Killer Queen


Portia glanced at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch. He’s late. Five more minutes, and he can forget it. Sipping from her glass of Moet, she scanned the room for a third time.

“Ms P?” The deep voice came from behind her and made her jump. Looking the speaker up and down, she narrowed her eyes.

“You’re late. I don’t care for tardiness. Two more minutes, and I would have left.”

“I’m sorry. There’s been a pile up on the ring road. I got stuck in tra—“

“I didn’t ask for your life history. I don’t care why you were late. Only know, it cannot happen again.”

She smiled as she watched him bow his head in shame; her thin, red lips stretching across her face. “All right. Enough with the dramatics. Pay for my drink, and we’ll be off.”

When he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, a photograph of two children fluttered to the floor. Scooping it up, he shoved it back in its home.

“Children?” She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “They look young.”

Her client’s cheeks coloured and he fanned himself with his wallet. “Oh, yeah. Six and eight. But I’m getting a divorce, so I’m not cheating on anyone.” His words tripped over one another in his hurry to absolve himself.

Climbing down from the bar stool, she leaned in close and said, “Not here. We don’t want the whole world to know our story, do we?” An auburn hair fell across her face when she spun around to leave. Immediately, she tucked it behind her ear.

With the drinks paid for, she led the way to the elevator, brushing off a couple of men who pawed at her as she passed. “My time is occupied right now,” she breezed and continued walking. “Call and leave a message on my phone. You have my number.”

Once inside, she hit the button for the twentieth floor. On the way up to her room, things became a little crowded as everyone seemed to be heading up to the roof. Backing herself into a corner, she recoiled as the intoxicated, sweaty people invaded her space. Human touch was something she allowed only in the confines of her own room; where she could be in control.

She didn’t occupy the penthouse suite. Her money didn’t stretch quite that far. Nonetheless, she had managed to sweet talk the manager into renting her the next best room. With a window that wrapped around the entire suite, the views of the city were breathtaking. Lights twinkled in the dark night sky. In the living area, the walls were off-white with rose gold flowers.

The first time she saw this space, she had gasped. She had always known she would make something of her life and have all the luxuries she had been denied as a child. But to see this beautifully decorated living room—that was bigger than her entire apartment back home—well, it made her proud. She was someone.

“Okay. As you were late, we’ll skip the foreplay and head straight to the bedroom.” The moment she said it, she felt guilty. She had no right to take out her bad mood on a client. That’s not how you made money. Softening her tone, she added, “You may pour yourself a drink from the mini bar first. If you like.”

The man, who she guessed must have been around forty, ripped open the refrigerator door. “Vodka. Is that okay?” When he turned to face her, his pale blue eyes watered. As he poured the drink, his hands shook.

“This is your first time, isn’t it?” she said, sitting on the bed and crossing her long, stockinged legs.

After swigging almost all the drink in one, he licked his lips. “Yes.” He stared straight ahead, unable to meet her eyes.

Her heart sank. This guy didn’t want to have sex with her. He wanted to talk. Oh, how she hated that. Such familiarities pushed her closer to vulnerability. “So, what made you call me? How did you hear about me?”

Draining the liquid from his glass, he paused before speaking. “My mate Buster uses—ugh, no, has called upon your services before. He said you’re the real deal. You know, like, you’re sophisticated, and all that. You come recommended at the price you charge. I liked the sound of you because my wife, my Claire, she’s sophisticated, as well. Likes all the best things in life, you know. God knows what she’d say if she knew—”

“Woahh. I don’t need to hear about your wife. You can keep that to yourself.” Opening the refrigerator, she poured him another vodka. Eyeing him as he took another long draw of the alcohol, she said, “So what would you like from this evening? From our encounter? What are you hoping for?”

A smile crept across his face, and he chuckled. “I would have thought that’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re a call girl, and I’m a red-blooded man. I want to try your goods.” Placing his glass on the side, he grabbed her head with two rough hands and suckered his lips to hers.

A couple of drinks usually brought them out of themselves. Pulling herself away, she stood and took his hand. “I think you’re ready for the bedroom now.”




Alone again. The soapy bathwater masked the real Portia. It covered up the dirt-poor neighbourhood in which she was raised. It wiped out all traces of her drunk mother and way-too-friendly stepdad. As she lay back, feeling the bubbles caress her skin, she thought about the success story that was her life. She had made it. Not only did she have so much money she didn’t know how to spend it, but the things she did want to buy, guys tripped over themselves to get for her. She wanted for nothing.

Pulling back the rose gold covers on her king size bed, she climbed in. If only she could tell someone about her successes. Sharing would feel good. Grabbing her phone, she flicked through her contacts. She had over a hundred names in there. She could call any of them, and they would invite her over or out for drinks. But none of them would listen to her. None of them cared.

She rested her head on the pillow and pulled the covers over her. The black hole in the pit of her stomach expanded, filling her body. Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.


I’m Going Slightly Mad


I had so much fun writing this poem, even though not a word of it makes any sense. It was just a fun, nonsense write.



(A Nonsense Poem)

Scraped knees tucked
into my chest,
providing a rest for my
eyes peeking at
yellow daffodils as they
in front of me—
oh dear—
last time they
quick-stepped round
my garden
I stood in the midst
and felt the soft flutterings of their
At the time, I was a
banana tree devoid of fruit;
a sorry sight,
sweltering as the outside temperature
rose higher and higher.
The meaning was oh-so clear,
a sign from my commander:
my kettle was boiling over
and I had to rest
because if I didn’t
my boat would crash the rocks
and my cargo of wool would
unravel so fast
I’d never catch it.

I’m going slightly
I feel the eye on the
back of my head
and close,
it’s seen too much,
always looking behind,
no place for an eye to
and it tells me
my kettle is whistling,
why does it chisel my teeth that way?
The rainbow-coloured nurse gives me a
no, ten pills,
they multiply by the day
I guess it’s finally happened:
Am I slightly mad?
But how about you?
I see you check
the light switch
five times
before you leave the room
on your three-wheeled bike.
And there you have it . . .

Love Of My Life



A Haiku Sonnet

words in anger tossed
into boxing ring of love
we punch back and forth

hurt egos buzzing
we return to our corners
and lick our wounds clean

bags packed love withdrawn
i watch your figure fade out
my world crashes down

silent house deafens
ghosts of happier times haunt
how i still love you

love of my life you’ve hurt me
don’t take it away from me


The challenge my writing group has given me this week is to write seven short stories or poems, inspired by Queen songs. I love this challenge because I’m a huge fan of Queen. The only difficulty is narrowing it down to seven. We can use lyrics from the song, or simply be inspired by the song and build on that. I’ll share my writings over the next few days.

So, onto the first one. I chose the song ‘Innuendo’ because I love the message at its core. It’s a song about breaking down boundaries and living limitless lives. It’s about being accepting of others and fighting for what is right. Plus, it has an amazing flamenco guitar section. Anyway, here is my poem:



Babies born to babies
living on minimum wage,
failed by education;
a system that doesn’t
care . . .

Where is the justice
for those who cannot speak?
Why the apathy
as we pass by the
bundles of people
under cardboard?

We have to keep on fighting,
surrender our egos . . .
The man at the top must lead
the way to love,
or hope cannot survive.
While we rule by blind madness and
the world will never be free,
while our lives are dictated by
false religion
our tempos fall out of
sync with goodness . . .

But you can be anything you want
to be
if we all come together,
stop living according to
race, colour, or
creed; lose our
entitlement greed,
be free to ourselves.

This is my
imploring you, give me
a reason to live or
and I’ll keep on fighting
till the end of time,
till the end of time.