The latest eBook from Elizabeth Haley-Wood – out now!


Preview plus a special Author QA about writing rude stories:

My latest collection is available now!

Strictly for adults only.

The book is a collection of tales. A mix of poems & short stories that tell of odd encounters. Not all participants are human, not all are even real. Dare you try Strange Meetings…????

roses, the symbol of love, or lust? or something more sinister?

roses, the symbol of love, or lust? or something more sinister?

in the US $3.00  click below:

in UK £1.99 click below:

also available via Amazon Prime…

and across Canada, Australia, Europe, Japan and more…

from: The Wrong Roses:

“Darling! I was waiting for you on the other corner. Ha” she laughed, big, throaty noises. Alan knew this person was not his date. She hooked her arm into his, smiling. “The roses” she nodded down. “I love them!” she laughed again but Alan didn’t understand the joke. Before he could protest or even think of trying to, she had started marching off down the road, her grip on his arm firm, demanding. He went with her…

Q&A with the author: Elizabeth Haley-Wood about writing erotica & weird fantasy tales >>

Q: so what influenced you to write erotica?

I read Sapphire romances as a teenager. They were like Mills & Boon, the soft romances. I whizzed through the books looking for the rude bits, of course! But as I got older I noticed the tradition remained with romances (erotic or not) – the male characters were dominant, always rescuing damsels. It seemed one-sided. I wanted to try something different.

Q: your stories are unusual, do you always try to include a weird factor?

No! I love unexpected, weird stories. I like mysteries and paths that are not straight forward but twisted and hidden by brambles or go up into clouds or other dimensions. I don’t force weirdness into all of my writing. Some tales are very simple, about love but maybe the way I express that emotion is different.

Q: so how easy is it, to write the rude bits?

Ha! Easier than people may realise. There aren’t that many words to choose. And I want things to sound authentic, not too grubby. If a line or word makes me cringe, it’s out.

Q: your collections have many characters. How do you come up with them and ensure they are all different?

The worst bit is names. I can never find suitable names for everyone. I make some up. Mostly I look around and pick something randomly: from a newspaper, TV, the radio – whatever I can see. I don’t base characters on people I know in their entirety. Most writers use their imagination, that’s how writing works. Of course there are influences, my memory is full of faces, looks, expressions – I recycle them!

Q: so this is book number ten, what’s next?

Well there is a sneak preview at the end of this book of my next novel. Another contemporary erotic fantasy. Along the lines of Foreplay. It’s about a Greek/American pop-star who has a time-out in an English village. It’s set in the 1990s so no internet. And the male lead is a quiet baker who has reasons to keep so quiet. It’s a light romance but there are dark supernatural elements. Expect a battle!

I am also working on another Collection of poems/stories (not erotica but still weird) and that title: City of Animals should be out in a few weeks (if I can stay disciplined with my editing!).

Click on the links to see more….

For other books by Elizabeth go to >>

Lizzie HW

Links to eBooks ~ June 2015


So here are the links to a selection of my published works: all available to buy via Amazon’s Kindle store.

Feel free to browse – check out the ‘Look Inside’ option…

Sailors – a mini book with just 5 poems themed around the sea/water.

Towards the Stars ~ a collection of poems, prose & short stories that take the reader on a journey from the Big Bang through space & time, exploring love, sex and relationships between people (not always human…) 

CAKE & 14 ways to eat it – another collection of shorts/poems but this is weird cake not your average Victoria Sponge! Expect aliens, spaceships and alternative worlds.

A Little Bit Scary! – this short book is full of strange goings-on: witches, haunted ships, monsters & more…. dare you read it?!

hope you enjoy!

Lizzie HW

watch out for my books on GOODREADS too!

Twisting / a poem


Ray won’t behave.

She flaunts at me, skipping over the page.

I told her she’s a naïve troubled teen

but she sticks out her tongue – she is so mean.

She’s supposed to be sad

And forlorn, lost

Like an abandoned lamb

bleeting, hapless.


Looking for a mother.

I set her in the wilderness

Amongst stormy moors

I wanted her to be chilled to the bone

By the driving rain

And vicious winds.

But she likes the cold

And runs through the mud

As if it were warm sand

Unbothered that she’s alone

When she should be feeling



from all humanity.

Ray won’t behave.

She was supposed to take a train

A lumbering journey

Of self discovery

But she caught the bus.

How insufferable!

A bus has no atmosphere of dread

With rattling metal tracks

Carving through brooding mills.

It judders, stops and starts

through everyday mundane streets.

She should be wistful

Gazing out to distant hills

And pondering about the pain

Of deep, all bounding love.

Not singing to a classic 70s song

All pop and sweet and, zingy

As she watches people dodging puddles

And dreams

Not of true love or being torn apart

From the one who completes her heart

But… dreaming

Of what to have for tea.

Oh I despair!

That I have lost control

How can this be?

It is the very soul

I created.

Where is the fated path I made

For her to follow;

The errors she must regret

And the people she loves

Who forget

To love her back?

What will become

Of my dear sweet Ray?

As, all creators must accept

I have to let her

Choose her own way.

/about Ray who was supposed to take a train in a quest to discover what true love and loss means but instead caught a bus and went off to the wild moors.

You can see what happens to her – when I finish her tale – in my upcoming eBook: Strange Meetings

‘The sheriff is a robot?!’ / short read


“There’s been too many thefts!” Grant bellowed. “It’s my land, my cattle, my fucking choice!” He was angry, his face had turned blood-red as he pounded on the desk.

“So we get the Sheriff?” asked his ranch-manager Cal with a shrug. They’d chose against it for years, preferring to manage their own security but these last six months had been hell. Grant hated the idea of it but he nodded, feeling beaten enough.

“Sure. Call ‘em.”

So ninety-three minutes later a Sheriff stood in the steaming cabin-office. Grant stared at it, angry enough that he had to resort to this but also intrigued by the unusual shine of skin. It had a pearl like quality that seemed stretched too tight. The eyes were trying to be blue but kept shifting between grey-blue-purple and that made Grant shiver. He glanced at Cal and they shared common dislike with upturned lips and scrunched eyebrows.

“So how’s this work?” Grant growled not hiding his distrust. He tapped on his paper-packed desk as the thing turned hidden clockwork dials beneath the blue suit. It blinked faster than it should and bended down into the chair – uninvited.

from The Robot & the Cowgirl – appearing in eBook Strange Meetings ~ coming out soon…

It’s Friday – here some poems


Sit down, maybe get a cuppa and a slice of cake?  Enjoy….



Badges #1

She stands by the door

Ignoring the cold

And the slivers of rain

That sneak through

When someone passes.


She smiles.

Hers is a face of warmth and hope

No maliciousness, no tricks.

You know straight away

What she wants.


The tin jingles.

A tune of promises made

And beliefs that we should

Do good.


Catching your eyes

Do you stop, do you turn away?

Excuses spill forth

But she’s heard them all before.


She nods, and smiles

And wishes you a good day.

Still there was an exchange

And you go on your way.



In the back of your mind

A sliver of guilt sneaks through

And you promise

You will stop

….next time.




Badges #2

Worn with pride – to save lives.

Badges and buttons.

T-shirts & stickers.

We hope they work.

We believe they do.

Are you wearing it for them, or you?




Badges #3



It makes us human.



For others

Above the needs of you.


A word, a smile

A step aside

Costs nothing

But gives

And gives in ways you cannot know.


That lonely person, you don’t know

Whom knows no-one

And walks each day

In silence

Passing strangers

With heads bowed

Internal dialogues raging

Planning meals and school-runs and meetings.


Just, a smile, a wave hello

A raised head, as you go…

Show your humanity

There is no cost

But a saving.


A saving of a soul

From misery and solitude

Into believing, once again

In the truth

Of human kindness.


~~~~~~~~ have a contemplative weekend…..………

Lizzie HW

a collection of twitterings – dark mini poems


I wrote these in the form of Twitter – 140 characters or less – but they seemed too dark to be on that format.

I like to keep my tweets happier as out of context a dark poem could make someone feel sad 😦 and I don’t want to do that to my lovely followers.

So here are a few of the darker twitterings:

We charged in. Legs and eyes wide open. Not wanting more than a physical thing. Now one of us is broken, the other is silently screaming.

She sits and knits. The ball of blue diminishing with every stitch. At last something new is coming to replace the empty-ness.

Thank you for the blooms. Three years shared in the same bed. Petals of purple and red. Across my body – now spread.

I didn’t write these to fit together but they do in a tragic mini story.

They are all under 140 characters – the first and longest is 137 😉


find more of my writing, in neat collections @

The Gladwell Effect / a short story

  1. They learn so quick.

“It’s that Gladwell proposal, isn’t it?” she said, rocking the baby in her arms.

“What – what is?” he looked at her over his sunglasses.

“Ten thousand hours to ‘get it’” she stroked the plump cheek as the baby snuggled closer.

“I don’t ‘get it’!” He lowered the paper, folded it and placed it on the table. He took a sip of water. Sun poured from the sky and they had sought refuge under the timber canopy that jutted above them.

“It takes ten thousand hours to learn how to do something sufficiently, to be good, accomplished. Like a violinist. Those kids that practice and practice.” She blew up her fringe as the day’s heat tried to stick it to her head.

“OK. I get that. But what do you mean?” he took off the sunglasses and placed them beside the paper. Carefully, he leaned over his wife’s arms and stroked his daughter’s pink arm. He felt his internal organs soften, melt.

“Her. I mean.” His wife nodded down to their precious child. “If it takes an average of ten thousand hours to be accomplished – that’s what babies do. They learn so quick and we go: Wow! How do they do it? Absorb everything so quick, from nothing.”

“Yes, but it’s the design. Biology, evolution, survival. As soon as they start developing – cells are growing, nerves, receptors, connectors, processors… oh. Ooh! Look.” The baby blew a bubble. They cooed and beamed and their insides turned to cotton-wool clouds. Above the sky was bone-dry.

He continued: “After the immediate rush of growth, it stops. Reversal. Age, deterioration. Brain cells dying. Do you know how much of your brain has gone?” He sat back, arms folded, eyebrows rising as a smile formed across his dark face. He liked the heat.

“Huh! No. And – don’t tell me!” she scowled at him with a smile on her lips. “Ageing is the same process. It’s all time. The trick is what you do with it. Think about, her. So tiny. What does she have to do? No worries about work, paying bills, what time to get up or go to sleep, no clothes to iron or meals to plan or shopping to do – no temperamental car…”

“I know! I said I’d call the mechanics…” his smile reversed and he looked over the yard. The grass was turning brown.

“All she does, is learn. Ten thousand hours of being hungry. Wondering what that feeling is, when it comes and goes, what makes it stop. Then she gets it. Ten thousand hours of us talking, sounds, noises and her copying our faces, our mouths, making sounds of her own – then, bam! She’s talking.” She was so hot! A trickle of sweat had formed at her hairline and was trying to weave its way down her face.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “It’s wonderful.”

The baby murmured. They held a collective parental breath – the baby stayed asleep – they exhaled.

“I’ll put her down.” She stood. She needed to be cool, the baby was like her father, she seemed so content in the heat.

“Hey” he called out softly. “How long is it? Ten thousand hours, in real time.”

“Well,” she frowned, calculating. “An hour a day would be, say thirty years.” She stepped through the patio-doors into the soothing shade.

“Gosh!” Well I still have some practising to do then, eh?” he winked. She grinned and they stumbled into the house (carefully).

2. The trick is what you do with it.

Her legs were stone and jelly. Solid rock that wouldn’t bend and shakes she couldn’t stop.

“Hmm?” the Director stared at her. He was tall and thin and wore a silvery suit with a blue tie. “No legs.” He peered down at her pink tights.

“I, I’m just a bit, nervous.” She shrugged, looking down just to be sure her legs were still there. They were. Concentrating on her pose, she straightened up, stretched as tall as she could, pointed toes out, ankles clamped tightly together. But she felt all angles and pointy, not smooth and fluid as she had seen it happen inside her head.

“It’s in your shoulders” Madame said, pointing with a stiff arm and sniffing as though there was an infection she may catch if she was too close.

Louisa thought they were both rude. She shrugged.

“Ah! I see it” nodded the Director. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward.

“I can learn” Louisa told them, with enthusiasm. “I will – practice more. Every day!” She smiled, holding her hands tightly together, keeping her shoulders back.

“Practice! Practice? You should be doing that already. An hour a day? Pish!” Madame scowled.

“Have you not done your ten-mille?” The Director scrunched up his eyebrows and gave Louisa a penetrating stare. Louisa shuffled her feet.

“She, doesn’t know. Look at her!” Madame exclaimed. Her eyes bulged with disgust.

“I don’t” agreed Louisa.

“Oh? I have to explain?” he was agitated and turned to his companion: “Why don’t they know?” Madame shook her head.

The Director stepped forward, placing his shoes a millimetre from the girl’s and into her face, with a voice adults used for babies, he said: “Now dear. It is a proven fact – all of every talent, is practice. It is in the Learning. No tricks, no shortcuts. No half-hearted pretence of doing a bit here and there, when one feels like it.” His face moved closer, leaning, until his nose almost touched hers and she felt his breath on her mouth. She wanted to squirm away but she dare not. “It is Not, not, a natural talent. There is no magic gifts. Talent is torture.”

Without moving, his voice altered as he directed his next comment to Madame: “Oh, the numbers that still won’t accept it!” Then back to the baby voice, he continued speaking to the girl: “It is simple enough. If you can count. Ten thousand hours. No more, no less. That is what you must do. Come back then, and – we’ll see.”

At home, Louisa told her parents that she hadn’t got a place at the National Dance School. They consoled her as best they could. Their stomachs twisted, feeling her pain of disappointment and their own as their child went to bed without supper. She was too upset to eat.

In her room, Louisa opened the Calc-App on her phone. She tapped in numbers – adding, guessing, subtracting. She chewed the end of a pencil and wrote down the results in a blue notebook. Then she scribbled them out and started again.

Louisa was 11 1/4 years old and she had been dancing since she was 5 (her parents said). It would take years! But she made a plan. And from the next day, she began again. She wrote down all the hours she practiced and if she had to miss a session she would put extra hours on another session. Dancing was all she thought about.

 3. Practice, Practice, Practice.

When she was eighteen and two months, she returned to the National Dance School. She performed with grace, she charmed the Director and Madame, though they had assistants now and were seated throughout her performance and the interviews.

She got a place.

The training was intense but she thrived on the pressure. She learned new techniques and would practice a new step or routine until she perfected it. She was becoming the star pupil in the 18-20 year olds.

When she was eighteen and ten months old, she attempted a lift with a spin and she fell. Her ankle was broken. She needed an operation and rest. It was a serious accident. Her dancing career was over.

Louisa danced in her head but it made her feel sick, knowing the moves she had been able to do. Her parents worried she would fall into a depression. They bought her things to occupy her time whilst she healed: books, comics, magazines, music, movies – at first she rejected these things. Her parents’ insides quivered. They hired a counsellor who managed to help Louisa accept the change.

She did the first jigsaw as a joke (being ironic – she told her friends) because jigsaws were for kids and old ladies. But with hours laying with her ankle elevated, the jigsaws kept her busy. Her parents got her second-hand ones from the local charity shops, friends bought her new ones – they looked for extreme versions that had hidden puzzles inside or had two sides or that had clues but no picture.

After ten months, her ankle healed, though it was sore and stiff. She could walk but she had a slight limp. The hospital sent her appointments for physiotherapy – she ignored them. To Louisa, her dancing was over, the limp would remain as a reminder of that old dream. Besides – there was a new puzzle. It was a 4D version, of constellations.

Her ankle ached in winter, when it rained, when it was about to rain – she didn’t care. She had bags under her eyes, her skin was a yellowy shade, she yawned constantly but she never felt tired. If anyone asked after her health, she would smile and say ‘I am fine’ which satisfied them enough.

4. Becoming ‘perfect’

When she was 23 and four months she made a World Record for the fastest jigsaw completed. It was a puzzle of 2,500 pieces and she did it with her right-hand behind her back (she was right-handed). Of course, as is the way of World Records, someone else did better than her a few months later. Louisa didn’t care.

She did 5,000 pieces with one-hand, or two puzzles (or three or four) at the same time. She got faster and more ambitious. She did one blind-folded, just touching the pieces and seeing the puzzle in her head – the picture didn’t matter, it was all in the shapes, the edges, the curves.

By 28 she had been on TV showing off her tricks. There had been a book about her and they wanted to make a movie. She had a stoop from the hunched posture and her eyes, though excellent at close-range struggled at further than two metres. Her limp had worsened and she often needed a stick.

She didn’t care, she practised and practised.

Her parents looked at their precious child, grown-up yet deteriorating before their eyes. Their insides turned to sludge.

>> by Elizabeth Haley-Wood

if you liked this, find more at AMAZON in the Kindle Store…