The Friendly Games, William Blake, and me

That's what they call the Commonwealth Games. And friendly they do seem to be compared to the chest-thumping nationalistic nonsense that is the Olympics. Okay, so they'll still play national anthems to tell the world where the winners come from, hoist a flag too, but very few of either are recognisable. Even England's - though a setting to music of one of William Blake's finest works - must surely be virtually unknown outside the UK. I was very surprised when I heard it played at The Games and don't feel abashed to admit it, honestly expected that little waltzy number about gods, queens, and saving graciousness. Jerusalem has been sung at sporting events for years - notably the FA cup final - so I suppose its inclusion at The Games as the English national anthem does have some previous.

However, Blake - besides being a genius - was a contrary bugger, not averse to giving the establishment a well-deserved kick up the arse, and it is thought by some that this song - rather than a gloriously rousing celebration of all things English - is rather subversive. During his formative years, as the legend from which the poem derives its inspiration avers, did Jesus really step upon this land of ours? Gaze upon these green hills? Create a Heaven on Earth here? And if so, how come it's come to this? Wealthy land owners and industrialists - all supposedly devoutly Christian - subjugating and exploiting the population among the smoky fetid filth of the industrial revolution? So give me my weapons plus a dash of divine strength and let me fight tirelessly and relentlessly to free these poor fuckers from their sad and sorrowful lives. Then we'll again have Paradise on our doorstep. And not before time!

Others say that the poem's 'dark satanic mills', rather than industrial, are ecclesiastical, that Blake was having a go at the Church and its seemingly timeless ability to subdue, repress, while being, at its very core, rotten and corrupt. Run by Satan himself. I love that idea. If he (small aitch, not out of disrespect, but rather of disbelief) does indeed exist, there is no doubt that this is his domain, and that he has his hand in everything, including the church. And if he is as clever and conniving as the New Testament suggests, what better place for him to make his seat of power? Perfect.

Anyway. I digress. This was about games and anthems and concluding with a (some would say inevitable) tenuous link to something I once wrote. As usual. You know me so well! Okay. Let's get to it. I have a book going free at the moment. It's called 'Of angels, mice and men' and is available here:

'Of angels, mice and men' on Amazon

The first story from the compilation - Evie, destroyer of worlds - is my attempt to subvert Genesis for my own iniquitous ends, and touches on many of the issues that I believe Blake was toying with in his now most famous poem. That's if he ever toyed with anything. Go over to Amazon (link above) and read the intro. And, if you like it, download the whole collection for free! Do it before midnight on Tuesday, or it won't be free. Don't say I didn't warn you. 

Let me know what you think! Feedback is important, enables me to grow, develop as an artist (I don't really believe that, so ignore me if you like).

Have a great week!

Alexandra x

Giving myself away

If I said, 'Here, take me. Do what you want with me,' would you value me? Would you want more of me? Come back again for me? I know you would. And not just because I'm so good at it: whatever it is you took from me, I am - believe me - very good at it. But it isn't actually me I'm offering. It's a book I wrote. And it's not even a book I wrote. It's a collection of randomly-written short stories that had enough (barely) of a shared theme that I stitched them together into a sci-fi and paranormal patchwork  and merely called it a book. Are you still reading? Really? That didn't put you off? Good. Then we may be on the same wavelength.

The book is called 'Of angels, mice and men' and is a compilation of eight of my very finest and keenly wrought works. I am proud of every one. Each is worthy of a future feature film. I love the characters and hope you will love them too. They tug on my heart-strings, as though from another dimension, as though they really exist. Perhaps they do.

Someone recently criticised the name of it, said that it was too much like Steinbeck's classic, to which I replied, 'Of course it is, you moron (I didn't actually say moron), that's the point! The book contains mice, men, and angels, so I too stole Robbie Burns' famous line then added an apposite word of my own. Angels. Mice have well-laid plans that often go wrong, and men, rather similarly, have well-laid plans that often go wrong, but look! Look at this! Angels - yes fucking all-seeing, all-knowing angels - even they have plans that often go wrong, and the proof can be seen a couple of times herein. To whet your appetite, a brief synopsis of the included stories follows. The book will be free from tomorrow - 25th July - for five days. 

Metaphorically speaking:

I am naked. I am prostrate. I am open. I am quiveringly, beautifully vulnerable and heavily lasciviously lubricated. Please don't walk away. Take me. Take me and value what I am offering. I give you myself. Myself, in all my unadulterated glory. You will grow to love me, despite this rather unusual introduction. And I, in turn, may grow to love you too.

Of angels, mice and men

A dazzling compilation of paranormal and sci-fi erotica

Alexandra Amalova

The stories:

Evie, destroyer of worlds

In a locked and darkened room, a woman too beautiful to behold slakes the thirst of a multitude.

Room for rent

A mysterious circular tale of love and lust plays out in an old house with an empty room.

The Equinox of Thirteen

At the Equinox, a girl plagued by lucid dreams journeys through perpetual rain to change the world.

Sexangel

In a distant future civilisation, libido is surgically removed to be reborn as a separate entity - a tiny winged creature. Productivity rises and the procedures are initially deemed a great success.

Of snowdrops, mice and yew

After his divorce, Christian moves north to find his roots and, in the village of his father's birth, discovers an ancient church.

The angel of Lonely Farm

An old house, a new beginning and a powerful storm precipitate incredible life-changing events.

I pay the ferryman

The ferryman for Livia's final journey insists on the correct fare.

Automaton: the madness of King George

The eighteenth century's technological advances facilitated revolutions and executed kings, while simply driving others to insanity.

The ebook is free from tomorrow, Friday July 25th 2014, for five whole days on Amazon. 

Three-minute warning: what would you do?

Hi! Sorry about the hiatus. There are no excuses, but I have been busy. And that's not an excuse, it's an explanation...

Around six months ago, I wrote a story for a Lush Stories competition with the theme of 'quickie sex'. It didn't win. Why would it? And why would I be even remotely bitter about that? Anyway, I recently reread it and spotted a few flaws, a few wrinkles, and endeavoured to iron them out. I gave it a couple of hours, till steam filled the room and I couldn't make head nor tail of anything. That's when I usually say, 'That's finished then!' And so it was.

The story is called 'Three-minute warning', and I include a tantalising introduction below. The accompanying cover photo, by the way, is my work too.

Three-minute warning

I was plain and knew it. Didn't need anyone to tell me. Make-up and nice clothes were wasted on me, created a caricature, a laughable parody of sensuality. So usually - and wisely - I didn't bother. However, this day was a special day, a day when I had to try my best to look my best and thus open myself to ridicule.

I approached the desk with justifiable trepidation. The tweedy receptionist smiled patronisingly at my bleached hair, caked lashes, and rouged lips, while laughing internally at the cheap blouse that strained to subdue my over-sized tits. And I knew she'd be shaking her head at my mini-skirted fat arse and too-high heels as I following her pointing finger and clomped lift-wards. Well, fuck you, bitch, I thought, fuck you, though behind my sneer there cowered the shy, plump little girl who'd never even been kissed.

The lift doors pinged and closed slowly behind me. Smoky mirrors taunted me. Averted eyes insulted me. Twenty floors nearer to Heaven, Hell awaited. A five-headed bespectacled and besuited Hell, wielding slashing pens and posing withering answerless questions. I tugged my knickers from the crack of my arse, adjusted my groaning bra then breathed deeply and stepped into the fray.

The monster bade me sit. Its glassy eyes devoured me; its many mouths curled in hungry incredulity.
'So...' papers rustled, 'Miss...'
My solitary chair's creak barely masked my churning stomach's growl.
'Hughes.'
'Ah, yes. Hughes.'
The greying man in the middle had a kindly smile, yet it was also a smile that quite blatantly said, fuck these faceless four, for I make the decisions here. Despite their mainly cosmetic purpose, the faceless four somehow maintained their supercilious self-importance. I babbled.
'Susan Hughes. I'm seventeen. Just finished my stage one secretarial. I've always wanted to work...'
A slowly raised palm silenced me. I deflated.
'Quite. We'll come to your, er, ample qualifications shortly, er, Susan. Mr Jackson,' he coughed, turned to his left and raised an eyebrow at one of the faceless four, 'would you like to...'

A siren. The siren. Everyone expected it. No one expected it. Open mouths and pasty faces. For long moments, nobody moved.
'Is that?'
'Oh, God!'
'It is!'
'What the fuck do we do?'
Scrabbling hands extricated phones. Shaking fingers stabbed. A host of terrified expletives followed. Were they stupid? Didn't they watch the news? Communication systems are always the first to go. I sat on my hands, rocked to and fro, my lips curled in morbid amusement. This room is the last I shall ever share, these faces the last I shall ever see. We are equals now. No amount of money or status makes a jot of difference. Death simply doesn't give a fuck.

'Fuck?'
I stood. Tore open my new blouse - its pristine presence was pointless now - and jiggled my cantilevered tits at them. Greyhair bellowed.
'Sit down!'
For the merest moment, I wavered, but it was only a moment. I had three minutes. We all had three minutes. What possible sanction could sway me from my course? It was a concept my young flexible mind grasped instantly. Their blinkered crinkly brains would take a little longer.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.