Norman Weatherby is a miserable bastard. He’s a sleaze, a miser, and a man who suffers from telephone rage. Don’t be rude to him on the phone …or you might regret it! Warnings: Bad language.
If there was one thing Norman Whitby hated, it was being interrupted by the telephone while he was eating his evening meal. Countless telesales people figuring that the best time to ring people was 7pm had firstly been countered with polite denials, then brusque denials, then outright rudeness, then a phone left off the hook. Norman had now changed his phone number to a silent one, but still got badgered. They simply rang back later when he was watching a porn video.
Norman had today finally taken the step of buying an answering machine. It sat in its box on the cheap formica kitchen table, waiting for him to install it after he’d finished his chops and three veg.
Norman took a long swig of beer and forked the first mouthful of lamb chop and instant mash into his mouth.
And the phone rang. Norman groaned. He’d left it on the hook tonight because he’d entered a competition and was expecting…well, hoping…the organisers would ring to tell him he was a winner. Continue reading
Freddy Kingdom is a twentieth century woman living in the wrong millennium. She’s sitting in the last great sports car ever built, stuck in traffic on the world’s biggest roundabout. And she’s in the WRONG LANE… Warning: Sexual scenes, bad language, dodgy sci fi. 18+
Freddy Kingdom was stuck in traffic. This was an unusual occurrence. Freddy prided herself on being able to READ traffic, as far into the distance as possible, and make the appropriate split-second decisions to keep herself moving and passing as many vehicles as possible.
But she’d stuffed up. One moment’s reverie, one nanosecond’s lack of attention, and traffic had swallowed her.
Here she was, stuck in the world’s biggest roundabout. What’s more, she was stuck in the WRONG LANE.
Freddy groaned and thumped the steering wheel, and put on her indicator without much hope. The cars and maxibuses in front of her had stopped completely, which indicated either a breakdown or a fender-bender. An electric motor scooter, one of which she’d owned herself until last week, swept down the middle lane with a triumphant squeak of its low decibel horn. She switched off the motor, and the snarly sound of the Porfer ceased. Continue reading
Could it be true that Prince Charles never married Diana, but secretly wed a suburban Australian housewife ten years his senior? Beryl thinks so. As far as she’s concerned, she’s the real Princess of Wales. (This story was written before Charles married Camilla. Just to avoid confusion.)
Beryl Parkinson had always adored Prince Charles; but she couldn’t tell you exactly which day her fantasy of being married to him had, to her, become reality.
Her husband – her REAL husband, Alf – suffered the nameplate Highgrove on the front of their Californian bungalow on Morrison Road, and the spare room being turned into a shrine worshipping HRH. He wasn’t aware than on the rare occasions that he and his wife had sex, she saw the Prince’s face looming over hers in concertinaed concentration, and that when Alf rolled off with a satisfied, “Owwuzzitferyoulove?” she heard Charles’ mellifluous tones say, “Darling, that was wonderful!”
Had Alf known that Beryl considered herself the wife of “that stuck up bugger with ears like wingnuts”, he would have realised that the pills that had kept her under control since Gladesville Hospital had shut down and she’d moved back home weren’t working as well as they should. Continue reading
When she’d created a fictional alien hero with three dicks, Lucy never dreamed she’d meet him….or sleep with him! Warning: Sex scenes, bad language. 18+
“The best thing about creating a world is that you can do exactly what you like with it.” Lucy was fond of saying this. In her tours to schools as a successful author, she found this always put thoughtful looks and big smiles on small faces.
Creating a world was exactly what Lucy had done. She had created Fod, the planet about which she’d written 25 stories and books to date. A crappy relationship had put her off writing for almost a year, much to the horror of her agent, and now she was over Jake – or Jerk, as she now privately called him – and was working on the synopsis for the new book. Continue reading
This time it’s a trip to Shakespeare’s England. Isabel ain’t your usual demure Tudor miss. She’s struggling to become a writer in a male-dominated world, even if it means cross-dressing, swilling beer and lighting farts. And the man of her dreams only had a bath last week… Warnings: Sex scenes, bad language, terrible liberties with history. 18+
Isabel tossed in her sleep. She was having the dream again.
Isabel sees the woman from behind. She is sitting in a peculiar chair, one spindle from the seat going down onto a brace affair with five wheels on the bottom. She is tapping her fingers on little grey squares and the glowing rectangle in front of her is throwing up words. The machine makes squawking noises every so often.
The woman sighs and scratches her head, then arches her back. She is wearing clothes like Isabel has never seen, a plain jersey and, of all things, trousers. No ruffles, no tight hose. She is dressed like a man in these cerulean blue trousers yet dressed like no man Isabel has ever seen. Her dark hair is loose and hangs to her shoulders. Continue reading
Charlie had held a torch for gorgeous, thoughtless Jeremine since they were teenagers but to Jeremine he’d always be her brother’s seriously overweight best friend. Maybe sharing a house would change all that…
The four of them got wildly drunk the night they moved in together. It was a multiple celebration: Jeremine had landed the most lucrative modelling contract she’d had yet with an agency whose connections spanned the world, and would be flying off to Paris for a shoot in a few months’ time; Sophie had been accepted for her first job since graduating from uni; Grant had won $500 on a mystery trifecta he’d taken out just for a laugh; but Charlie didn’t name his reason. He was unwilling to let even his three closest friends know that he’d had sex with a girl for the first time in two years. It hadn’t been good sex, just mediocre, but Charlie had the feeling it was the most he’d get for a while. He just couldn’t seem to make it with women. But he clinked his tumbler of champagne against Jeremine’s and proclaimed, “Here’s to our new house!”
They’d pooled their resources and rented a three-bedroomed house in Balmain. Sophie and Grant had been toying with the idea of living together for ages, and had bagged the master bedroom with its wardrobe-sized ensuite. Jeremine got the next best bedroom; people always let Jeremine have the best. She was so beautiful, when she turned those huge brown eyes on you you’d forgive her anything, Charlie thought as he’d unpacked his boxes into the third bedroom, which wasn’t much bigger than a dog kennel. With Charlie’s bulky frame in it, it became even smaller. Continue reading
Annabel was looking forward to a rustic, quiet weekend in the country, but was it really better to travel hopefully than to arrive?
Since Monday morning, when the overhead projector failed during my major presentation, and Serena spilt coffee over the VIP visitors, I’d been looking forward to this weekend. Billy’s phone call had promised light at the end of the too-long tunnel: two days of fresh country air, relaxing in the Hunter Valley, touring vineyards, finally getting the chance to sink my teeth into my paperback copy of The latest John Grisham. Bliss!
Now, sitting in Billy’s car as he drove too fast along the country roads, I wasn’t so thrilled. The exhaust system on his throaty old V8 had developed a hole which seemed to get bigger with each kilometre, and if it wasn’t the noise giving me a headache, it was the fumes. Billy thought it terrifically funny.
“Sounds like I’ve got a forty thousand dollar engine under the bonnet!” He slapped the steering wheel, thoroughly amused by himself. Never one to take speed limits seriously, he accelerated until the shrubs at the side of the road became a blur. Luckily I’d developed nerves of steel ages ago. Continue reading