A. Anderson's Blog

 

Calamity’s Calling.

Prologue

 

In life we are all given nicknames, some kind, some endearing, some the opposite.

Sasha – Calamity, Emily – Miss Perfect and all their single- mother’s confidante and neighbour - Junt.

 

 

Sasha, Emily and Astrid are now working together on the call lines at the Maintenance for Children call centre.  Unashamed by their single parents and the battles they raged attempting to get child maintenance, their viewpoint is a bit bias; however it brings a lot of laughter into the Government department.  Suddenly their manager mysteriously gets sacked and Emily is promoted to Office Supervisor.

However an orgasmic light is lit on the horizon, Grant Campbell- ‘Lord have mercy on my ovaries,’ he is taking on for the role of Interim Manager for six months.

Unlike the girls, his lineage remains unmentionable, but as body clocks tick and he fits into their future pictures.  

Can they trust Emily’s gossipy mouth in Management meetings?

 

 

 

 

**

‘Don’t get your hopes up Sasha.’  Astrid states.  ‘Husband or not, Emily will be straight onto his knee.  She gets everything.   After all we worked harder than her to get that promotion and she got it.’

**

 

‘I only get everything because I work harder than you two for it.’  Emily snipes.  ‘I’ve told both of you you’ll never get promoted or ever be called the most beautiful bride ever, if you keep pissing about at work and sleeping with every Tom Dick or Harry. Get yourselves speed dating instead of chasing the boss.  It’s the only way to meet someone, that’s how I met my darling Dwayne. 

Anyhow, I’m too busy supervising to flirt with Grant.  And I’m a happily married woman now.  In fact I actually think you two wouldn’t cope with being a supervisor. 

It’s hard don’t you know?

It’ll be even harder when I have a baby, but there again.  If you two babysit, that might put a stop to your - slutty broodiness.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

‘Lord have mercy on my ovaries!’ I called out when I read the email; for delectable, gorgeous, hunky Grant Campbell, from our Plymouth office, was giving us the pleasure of his Dolce and Banana, for an incredible six months.

To say I was overjoyed was an understatement because for the last two months he’d held every thought I’d had, captive.  His photos graced every space on my freshly painted bedroom walls and every time my hands touched my body, they were his.  He was pure, salted, unadulterated pleasure.  His unlined, sculpted, tanned body had every crevice moist.

However, to be honest, the last time he was here, training Emily (our newly appointed supervisor) on the Staff Management System, I don’t think he even noticed anyone!!!!! 

I remember all us girls fluttering but he never even looked up from the PC screen.   I wasn’t going to beg, so when I saw his wallet drop out of his back pocket I had to be clever.  React or respond.  I waited on the edge of my seat, for surely he would notice.  You would wouldn’t you? 

But he didn’t!  When Emily got up from her seat smoothed down her tight tooty next to him, even her foot skimmed it. She went back to her desk, then walked towards the printer by the boss’s office, so I moved in on Grant.

I put on my platforms, lubricated my fingers with saliva, picked the white dots off my black skirt, checked in my hand mirror and nervously tip -toed over. Walking, I cast my eyes around the contact centre and luckily all heads were bowed.  I gently scooped his wallet up off the floor towards me, lifted it, he never sensed anything.  He was none the wiser, I started walking with his wallet tucked into my waistband and just kept walking. 

I continued walking through the office’s double doors and hid within a toilet cubicle.  I unveiled a wad of notes, three credit cards and two photographs.  One of him as a boy tucked under a soldier’s arm and the other, he was dressed in a black wet suit, holding a trophy up to the sun. 

Slyly, I retraced my steps back into the office and it was like time had stood still.  He hadn’t moved.  In fact, no one had.  I walked towards my desk, took my phone out and without being seen I photographed his photos and stashed them into my phone.  After everything was packed away I looked up and I saw he was moving, stretching his arms up tall. He glanced around the whole contact centre as if he was inhaling a floral scent then stood up, bent over and touched his toes.  Boy!  Did he have a sexy, pert arse or what?  I’d have loved to slap it raw.   He exhaled loudly.

Standing tall he headed towards the double doors.  Not looking suspicious, I turned and saw a couple of girls rubbernecking. I took a deep breath, gulped and walked by his desk.  Dropped his wallet onto the floor alongside my pen and pretended to pick my pen up.  Mouths opened all around as I licked my dried tongue over its full length then dropped it back onto the floor. 

Astrid whooped in delight.  Super stiff Coral Thomas and Emily glared flares as the tittering began.  With confidence I fluffed up my hair and sauntered back to my office booth. Grant returned from his break and casually picked up his wallet from the floor.  He slid it into his back pocket and put my biro behind his ear.  Emails started pinging, about Sasha licking Grant’s lolly. 

Next thing, Mrs Valour climbed off her pedestal and ordered me to follow.  Inside the ladies she re-fitted the plum into her mouth and told me -that she was totally, unbelievably humiliated by my behaviour.

‘You’re a civil servant; don’t ever forget we have rules.’

Bla, bla, bla.

**

The rest of the day was a blur of dirty looks from Emily and moaning customers. 

 

However Astrid always makes me laugh.

 She was on an inbound call and her eyes were everywhere.  The customer had been looking at home for important papers and was ‘on hold’ meanwhile Emily was watching her.

‘So!’ Astrid said loudly into the mouthpiece.  ‘If I drop your child maintenance payments for you by £20 a week, would you take me out on Saturday night?’

Emily charged over cut Astrid’s caller off, yanked her off her chair and marched her into the loos for a disciplinary tantrum.

Astrid and I were ready for a big drink.  I got my heels on, rouged my cheeks.  Like giggling school girls we left and headed for  Peris’ Wine Lodge and its revolving doors. 

Wow - It was busy.

‘Let’s celebrate Grant’s return.’ I toasted.

‘You’ll have no chance with ‘Mummy’s boy.’   She told me.

 

***

At 5pm we were gagging for a beer.  Inside the pub there were a pack of tipsy Geordy lads.

 'Wey Ey!  Look at the bonny lasses.'  One of them boomed so loud his voice echoed over the busy crowds.

 'Let me take your 'han love?’

            'Let me.'  A ghostly voice yelled even louder, just then the whole  pack of dust- covered workmen ambushed us.

            'We're fine.'  Astrid said.  'Come on Sasha.’  She tugged my silk sleeve. ‘Let’s go.’

            'Why Sasha, that’s a pretty name.'  The tall married hunk with a

thick Newcastle accent came into my ear. I was overpowered by the deepest darkest hazel eyes, I wobbled.

 'Hey, mind your step,’ he said then his hand caught my arm.

'Sorry, just came over a bit faint.  Must have been the bling off your big fat wedding ring.'  He leaned forward and I smelt his musky scent.  His strong right hand cupped my left elbow.  My eyes loitered over his thick dust clad fingers.

'You alright gal?'  He said.

'Yes fine.  Fine!' 

'Let me buy you a drink.  Wine?'

‘No I’m ok thanks.  I don’t drink with married men.’

‘Away lass, it’s only a beer.’  His mouth was ajar as I saw the tip of his tongue. Embarrassed I turned to Astrid.

‘What do you say Astrid?’    She lifted up her hands as if she was in defeat.

‘Away the lads!’ She was brash.

'White please.'  I offered.

He shouted to someone closer to the bar.  'Here Pete.' Get the lassie, Sasha, a white wine?'  Pete pointed down towards Astrid’s Polish boobies.

'And you lady?' 

'Rose - Pinot. Large one please.' ‘I kicked her in the shins.

'How ya?'  His Geordie accent pulled my attention back. 'I'm Dave by the way.'  He put out his hand for me to shake.

'Pleased to meet you.'  Sasha.' I offered. 

'I remember.  Sasha, Sasha - Queen of my pasha!'  His hand curled around my slender red digits as he laughed at his own joke. Pete approached. On his tray stood eight bottles of Newcastle Brown and two glasses of wine.  Astrid’s salacious smile anchored his handsome face

'Canny beat a bottle of nectar.'  He said to Astrid.  'Pete's the name?' He laid down the tray and passed her a glass of red.  She smirked as she licked her lips.  He stroked the sides of her face.  She didn't even flinch.  Then six pairs of dust covered hands shot out from all around.  Pete and Astrid’s eyes danced as they clinked glasses.  He glugged on hi bottle so I leaned into her earshot.  Flicking one hair off her face.

‘Are you alright?’

'Caw.  He’s a bit of light relief.' 

‘Supper material Astrid?’ 

‘Breakfast as well!’  

 

***

The drinks came fast and the jokes got saucier but neither of us noticed how quick the time had gone. Astrid and Pete's banter had silenced and turned into a snogathon.  Me, Dave and his wedding ring decided to get some space away from the swelling crowds and sat inside an alcove under the window.  He asked about my day. I told him about Astrid’s wind-up that morning.  That was when I realised; Emily must have been taking the mickey, threatening us all with Lecherous Jessop. Dave said he’d had a good day but he hated working away from home.

‘So what’s the ring all about?’  I stroked his left hand.

‘I inherited it from me father last year, when he died.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’  I lied.  ‘But if you want my advice Dave,’ he nodded, ‘that’ll scoffer your chances, quicker than halitosis.’  Like two gasping runners, Astrid and Pete flopped their ripened bodies onto the hessian seating at my side.

‘You all right?'  I asked.

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and mimed a drunken – amazed!  Then Pete pulled her face back to his and began patrolling her hungry mouth.

'Looks like they're alright?' Dave chanted.  Strangely I was overcome with shyness. Eventually, I thought up what to say and apologised for being so critical of his father’s ring.  He said it wasn’t a worry and put both arms around me.

For a moment I stalled, then snuggled into him.  I didn’t feel threatened.  I looked up at his kind smile, our eyes met, he didn’t move.  We were but a hairs breath away from each other as his lips hovered over mine, mine reached up to his and then he turned.  Rejection strung as I stared into the bustling crowds and surveyed everyone around and then, low and behold, I saw the elegant, illusive Emily Valour, glugging down, what looked like a double whisky.

I nudged Astrid and told her to check out the hormone whisperer at the bar.   We were about to get up and go over but one of Dave’s filthy mates attached himself to Emily’s side.  In silence, he curled her underneath his armpit and went in for a snog. She lunged with her right hand and threw her drink into his face.

 

The bar erupted with cheers then she got up from her barstool and stomped though the cheering crowd in a very wobbly line.  Part of me wanted to comfort but the biggest part of me sparkled with fresh gossip so I turned mischievously to Dave and asked if he would like to splosh his dosh on us.

‘Way Ey!’ Came his reply.

I sliced my hand through Astrid and Pete's tongue wrestling as Dave shouted over the noise.

‘Let’s go out on the toon.’  Wide eyed, Pete nodded. 

‘But first I need to go back to the digs man, and get a shower.’

'We're alright here, aren't we?'  Astrid slurred.  She sat up taught and pointed at the bar.

‘Eyes left Sasha?'  She instructed.

 

'Holy shit…. It’s Grant Campbell!'   I yelled as I saw my own drunken reflection in the window.  I had to get out, or there would never be a future with him.  I tugged at Dave’s sleeve.

‘Let’s go back to yours.’

‘Come on then!  We’re out of here.’ 

Pete grabbed hold of his bottle of beer and glugged three quarters in one mouthful.  I pushed in front of Dave and his back hid me from Grant.  Pete looked a bit nervous so I leaned into his conversation with Dave and overheard him say, ‘mine’s a bit fucked up.’

‘Never mind lad,’ Dave replied, ‘we’ll just have some fun - eee Sasha?’

‘Eeee.’ I mocked his singsong voice as we headed for the rounded door.  Outside he slapped my backside. 

‘Hoy you, you’re not messed up are you Sasha?’  He asked.

‘Says the man wearing that?’ Again I pointed at his hand.  Pete jumped up and dived onto Dave’s broad shoulders.

‘I've got a rock on.  I reckon I could take mine’s up an alley and she’d be game.’

‘Did you hear that Astrid?  He wants to take you up an alley.’  I shouted.

‘He can go fist himself.' She slurred.  'If he thinks I’m that kind of girl, he can fist his own fisting arse.  I need another drink, a bed and a lot more loving.’  Pete pulled her back into his arms.

‘Away lass.  I think you’re lovely.  Go on you two, go and grab us all one of them taxis.’  Astrid and I linked arms.  I asked her if she wanted to do a runner.

‘Nah. I can feel it in me water.  He’s going to be ten out of ten.  What about yours Sash?’

‘I’m a bit unsure.’  Just then Dave hoisted me off the ground and into his arms.

‘To my hotel Desdemona.’ 

‘Who the heck's Desdemona?’ I squealed as the taxi’s door opened.

'Shut up and kiss me.’ Inside the taxi the air was spinning and the banter made me want to vomit.

‘Open the window.’  I ordered.

‘There’s a £50 fine for being sick in my taxi.’  The driver warned as my window unwound.  I tipped my head out like an Alsatian.  Then the next thing, it stopped somewhere and the two men half carried/half walked us up the hill to their Bed and Breakfast.  I remember Dave twirling his wedding ring in Pete’s room then he went out to make a phone call and left me with them two. Eventually Pete went for a shower and Astrid invited herself in.  Alone, I zig zagged my way downstairs and sat on a sofa by the reception desk.  A ginger cat came up to me and purred on the sofa.  I smelt its foul breath and pushed it onto the floor.  Then I heard Pete’s voice wail through the corridors. 

'You got any rubbers Dave?'  I felt a dark ache inside my stomach. A door slammed and Pete’s happier voice came downstairs.

‘I'm ‘a hopping the night.'   I sensed a presence.  Dave was at the top of the stairs.

 ‘Lose the ring.'  I commanded.

 

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Empty Nest Syndrome -

Our hands and hearts used to join together.   Now I am going round in circles, brain is constantly flicking in every direction.  Anxiety sprints at 100 m.p.h, and I cannot ever, find glasses. F3 is missing off this new keyboard which was bought to cure empty nest syndrome.  My office chair is a gaming chair, for blaming the world that rejection is un-visit-able.  I’m remembered now as a mother – who only counselled, and leaves her life in books.

Yet, Hallelujah’s still echo in my heart; regurgitating such  joy for the nights they  sat on my knee, needing nothing more than my breath on their shoulder and one little hand in each of mine.

I hope you enjoy my poems and short stories. If you would like to like or critic, here are my contact links

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This collection of poems will jangle the nerve endings in any relationship; deciphering the difference between Cupid Vows and human vows.

Oceans

Apart,

your presence, breath, heartbeat

never leaves

for

in silence

I sew

seams in dark waters

making waves

that return the sparkle

into your eyes

Tonight

we sleep alone

only caressing ourselves

Yet in dreams

join seams

froth in white waters

that quench our famine

sanded throat and lips

When we are together, I don’t need you -

apart -

maybe

so

Cupid Vows

Leaves need branches like I, your morning stubble

where inside each other’s arms

our spirits warm

our breath mingles

and we  leave for work

to build one dream.

Your branch has been shaken

and you have

rustled

into another

I’m

a quirk of empty

falling

down

down 

until your key turns in the lock.

Still pregnant with Cupid Vows

needing your seed, in sickness and health,

we promised.

Ours

I wailed

and in your stillness

our blood clotted on the table

then I heard her traverse death’s forest alone.

I should have comforted her with softness, with the beat of my heart or even

a single tear

but............................

I wanted to bleed tears

to cry out she is mine and her pain

but I had to forget

you, I, she,

we were real

until that needle’s pointed

I hope you enjoy these few poems.  If you would like to like or critic, here are my contact links

Thanks again, A Anderson

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Prologue

From the age of eight, I had had sex with men who didn’t ask my name, until I met Jerrod.  Not only did he ask my name on our first trick but last night, seven years and two kids later, he asked me to marry him.

‘If I say yes, will you still call me slut?’  I asked but didn’t have a clue where that ludicrous question came from.

So, I stole his proposed wedding money and disappeared to the Canaries for a week in search of the answer to my question.

 

Chapter 1- summary

Sam finds herself back on the streets after seven years of sobriety and clean living, but not in grimy Manchester surrounded by pimps, hookers and used needles but in Puerto Rico surrounded by palm trees and February sunshine.  

A dirty old man approaches and asks if she is alone,

'No! I'm not.  I'm with myself.' 

Her legs begins locking in fear, not because of  the man, she can handle him; but because this new deep, inner, mature, voice is de-stabilising her whole being again. Why?

Puerto Rico -Gran Canaria

Seven hours had passed since I’d left my young family asleep in their beds. By now Jerrod (my so called partner) would have realised, that I’d gone; and for once he couldn’t blame me, because he’d always been the one who’d said, ‘keep moving forwards!’ 

I threw my coat onto the sun ripened wooden bench in Gran Canaria and suckled onto my ice-cream. For the first time in my life my cold English bones soaked up hot February sun. I closed my eyes and tried to deny the guilt but was interrupted by a tall African’s man.  Zooming onto his arm I saw it was dressed with watches and sunglasses. I rattled my own shades over the bridge of my nose. He puffed his lips like Jerrod when he was sulking before slinking away towards a large shopping centre. Outside a huge poster advertised male strippers.

            Building Boys – Tonight- STRIPPERS!

A second or so later, the sunglasses salesman was back.  He stank.

‘I’m Dube.'  He continued. 'I friendly.’ 

‘Look mate, I don’t need a friend. I want to be alone. In fact, no I don’t. I want to be with myself!’ 

 I lifted my handbag and went inside the shopping centre to buy myself clothes for the week ahead. I bought a lovely cerise strappy dress and matching platforms, flip flops and a pink sun dress. A bottle of Channel found its way into my handbag and I bought one of those funky, hairy, wind chimes; however at that time how was I to know the chaos that would cause, when I returned.  I walked outside into the blinding sun and it seemed a lot hotter. Hassling other people, that Dube’ waved to me. I ignored him and aimed for a row of white taxis. I threw my bags onto the back seat and asked, if he knew where I could get a room for a week. He thought for a second then replied. 

  ‘Avoni – my friend – Head Bar Man. They got apartments, are empty. He do you a special deal.' He stopped under a red sign and took five euros from my stash. I climbed the steps towards reception. For once, a receptionist smiled and asked if I was English. I nodded. ‘You got a reservation slip?' She asked. I shook my head. She looked on the computer and said, 
            
 'I have one, free, for six nights. Any good?' I flashed my wad of Euros again. 

 'Let me show you the apartment, first.' 

In the darkened apartment it seemed cold but as she opened the curtains, the heat and bright afternoon sun flooded in. 

'It's perfect.' I squealed. I threw my thermal coat over the hard rectangular sofa and kicked my boots under the coffee table. Behind me there was a small kitchenette with a marbled worktop, sink and microwave. She counted my euros and left me a key card. Sliding the balcony doors open, I saw a huge vista of white apartments. They stretched to the right, to the left and below mine. I recognised the red roof of the shopping mall.  I felt guilt twirl along with the McDonalds sign. I ran the shower and swilled my mouth with its warm spray. A voice in my mind told me not to drink it. 

I slipped into my pink sundress and flip flopped my way down the zigzag road in the direction of the beach. I could just about smell the sea when I turned and saw two African’s women, braiding little girl’s hair. In another world that couldn’t have been with my girls, but here alone, my flip flops began to rub my toe webbing and I needed plasters. I crossed the road and nearly stopped breathing as I got my first glimpse of Puerto Rico’s harbour. It was magnificent, like, out of a magazine. The white sands and crystal waters were cocooned by tall ripe palm trees. I’d never seen anything so perfect in my life.
Outside the harbour the water was a dark blue but coming back in, it went lighter and lighter until it frothed onto the sands and was as clear as bath water. Lots of people loitered in the shallow waters, kicking and splashing with their hands behind their backs. 

It wasn’t like Fleetwood with grey crashing waves battering the sea walls and side stepping dog shit. All of a sudden a rush of childlike freedom, prickled my spine. I wanted to throw my bag down, rip my clothes off, run into the sea and never return. I kicked my painful flip-flops off and touched the sand with my bare foot. Its heat, zapped me. I pulled it back.  To my right, I found a wooden decking board path which lead towards the sea. Rows and rows of sun beds with charred brown bodies and parasols, read books and Kindles. Very soon I reached the water and it soothed my sore toe webbing. Then the waters licked at my dress hem. My toes looked tiny. This reminded me of bath times as a child. I lifted up my skirt and swirled my body from side to side. My heart warmed. I felt safe.

No one was watching so I went in deeper. Soon it was waist high. 
I had a matching set of lingerie on, so I found an empty beach bed, stashed my bag underneath, and slipped my dress over my head and tip toed into the blue lagoon. But I wasn't as brave as I thought because when the water touched my petals, I screamed like a pig. I turned around and everyone was looking so I took a huge breath, braised myself and immersed my whole body. Erect, I shivered and saw all eyes were on me, again. 

Not only was my underwear see-through, but my wig had set sail. I yanked it down and planted it over my forehead then twisted it until my fringe was straight. I sat in the white waters holding onto my knees for what seemed ages. As my hair dried and tiny little waves lapped at my lady garden, I secretly begged the sands to scour out the floggings of my past; but as usual the only thing that came to mind, was David my secret lover and his gorgeours rugged physique.

I imagined running my fingers through his grey crown as he lapped at my juices. His confident tongue teasing where the waters now rushed.  But, he was thousands of miles away and with his wife, and not in these life sparkling waters. I began to feel sad. I had an urgency for company. I needed to see him again, to feel his arms, to kiss his lips. But I had to pull myself together too, because officially these might be my last few days of freedom. 

 Like every girl, it had always been a dream to have a white wedding, a big dress and bridesmaids, but until Jerrod kneeled humbly before me, I thought it would never ever happen to a slut like me. 
So what the hell was I doing in Gran Canaria? 

Feeling sorry for myself.  Was the incorrect answer.  And even I knew that that wouldn’t make me understand the  madness I was any better. I needed to separate Jerrod’s new desire for me, and Collette’s vicious attack two weeks ago when she attacked me for having an affair with her disgusting husband.  As if?

However this was easier said than done especially since that neighbourhood bitch ripped chunks of hair out of my head. I needed to stop drinking, that's what I needed to do and ‘move on.’ But where do I begin? 

Once a slut, always a slut! That's what every punter spouted.   Well fuck em all! I was here, and I had enough money to enjoy it too.  Just then I noticed how hot my head had become. I returned to my clothes then lay down for a moment. Next thing I heard was a Newcastle accent. 

 'Hello lassie?' I lifted my sunglasses and was blinded. 'Six Euros Miss?' His hand came towards me. Feeling lightheaded I grimaced with confusion. What the heck did he want? Was he offering me six Euros? I looked away, then back again. I got up from the deck chair and pushed him in the shoulder. 

‘I wouldn't suck yours for Six Euros, Laddy. Go away and play with yar’self.’ I shouted.

‘Six Euros for a sun bed Miss! That's what I’m asking for.' I noticed his little ticket machine and blushed alongside him. Marching away, I realised, I’d just grassed myself up. 

I begged the universe to make him disappear. But by the time I reached the town, I couldn't take it anymore. I found a hairdressers and begged the German woman to shave all my left-over hair off. Unlike McDonalds, she didn’t understand a word I said. So, I ripped off the blonde wig and her firm authoritive hand reached towards the red bald welts. A tear of pity hung in the corner of her eye as she began cutting. She showed me many different looks as she chopped at it, inch by inch; but I told her to stop faffing and just shave it all off. I waited for the 'Wow' moment to come, but it didn't. Instead, I looked like a bald sphinx cat.  I looked pointed. Pointed head, pointed ears, pointed nose and pointed bloody chin. The hairdresser looked into the mirror then passed me a box of tissues. 

'Yessie Yey!’ She shouted and pointed to the CD player. I began to realise that she was telling me, that I looked like Jessie J. 

‘You new?’ She affirmed. 

 I undid the hair catching cape and flung it over my shoulder. I jumped up from my seat giving her my right hand. She whacked up the volume. 

‘You Jessie J?’ She repeated. I swirled on the slippery hair on the floor. Then I put a fifty Euro note on the glass side and went to leave, but as soon as my hand touched the handle, Collette’s vile face imprinted itself again on my mind.  However outside, my wow moment came. My head was cooler and the wig gripped tighter. I turned backwards and saw my German friend waving and calling Aufedersein. 

It wasn’t long until my skin was prickling again. Looking up my side of the Valley I saw a walkway through the back of the shopping mall and a set of steps that wound up the hill towards my apartment.  By the time I got there I was struggling to breath. There must have been three hundred steps to climb. It was hotter, maybe 40 degrees. I hadn't counted but I knew if I'd have had the girls with me, Hope would have counted every step.

My mind went back to Fleetwood, I needed to hug my girls and tell them that I was sorry for abandoning them; more so, than ever before. 

 

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This car window is only open a little and bright neon lights surround it.  I am in a big city.  A walled-in city with high walls and other trapped monkeys who are ping-ponging inside cars, scattered in all directions on empty roads.  Alone, dribbling, I smell mother’s milk.  Alas, where is it coming from?

There’s a man in a red uniform approaching.  Is he looking to clamp?  He has a yellow device in his hand.  His gruff voice echoes and starts surrounding.  He turns and his feet slowly shuffle away. 

My taste buds pang for more sweet milk.  The car next to me rocks.  I need milk more than air.   Claws appear between the glass and door frame.  A loud noise squeals.  The window is open.  An oxygen mask covers my face.

I wake.  My Australian brother sits by my side, mopping my brow. 

‘Now you know how jet lag feels.’ He states.

But really, he’s just seen what illness and losing him looks like.

I hope you enjoy my short stories. If you would like to like or critic, here are my contact links

Thanks again, A Anderson

https://amzn.to/2XNGxqDauthor page

https://amzn.to/2XNGxqDwebsite

https://amzn.to/3nWateOSlut Detox

https://amzn.to/3oWtYVOSlapdash Queen

https://amzn.to/2LZKAgMCalamity’s Calling

 

 

Mum's The Word!

'Really funny book.'  Andrea

'I laughed so much it hurt.  Gives new meaning to holiday sex. Cleverly written.'  J. K. Rowning.

'Teenage parenting horror story, so unforgettable.'  P. Peters.

'Emotional rollercoaster.'  C. Riva.

 

Jasmine's recent cancer scare has made her realise she isn’t going to have a happily ever after ending.  Her teenagers take her for granted more and more each day, so she jets off to think and celebrate her 50th birthday alone on Malta.

Back home her sons begin missing their 24/7 service and turn detective.  They find a photograph and story in the Maltese Weekly News claiming their Mum, is having overnight adventures with a young footballer.

Jasmine loves every saucy experimental minute of it, (sex wasn’t like this in the eighties) but the new press story is spreading.  It’s about to go viral.  Surely common sense will tell the boys, it’s not wise to spy on a parent who’s having fun. 

Is it?

She's 50, she's sassy and unforgettable.

She's you. She's me. She's the gal you've always wanted to be.

​This novel was written with the riskiest nib; it’s second in Annie’s collection of three novels; Slut Detox and Calamity's Calling. 

Slut Detox available    http://goo.gl/P7VU36        Calamity’s Calling https://amzn.to/2LZKAgM

 

Frogs in Charge.

 

 

I opened the fridge door and an inner voice said, ‘It is finished.’

I shouldn’t have listened to it. 

I shouldn’t have asked him to leave.

His name, this message, his name, this message.

I’d still of been happy cooking and consoling him, and I wouldn’t have asked him to leave.  Now all I have is a tear stained pillow and a cold breeze at 3am with thousands of croaking frogs telling me I’m no good; that he never loved me and no one ever will. 

You’re a failure, a crazy weirdo.  

I sound like Adelle, but all I can see in my mind is his naked body making love to me in the wardrobe mirrors.

I miss his singing in the morning, my footsteps being light.  I miss dreaming of forever.  I crave him like heroin, but I don’t want him back. 

I want to phone and hear his sweet voice and know I’ve stopped loving him.

https://amzn.to/2XNGxqD amazon author page

https://amzn.to/2XNGxqDwebsite

https://amzn.to/3nWateOSlut Detox

https://amzn.to/3oWtYVOSlapdash Queen

https://amzn.to/2LZKAgMCalamity’s Calling

                                                                             

I look down and see your tears.  Please don’t cry for me.  I am not in pain anymore.  Don’t wait and wonder when we will meet.  For I am you - and you am I.  We always held hands and created dreams.  I want you still, to fulfil yours.  Never question our love or memories.  

We talked, we cried, we listened to each other’s heart beats and saw each other go into different lives.  I watched you borne and left you a man, a good man with wisdom to turn clouds into rainbows; and that Son is where I am.   Painting colours and watching you, looking for their pot of gold.   I’m up here waiting for storms in your life and each time one comes just know, I’m here, blowing love back into your heart, like my father did mine.

He died like I, with warning, with choice.  I always admired his integrity to decide his destiny, and I hope you will understand my need to fulfil mine.  I didn’t want to rot before your eyes, planting such fear that you didn’t want to age.  I wanted to show you that at no point are you ever without power.

I’ll be watching, waiting for love’s first kiss to touch your lips and feel your heart's melt.

You are my one true love and if I could come back and live for one moment, I would kiss your lips, amore.

This collection of short stories are written for your enjoyment.  I would love to hear your critic or whether you like them by ticking the like button.

Many thanks

Annie

https://annieandersonauthor.wixsite.c...

Saturday night is promise night, so why wasn’t Edna dressed in suspenders when I peeked through the stained glass in her front door.  I flicked my top denture plate with my tongue then avoided her eyes as I heard her say, ‘we need to talk.’  I made a stupid excuse and escaped into the bathroom.  My shelf had been cleared.  Dread began to sink into my bowels, like lead.  I collapsed onto the loo and thought as the pain passed.  Could I get out of her flat without being noticed? I wrestled with the window catch but it was locked.  I practised an innocent expression in the mirror.  I heard her sweet voice sing,
‘Honey, are you ok?’  My stomach griped.‘Uh hum.’  I uttered, ‘I’ve just got a sickly tummy. I won’t be long.’‘I’ll wait by the door.’  Chewing my fingernails tasted sour.  Behind, at the back of the loo there was a Rose Petal air freshener, I sprayed it all around then flounced out of the room wafting my hand.‘Give it a minute Love.’ I warned.She went inside and closed the door.In the lounge on the coffee table there was a white thermometer with a red line in its middle.  I didn’t want to hang around to give her girl-flue sympathy, not on a Saturday night, so I grabbed my jacket from where I always left it and made my exit via the porch way, but the door was bolted.  I tried the back door but it was locked too.  She met me in the hallway.She touched me with wet hands.  ‘Are you ok Hun?’  I gave her a funeral smile as she linked my arm.  ‘Let’s sit down.’   She said and led me towards the coffee table.  Staring at the thermometer I asked.‘What’s that?’  ‘It’s a pregnancy test and it reads – positive.’  My eyes became like two moons as I glared in shock.  She was about fifty six, maybe older.  ‘Are you?’  I scratched my manhood with my spare hand, noticing that my voice had squealed like a newborn pig.‘Course not!’  She giggled.  ‘But whose is it?’  The flowered wallpaper seemed to echo. Whose is it? Whose is it?‘I don’t know, do I?  You’re having a joke here Edna.’  I scoffed.‘Do I look like it?’  Her facial muscles were tight, her skin tone blue.‘Guess not!’  I mumbled as my hands began sweating.  ‘Why have you locked me in Edna?’  She didn’t reply.  ‘What, Why’s….What is going on here?’  I pleaded.‘You tell me.’  My impotent brain went blank.  ‘I’m sick of this.’  I spat.‘And I smell beer, you’ve been drinking!’    She scornfully affirmed.‘Dor Edna!   It is Saturday.’‘Our special, promise night, and you’ve ruined it Albert.’  Un-spilt tears sat on her eyeliner.‘How have I?  Look, if this is not yours and it’s not mine, it’s got to be a joke.’  I sulked.‘I found it down the back of the sofa last week from when you’d taken your jacket off.’  Her harsh voice was getting higher.   ‘It must have dropped out of one of your pockets, how else would it have got there?’‘I’m sure I’d know if it had something to do with me.’  Suddenly, an almighty dark cloud shadowed my heart as memories of holding Kathleen, eight days ago in my arms and her roaming petite hands went inside my jacket pockets.‘Old women have thin skin.’  She’d said, as I stupidly rejected her saucy touch and pushed her away because I had had a small bag of weed inside my inner pocket.  She’d have finished with me for good for that.  Oh no!  Maybe Kathleen is pregnant. I told Lucy I needed a pint.
At Kathleen’s front door, I cursed my wobbly denture plate.  That’s more like it, I thought when she answered wearing a black negligee.  I could see stocking lines tracing her ankles, I loved those.   I followed her indoors.  On the sofa sat a nervous looking boy.  ‘He’s a student who’s popped round to borrow a cup of sugar.’  She explained as she wobbled on stilettos.‘We need to talk.’  I stated and curled my finger at her.  In the kitchen I watched her lightly stroke his face with the backs of her fingers then Barbie eyes, she sauntered into the hallway.  ‘Why are you dressed like that with a child in the house?’  I snapped.‘He’s a man. He’s nineteen.  And anyhow, who do you think you are Albert coming round here on a Saturday?  We are Friday’s remember, we agreed.’‘I am the guy who you’ve put a positive pregnancy test in his jacket pocket.  That’s who I am.  Are you pregnant?’   A contorted giggle came from the other room.  I waited for a few seconds then she started giggling too.   ‘Well, who did?’  I whined.  ‘You better tell me. I pointed towards the lounge. ‘ Pinocchio in there!’  I accused.‘He hasn’t had the chance – yet!’  She stressed.‘Once you go back to your nursing home, things are gonna change.’  He called over his shoulder. ‘Oh my, what a deep voice you have for a wooden toy.’  I bellowed.   ‘Thank you very much.’ I turned on my heel and marched through her opened front porch way, leaving the main door swinging.  I heard her voice behind me as I neared the gate.‘You’re a dirty old man, you are.  Don’t come back here again.  Go and find another hook-up.’  My cheeks were burning.  I went to Mildred’s house.‘Oh what a lovely surprise,’ she crooned as she put a cat outside.  ‘It’s taken me fifteen minutes to catch that little pussy, to make her take some fresh air.  Are you ok Love?’  I rocked my denture and showed her the pregnancy stick.‘Well?’  I questioned.  ‘Do you know anything about this?’  She looked scared.‘Oh yes love.  It’s mine.’‘But you’re in your seventies Mildred.  You, we, can’t possibly be.’ ‘It’s a miracle, I know.  it’s fantastic news Albert, isn’t it?’  You could have run me over with a train and I wouldn’t have felt it.‘You mean; this is yours Mildred?’  My voice was but a whisper.‘No, it’s not mine.  It’s the cats.  At last one of them is pregnant.’   She nodded repeatedly.  ‘So it’s a cat?’  I repeated.‘Yes.  Isn’t it marvellous?’
I took her into my arms and kissed this marvellous, sexy, crazy, cat-woman and thanked her profusely for freeing me from ever taking another viagra ever ever again.  Finally I realised, that I’d always wanted a harem and when I got one, I realised I didn’t need one after all. I needed a sleep now.                                                                                                             

Three hours was too long to be walking alone around a mafia city looking for a tiny bed and breakfast.  Google maps triumphantly killed my phone’s battery.  Even though money was tight, eventually being Maid Marion became too overwhelming.  Eventually a taxi came and crazily his name was Roberto.
Like an anxious parrot I sat high on his back seat as he began decelerating off the dual carriageway.  This unusually silent Italian driver eyed me suspiciously through the rear view mirror.   Then he pointed the car towards a sly slip road and in the distance was a farmhouse between two fields.  He spoke, ‘Otel.’  Normally I’d have corrected his pronunciation and told him that ‘otel has a gentle ‘h’ in front of it, but with the Fiddler on the Roof landscape in front of me, words couldn’t form in my mouth.  He drove towards a high metal electric gate.  By its sides there were squiggly shapes that moved provocatively either side.  We came to a halt and there were two long legged, black patented booted, beautifully made-up women, carving figures of eights with their hips to an audience of passing cars.  The driver aligned his window with the gate’s electric buzzer.  He pressed the one that said Hotel D’Angelo, and then muttered something in Italian through the intercom.  There was a loud buzz, then the gate shuddered and began to open electronically.  Suddenly the stunning red leather clad beauties looked through my window but I looked away and began to rummage through my backpack for Euros.  Then I heard a little squeak on the window.  My mouth dropped her left sharp hip began squiggling like a pen provocatively, against the glass.  My coins fell all over the floor and back seat.  After rummaging I managed to find enough and passed it over.  At that point I noticed how my shaky my hands were.  What the heck was wrong with me?  I’d evicted foul mouthed kids from my classroom, given detentions for whoopy cushions on my chair.  I was used to discipling wrong-doers.  Why couldn’t I shoo this Italian hussy away?   I realised I was too bloody frightened to bang the window.   In my mind’s eye there was an image of a razor blade attached to a pimp wearing a mafia T shirt, and blood was dripping from my neck onto my bare thighs.  I looked back outside, it was bloody raining.In Sicily!!!!The taxi driver pocketed my coins and slid his hand out of his window and ran it alongside the outside of the car before opening my door handle.  The woman bent over slowly.  With her arse still on the glass she barely gave me an inch to open my door. ‘Bloody Italians can’t wait for you to get out taxis or buses.’  I muttered under my breath.  My exit was still blocked.  I pushed the door against her hip.   I stabbed one foot into the ground like a flagpole, then another; then wrestled my backpack onto my back before I squiggled my well-worn red nylon suitcase off the taxi’s back seat.  She looked down her extremely long thin powdered nose then side stepped me as quickly I glared at her high eyebrows.  Wow!  Her skin was as smooth as Rimini beach and what? What?  She had a squared jaw line.My legs barely held me as I flicked my suitcase’s handle up and tilted it to 45 degrees.  He/she sauntered alongside.  Up until that point in my life I’d always thought myself quite attractive.  However I felt wrinkled, fat and A-sexual.   Ok, I was really tired then but man oh man, he or she, was absolutely front page gorgeous.  I aimed towards the beige cottages in the distance as the case ground and rocked over the rocky path between two freshly ploughed fields.  I heard the taxi’s engine rev-up and return into the traffic.  I decided to exaggerate my ticks, it always works to get rid of hangers-on, especially time share touts and hopefully hookers I thought. Twenty steps closer to Hotel D’Angelo (translated -Angel), I stopped for a second to stare he/she out.  Eventually her/his clock must have repeated – you’re not getting any money here so he/she huffed and I watched as  my stalker walked towards the roadside.  Man – Oh man! She/he was so darned sexy! ‘Keep moving forwards,’ began to revolve in my mind.  I walked towards the high pine trees which were really close.  I bared left on the path. I needed comforting, so I phoned Brian who told me I was being ridiculous.  ‘A prostitute wouldn’t want you.’  He affirmed.  ‘You’ve paid for the hotel now go and sleep there until it’s time for your flight.’  I pleaded that I couldn’t sleep in a brothel.‘I’d sleep in it.’  He concluded.I needed Tarzan then.  With the straightest spine ever, I finally dragged my fire-red suitcase over the final pot holes and rang the bell marked – Hotel D’Angelo.I needed my heart to stop booming and echoing in my ears. I rang the door bell, and realised, I was painfully hungry.   It began pouring down with rain.  WTF!  It’s Sicily. Tears began running down my cheeks.I pressed L’angelo bell four more times.In last night’s meditation I’d thought a dark, fat, curly haired Mamma-Mia, would have welcomed me with two kisses and an apron with the aroma of bolognaise sauce in the air.  Instead a hollow dark-eyed, short, fat, stubby man with a really long grey beard, opened the door and two poodles charged past him like rocket fuel.  He came over to the gate and put one grimy hand out for me to shake.  I noticed a huge black Doberman sitting behind him on the porch-way, glaring at me.  He began touching himself by pretending he was scratching in his trouser pocket.  ‘L’Angelo hotel?’  I stammered and he opened the gate. The poodles began climbing my legs. ‘Si, casa L’angelo.  Come – English?’  His bulbous weight rocked like a weebles wobble as he waited for me to smile or follow.   It took courage, just to nod.  The gate opened and the rockweiler got up to standing.  I’d never been good with dogs.  My feet felt as if they were glued into the gravel underfoot.   Even Brian would be frightened. ‘I’m scared of dogs, sorry cani.’  I was whining.‘Alora!  Bla bla bla,’ he rambled  in Italian.  ‘No capisco uomo.’  I repeated over and over as the Rottweiler licked his lips.  ‘Oh please, stop your dogs looking at me like that.   I cannot stay here. I’m too frightened.  Look at me?’‘Dolce casa dolce – Otel-beatiful.’‘But – that dog, those people!’  I pointed towards the road.‘Dis my otel. Good otel. You not like me?’   He placed a wide cigar in his mouth then put his left hand inside his right elbow and raised his right fist.  I knew that body language and I also knew for definite that  I wasn’t safe.  He was mafia, I was sure.  I scanned him for guns.  My mind told me to turn and run.‘Your advert say.’  I couldn’t believe I was standing up for myself.  ‘You drive me to airport, in morning?’  ‘Me no speak Englisss.’  He shook his head– no.  ‘You give me money back.’  I demanded.  ‘You  drive me  airport.  I not stay here.’  He shook his head.  ‘35 Euro back,’ I insisted ‘ and we be friends.’‘You no stay in my ‘otel.  You - no money.   I no drive you airport.  You cwazy Englissss womans.’  It must have taken me 30 seconds to button my lips back together.  He began calling the Rottweiler.  I flicked the poodles off my legs, clutched onto my suitcase and reversed quickly towards civilisation.‘You phone taxi.’  I begged.  ‘Per favour- taxi per pavour!’‘Si. Si.’  He called the Doberman to sit by his ankle and took his mobile phone out of his pocket.  He shouted some Italian into the phone, repeating ‘taxi’ twice.  With fear replacing my hunger, I plodded between the fields.  My saddened carcus bent as it strained with the then heavy 10 kgs of luggage.  With the gate closed behind me, my earlier acquaintances sniggered whilst I waited for my taxi to arrive.  Avoiding eye contact, I waited and waited and watched police cars watch the hookers working it then just go by and not stop.  I forgot feeling 93, I began to feel 123.  Thirty minutes later, or maybe it just felt like it, no taxi had arrived.  In the distance I saw a petrol station.  A car pulled over and the driver wound down his window asking me questions in Italian.  The short black skirted, long legged suspender wearer approached me so I swerved towards the petrol station as she put her head through the opened window.  Money passed between them, the door opened and gracefully she slid along the back passenger seat.  I noticed another man waiting for her.‘I’ve been no angel.’  I muttered, ‘but Brian wanting me to sleep there!  That’s too much.’    My print out from Bookings.com wasn’t worth the paper it was written on - £36 for that.  Luckily my case managed to stay together until I reached the petrol station but when I did, the zip burst.  The woman behind the counted gave me two big carrier bags, phoned a taxi for me and set me off for a 16 hour wait for my flight home. As the darkened night turned to day light, I rolled around on a metal reclining seat covered by my assortment of clothing.  Eventually the sun rose and morning came.  The moral of this story is – if you travel alone, be a good girl guide and only go as far as you feel comfortable.  If it starts to feel wrong, change tracks.