Fiction

Some call it “erotic fiction”. Others, “those steamy books my friends have been buzzing about”. The 50 Shades trilogy by E.L. James is, however, probably best known for popularising one term in particular: “mummy porn”.

Just to save you a possibly embarrassing Google search with potentially bizarre results, that refers to porn for mothers, and has nothing to do with people having a sexy time whilst wrapped head-to-toe in bandages. Although, Rule 34 of the Internet says that’s probably out there somewhere too.

For the very few who are still yet to find out about this whole phenomenon, Wikipedia will tell you the plot of the first book, 50 Shades of Grey, is about:

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The Punch presents an exclusive peek at Harry Potter author JK Rowling’s first foray into writing for grownups, following her announcement she is excited about exploring “new territory”. 

Harry peeled his head off the Formica tabletop, wincing as his brains audibly bounced against his aching skull. He fumbled then palmed his smeared glasses onto his face and scanned last night’s wreckage – a shattered bong on the carpet, ice crystals clagging up the bottom of a plastic baggie, cigarette butts floating in beer bottles.

Ron was clawing at the couch in his sleep, groaning. Last night’s vomit matted his hair, which glinted a sickly red in the mid-morning light. 

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‘There,’ I said, balancing the candle I’d snapped off the broach in the palm of my hand. ‘What do you think?’ I ran my other hand through my hair, pushing back my recalcitrant fringe. My fingers came away moist. It was hot in the workroom, but that wasn’t the only reason I was sweating.

Even though I had been making candles ever since I could remember, I awaited Pillar’s opinion nervously. It wasn’t that Pillar was such a great candlemaker; in fact, he often lamented how pedestrian and ordinary his work was and that he only earned enough lire to survive. Pillar was right. His work was nothing special, not compared with the work of the master candlemakers who lived on the salizzada and controlled the Candlemakers Scuola, but what he thought mattered terribly to me. While he lacked the artistic flair of the masters, or their golden ducats to spend on exotic waxes and wicks, his candles were solid, the wicks dependable, and they burnt long and brightly.

‘Well?’ I pressed. He didn’t usually take so long to offer his opinion. ‘Can we afford to purchase more beeswax?’

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