Friday, 11 August 2017

From The Anals Of The House Of Fox . . .

Here's a (very) short story, taken from Fox Tales, a collection of nonsense from the House of Fox sequel, which I still haven't gotten round to finishing.

Fox Tales: Eight-thirty-six
The Forbidden Fruits

In the early days of the House of Fox, room Eight-thirty-six on level four was affectionately known as the Fruit Parlour. Cleverly designed with hidden crawlspace in the roof, the room boasted fifty glory holes drilled into the ceiling, through which the gentlemen of the age could pop their winkles. Any lady entering below would find herself faced by a cornucopia of anonymous appendages, hanging like fruit in an orchard, and would be free to wander back and forth, testing each for firmness and ripeness before finally making her choice. Historians have recently advanced the theory that the room was created as a parody of Eve reaching to pluck the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden, only with cocks.

Despite enormous popularity among the ladies of level four, the Fruit Parlour’s days of whimsy came to an abrupt end, following an incident in May of 1872. Lady Elizabeth Fatarse, after a day of heavy drinking, wagered the Duke of Wellington ten guineas she could swing Tarzan-like from one end of the room to the other, without her feet touching the floor. That fateful night saw three dozen men taken to sick bay with broken penises.

Deprived of their dangling dongs, the women of level four grew sexually frustrated, and formed a papier mache modelling club, desperate to recreate the lengths they’d lost. To this day, room Eight-thirty-six remains home to the Dildo Society, where lustful, lonely ladies make wanton love to inanimate objects, and gaze up at the long empty holes in the ceiling, wondering what might have been.

The House of Fox is available for purchase from Amazon here

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

August Update

The trouble with keeping a blog is I can never think of anything interesting to write. My life is pretty tedious. Exciting events or newsworthy happenings are few and far between. So, what can I write about?


How about that amazing dream I had, where the German bombers turned into star ships, and there was this almighty aerial battle, and Chewbacca was flying a spitfire armed with laser cannons? Pretty cool stuff, but unlikely to help shift erotic books. Note to self; don’t mention the war.

I am currently writing a brutal horror novel, in the hopes I can widen my appeal and perhaps have something on the market that people may even admit to owning. After bashing out five thousand words a day for the past week, I have now hit the wall, and it’s getting difficult. I’m finding myself doing anything other than getting on with the book; watering the plants, tidying my sock drawer, playing stupid Facebook games. Why the hell do you think I’m actually bothering to write this crappy blog? It’s a distraction; nothing more. Got to be disciplined; got to get on with it. This one must not turn out like the last four attempts, false starts all of them.

Right. Blog done. What now? Should I commit to a thousand words, or go count the loose change in the penny jar? Hmm.