Thursday, 14 May 2015

Damn, I knew there was something I was meant to blog about today...


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JMS Books are having a One Day Flash sale at ARe. Today only all JMS Books are 25%.

Sounds like the perfect opportunity to pick up a copy of my short story, Waiting for a Spark.

Want to try before you buy? Here's an excerpt:

Across the bus, Gorgeous smiled encouragingly and his tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. Could he read Jerome’s mind? Or was the fact he wanted to push the guy to his knees and urge those moist lips to his cock written all over his face?

Nav’s voice was loud in the space left by the school kids’ chatter. “Yeah, they gave the job to a fuckin’ Pole. It’s a fuckin’ outrage, innit?”

There was a spare seat next to Gorgeous now. What would he do if Jerome just walked over there and sat down? Just started talking as if they weren’t complete strangers.

“It’s fuckin’ not on. Jer? Is it?”

“Yeah,” Jerome nodded, only vaguely aware of his friend’s rant. Did he have the bollocks to go up to a total stranger on the bus and ask for his number?

The smile slipped from Gorgeous’ face. He frowned and reached for the abandoned paper in his lap.

“You should write an article about it for the paper,” Nav urged, on a roll now.

“Maybe,” Jerome agreed. Had he done something wrong? Taken too much time thinking about it or just misread the situation completely.

“How they’ve come over here stealing our jobs and our women. Taking benefits intended for British people. Yeah,” Nav nudged Jerome with an elbow, drawing his attention with the sharp jab of bone into his ribs. “Fuckin’ immigrants.”

“What?” Jerome snapped, suddenly aware of the nature of his friend’s tirade.

“It’d make a great piece to get you noticed by the editors.”

Yeah, if the paper was owned by the BNP. His sarcastic retort remained on the tip of his tongue, though. There were several people on the bus muttering their accord at Nav’s little speech; none seemed particularly bothered that this impassioned crap was coming from the mouth of a skinny Asian lad. Even Nav, the first generation of his family to be born and bred in England, didn’t seem aware of the irony. The elderly woman nodding along in agreement had probably said the same thing about Nav’s own parents when they first arrived on British soil from India.

Others watched their small group with cautious eyes, narrowed in concern or suspicion. A pleasant, fantasy-fuelled bus ride had suddenly become a powder keg waiting for a spark.


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