyond anything I had ever known but cautious of recognition. “Owe any money in Peckham?” she asked. Perhaps it was my imagination. She seemed aware of my discomfort. “Plenty,” I replied, adding, “mainly in maintenance for the kids I’ve fathered. In any case, I’m up for anything. Want proof?” Her hand rested gently on the bulge in my jeans as she drove and I teased her breasts, annoyed that the bra restricted my touch of her nipples.
We chatted amicably during the meal about nothing really but everything it appeared to me, music, clubs that we both knew and sex; my favourite subject. My whole world had changed and I was liking the new one. Her big brown eyes hypnotising me into a sexual stupor that was hard to contain. Again she sensed my irritation. “I know that we can all tell stories cockney and I don’t book you down as a virgin nor as experienced as you make out, but you do know that I’m going to rape you when I get you home don’t you? I don’t what you finishing quickly on me as I’m just getting started. Now that would not do. No siree. Do you want to go visit the Gents and toss-off before we get to my place?” She had a deep husky voice and spoke slowly, which taken together intensified her appeal and sexuality.
It had crossed my mind, but I wondered if she would still be waiting when I got back. “Only if you come with me.” Enticingly I replied, holding my breath in anticipation. She declined my invitation but I swear she was tempted. I stayed where I was and trusted that my staying power would be adequate. The morning was breaking with the temperature rising, both inside and outside of the car on the drive to the venue of my expectancy. Her leg was brushing against my own with my hand wandering between her thighs and breasts but her hands, to my displeasure, only left the steering wheel to change gear with her eyes never leaving the road.
“You know I marked your card at the doorway to the club don’t you. That was no accident. I dropped my fag on purpose to give you a good look. I got your attention, eh? You’re a slow mover my cockney friend. l’m hoping you’re a slow lover as well. Don’t get too keen on the journey, it’s the destination that counts you know.” A raucous laugh filled my ears and I joined in with her laughter. “Perhaps I should have taken your advice back in the cafe. Let’s hope the steak does the trick and builds up my energy levels, enough to satisfy.”
“I’m so into tricks lover that I will wear you out, I’ve been doing it a lot longer than you.” The laugh took on an all together different meaning. I winced in anticipation. We parked in an overgrown drive of an otherwise immaculately kept house, in front of a dilapidated garage with rotting brown wooden doors that hadn’t opened for years, yet were secured with a large grey padlock that looked innocuous and out-of-place. This part of the front garden had been badly neglected, allowing blackberry thorns to invade the paved path making the short walk hazardous for her bare shapely legs which along with her bum, were now the centre of my attention.
“Here, let me,” I said, easing away some thorny stems with my Dr. Martins boots and one hand stroking a bare leg in way of protection. “Hmm, quite the gentleman.” She suddenly stopped walking, raised my head and fervently kissed me, again using her pracitised tongue. “I hope that doesn’t apply once you’re; inside,” she added, as she pulled just as suddenly away. A creasing of her brow stayed however, long after the word inside, had completely left her lips. I caught the inference and smiled, more in hope that certainty.
“Follow me.” I was ordered, and I obeyed. “No one overlooks this garden and there’s something about having it away outside that’s a real turn on for me.” Another pause, then a point with a long slender finger with red varnished nails. “Lay over there in that lounger, I’m going to strip for you.” That deep husky tone carried joys in its instruction.
She stood no more than a foot away from me swaying gently to the rhythm of Michael Jackson’s ‘One Day in Your Life’ coming from within the kitchen. The same place that we had passed through washing our hands as we did at the uncluttered sink. Another instruction of hers that I had surrendered to. I was beginning to like being told what to do.
The shoes, high-heeled and red patent leather, came first.Taken off with care and deliberate movement, then placed together under the chair as her body arched in two in front of me. Her eyes were fixed firmly in my direction and a sneer, rather than a grin, aimed at just below my waist. I laid back with my legs apart, a willing voyeur as she unlaced my boots.
Her matching red skirt came next. Unzipped slowly and easily falling to the still slightly glazed, dewy grass. It had been short and tight, enough to arouse any young man’s wishes but as she pirouetted and swiveled sultrily from it, my arousal was more obvious. Her sneer and the exaggerated bite and lick of her own lips took on an edge of cruelty in my wanton imagination. A pink, lacy, transparent G-string against her black skin was almost too much to resist grabbing at and ripping away. I thought I was practised in the art of arousal, but not as practised as Sammy!
“I first did it when I was nearly seventeen, got myself pregnant in the process, but I only learned how to do it properly in the last couple of years.” Another wink and a leering smile before continuing both in her speech and toying with her thumbs in the elastic that covered her modesty. “There was a Swedish guy who used to use the club; he showed me how to have sex properly.” I was confused as to whether this was said as a way of distraction or as a way of enticing me more, as one button after another, at the back of her white blouse, was sensually undone and her small, champagne glass shaped, breasts were pushed higher and invitingly close. The matching pink, low-cut bra was eased away as she knelt beside me. I placed my right arm on her left shoulder and with my left hand began to stroke her goose pimpled soft skin around the strangely white tip of her erect nipple. I was innocent in regards to black women, finding her exhilarating in every extreme.
“Let’s see what you have to offer, shall we?” I smiled, but was empty of words. She lent across me and started to roll up my white T-shirt. The slight chill, of the early morning, caught my naked chest as her breasts rose up in front of my face and I feasted on her bristling nipples, rolling my tongue across both. She pulled away and fleetingly I worried if that was the end of my education in the hands of an older woman. Had I done something wrong? It was not, and I had not.
Her hands found the buckle to my belt and I lifted forward to allow my Levis and briefs to be removed together. Her eyes never left my own. There was a satisfying hmm from her lips as her fingers stroked my erect penis and her mouth slowly lowered towards it.
That was the precise moment that Laura decided to enter my life from the conservatory door.
“What the fuck are you doing mum!” Sammy stopped, much to my disappointment and; my embarrassment.
“I thought you were away for the weekend with your father Laura. Why are you here girl?” Hastily letting go of me, and standing, she calmly addressed the startled girl staring at us both in amazement. I fell instantly in love with that startled face.
“Well, I’m not am I. He couldn’t be bothered with me either. Can’t you find someone your own age to shag, mum? He’s no older than me and by the look of him not much use to you now.” A nod in the direction of my penis indicated that all was not well in the sexual capacity department that I imagined I had full control of. The lounger was wet and so was I. She didn’t have far to look either, being almost right on top of me with my pants in her hand! “If I was you I’d cover that little thing up, in case a sparrow thinks it’s a worm. Put these and the rest of your clothes on, then you can wipe that mess up. I sometimes sunbathe in that chair.” Disdainfully she addressed me.
Not the most auspicious of meetings but nevertheless, one of a lasting magnitude.
WHY? In Waterstones.
My new novella, Why? Is now available.
A story of sex, violence and the twenty-seven year love of a destroyed women by a confused man.
“I’m still a virgin, Terry. Be kind.”
SEX, VIOLENCE…LOVE and a MAD MAN!
WHY? In Waterstones.
Signed copies from here….
Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp.
There is nothing more unbelievable to me than the notion that anyone is reading this without pure horror and a summons to the clergy for spiritual support. But then, who am I to say what a modern reader’s heart can withstand? It’s 1872 as far as I am concerned and since that makes me the most sensible woman in this mix, I won’t apologize for it.
I’ve dutifully attached Spot’s latest message as instructed by Mr. Kemp but let me say this just once: Run, dear reader! Run while you still can! There must be a lovely journal on dahlias somewhere to edify your intellect! What? No? Very well. Read on at your own risk. And don’t forget to tie yourselves into your chair first.
It’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Yours without approval,
I address you in a deep sense of shame, tinged with heavy regret and embarrassment. I should have taken your advice and ran, but it’s too late for that now. Spot is in deep TROUBLE!
I shall have to be brief as the electrifying situation is changing by the millisecond. (Oh, I like that sentence. Conveys elements of intrigue, mystery and tension don’t you think? And I do so like tension!) I shall soon rival those international bestselling scribes Renee Bernard and Vonda Norwood. Yes, a writer I will be, my path is set.
I will start at the beginning, in fact, I’ll start with the fart! Not any old fart you understand, but a colossal one. If flatulence was to be measured on a scale of one-to-ten, then this one soared through the ceiling to unknown heights. Let me explain. We were feeding Seamus, the shire horse you remember, on a mixture of hay and the vegetable the Welsh prize above all others: leeks, but the hay ran out on reaching London. I could not replenish our cart load, although almost everyone was shouting out ‘hay’ on seeing Myrtle, Seamus and I. Very strange these Londoners.
The thing is, that for three days now Seamus has had only leeks to eat and, as you know they taste and smell the same as onions, well, that led directly to Brenda and The Dirty Dozen’s escape.
They were tied together, in a line with a guard at the front and back, on their way to be hung, drawn and quartered for the crimes of extortion, robbery and flashing. Yes, exposing themselves, heady stuff eh? As the huge gates to Newgate Prison closed behind them, Seamus let go! Did he let go, or WHAT!
It was the noise that first distracted those two guards but then, worse; far worse. If I smelled disgustingly after that escapade with the tin prunes, then I cannot begin to describe the utter stench that escaped from Seamus’s bum. The leeks brought on…the REEKS…I did say that I have considered poetry, didn’t I?
Everyone was overcome. Myrtle fainted and just as I was going to give her the kiss of life I saw the fellow Mack, strange-looking chap, with a chopper in his hand. He had a big one. I cannot say where it came from. He chopped the ropes that held Brenda and the grannies together and then, just when I thought they would run for it, the grannies threw off their clothes and they stood there naked. Even Seamus turned his head away. Myrtle re-fainted just as my lips met hers.
Then all hell broke loose. Brenda and the naked Dirty Dozen dived into the cart. Well, to be truthful, they sort of wallowed along into it. The guards ran off and thundered at the gates to Newgate to let them back in. They wanted no part in a pursuit.
Worse was to follow, and is still in the process of happening. Brenda asked how we had retrieved her message from that pigeon, and I said that I found it in her husband’s dovecote. She said that was strange as it belonged to Phyllis The Pigeon. I thought she meant the Phyllis I had seen him with and just happened to say…”Oh, you don’t mind then?”
She twisted my muscular arm up my back, she is so immensely strong. I could not stand the pain and to relieve myself, I splurted out the whole story. How was I to know there was a Phyllis The Pigeon, aged ninety-one, and a Phyllis The Younger, her niece, aged thirty-one!
We are now on our way back to Wales with Seamus bolting along; blowing-off. That man Mack is sitting on his back with a cigarette lighter, lighting up his; you know what. I must say we are making considerable pace and keeping warm if nothing else. Fortunately all the naked flesh of the GRANNIES is hidden from view under a blanket of rotting green leeks.
What can Spot do when the leeks run dry? (figure of speak there, you see)
Auntie, it’s too late,
I’m trapped. Brenda has grabbed Spot, and holds me captive. She has hooked her leg around one of mine, and wrapped one arm around my waist, I cannot move. She’s a veritable contortionist! (Or should that be; vegetable?) Now she’s stroking the back of Spot’s neck! I want my mummy. I’m frightened, Auntie.
Mack looks dark and ominous as well, he still has his chopper in his hand.
“Mack, keep control of that Shire stud, or I’ll make certain you and your big one get off in the ditch!”
“Stop whispering sweet murderous talk to me, Myrtle dear… Once I quench my lust for vengeance by hacking your father physic into what is known as eunuch… Let me tell you daughter, it has been my experience that once fully developed, the Englishman do become quite tasty good soldiers.”
Myrtle dear, your English Spot has developed into quite a desirable young boy. Hand your mum another leek. I need something long and wide to munch on.
Danny Kemp’s iPad is on record and send Auntie, so you are getting the conversation between Brenda and Myrtle instantly. I didn’t catch whatever it was Myrtle said about murder.
OH MY GOODNESS, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS….
Queen Brenda has taken a bite from another smelly leek. Does she not realise that those leeks are all that’s between the decency of the grannies and naked reality! If this is how she acts as a commoner, how she going to act once she is crowed.
Phyllis The Pigeon has just shouted out that Brenda was seduced by firemen. Haven’t a clue what that’s about.
“Don’t concern yourself with what happened with those erotic firemen and the bright shiny pieces they had in their hands. Look at me Myrtle, everybody wants a piece of your dear mum. You may complain, but in my defence, let me tell you this, they came equipped to give me a once in a lifetime chance to experience such a thing that could never be found in the ‘Massage Parlour’ back home in Bangor! Another tasty leek, my daughter, please!”
“Oh my daffodils, my imagination did run riot. I was instantly weakened, so much so, that it was then that the jealous soldiers, and those London bobbies took advantage of me. They bound my body and forced me to miss my date with that Russian man with the sexy name and cheap weapons. Men can’t help but do everything to keep me only for themselves. Anyone need a leek other than me? Yes, another please, Myrtle. I’m insatiable!”
“What’s past is past. The jealous men of London merely put a little kink in my unwavering plot. We will succeed.”
She’s now patting my head, Auntie. Get off, get off you mad woman.
“Ah… but this toy soldier here may moan, but I like him now he has added substance to his build. So change your mind about insurance claims, Myrtle. After I delight in serving the young Phyllis The Pigeon, Rocky Mountain Oyster Stew, we’ll set-up your father to make good our situation.
That’s right, Spot… Keep squirming, squirm with all your might, but soon I shall be Queen of the Aisle of the Mighty with all Englishmen bowed before me. I wonder what it’s like to have one’s toes sucked?
Leek, please, Myrtle. I have a mind for a nibble.”
Oh Auntie, I do so want my MUMMY…..
Hold the front page, we’ve been ambushed. The police are here and so are the NSA, but hold on a sec, it’s not THE..NSA, it’s the NANNIES SALVATION ARMY..NSA. I hope that’s clear Auntie, it’s all a bit confusing, I know.
What’s that they’re saying…”we have to take you into care.”…Oh, they mean THE DIRTY DOZEN, and the police are going after Brenda and Mack. They are getting away, on a soaring Seamus. I hope sherry is there to help you out with all that.
Oh, I didn’t expect that. Now that is a surprise. Brenda just called out to Myrtle, ‘take care of Spot, we will need him and RUN Myrtle, RUN!’ Perhaps there is some kindness in her after all.
What do you think, Auntie dearest one?
Over and out,
I do my best to brace myself before I ever contemplate even peeking at your letters. I take deep breaths and even recite old scriptures to see if there is any chance that Divine Patience and Fortitude are yet attainable. So far, nothing seems to help.
What a tangle! I don’t know what the NSA is to begin with, much less an army of redeeming grandmothers and what do they have to do with anything? I am picturing nothing short of mayhem and worse still—I’ve pulled out all my lavender sachets in the hope of warding off even the strange psychic hints of that wretched animals gaseous outbursts! I fear even reading about such things has made the air in my parlour seem oddly tainted—and I am not content at the discovery!
I thought we had moved past this male tendency to linger on bodily functions which are not dainty or delicate to bring up to a lady. Much less to mention how flammable things have become… Gracious!
For the last time, Brenda is ten degrees past criminal and I suspect a walking blueprint for “How to Get to Bedlam and Back”. The only good news in any of this is that authorities of some kind have arrived and her shocking speeches about England’s finest and the abuse of vegetables.
By association, this makes Myrtle an unsavory and unsuitable associate and since both women seem determined to murder you in one way or another… Why are we still debating this?
RUN, SPOT, RUN!
Will Spot run? Can Seamus get far on only leeks, and will Mack’s lighter keep lighting? These and other questions must be addressed next week. Until then dear readers, check in Female First for availability of Lavender sachets! I suspect there will be a shortage; soon.