By Curly Girly
If you want to read my failed contest entry, here is the link for 'Murderer in My House':
http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=763007
At the moment it is paying 10 points and 52c. Its just over a 1 000 words.
If you want the money, grab it! Due to expire soon.
Cheers
Nicole
By Curly Girly
FanStory
versus
FanArtReview
Dual membership of these sites present problems to its subscribers. Offering a list of problems is easy, finding solutions is harder. I will endeavour to do both. The idea of this contest is to bring improvement to the party. For quick reading, I chose point form.
PROBLEMS ASSOCIATED WITH THE SITES:
| Author Notes | 541 words. |
By Curly Girly
Dear Fellows, Fellowesses and Felons
REVIEWING—Patience required
Please excuse my erratic presence on FS. I will be back in full swing from 22 April. Overseas family are coming to visit. I am doing around-the-clock renovation inside our farm cottage to make it habitable. Sewing curtains, painting, erecting doors, cleaning and renewing flooring, etc.
TWITTERing Chaos—Help needed
I have lost my e-mail address (and its old password is invalid) for Twitter. The address was: arteefax@hotmail.co.nz
I discovered that New Zealand switched its ‘hotmail’ accounts over to MS ‘outlook’ at the beginning of the year. This means that my Twitter address does not exist, and I cannot access my mail, other than through my Twit messages, because it allows me to sign-in through Facebook only. However, when I want to buy an App (auto reply robot), I cannot do so, because I need to sign-in with my Twitter password. Twitter keeps sending it to my invalid ‘hotmail’ address. Trying to resolve this issue has been impossible. Contacting Twitter has been fruitless because I cannot change or update my personal information for them to contact me on my existing addresses.
I cannot start a new Twitter account, because it recognises my FB! My hands are tied. I cannot go backwards nor forwards. Surely, I am not the only Twit in the universe who has had such an issue? Any helpful advice is welcome, because it is wasting my limited internet time—I’d rather be on FS.
Thanks
Nicole
By Curly Girly
Hi
This is a short note to let you know that I returned from Townsville, Australia yesterday. I apologise for being behind with reading and reviews. Today I rushed off to work, and then went for car repairs and finally came home to find the stock inspector waiting for me. His visit was followed by cooking and laundry... Ah, and not to forget the kitchen units I collected on a trailer while in town.
Australia, Townsville stole my heart. It certainly is a place I hope to return to. The council provides netted beaches for people to swim inside to protect them from stingers (a variety of jelly fish). You swim at your own risk inside the nets--naturally I took the chance. The water temperature was 30'c! Beautiful. We never see temperatures like that in Southland. Our sea temperatures sit around 7'c for most of the year, if not lower.
The picture above is of a wild wallaby. Wally and mates came right up to our cottage every morning. The patio I sat on had a freshly shed snakeskin along the back of the cane chair. It was all so reminiscent of Africa. The strand road is lined with wild fig trees which are a rooting type of tropical tree, typical of jungles which reminded me of my home town, Tzaneen.
The people in Townsville are warm and welcoming, and I wish to take this opportunity to thank a lady named, Annette, for picking us up in her little yellow car and transporting us to the car hire centre.
| Author Notes | Please don't waste time reviewing this, it's just a catch-up note, thanks. |
By Curly Girly
What started out as a perfectly normal school day in March 1976, rapidly deteriorated into a nightmare. It became a painful mental scar which brought about a landmark of change in my life. I do not wish to mention the date, nor the hour, least it be spoiled for others who would prefer the day to maintain its purity. Reasons might be special to them alone. Against my will, that hateful day has remained embedded and branded into a part of my brain, which refuses to let go and stubbornly won't forget. That scalding memory scorches my innermost parts, years later, even now, as I talk about this.
At sixteen years of age, I was a boarder at Girls' High School in Salisbury, Rhodesia, more commonly referred to as GHS by the students. The lovely historic building sported huge archways and red polished concrete floors. It had been established in 1898. The building had mellowed and now exuded a simple kind of nostalgia. Large trees shaded the paved walkways, and the lawns had been freshly mown. Small, narrow flowerbeds lined the main walkway, like straight soldiers in fancy dress.
As I ambled down the wide pathway from my hostel towards the main hall, my attention was drawn to a baby bird which must have fallen from its nest. Relief overwhelmed me as I stooped to pick it up. I had almost stepped on it. I cradled it gently within the palm of my hand. Its wing appeared damaged. Its body felt cold and its tiny beak was open as it gasped for air. Cautiously, I wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it into the warmth of my shirt's breast pocket.
"Clang, clang, clang...” tolled the first bell. I hurried towards the assembly hall, where we always sang The Lord's Prayer, heard a Bible reading and then listened to the week’s projected activities read by 'Bubbles.' She was the Headmistress, whom we had sarcastically nicknamed according to her portly shape. At the end, everyone would stand in silence and file out in line, in class order, seniors first, followed by the junior classes.
Chattering girls jostled their way into the crowded hall and sat down with crossed legs in straight rows on the wooden floor. Once the assembly got under-way, I checked my little bird. Sadly, it was dead. I was glad for the opportunity to close my eyes during prayers, so that I could blow my nose and wipe away private tears of sorrow.
The morning passed in a flurry of maths, English and then Afrikaans lessons. It was compulsory to learn a second language. Students had a choice of three: Latin, French or Afrikaans. Personally, I knew nobody who could speak any of them, so I chose Afrikaans, because it was reputed to be the easiest. South Africa was closer than France or Italy, so I thought it was a reasonable choice. Unfortunately, it became my weakest subject. The teacher, Mrs Viljoen, despised me. Whenever I read, she…
| Author Notes |
Word count: MS Word 500 / FS: 506 Which is correct?
http://www.amazon.com/Hotel-Girls-Nicole-Ann-OConnor-ebook/dp/B00OI77OPU |
By Curly Girly
The story so far:
Sylvia McCormack was born in Rhodesia. Her father was killed by an elephant before her birth. Her mother re-married a British expatriate, Ian McCormack, who Sylvia adored. Political changes brought war to the country, leaving the family almost destitute. At the age of 59, Ian immigrated with his family to South Africa to start a new life. He had a small car, a caravan and enough money to last two weeks. He was unemployed for three months. During this time inner conflicts emerged, threatening to boil over. Headstrong Sylvia was too trying to handle. Ian encouraged her to leave home at the age of 16 and marry. Sylvia had no boyfriend, and her over-protective mother kept her sheltered away.
Back then, conservative parents shielded children from sex education, in the belief the less a girl knew, the more honourable she would be. However, Sylvia despised her lack of knowledge and found herself in continual positions where she pretended to be smarter than she was. On the one hand, over-confident, and on the other, haunted by the image stuck in her mind of mating dogs. (Welcome to read: Chapter 1: “Help! My Mother’s a Monster”).
The love of horses attracted Sylvia to leave home and to move in with a bunch of wild girls. Sylvia soon figured out horse work paid horse-shit. She became involved with a young man named Byron James Pattaway (BJ), and lost her heart to him; but BJ would not commit. With a limited education, she made a move to go nursing; it was a job where she could position herself for personal improvement and help others while gaining some respectability. And then she meets Wikus Kriel …
End of previous chapter:
Sylvia frowned. “You know, there’s something about Wikus I thought odd …”
“What’s it?” Liz looked surprised.
“He’s a doctor, but he smokes. To me, that’s weird.” Sylvia pursed her lips.
Liz emitted a guffaw. “Ah, yes. The curse of sinful cigarettes. Malcom smokes too. I told him I don’t like it, and he shrugged. To tell the truth, I’m not prepared to lose a good guy over it.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. But most doctors and nurses don’t smoke,” Sylvia insisted.
Liz opened her arms wide, with palms up, as if in despair. “Some do! If smoking is the worst a man does—then he has to be good. Don’t argue over trivialities.”
“True. We should count our blessings.”
Monday heralded the start of a new month. It was the first time Sylvia and Liz were unable to secure the same shift, and without Liz, Sylvia felt unhappy. They would attend most meals at separate times, with only a few cross-overs to share. Sylvia anticipated Tuesday’s date with Wikus with a yearning for company. Having come from Zimbabwe, the two girls found themselves sidelined by South African nurses of a similar age on social levels. She supposed it was a normal scenario with immigrants all over the world. Nobody liked aliens. It was easy to envision hordes of sophisticated South African girls fleeing in terror from two raw Zimbabweans—enough to make one feel like scum.
An explosive cocktail of nerves and anxiety troubled her. She felt unworthy of Wikus’ attention. He did not know she was limited to the two year nursing course because her education had been interrupted with immigration. Would it make a difference? How would he feel if he knew she spent six months mucking out stables? Despite fear of rejection, the desire to be accepted into society spurred her on.
On Tuesday morning, downstairs at reception, she discovered a message in her pigeonhole. It was from Wikus. It took a while to decipher the scrawl which invited her to his room, in B Block, after 2 p.m. Her hands trembled. She had not yet visited the male residence. Girls were permitted to visit males’ rooms, but males could not visit girls’ quarters.
Later that day, dressed in smart-casual and smelling of perfume, she lifted a shaky hand to knock on Wikus’ door. Inside, raised voices spoke Afrikaans. Uncertain if her knock was heard, she tapped again. The door opened partway. Wikus stuck his dishevelled head out with a cheeky grin. His face looked pink. An attractive brunette nurse, in uniform and wearing a navy blue cardigan, pushed past him as she barged her way out and marched towards the elevator. Her mouth was downturned, and her body movements brisk. A jealous dart stabbed Sylvia’s heart.
“Who’s that?” Sylvia asked once the assumed rival disappeared into the elevator.
“Nobody.”
“Well, she must be somebody—I saw her, dammit!”
Wikus gave a dismissive shrug. “No—nobody. You won’t know her. She came to deliver a message, that’s all.”
Sylvia hesitated, but Wikus dragged her into his room. “Come on! We’ve got a date—remember?”
“Yes. Did you remember?”
“Yeah. Did you get my letter?” Wikus winked.
“Yes—that’s why I’m here.”
He laughed. “Of course!”
Pensive, with pursed lips and downcast eyes, Sylvia shuffled her left foot.
“What’s wrong?” Wikus prompted.
Not wishing to admit jealousy, she wracked her brains for something distracting to say before daring to look him in the eyes. “You surprise me—your writing’s terrible! And your English is poor for a doctor.”
Wikus’ jaw dropped. For a brief moment, his mouth hung down in sync with his droopy moustache. He delivered a swift answer, hitting Sylvia between the eyes like a squash ball. “I was in a hurry! All doctors have bad writing. English is my second language—I don’t speak it at home.”
Sylvia felt her cheeks flame with guilt. She hung her head. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It came out wrong. I didn’t mean to sound superior.”
He laughed and drew her close. “Come here, beautiful. Nothing you say will ever hurt me—I promise.”
Sylvia stiffened. “Don’t be too sure—I’m tougher than you think. I might rip the rug from under your feet.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His eyes smiled. “I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
Sylvia gasped. He was outrageous—he moved too fast. “Love? How could you love me? You don’t know me—I might be a stupid little devil!”
He chuckled. “I love you, my baby devil. You’re gorgeous, sexy, clever and blonde …. What more could a man want?”
Sylvia put hands on hips. “Try: brains.”
He chuckled again. “I see you have those too. Now, what’d you like to drink?”
“What have you got?”
“Water, tea, coffee, cocoa or Cape Velvet liqueur,” Wikus offered.
“What will you have?”
“Liqueur!”
“Count me in.” Sylvia was keen; it was a fun choice for their date.
Wikus leaned over and tuned on his hi-fi. The strains of Franky Goes to Hollywood blared with their latest hit album Relax. They drank toasts to each other. A mischievous twinkle shone from Wikus’ eyes as he observed the meaning of the lyrics become clear to Sylvia. Relax, don’t do it, when you want to come … A delightful shiver of hot embarrassment ran down Sylvia’s spine as her body responded to the heavy, sexually charged atmosphere.
“Are you cold?” Wikus enquired peering down at her T-shirt. Her hardened nipples exposed her excitement. Sylvia folded her arms against her chest.
“Come here, I’ll cuddle you warm …” He pulled her gently onto the bed.
“Not cold, just …” Sylvia broke off. She was about to say embarrassed, but she had no wish to sound green.
“What?” He smiled.
At a loss for words, Sylvia’s mind reeled. “In need of a top up.” She downed her drink and proffered her glass, which he refilled with liqueur and a fine dose of good cheer. His warm hands felt tender and soft under her shirt. The music throbbed, mirroring their passionate heartbeats. Wikus was generous, keeping her glass filled. She had a point to prove—she would show him just how much a Rockdale girl could drink. He should know she was not the tame kitten he thought she was. When the bottle was finished, she closed her eyes, feeling relaxed, but excited, and placed her head on his chest.
“Your heartbeat’s loud,” she noted.
“It beats with love for you. I want to marry you …”
Sylvia laughed. “You’re crazy! I don’t believe you.”
Wikus jumped up and whipped his shirt off in time to the pulsating music. He wiggled his hips and undid his fly. Smiling, Sylvia clapped and whistled as she watched him swing clothing above his head before discarding it on the floor. His brazen stance revealed bulging red underpants. It was a sight to behold! His triangular, muscular physique rippled like that of a healthy stallion’s glistening in the sun. A sexy trail of dark hair descended down the middle of his lean stomach, burrowing its way beneath his undies.
“Now, it’s your turn!” He veered towards Sylvia.
“No way!”
“You’re not scared are you?”
“Of course not!” she retorted.
“Okay, then please remove your top.”
Sylvia sat up and whipped it off, throwing it in his face. He caught it in mid-air, held it to his nose and sniffed. “Oh, you have the scent of a woman—my woman.”
She giggled.
“Come on, take off your jeans. Fair’s fair. Let’s be equal.”
Sylvia hesitated. “Okay, but I’ll only go down to my panties—like you.”
He laughed. “I don’t wear panties!”
“Yeah, you know what I mean.”
“Okay …”
He pushed her back on the bed, straddled her and then lay on top. He kissed her neck, tickling it with his moustache.
Wikus held her head between his strong hands and said, “I love you so much, my darling. I swear I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”
Sylvia giggled. He was insane, but fun.
He looked surprised. “What’s funny?”
“You! I never noticed before, but you’re missing a front tooth. You look funny!”
He pretended to look offended. “That’s my love-gap. I’ll kiss you where no one has before …”
“No, no! Please, tell me ... how did you lose that tooth?”
He sighed. “At a fight in a nightclub. Don’t worry—I thundered the other guy. He picked the wrong one.”
“I’ve never heard of a doctor getting into fights. That sort of thing’s reserved for ruffians.”
He grinned and tickled Sylvia’s ribs, causing her to writhe with hysteria. She poked him back, and he returned it two fold. Soon she was out of control, almost wetting herself, begging him to stop the fun frolic.
He paused, looked into her eyes and then gave a deep, passionate kiss. The wild excitement caused by tickling turned into something else. They both felt it. His manhood nudged her crotch through her panties, causing her to become wet. Sylvia’s eyes flicked open. With a sobering realisation things had gone too far, she tried to sit up, but he held her back.
She tried to sound firm. “No more! We must stop now. Things are moving too fast—I’m not ready for this.”
“But you are,” he insisted.
“No. I want to stop. I must go …” There was a tremor of terror in Sylvia’s voice.
“First, take off your panties, then I’ll let you go.”
“No! I don’t want to do it. Let me go or I’ll scream …”
For answer, he covered her mouth with his, she tried to wriggle her mouth from side to side, but his gaping, wet orifice tracked hers, almost suffocating her. Sylvia managed to breathe through her nose, but her mouth remained sealed. With an expert flick of the wrist, and with a dexterity Sylvia found hard to believe, Wikus whipped off her panties. Fearful, her heart hammered. This is not what she expected. Visions of her old friend, Candy Bell, crying because her life was ruined over her unplanned pregnancy stormed Sylvia’s brain. He forced his way. Pain seared her private place. His body went rigid. Three thrusts later, Wikus rolled off her and sprang to his feet. She jerked the sheet up to hide her shame.
“Shit!” was his expletive as he reached for a towel to wrap around his waist, and glanced at his watch. “I’m on duty in half an hour. Quick, you must leave.” He bunched up Sylvia’s clothes, thrusting them towards her.
“Hurry!” It was a command.
“That was my first time,” Sylvia stated.
He shrugged and laughed. “Yeah, sure.”
It was hard to tell if he believed her. She bolted into action and dressed as if her life depended on speed, before unlocking his door, and fleeing without a backward glance.
*******
Afraid of prying eyes inside the elevator, she chose to use the stairway down to the underground tunnel. Once there, she went up the other stairway into the girls’ res. Tears scalded her cheeks. Her legs felt weak and her breathing constricted. Each heartbeat increased in pressure until her pulse was audible inside her head. Her chest was tight with pain. Unseen, she made it into her bedroom, locked the door and collapsed in a foetal position onto the bed. Tears flowed. Turmoil filled her mind. Overcome with emotional exhaustion, but unable to sleep, she lay on the bed until late. Only moonlight filtered through the window. Sylvia drifted off into a brief, twitchy sleep, to be awoken by persistent tapping on the door.
Bleary-eyed, she switched on the light, squinted and yelled, “Who’s there?”
“Me!” It was Liz’s voice. “Let me in.”
Sylvia unlocked the door, turning her back on Liz as she strode into the room.
“I waited for you in the dining room, but you never came for dinner. So I ate, had a bath and came over to see ...” Liz broke off mid-sentence when she saw her friend’s puffy eyes. “Oh, no. What happened?”
“Wikus raped me.”
Liz froze. Her eyes widened. “Wow.” She put an arm around Sylvia, and asked softly, “What happened?”
Sylvia held nothing back.
Liz clutched her head with both hands and shook it. “Oh, no. I don’t believe this!”
If Sylvia had expected sympathy, she was in for a shock.
Liz growled. “Oh, you fool—stooge—idiot! I feel like shaking sense into you. I thought we agreed not to get drunk and go into men’s hotel rooms—remember?”
A fresh wave of tears swamped Sylvia. “I know, but this was different. It wasn’t a hotel room, and Wikus is not an old man—he’s two years older than me.”
Liz gritted her teeth and said, “No, no. Nonsense—it’s the same thing. Wikus is a man, and getting drunk in his room was stupid—you should’ve known better. You’re a fool!”
Sylvia covered her face with both hands, hoping to hide her shame. “Yes—I see so now, but I trusted him. He seemed so nice beforehand. I told him ‘no’ at the last minute, but he didn’t listen.”
Liz exhaled. In a gentler tone she said, “Men are dangerous—like animals. I think when it comes to sex, some can’t hold back. You let things go too far. Nobody will believe you were raped. If you went to court and stated you were drunk and alone in a man’s room—they’d jeer as you made your exit.”
“You’re right,” Sylvia said in between sniffs. “Apart from you, I’d be too embarrassed to tell anyone about this. I’d never stand up in court to be interrogated. I swear—I won’t see him again.”
Liz frowned. “But you will. He works here. It’s a matter of time before you bump into each other.”
Sylvia shuddered. “I can’t face him.”
“You’ve learned a hard lesson. What will you do if you’re pregnant?”
Sylvia rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Oh, God, I hope not. I’ve been worried all day—my mother would kill me.”
“You’ll lose your job if you are,” Liz said. “And I’ll lose my friend. How could you do this? I don’t want to do this nursing course alone.”
“Thanks, I’m glad I mean something to somebody.” Sylvia folded her arms across her chest with a glazed look. “If I’m pregnant, I’ll have an abortion.”
Liz reeled back in shock. “What? Are you nuts? Abortion is illegal—don’t get yourself into more trouble.”
Sylvia grimaced. “I’d risk it.”
Liz stared into space. “I’d never abort my child, no matter what. I love kids—I’ve always wanted them. Personally, I’d rather die than kill my own baby, no matter who the father was.”
“Well, it’s not something I want to do either,” Sylvia snapped. “But after hearing my old friend Candy tell about her experience, I reckon I’d do it.”
Liz wagged her finger. “I hope you realise backstreet abortions are dangerous—you might end up needing a hysterectomy, or worse—you could be murdered or die from infection.”
Sylvia’s blood ran cold. “I know. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ll cross those bridges if I need to.”
The girls sat side by side on the edge of the bed in contemplative silence, staring at the floor. Every now and then Sylvia sniffed and fidgeted with her tissue.
Curiosity overcame Liz, she said, “So, tell me more about it. Did you bleed afterwards?”
Sylvia’s lips pouted, and she nodded. “Slightly—not as much as I thought it would.”
Liz digested that nugget before posing her next question. “Is the first time painful?”
Sylvia nodded. “Just when I thought I couldn’t bear anymore—he was finished.”
“Really?” Liz looked surprised.
“Yes, really.” Sylvia burst into fresh tears.
“What else is wrong?” Liz whispered as she rubbed Sylvia’s back.
“I’m disappointed!” Sylvia blurted. “I’ve been saving myself for the right person. I hoped it would be BJ, but no … I waited nineteen years for this …” She gritted her teeth as she struggled to express herself. “This package of nothingness. I mean, I thought … well, we didn’t get stuck …”
Liz was confused. “What do you mean by stuck?”
“You know—like dogs when they do it.”
Wide-eyed, Liz clamped a hand over her mouth and mumbled, “Thank God for mercy, at least that’s out of the road. Now, please don’t tell me you’re crying because you didn’t get stuck.”
“No!” Sylvia managed a chuckle. “I was relieved not to. But I expected something more. I thought something big would happen. The build-up was exciting—and then nothing. Let me tell you, I’ve had better wanks.”
Liz gasped, withdrawing her hand from Sylvia’s back. “Oh, no—I wouldn’t know. I don’t do that.”
Sylvia bristled with fury. Her body stiffened and her eyes blazed. “Well, let me tell you—I feel cheated. Nineteen years of being a goody-good shoes, and saving it for marriage, blah, blah, blah. If that had been my wedding night—it would’ve been a let-down. And to think that my parents wanted me married at sixteen—what were they thinking?”
Liz bit her lower lip.
Sylvia’s rant continued. “I’ve always wanted to know what happens on a person’s wedding night. I thought I could play the game up to a point, while staying pure, to improve my knowledge. Well, I played with fire—and I got burnt. Now I know exactly what happens—the mystery of life is solved. If BJ were to come back into my life—he wouldn’t want me now because I’m used goods.”
Pools of pity shone in Liz’s dark eyes as she spoke, “Nah, forget BJ—he hasn’t contacted you for months. I reckon he’s history.”
“Either way, I’ve been cheated out of my virginity. No good man will want me,” Sylvia said. “And what’s more—he didn’t appear to notice! I may as well have sacrificed myself upon a satanic alter in Inca City for all the thanks I got. I squandered my virtue on an idiot.”
“He was nasty,” Liz said. “And I hope you’re not pregnant.”
“Me too. I hate my periods, but I’m looking forward to my next one.”
For the following few nights Liz smuggled food up to Sylvia’s room because Sylvia refused to attend the dining room.
“Has your period started yet?” Liz asked as she handed over the wrapped food parcel.
Sylvia shook her head. “Nope. It’s too early.”
“I won’t be able to bring any more food because our shifts don’t cross-over for a few days,” Liz said.
“Don’t worry. There’s water from the tap. I’ll be okay.”
*******
A heavy spirit accompanied Sylvia on night duty. It was hard to be cheerful with a broken heart. Nurses had food served to them on the wards at midnight, so there was no need to venture into the dining room. The following morning she felt fatigued, and after a warm bath she drew her curtains and fell into a deep slumber. Sometime later, she awoke to a loud knock on her door.
“Who’s there?” Sylvia hollered.
The hostel supervisor’s voice called out, “Nursie, open the door. There’s a surprise for you.”
Feeling annoyed, Sylvia stomped over and flung the door wide. A huge bowl of flowers faced her, and behind it stood a delivery person and the hostel supervisor.
“These are for you,” the supervisor said.
“No. They’re not. Take them back—nobody sends me flowers. It’s a mistake.” Sylvia slammed the door and headed back to bed.
Another loud rap sounded.
Scowling, Sylvia opened the door again. “What?”
“These are for you.” The supervisor insisted. “Read the card.”
Sylvia’s jaw gaped as she read:
To Sylvia,
I love you.
Wikus
Xx
A smile curved her lips. Wikus loves me!
Beaming, Sylvia placed the massive arrangement on her desk, and thought, ‘Wait till Liz sees this!’
| Author Notes |
Fire Dance (Part 1 & 2)
*Contest entry. Followers of this story have read this combined chapter, thank you. |
By Curly Girly
Spring has sprung! These were the first-born of many, and there are more to come.
Okay, that's part of my excuse for being absent from FS. I have also been at college--working like crazy. To add to my drama--I messed-up my own computer software.
Question: How?
Answer: By doing something dumb. Please heed this, so that you never make the same mistake ...
I made a MS Word template which I foolishly saved as a normal document, but it had corrupt (incorrect) field codes entered into it that I saved for a mail merge document that included drop-down handle options. The result was that it affected all my MS programmes--including Outlook. Every time I opened a programme or my e-mail, a message error came up saying that there was a problem and MS had to close. This was really frustrating--home alone with a kaput computer.
Today, I managed to fix it by deleting all my college work and files, and then emptying my re-cycle bin, and doing a re-start. Yippee! It worked, but it cost me a few extra days while I commuted back to college to re-do all my work there.
I cannot possibly catch up on all the reading I've missed, but I will do my best.
Yours sincerely
Nicole
| Author Notes | 224 words |
By Curly Girly
My last novel, ‘Hotel Girls’ was a coming-of-age story. Despite the sadness in the first chapter, like all young girls, Sandy was a survivor. She rallied, making a new life for herself in another country. As an innocent country girl who gained work in a hotel, she learned about life in a blunt and sometimes humorous way.
As a writer, when embarking on creating a story about a young woman, what does one say? … That she was a good girl, virtuous, boring, kind, never swore and never had sex? Well, if that is the case, dump your readership now. Nobody wants to read about Little Miss Muffet.
Life is about sex, especially when we are young. Let’s face it—all of us, without exception, alive on this earth today are a product of it—even if you are a test-tube baby. Some guy wanked into a bottle to get you started …
Like it or loathe it, that’s it in a nutshell. And in case you hadn’t heard: SEX SELLS.
This brings me to my next point:
In all innocence, after I finished my novel, I wrote asking FanStorians under which genre I should list it. Most didn’t have a clue, voicing the opinion that it was not a true romance. Some said family saga and others a coming-of-age story. Well, I’m not sure what I did, but once I got to Createspace and Amazon, I saw the genre, sexuality, so I used it.
It took a year for me to cotton on. I live in a small town and talk gets out. Some people have Googled my book, and now they ogle me because they think it’s a SEX book. They think I go to swingers’ parties, etc. I’ve been sneered at, snorted at and ignored.
Perhaps I should have researched my genre first. Great idea! But too late now.
Anyway, sex sells. Only 33 of my Facebook friends bothered to LIKE my book, but suddenly I have close to 500 LIKES. It’s promoting itself and it’s going viral; one LIKE at a time.
The weird thing is, I’ve been sent sex messages, pictures of penises and telephone numbers of hopefuls and from possible male hookers--all of which I deleted. I’m a nurse—I’ve seen it all. Nothing new there, so don’t send anymore, thanks.
TIP: If you open up a FB page for your book, like I did; DO NOT ‘friend’ anyone who you do not know. It is best to ignore the negative / sexy messages. Laugh them off. Some are entertaining in their stupidity. There are options to delete and block. Check your FB page every day to make sure there are no indecent public comments. You might need to change your options which grant permission as to who can comment on your page, but it shouldn’t be an issue.
Above is my book cover. Look at it. It’s plain. It’s just a picture of a girl. The title suggests the place where she worked as a receptionist—in a hotel. That’s all it is: a girl who worked in a hotel. However, there are people out there who judge my book by its cover and assume too much. They think it is about bonking prostitutes in a hotel! And perhaps my neighbours do too. Socially, I’m screwed—and I did nothing wrong. I only wrote about life. Mistake: I wrote it in the voice of ‘first person,’ it comes across as autobiographic.
One thing is for certain, my book title is getting around! It’s well liked—it’s going viral with the aid of one Viagra addict at a time. It all started by looking at an image and judging the book by its cover.
| Author Notes | http://www.amazon.com/Hotel-Girls-Nicole-Ann-OConnor-ebook/dp/B00OI77OPU |
By Curly Girly
Last time I wrote and told you about the lamb I helped birth. Afterwards, there were several frustrated readers because I never posted an image of it. So, here it is for all to see. The latest news is that Pumpkin and his mother are almost fully recovered. They have been put into a special paddock where we keep our sheep that need extra care; it is a place where they are particularly sheltered and get extra food. We are anticipating more snow tomorrow.
Thank you, to the few readers who have tried to help me put photos into my text, here on FS, but nothing is working, and I don't know why. I can see the 'paste' box, but when I paste into it--nothing. Urgh!!! And: Whaaa! Why? I have tried using screenshots, but also to no avail. Weird. If you have any further advice, I would love to hear it, thanks.
| Author Notes | The lamb's head is swollen because of a difficult and prolonged birth process. It's life was saved by minutes. Today, the swelling has gone, and he is able to suckle. |
By Curly Girly
HECTIC
So, what's my excuse for delaying writing the continuation of my story Trapped? I can assure you, it is not writers' block. Sometimes life gets in the way and we have to cope.
After my son came home for a short break, he fell ill and needed an emergency appendectomy. Thankfully, he is recovering well, and is back at university. Then my tooth broke; now it has a temporary filling, but it might still need extraction.
Lambing season is still in progress. Yesterday I pulled out a lamb, both mother and lamb survived. This might sound easy; suffice to say it is comparable with pulling a greasy cork out of a wine bottle with slippery hands. This fiasco started when I spotted the ewe in trouble. My dog and I rounded it up way up on the hill and brought her down to the yards before we could help. If you have never rounded up a single sheep, be pleased--you've only missed trouble. Despite being desperately ill, they can run like the clappers--and always in the wrong direction.
The process of painting all my wooden cupboards in my kitchen is still taking place. In the meanwhile, I have to vacuum around tins of food and glasses stacked all over the floor and house. The paint refuses to dry (still too cold), plenty of complications ... and we still have to varnish it all ... perhaps another 2 weeks of vacuuming around kitchen utensils. This leaves me thinking, Oh, why did we ever start this? But we did, so we'll have to see it through.
When I wrote this story, I had big plans of inserting images into the text to show you the little lamb with the fat pumpkin head (due to delayed birth) that survived and is bounding around today. However, I cannot figure it out. If anyone knows how to do this, I would be delighted if you explain, thank you.
The good news is that I have a new job starting this Thursday, and my college starts again on the following Thursday. I plan to continue my story, but I hope you will forgive me if my postings become less frequent; and because of that, my ability to keep up with FS reading might diminish. With everything going on, I cannot keep reading three chapters of people’s work when I am only producing one. Now, I am off to write my next chapter...
| Author Notes | Photograph taken this morning. Southland is famous for grey skies. |
By Curly Girly
Recently, I received a Kirkus Book Review for my novel Hotel Girls. On the whole, I was pleased with it. In my opinion, there were two negative points:
Firstly, they said the protagonist’s character was one-dimensional. In literary terms, this means that the character does not seem to learn or grow from her experiences; this is an undesirable state. Sadly, I was one of those dumb girls, so they do exist—people who are forever too trusting and forgiving. See this webpage for further clarification:
http://homeworktips.about.com/od/writingabookreport/qt/onedimensional.htm
Secondly, they refer to the story being set in times of extreme racial and political turmoil, with little being said about the current South African situation. They then go on to say that the story had potential to go on to become something more.
At this stage, I am not intending to re-visit HOTEL GIRLS for a re-write. However, there are some things which I might be able to take through to my current novel, Trapped.
CURRENT PROBLEMS I WRESTLE WITH:
*If I make my protagonist learn and grow from her experiences too soon—there would be no stories to tell of the crazy situations she gets into.
*I have no wish for my story to become ‘political’ and take sides. The SA politics are much deeper than anyone, including most South Africans, understand. I don’t want to become bogged down. What do you readers think?
*So far, the story is about Sylvia and her experiences. Any ideas as to how I can make her less one-dimensional? Towards the end, I plan for her to find the right man. He will be a person that she feels she can help—will that be enough? Or is it too little too late? Any ideas?
To those who have followed this story: TRAPPED, I need serious feedback. Please DO NOT feel that you will offend me—I desire to improve the story during its development; it is too late when it is finished. I welcome your thoughts for consideration.
I would love to hear from you. If you wish to keep your comments private, then review here to score the FS money, and then contact me via FanStory’s Private Message system—I am keen to hear from you, so that I can improve where needed.
I am keen to share my Kirkus Review, as it stands, publically. Do you think this is wise? Some say, bad publicity is better than none. On the other hand, most of it is fair and true, I’ve simply dug out two niggles.
Thanking you in anticipation,
| Author Notes |
Thanks, ISLAND PARADISE, for the use of your image.
425 words |
By Curly Girly
1. My Technology Boo-Boo
* Prose only
* 1000 words maximum
Did you mess up your computer? Have you ever clicked on the wrong thing and landed in trouble? Maybe your credit card was ripped off, or you downloaded a virus, or you read something you thought was legitimate. Maybe you did something else. Share it so that others can learn and laugh.
2. An Embarrassing Moment
* Prose only
* 2000 words maximum
Was that the day you thought you won lotto? Or was that the day your pants got wet before you stood to deliver a speech. We have all had those awkward moments, please share.
3. A Misunderstanding
* Prose only
* 2000 words maximum
Yeah, I thought … but, no. Have you ever misunderstood an instruction? Or did you misunderstand where to meet your friend? Did you hear wrong? Maybe you flew to the wrong airport. Please share your experience, we want to read it!
| Author Notes | Thanks, eShots, for the use of your image. |
By Curly Girly
If interested, I have a co-winning limerick, with 'I am Cat', you might like to read. It’s currently paying: 8 points, 32c.
"Life of the Party"
It continues to be a source of annoyance that FS does not notify our FAN FRIENDS of our contest entries despite this being promoted AFTER the winner announcement.
Nicole
*No need to review this, unless you want a chance at the first two complimentary certificates!
Please click on link below, thanks:
| Author Notes |
CLICK HERE. |
By Curly Girly
Conceited? No.
Happy? Yes.
Friends? Yes!
Recently, Reaching For The Stars and Curly Girly met...and this photograph is proof. No, I didn't fiddle the image! It's really us.
We spent a wonderful evening together in Queenstown, New Zealand.
You may ask: Why?
Well, why not?
So here it is for all to see: a celebration of sisters.
Yeah, so we are real people. We ate Thai food (my suggestion), RFTS would have preferred fish and chips, but I like the garlic and spices!
What did we drink? Water.
What did we do? Talk! And have fun.
RFTS is tiny! I reckon I look like a Philistine next to her. We compared feet.
Sizes? Hers -- petite.
Mine? Censored information. She spoke like a gentle bird, and I? Well, she was probably surprised to hear my guttural accent and deep voice. Yes, I am a woman -- I have kids.
A unity of Canadian and New Zealand representation, and yet both from other lands. Quirky!
It's a busy time of year for me. I have lambs everywhere. Vaccinating, de-worming, herding, feeding, foot trims, tagging and record-keeping, sorting, weaning, shearing and re-grouping. Busy, busy!
I'm planning to get back on-line early next year. I pop in to FS now and then, and am looking forward to writing again.
Hey, don't worry about the SPAG in this -- it's only gossip.
Cheers
:)
| Author Notes | Gossip |
By Curly Girly
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Rhodesia 1972. Seven-year-old Susan Welsh bit her lower lip and clenched her fists as her parents argued. Her father, Edward, was furious. Her mother’s voice raised to epic levels of desperation. Timmy, the family dog, cowered with downward tail, slinking to relative safety underneath a table.
Susan’s grandparents had arrived that day from South Africa for a short visit. They had offered to take her parents to supper at the Kentucky Hotel in Hatfield. Good intentions went awry when her father refused to wear a jacket and tie, which were the hotel rules.
“I won’t wear them!” he protested.
Her mother, Jane, spoke from between gritted teeth. “Ed—you must. Everyone else does. The hotel staff won’t let us through the door if you don't.”
“No, I don’t care what other people do. I’ll not wear a jacket and tie—that’s final.”
Granddad chipped in, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a riot by inviting you out to dinner …”
“Dad, it’s not your fault Ed’s behaving like a spoilt brat. God help me for marrying such a fool. We never go out to dinner. I want to go, but Idiot’s putting a spanner in the works.”
“Hey! Don’t call me an idiot!”
“You’re hateful!” she heard her mother cry. “Can’t you be normal for one night and co-operate?”
Fretful, Susan began to wail. The happy day had deteriorated into a parental argument, and nobody could stop them. Granny and Grandpa were threatening to leave—everything was going horribly wrong.
No sympathy was on offer when irritation grated through her mother’s voice, “Oh, stop blubbering and go to your room. This is an adult conversation. Kids should be seen and not heard—scram!”
Susan scrambled away, whimpering. Granny followed and put her arms around Susan, hugging her towards her ample bosom. “There, there. Don’t cry. Granny’s here.”
She snuggled up, sucking her thumb. Granny always smelled good and safe.
A while later the family agreed to get in the car and leave for dinner, despite the fact that Idiot was coming without a jacket and tie—and insisted on wearing khaki shorts and sandals.
They were met by the head waiter at the door. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. A table for five?”
“Yes, please,” Jane answered.
Then the waiter noticed Idiot’s lack of attire. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Sir. No one is permitted into our dining room who does not comply with our dress code.” He pointed to a large sign on the wall.
Frustrated, Jane rolled her eyes and turned towards her parents. “Trust Idiot to embarrass us. I told him to wear a jacket and tie—but no. He’s such a fool.”
After a long debacle with the hotel manager, they were seated outside on the veranda, and then told to sit at the furthest table from the doorway.
*******
The next day, Granny and Grandpa left the house and waved goodbye. For weeks afterwards, Jane’s hatred smouldered as she went around the neighbourhood telling friends about her idiotic husband’s latest escapade.
One morning, after her father left for work, Susan’s mother said, “Honey, pack your bags—we’re leaving.”
“Where are we going, Mum?”
“Away to live at another house. Hurry. We must finish before Daddy returns.”
Susan smiled as she packed her clothes and then sat back watching her mother pack hers. Something was wrong. Dad’s clothes stayed in the cupboard. A crazy thought seeped into Susan’s mind. “Is Daddy coming?”
“No. We’re getting divorced.”
Susan frowned. “What’s divorce?”
“It means we won’t share the same house anymore.”
Susan sighed. There would be less arguing. “Is Timmy coming?”
“No—don’t be foolish. Dogs stay at home.”
An insidious feeling swirled inside Susan’s tummy. “Where will we live?”
Her mother smiled. “Don’t worry. We are moving to a big house. You’ll have a new brother and sister.”
Susan clapped her hands. “Oh, goody Mum! Are you having twins?”
Her mother snorted. “No. You’re getting an older stepbrother and stepsister—they’re teenagers.”
“What’s a step and a teenager?”
“Step refers to people related by marriage. Teenager is a big child who is almost an adult.”
“Who’s getting married?”
“Me.”
“Oh.” Susan’s eyes clouded. Things were making less and less sense. “But you are married.”
“I’m marrying another man.”
“Will there be a party afterwards?”
“No, because it’s our second time around.”
Susan scratched her head. “Will my stepbrother and stepsister play with me?”
“Yes, I’m sure they will. Hurry along and stop asking silly questionings.”
“Will we see Daddy again?”
“Maybe.”
Things sounded worse and worse. Susan did not like the sound of it, but as a child, she had no choice and had to do as she was told.
*******
The back door slammed. Timmy wagged his tail.
“Daddy’s home early!” Susan ran to hug her father.
Jane gasped while mumbling an expletive under her breath.
Susan’s father stormed into the room, surveying it in a glance. He pushed Susan away. “What’s going on here?”
Jane’s hands trembled. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” The air vibrated with the threat of retribution. “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re heading?”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
His hands flew to his shaking head. His face turned red. “Seventeen years of marriage—you can’t just toss it away.”
Her mother spun around. “You darn well bet I can! Goodbye, Idiot.”
Susan stood transfixed as her father raised his hand and slapped her mum across the face. Her mother reeled backwards, clutching her cheek. “Stop it—the child’s watching.”
He spun around regarding Susan like an imposter. “Get out!” It was a thunderous command.
Susan shrank back. “Daddy, please, stop. Don’t hit Mommy again.”
He advanced one pace, pointing towards the door. “Get out!” His bloodshot eyes were those of a madman. She had not seen that look before. His rabid spittle splashed on her skin. Their eyes locked. She didn’t recognise him—this was a monster. A shrill scream exited her lips as she fled into the garden. Nobody heard, nobody cared, and nobody came. Her anguish turned to the dry, choked sobs of a child overwhelmed and weak with despair. She rolled on the ground in the height of emotional agony as her small fingers clutched at the dry tufts of grass, pulling them out by the roots. Loud noises accosted her ears, increasing terror. She heard her mother cry, “Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me.”
Susan peered in through the lounge window. Pain seared her heart. Her mother lay on her back on the floor. Her father sat on top—punching her face with clenched fists. Dark, crimson blood streamed from her mother’s eyes, soaking into the front of her dress as she lay helpless under his weight while her limbs flailed.
Susan’s eyes bulged. Her little knees quaked as she stumbled and sprinted towards the neighbour’s house where she pummelled on their door with both fists, sobbing. The door swung ajar revealing a large, middle-aged woman with soft eyes.
“Help me!” Susan sobbed. “Daddy’s killing Mommy.”
The woman bent down and drew her in. Her husband appeared and said, “Take care of the girl and phone the police.” He left the house armed with a gun.
Minutes later a single shot was fired. Silence. Arguing ensued and then the sound of encroaching sirens split the air.
*******
The helpful neighbour led Susan by the hand as they strolled back to her house. Two police cars were in attendance, an ambulance and a Mercedes Benz. Her mother was loaded on a stretcher and placed into the back of an ambulance.
“Go with your stepfather, uncle Jim,” Susan’s mother said, pointing towards the Mercedes.
Susan obeyed. She passed by her father, who stood restrained and handcuffed, a policeman on either side.
“Susan! Come to Daddy,” he implored.
She shook her head, turned her back and climbed into the luxurious Mercedes with a tear-streaked face and a heavy heart. She stared out the back window as the vehicle accelerated away, staring at the man she once loved, now a monster to be forever feared and shunned.
By Curly Girly
Thank you to the three FanStory people who made the effort to review my book 'The Evolution of Sylvia Graves' on Amazon.com.
To the others who read it and cannot be bothered, my wish is that you have better success in receiving meaningful reviews from readers who read for free when it becomes your turn to publish.
I will give FS a break until next year but I might pop in and out for quick reading if I have time--no promises.
FYI:
Only reviews left on AMAZON.COM work. * (NOT reviews left on Amazon.UK). Not everyone is aware of this.
Books do not sell themselves so reviews are important. For those of you who are interested in social media, I recommend this group: BooksGoSocial Book Review Club (on FaceBook).
It is not good enough to simply sign up and sit back, participation in group activities is vital.
Both my books are available on Kindle for 99c each. If you enjoyed them, they could make great gifts to friends. Simply go to Amazon.com and enter: Nicole O'Connor books (Hotel Girls & The Evolution of Sylvia Graves) will come up.
Wishing you all the best for the rest of 2016.
By Curly Girly
ARTIST'S BIOGRAPHY:
Nicole Ann O’Connor was born in Zimbabwe in 1965. Through her work, Nicole expresses the beauty and peace found in nature. Her art offers the opportunity to be frivolous, especially when painting caricatures of animals. While growing up in sunshine-filled outdoors, she developed an appreciation for the beauty of nature. The bright colours of creation echo in her art, imbuing it with clarity, vibrancy and boldness, which reflect aspects of her personality.
Nicole believes variation is effervescent and uses a variety of media to bring out the best in a subject. Her art is a statement of positive things. When she paints, she tries to create something uplifting, whether it be attractive, interesting, fun, or slightly risqué. She tends to steer clear of harsh angles and straight lines, and refuses to distort beauty for the sake of fashion.
Nicole worked under the influence of a professional portrait artist for a year, has attended airbrush lessons with Wayne Harrison, and studied art subjects at Southern Institute of Technology. Some of her images have been used in puzzle and card publications.
Nicole is a fan of the Renaissance era, and enjoys antiques. Her favourite artists include: Gian Lorenzo Bernini, (his sculpture, The Rape of Proserpina defies belief with its soft-looking flesh carved in marble) and Sir John Everett Millais’s painting of Ophelia (whose body is beautiful in death). Rembrandt and Salvador Dali are the other artists in which she finds aspects of their work still hold appeal. Admired current artists include: Nick Fedaeff and Vladimir Kush, both of whom have a strong leaning towards graphic fantasy which is slightly ‘over the top’, but admirable nonetheless, because it charms the imagination.
Part of Nicole’s motivation is that she enjoys painting, the bonus being that it is transportable. People’s appreciation for beauty and humour is similar internationally. One of the things Nicole wishes to accomplish with her art is to create uplifting images which bring pleasure into people’s homes. She likes to focus on the positive and the good, whether it be a painting, print, card or image on a coffee mug. Art no longer has to cost a fortune and be set in a gilt frame and then be deemed untouchable, gathering dust until the next generation has the courage to change it. Affordable art is fun.
Nicole is married to the love of her life, a veterinarian, and is the mother of two grown-up sons.
| Author Notes | Okay, you haven't heard much from me lately, because I am working full-time trying to get my new website up and running smoothly. I'll be back with my usual writing as soon as I've go this sorted. PLEASE help with editing this bio., thanks! |
By Curly Girly
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong language.
The men gathered their coats and car keys, one by one the hotel emptied. Belinda disappeared. After locking-up, I began the walk to my room. Only Greg tottered alongside. As he caught my hand, his wedding ring twinkled in the moonlight. He pulled me close.
"Give me a goodnight kiss."
Alone, our conversation was private. That fact made me brazen.
"Kiss yourself."
"A girl with fire! Surely you enjoy sex?" His excitement escalated.
My spine chilled. "It's none of your business."
"But it is. I'll give you a good time."
"I doubt it."
"You're frigid. You need a psychologist. Everyone likes sex. There must be something wrong with you..."
I wondered where his insults would end. As I reached my rondavel, he tried to enter. The door was a stable door, with a top half and a bottom half. I shot inside bolting the bottom half shut. Half a victory -- we faced each other over the top.
He put his hands on the top of the bottom door to stop me closing the top half.
"Please..." he wheedled, forcing the door.
Filled with a courage born of desperation, which was fuelled by alcohol, I proclaimed, "Mr Case, I hate to tell you this...but you are the vilest man on God's earth."
His jaw dropped, nobody spoke to him like that.
My rant continued, "The concept of enduring sexual intercourse with you -- is on a par with being offered as a human sacrifice upon a satanic altar!"
His eyes widened.
But I wasn't through, "Piss off! You decrepit old sod -- before I get my Rhodesian Selous Scout boyfriend to blow your brains out and post them to your wife -- in a matchbox."
He stepped backwards.
The Selous Scouts were tough Rhodesian fighting men, with a formidable reputation, familiar with killing, bush-warfare and tracking. They were devourers of raw baboon meat, something close to cannibalism, a fearsome idea for any monkey -- especially one like this primate.
"And what's more -- I swear to God -- I will never have sex with you. Even if you were the last man on this planet -- I would rather masturbate."
But my ultimate verbal assault was yet to fire, "And if you ever dare lay a finger on me again -- I will scream 'RAPE!' at the top of my voice. Chances are that you'll be convicted and hung -- my uncle is a Johannesburg lawyer."
Transfixed, he stood unable to believe his ears. Rape was a crime punishable with the death sentence, in many cases, no light accusation.
"Good night, Mr Case. Pleasant dreams..."
Satisfied my verbal castration had emasculated its target, I pressed the top half of the door closed, gradually crushing his podgy freckled fingers.
"Ouch!" he yelped with pain and withdrew them fast. The door snapped shut as I bolted it from within. From that night on, I slept with it locked.
| Author Notes |
This extract came from chapter 7.
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=hotel+girls+nicole+o%27connor&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Ahotel+girls+nicole+o%27connor |
By Curly Girly
Hi!
I have now launched my website, and I would like to have you visit it. If you have any comments, corrections or suggestions to offer, please leave them here on FS.
http://www.nicoleoconnorart.com/
And if you want to LIKE my FB art page -- please do.
Thanks
CG
| Author Notes | Short & Sweet |
By Curly Girly
Unfortunately, this site does not allow me to send a private message to my usual followers, collectively, so I have to do it this way...
Thank you for your feedback and support during the creation of SANDY'S CHOICE. Today is the first day of my novel's release. It should be available on Kindle and Amazon later next week.
For those of you who wish to see the link so that you can leave a kind review on the Createspace survey, here it is:
https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1157269
I changed the title to: HOTEL GIRLS
If you wish to visit the FB page, this is the link:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hotel-Girls/514468958656262
For people following my present story, TRAPPED, I intend to get back into it commencing early next year. I apologise for the delay, but I am studying and working in my spare time. It's spring in NZ, and we have a farm full of spring lambs which are keeping us busy!
I am trying to keep-up with FS reading when I can.
Yours sincerely
Nicole
| Author Notes | The content of this message is intended for the people who followed the story: "Sandy's Choice" last year on Fanstory. |
By Curly Girly
PREVIOUSLY:
Gus set the offending reptile free by flinging it headlong into the muddy water. He reeled back spluttering with disgusted shock.
Miranda burst into peals of laughter, holding her sides until tears streamed. Her finger pointed to Gus as she continued laughing. Her hysteria was irresistibly contagious, and soon Gus joined in. Finally, she wiped her eyes and said, “Gus Bullock, you’re the bravest man I know. I love you!” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Afterwards, Gus held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “As you saw, I take no shit.”
After their fishing excursion, Gus and Miranda ended their day with a ravenous bang before she departed. After that, he took a stroll into his kitchen and rummaged around looking for something tasty to eat. The little vixen made him feel hungry. A decent meal of bangers and mash would suffice; such a thought made him feel twice as lucky.
*******
On Monday morning, a small queue formed at his door. Felicity Stuart was the first in line, staggering in carrying a blanket-lined box filled with wriggling puppies. Gus relieved her from the load and carried it in.
“What have we here, Mrs Stuart?”
She beamed with pride. “Eleven Labrador pups for deworming and vaccinations.”
Gus’s hand delved into the seething mass of warm, soft, squirming bodies to retrieve his first velvet-like patient. “This little fellow’s strong and healthy.” The pup’s pink tongue flicked as its short, chubby tail wagged. Tiny, helpless paws paddled the air as he held it.
“They are beautiful,” Felicity replied. “I only breed quality dogs and have won many contests for years.”
The plump pups wiggled and whined as they crawled over each other seeking a non-existent milky supply inside their warm box. Their delicious puppy smell fast changed when two liquid poops appeared.
“Hang on a sec,” Gus said as he cleared away the offending goo with clean roller towel. It didn’t take long to finish treating them. Next, Gus dispensed de-wormer for Felicity to take home for the puppies’ mother.
*******
A large, white, fluffy cat was next in line, brought in by its owner, Margaret Winter. According to a hurried whisper passed on by Gretchen, the lady was a well-respected author of horror stories.
“Doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong with Snowflake, but he’s gone off his food. And he growls whenever I touch his neck.”
“Let me see,” Gus lifted the grumpy, old feline carefully onto his table. Its ears flattened as it grumbled and hissed. “Okay, Snowy. I won’t hurt you.”
“His name’s Snowflake, doctor, not Snowy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I am, Mrs Winter, to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs Winter’s eyes narrowed as her mouth opened. Gus sensed all hell was about to break loose.
“Apologies, Mrs Winter. I swear--I’ll not forget your name again.”
Her lips twitched.
Crikey, Gus thought, she’s a frosty frump. I’d best be careful.
After a vigilant examination and gentle palpation, Gus made his diagnosis. “Snowy--I mean, Snowflake has an abscess on his neck.”
“How on earth did he get that?”
“Well, it’s definitely not a vampire bite.”
Her lips twitched as she fought to maintain austerity.
“I reckon another cat bit him. Has he been fighting recently?”
“Yes,” Mrs Winter replied. “He often fights with a marauding stray cat.”
Gus rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid, Snowflake, will need an anaesthetic while I lance that abscess and clean it.”
“Very well, doctor. I’ll return later to collect him.”
********
Mr Hamburger arrived after that, carrying a small pig under one arm.
“Who do we have here?” Gus asked.
“My pig, Porker.”
Gus wondered if Mr Hamburger planned a future meet and eat session with pork on the menu but declined to ask. Some things were best left unknown. “And what’s wrong with Porker?”
“He has a swollen trotter.”
Gus took a closer look and spotted a small cut at the back of the pig’s cloven hoof. It was easy to treat, after that the happy clients trotted home.
*******
Mrs Winter arrived later to collect Snowflake and was impressed with her cat’s remarkable improvement after such fast treatment.
*******
| Author Notes |
Thanks to, avmurray, for the use of your artwork.
PLEASE NOTE: Written in UK English My goals for this book are to: 1. Keep the stories amusing and / or uplifting 2. Avoid bad language 3. Avoid blatant sex; romance is permissible. If I fail, please let me know. Thank you! |
By Curly Girly
| Author Notes |
IMAGE:
https://static1.squarespace.com/static/506ad3dae4b00f5f2f4c9f0a/t/55d55d65e4b06c452028251f/1440046445671/ |
By Curly Girly
This morning, was one of those half-asleep mornings where I got out of bed before I awoke. You know that blurry-eyed feeling where you blame the cat for a lack of slumber?
Next, I stumbled to the toilet and plonked myself down. An earthquake took place. No, not rumble guts--an earthquake. Let’s just say that I pissed myself, but fortunately was in the right place at the right time. The house creaked and shook. The loo wobbled and the dogs hurtled towards me for protection--such trust.
The shakeup delivered my wakeup after which I put on makeup.
The details indicate a minor shake, but our wooden house shook fairly hard:
Mon Jul 10 2017 6:56 AM
Magnitude: 4.1
Depth: 5 km
25 km south of Paraparaumu
Oh, well, that is part of the price for living in beautiful New Zealand. Once it’s over, it’s not so bad.
Since moving to town, one of my morning tasks is to walk around the yard collecting dog turds for the dustbin. After my shakeup, I went outside with my spade and bag. I knew there were two to collect. I found one, but could not spot the other. The strange thing was that I could smell it--just couldn’t see it. It’s winter here and that means there are fallen leaves all around. Without glasses, it is hard to distinguish the difference between a brown leaf and a brown turd. And even with glasses, I still don’t see them that well. I complained about poor vision to SmurphGirlSasha and she told me at least I could smell them!
After walking up and down, bent low to the ground looking for poo number two--I found it!
The reason it couldn’t be seen? It was stuck to my shoe.
William Shakespeare was right, all’s well that ends well.
Okay, so my shitty day improved. I am relieved.
| Author Notes |
IMAGE:
https://www.google.co.nz/search?q=toilet&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjeypzQ7_3UAhWKgLwKHa5cDwQQ_AUIBigB&biw=1536&bih=759#imgrc=-48Ub1Oql9kqkM: |
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