by Roger Noons
midnight mint hot chocolate
The first pip of the alarm sounded three seconds too late to prevent me driving the knife up under the man’s diaphragm and twisting it, causing his blood to dribble down my fingers and drip on to the carpet.
‘Is this a scene from your latest novel?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I’m only three chapters into the current book, but I’d not imagined such a scene in the early stages.’
She remained silent, perusing her notes.
‘I’ve written a highly erotic, lesbian short story hoping it might influence my REM, but no luck so far.’ I grinned, but her look halted my attempted humour.
I had been seeing Georgina Lovatt, Clinical Psychologist, at the local health centre, once a month for more than a year. My GP referred me after I convinced him my anxiety was not caused by alcohol or the fact that I was a novelist. She however, was convinced it was my imagination and the fact that my life had become a combination of fact and fiction without knowing which parts were which. If she was right, I needed her to help me sort it out.
After our first meeting, Ms Lovatt proposed that I put writing on hold for six months and, as she put it, ‘Go out and live like a normal person.’ So she did accept that I was abnormal.
My response was to ask if she could afford to not work for such a period. She obviously didn’t understand that when a publisher gave an advance, it was not so you could go off and enjoy yourself. The cheque was accompanied by a deadline.
‘You’ve not had this dream before, have you Lawrence?’
I shook my head.
‘Any changes in diet or medication?’
‘I used hydrocortisone on a bite I got while gardening, but nothing more.’
‘But your novels do include violent scenes, so perhaps this is one to store away for the future?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want such events to ruin my sleep. It’s enough to have to write them, without dreaming about it too.’
It was a couple of minutes before she said, ‘You’ve begun writing erotica?’
‘Yes, under the name Sarah Lawrence, should you be searching for—’
‘I assure you I don’t read that kind of literature, if indeed it can be called such.’ Before I could comment, she looked at her watch and said, ‘I’ll see you again next month. In the meantime I’ll discuss your case with colleagues, I’d like to make some headway.’
‘Okay, thank you.’
When I arrived home, in my inbox was a message from Linda Nicholls, Editor of Caplet Mag. Sarah, love your story, please ring me asap.
I’d carefully drawn back the curtain, but I’m sure the two women knew I was there. The blonde peeled away her partner’s silky top and stroked her throat with the tip of her nose. When she reached her ear, she inserted her tongue. The redhead groaned, her breathing began to quicken encouraging hands to be pressed against her breasts.
Pip, pip, pip, pip—’
Regular contributor Roger Noons has had more than 150 of his stories published on Café Lit.
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