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Wetched Women

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Hey guys, now that I have been brave enough to put myself out there...yeah, out there... in cyber world and the likes of twitter, facebook and Google+!  

Well now that I've been bold, brave and even slightly stupid (one might say) how about a little interaction??

Though to date I have had over 27,000 viewers on my blog, I am saddened to say - that not one of you good people have ever ventured to talk to me!   One feels rather rejected and dejected all at once!

Yeah you read correctly; I want a little interaction!  Become a member on my blogspot - thus giving you immediate right to questioning, harassing, intimidating, annoying or (only if you are feeling generous) complimenting me and engaging me in literary conversations! 

Lonely is the life of an author, sometimes one would appreciate a little interaction, from literary freaks to distant enthusiastic types, everyone is welcome!  I would love to hear from writers alike, poets, rappers, avid readers.  I want to know what interests you, what books you like and what genre!  Tell me about your favourite authors and I will tell you about mine, (no, I won't say me) and we can share in the best or worst fiction we have come across.   And although some of my cousins from across the pond may find my spelling a little weird, please remember that I am English and therefore spell in a nonsensical way (sorry guys) and hope you do not judge too much!   

I will also welcome snippets of your own work displayed on my blog, (but guys I mean snippets, not full blown manuscripts) as a means of showcasing your work to my viewers....can't say fairer than that! 

 So what do you think?  Shall we get creative?? Get those discussions underway?  Get that old competitive streak all fired up?  Join me on 

sammarllyblogspot.co.uk 

AUTHOR'S CORNER:

AN ENDING TAKES A LIFETIME TO REACH!

Time takes its toll on most; there is no escaping it.  Waiting for God is no easy task, for the ticking of our clocks make for a noisy racket with intercepting memories and painful regrets.

 

Sybil King, an author of her time, a woman of substance, once admired, adored and loved by men, finds herself cheated and abandoned by her daughters and left to rot in a retirement retreat.  Where once the world was at her fingertips, she now seems to be barely touching the world or her nearest and dearest. There is life, it seems, in old age; for she befriends a group of like-minded women, together they form a poker club wickedly called Wretched Women, or WW for short.  Here the women break all the warden’s rules by sneaking in alcohol and cigarettes and use foul language as a form of rebellion, while reminiscing on past lives.  The headmistress and her twisted past, the actress who has loved and murdered, the Moroccan prostitute, the exotic dancer, the widow of an Arab brute and the television presenter who is confused about her gender; these are the fine members of society that make up the WW.

We reap what we sow, so be very careful; because the fruits of our labour come not as the organic delights to be enjoyed, but thoughts, memories and lurid shadows which follow us around and see us into our graves. 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Wretched-Women-Sammar-Ally-ebook/dp/B01HOY9V5E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1467211582&sr=1-1&keywords=WRETCHED+WOMEN

SOON.... TO COME....

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

OUT NOW!

WRETCHED WOMEN 

Time takes its toll on most; there is no escaping it.  Where once we were youthful, gorgeous and happy, all eventually fade away into frailty, wrinkles and discontent.  Waiting for God is no easy task, for the ticking of our clocks make for a noisy racket with intercepting memories and painful regrets.  We wait eagerly, yet fearfully as the ending is pending just round the corner… an ending that seems to take a whole other lifetime to reach!

Sybil King, an author of her time, a woman of substance, once admired, adored and loved by men, finds herself cheated and abandoned by her daughters and left to rot in a retirement flat.  Where once the world was at her fingertips, she now seems to be barely touching the world or her nearest and dearest.  In short, she has faded into age, as many do.  And behind her invisibility her memories serve as oxygen, her tears serve as water and her regrets serve as sustenance. 

There is life, it seems, in old age; for she befriends a group of like-minded women, together they form a poker club wickedly called Wretched Women or the WW for short.  There the women break all the warden’s rules by sneaking in alcohol and cigarettes and use foul language as a form of rebellion.

The story kicks off with April, the oldest member of the group receiving some disturbing news.  This prompts her to tell the others of her deepest secrets, which prompts the others to speak candidly about their lives.  

We learn about April, the retired headmistress who was forced to give up twin boys at the age of fifteen, and subsequently suffered psychological issues, compelling her to seek out one of them (unbeknown to him) posing as a pen pal, and  consequently striking up a romantic  relationship with him.  We learn about Elsa Klinger, a once famous west end actress, with a very colourful past, filled with affairs and murders.  We learn about Cynthia, who was once living in luxury as the prisoner wife of a rich Arab.  We meet Fern, who used to be an exotic dancer in her day.  Zara, an attractive Moroccan, who the group later discover used to be a prostitute with a sordid gang culture.  We meet the once famous television presenter, Luna, whose husband was a transsexual and later a transgender and her unconventional ways of keeping her marriage, who seems to be slowly showing her transsexual side once her story was told.  We learn so much about Sybil King, narrator of our story and once known author; her secret lovers, her children, her mother and the one big regret of her life – the son she gave up.

We reap what we sow, so be very careful; because the fruits of our labour come not as organic delights to be enjoyed, but thoughts, memories and lurid shadows which follow us around and see us into our graves.  

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AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THE BOOGIE MAN

Most of us fear, because fear is real; it seeps through your senses and conquers your very essence, creeping through your veins and nesting inside your brain, thumping inside your heart.  That's what fear is.  Fear can be big or small, significant or non significant, black and white or in technicolor, but know this, no matter what the shape may be, it's yours, your fear, your shit, your dark place!  

Some seek to suppress it by busying themselves; they turn into workaholics, they get involved in political crap, they become perfect model citizens, they party, they love, they hate, they smoke, they drink, they self medicate with drugs.  They wake up each morning with sheer dread in their ribs and a weight upon their shoulders they simply can't explain; but they know it's there, it's real, and very, very present.  The only sane option is to drag themselves out of that bed and get obsessing about whatever vice they have invented for themselves; get back on that metaphorical treadmill, because it's that treadmill that holds their sanity, their wealth and well being, it's that treadmill that is the thin fine line that keeps them in the world of normality.  

Creative people do it the best; they recreate what they fear through their fictional occupation, they paint, they compose music, they write the world to rights!  Altering and changing here and there, laying out a whole new world upon a blank canvas, a world where they can, even just temporarily, submerge themselves into.  A place where they dictate and recreate and become all that they hope to be. The boogie man kept at arm's length.   Navigating through a maze of insecurities and self doubt.  Fear is real. 

But wait, wait a moment...wait a God damn fear filled moment; run and it will run right after you!  Give chase and fear will devour the challenge, like a wild dog, run and it will chase.  Stop and it may jump, attack and bite your head off.  But just like a wild dog on the chase, if you suddenly stopped dead in your tracks and turned and looked that dog dead in the eye, it will stop in its tracks because it has no chase, no purpose, no sense in a nonsensical fight.  And that dog, that wild dog, will yelp and snarl, and in its confusion will heel and tame.  Fear is real, it is a primal instinct, a survival tool. Fear is real, but unfortunately in a made-up world like ours, fear is only ever owned by you, and only you can stop and stop it.