Keziah Hill

The Rauxa Prize for erotic writing carries an award of $1,000, given annually for an erotic short story of exceptional literary quality. This year it’s been awarded to Mike Kimera, a regular contributor to ERWA for his short story Writing Naked: Letters to Myself. Mike is a terrifc writer and to see more of his work, go over to the Treasure Chest pages at ERWA. Congratulations Mike!

I mentioned here that I was addicted to chocolate and have to keep away from it. Much to my horror a new chocolate shop has opened up near me. I had to buy some and they’re gorgeous. Blue Mountains Chocolate Company. I’m in trouble now.

I’m up to 300 books in The Library Thing. Lots to go. I had no idea I had so many books. But the person with the most in the data base as more than 8,000. Since I’ll be moving house soon, I’m very glad I don’t have that many.

The Library Thing catalogue experience has resulted in me finding a whole lot of books I’d forgotten about. I haven’t read any poetry for ages. Leafing through some makes me realised how much I’ve missed. Here is one of my favourites from Robert Hayden an American poet who died in 1980.

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

* * *
And here’s one from Rosemary Dobson an Australian poet.

Empty Spaces
by Rosemary Dobson

We never could walk then
Unimpeded, direct,
Through the furnished rooms
Of the house we lived in.

Cupboard and shelf
Stubbornly blocked us
We went zig-zag
By chairs and tables.

And where to put down
The children to sleep
Cots heaped over
With books and clothing?

Now the children are flown
And you, oh you
Who were always with me,
You, gone, too,

I can cross this room
From any direction
To the single chair
The single bed.

Over at Sara Donati’s blog, she’s done a few posts on Library Thing a site where you can catalogue your books. I’ve just started really getting into it and it’s become a bit addictive. This is my catalogue. I’ve only got 49 books done so far. I think I’ll devote a little time each day to putting books in. I’m hoping it will be a good exercise in making me decide which books can stay and which can go. But I’ve set up a little thingy on the sidebar that shows you what I’m reading now. Nora Roberts for comfort and David Foster Wallace to be challenged. Gail Jones is a West Australian writer (and terrific teacher apparently) and Sixty Lights was a Miles Franklin Award Finalist. Of these the most tactile book is Kate Llewellyns. Its buff and cream with a drawing of an autumn leaf on it, but of course it’s the one book I couldn’t find a decent image of. She’s an Australian poet and author of some wonderful memoirs of creating gardens.

Today is Australia Day, so it’s a public holiday and I have tomorrow off too. It’s wet and misty where I am, so it looks like a day of reading, writing and entering books in the catalogue. No wait! Some sun! Maybe some gardening too.

A little bit of frivolity to entertain. So if I was a regency heroine I’d be at home in an Amanda Quick or a Loretta Chase novel. I can live with that.

Oh dear, you are Bookish, aren’t you? You are a
highly intelligent and witty bluestocking,
whose beauty is hidden behind spectacles.
Your dress sense is eccentric and a little
unfashionable, and you consider yourself
plain. You have very little use for men, who
find your knowledge of Shakespeare, interest
in politics and forthright speech formidable.
You are undoubtedly well-off. The only
reason for your presence in a novel of this
kind (which, I might add, you would not dream
of reading, although you have occasionally
enjoyed the works of Miss Austen), is your
mother, who is absolutely determined that you
will make a good marriage. Rather than
defying her directly, you are quietly
subversive, dancing with anyone who asks you,
but making no attempt to hide your
intellectual interests. The only person who
can get past your facade is the man who is
witty enough to spar with you, and be amused
at your blatant attempts to scare your
suitors away. While you will, no doubt,
subject him to a gruelling cross-examination
to find out whether his respect for your
intelligence is real or mere flattery, you
may be sure that he is your match, and that
you, he AND your mother will all live happily
ever after

The Regency Romance Quiz: What kind of Romance Heroine are you?

I’m part of a group blog! Here’s the link. Come and visit.

Isn’t this a great picture? I got it from a post at Booklust. It’s part of an exhibition at The Israel Museum. And I thought I had an out of control TBR pile.

Writing continues to be hard at the moment. My short term plan is to finish this novella that seems to be crushing and grinding it’s way out of my psyche and then write some short stories. I haven’t written any for a while and I need the sense of completion.

On New Years Day in Sydney it got up to 45C. That’s about 113F. It was hot. Even were I live, which is a cool climate part of Oz west of Sydney, it was a scorcher. So I wrote this, wanting the ice not the sex.

Heat Wave

(c) Keziah Hill

Ice cubes slide down her breasts, catch on her nipples, melt. His tongue there, hot, with sharp teeth, pulling. His mouth now fully open, sucks on her whole breast, drawing it in. Her nipple pushes against the bony roof of his mouth, behind his teeth. He pulls away and slides another ice cube around her nipple. Takes it away and flicks her crinkled, pink skin with his tongue. Ice, tongue, ice, tongue.

She wants the ice between her legs; in the crease where thigh meets her body; in the curve from thigh to buttock; where ever skin folds on skin. His fingers are cold when he pushes them in and she sighs with relief. It is short lived.

Her hips move against his fingers taking them deeper. She opens herself wide, laughing at the squelching sound of her moisture. Heat pours down her belly into her cunt, igniting his fingers as they thrust, wet and slick, into her slippery, searing opening. She is so wet his fingers slide off her clit, unable to keep up the friction.

He moves over her and she moans, wanting his cock inside her but not his skin against her. He kneels between her legs, pushes them wide and slowly inches his way in. She is so hot she wonders if this was a good idea after all.

“The ice,” she murmurs and he scoops up a hand full to splay across her belly. Stretching across her, he thrusts, the ice between their bodies rapidly melting.

“Quick,” she mutters, wrapping her legs around him. “Before it disappears.”

His cock feels like it’s on fire inside her and she can see sweat pouring down his face, dripping onto her breasts. There are still a few icy patches between them and her nipples are sharp against his slick, slippery chest.

An ice cube slides down between them, resting in her bush. She holds it there as he thrusts in, feeling the cold as a blessed relief. As he comes, she laughs again.

“What?” he mutters, pulling out of her with a plopping sound. The bed is drenched with water. He collapses beside her.

“That was the last of the ice.”

“Shit. You know what that means?”

“No gin and tonics.”

“I hate summer.”