When I threatened to kill a bunny by reading it EL James’ Grey until it ran headlong and arse-ways into traffic, some thought me callous. Some thought me justified, because the furry little gits give them nightmares. Someone else coined the phrase “Death by EL James”, which immediately sounded to me like a great story title.
So without further ado, here are not one, but five – count ’em! – five different versions, in five different genres, of Death By EL James. (I have yet to take action on the bunny – it all depends on whether you’ll vote for me in the 2015 Irish Blog Awards here and here before September 21st. Just sayin’)
1. Literal
Oh, my! she thought, as he came with the knife. Was he going to stab her? She’d never been stabbed before. But she was sure it would be delicious. It was a very large and magnificent knife. She was sure none of the other billionaires she knew had knives that big. And certainly not so beautifully sheathed.
He unsheathed it. It was even more beautiful for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, given her limited vocabulary and emotional range. She somehow knew that the very moment it touched her she would explode into inexplicable, unearned pleasure. She couldn’t wait to be defiled. She literally couldn’t wait to be killed until she was dead. Oh, my!
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2. Chick-Lit
Sadie gasped, her face flushing scarlet. The contents of her purse pooled onto the boardroom table. Her first ever presentation as Junior Vice President Of Marketing Stuff, and she had to go and drop her brand-new Hermès tote (which cost her two month’s pre-promotion salary) upside down on the table, its polished walnut surface perfectly reflecting the horrified expressions of all sixteen board members, including Hornelius Hardon, the sinfully gorgeous Head of Everything.
Now everyone could see that she’d been reading all four parts of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy on the train. She would simply die of embarrassment. She gathered up the offending titles, stuffing them back into the Hermès along with the cucumbers and pots of petroleum jelly, fighting the urge to turn on her four-hundred dollar Manolos and run like hell. As she looked up again, she caught Horn’s eye. His mouth was open in shock, just like everyone else’s. But there was something else in his eyes. Was it… lust?
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3. Crime/Noir
Gingerly, Susan lifted the false panel at the back of the headboard. Countless well-thumbed copies of Fifty Shades of Grey looked back at her from a shelf in the hollow wall. She extracted one from the middle of a pile and flicked through its pages. There were notes in every margin. Some underlined. Bloody ridiculous, read one note. He pulled out WHAT??? read another. She flicked quickly through to the end. Air fanned out from between the leaves, startling her fringe into a nervous dance in the otherwise still room.
She checked behind her before selecting another book, her ears straining to hear Jeremy’s razor-sharp shears clipping a rhythmic beat in the garden below. She pulled another, and then another. Each copy was the same. Festooned with angry notes in that familiar, chicken-scratching hand she thought she knew so well. Just when had Jeremy got the time to do this? What else didn’t she know about her husband? And what did it have to do with the corpses of erotica authors strewn all across London?
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4. Young Adult
Suki prised the book from the dead boy’s grip and somersaulted over the ravine. She mentally thanked her dead father for five years of rigorous circus training. Along with a preternatural talent for martial arts and mathematics, acrobatic abilities had saved her skin more than once since the book burning had started.
Now fifteen-year-old Suki was the only one left: the only hope for mankind. Who could have guessed that the conservative backlash against humdrum erotica could have led to this ravaged landscape, this bookless polluted hell where sex was forbidden and children were illegal? The book – her explosive contraband – burned in her arms. But she would die for it if she had to. Suki was cool like that.
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5. Literary Fiction
What was death? At one time it had been a euphemism for an orgasm; was it still? Or was it just this – this wasting, this existence in unwavering shades of greyness, each darkening and each lighting of the day signifying the inexorable struggle for belonging which would never reach its climax?
Jim felt he would never know. All Jim knew was the book in his hands, which was empty of meaning for him, even though everyone else seemed to get it. The choice was stark. Jim could end it all now, knowing he was utterly alone. Or he could write his own book.
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Right, so. That’s just about enough of that. Normal silliness will resume in due course.
We’ve all wanted to kill a bunny sometime because of EL James.
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Or sometimes not even because of EL James, let’s admit it. I never knew the extent of Bunny Hate until last week.
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My mind’s too far inside the gutter. You wouldn’t believe my interpretation of #1 unless you meant for me to interpret it that way in which case I’ll put on the largest hat i can find and take it off for you.
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Of course I meant you to interpret it that way, KJ. I’m not that subtle. Ten gallons?
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With a Texan accent for good measure. That should do it.
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El James woke up one morning and discovered all her books had changed to the same book. Not just her books, but all books everywhere. The volumes of Proust and Joyce she kept for light reading by the bed. The well-thumbed copies of Sappho and DeSade she kept for show around the house. The pile of Thomas The Tank Engine adventures lying beside the the toilet which was her only escape from the relentless chore of being EL James. Death by EL James they all read now, every one, and featured a silver-grey cover showing a silken cowl with a shadowed white face within.
Too dazed to really register the phenomenon, she left her home and journeyed to her signing. Arriving in the bookshop, the throng already there, already excited, she observed with a curious detachment that all the books in the bookshop were now Death by EL James. Numbly, she approached the signing desk, where a robed figure was already sitting, thumbing through a copy of Death by EL James with skeletal hands. As she neared the figure, it shifted, and a bone white face regarded her through empty sockets. The eternal mocking grin had an odd, lascivious twist about it.
MS JAMES said a voice like the chains being wrapped around a coffin. I’VE BEEN DYING TO MEET YOU. I”M YOU”RE BIGGEST FAN.
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Stupendous, Nige! I think you covered about another 3 genres there plus a Pratchett. I’d pay you, but the blog is in the red. It was in the burgundy once, but that was a long time ago.
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I will accept payment in exposure! Followed by hypothermia.
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In that order, I hope, might be a bit pointless otherwise.
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Dress for the job you want, I always say. Hence hypothermia, because staying in bed all day isn’t a job. Yet.
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Well, everyone needs a goal. Mine is to rule the world through tyranny and fear. We’re not so different.
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You are a genius! I bow down to your superiorousness! You have captured each genre perfectly, and yet parodied it beautifully at the same time. Hilarious, just what I needed to start my day on this grim grey morning!
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Ah g’wan now, you’ve ten minutes to stop that, Ali. No, really. I couldn’t possibly take any more than another six compliments. Glad I could do something for your morning 😉
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Absolutely hilarious – well done! 😀
I’m a bit miffed that I didn’t see my favorite genres, though: children’s books and SF/fantasy. So, I’m expecting a second post on this. Chop chop!
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I’m glad now I didn’t attempt fantasy because Nigel’s absolutely killed that one above! But even still, as I always say, if you don’t see what you want, why don’t you make it yourself…? G’wan, Nicholas. G’wan. You know you want to. Just one more comment is all we need from you…
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Well, yes, but it would be in poor form if I didn’t let you have a go first, wouldn’t it? So, fine, I’ll let you twist my arm:
“Sci-fi
She twitched nervously, watching the tall, slim rocket hover before the rust-colored mountains. The twin moons highlighted its sleek surface. She cocked the whipejector in secondary and waded through the orange manda grass. Frightened Skreeks jumped under her feet, as her breath froze into pink sprinkled donuts.
With a groan, the rocket slid into the dark hangar, safe under the shimmering force field shielding it. The doors must have jammed, for the spaceship’s smooth movement caught for a moment. It slipped out, then pushed forward again, prying the doors apart. Soon, its silver tail was all she could see. It jerked back and forth a couple of times before depositing an endless stream of passengers into the alien world.
She licked her lower lip. When she saw him, gorgeous, tentacled him, her inner goddess trembled with excitement. The memory of those telepathic appendages caused a fire to light up deep inside of her. Momentarily regretting having curry for breakfast, she burst through the doors separating her from her beloved.
She spotted him as he emerged from the cockpit. As always, he had his cock in his hand – his constant, feathered avian companion. Are all billionaires as eccentric? she wondered, not for the first time. Or do all Sporklians travel around with birds?
Still, none of this mattered. All she cared for was that to this handsome, purple, tusked beauty had traveled half the galaxy to be with her on the remote farming colony of Xwqdser-5. And that she was his. Forever. Or at least until she stepped on one of those tentacles again.”
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HAHAHHAHAA!!! Beautiful! So many double entendres I think I choked on my own sense of humour!! Lovely, Nicholas. Nailed it. Wish I could like this comment 7 times 😀 😀
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Aw, you! *blush*
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Trying to pick a favourite. Not possible. 10/10 for all five! Tarasparlingwrites does it again. Make my day!
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Can I have a gold star? Promise? (Or a glass of red. Either or. Your choice.)
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When will version no. 5 be published? In the great tradition of literary fiction I can see it swarming all over the Bestseller lists, Man Booker nomination, holds breath . . . Nobel Prize. The infinite sky’s the limit. Or, or, better still, set up your own literary fiction imprint (with a name like, say, Moribund) and off you go.
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Oh My Deity. Moribund Press. I fecking love it. I hope you’re not going to balk at its eventual unqualified success, Chris, and start suing for the name. It wouldn’t be a happy ending. Which would actually quite fit literary fiction… which means… Damn.
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No publicity is bad publicity. I’ll start the hate campaign this afternoon.
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Be sure to throw a few personal attacks in there, won’t you? We want some traction on this.
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The insult incendiaries are being gathered as I speak.
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Reblogged this on Anita & Jaye Dawes and commented:
profoundly funny…
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Thanks for the re-blog and the lovely words!
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All of these are excellent! Thanks for a good laugh 😀
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Most welcome, Helen. I’m glad you’re laughing, because the alternative is too terrible to contemplate 😉
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Hornelius Hardon …. all those years of Mills & Boon finally paid off T! Classic!
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Hahaha!! That was especially for you, Sand! It was like I was in the back of the Old Kitchen writing it!!
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🙂 Brilliant! I love it
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You coined the phrase Donna – kudos to you! Hope it lives up…
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It exceeds all expectations!
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I think I’m suffering from humour overload. My face has gone numb.
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Better cut down on the Botox, Tenderness. You’re looking grand.
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It’s OK, Tara. Just let out an almighty laugh there two minutes ago. Relief.
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Reblogged this on After the Sucker Punch and commented:
And now for a complete change of pace: some Fifty Shades of Grey silliness from one of my favorite bloggers, Tara Sparling. Enjoy the many interpretive excerpts of this iconic tome, pulled from the depths of Sparling’s stylistic playbook….
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Chuffed at the re-blog, Lorraine, thanks a million times. Nothing like iconic to get the finger of fun going.
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Ain’t that the truth? And really, what deserves more finger of fun that 50 Shades!
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You could have taken Hornelius Hardon and catching his eye in an entirely different direction. Another spiffing good read(s).
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I could have, Conor, but then where would that have left your imagination? It’s for your own sake. You can thank me later.
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Loved it. Great fun…and so real!
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About as real as things get with genre fiction, I suppose. Which is pretty damn real in my book…
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Ah no, don’t go back to normal silliness. Stay here awhile!
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I would, Jean, but I’m not here. I’m really over there. Seriously. Photos to follow 😉
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Look forward to the photos!!!
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The crime/noir wins simply because of the dance of the startled fringe. In spite of your considerable efforts, I’m still not tempted to read the original.
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Aw, really? But then how would you know whether or not I hit the mark on the literal one?
On second thoughts, I respect you too much even to joke you into reading it, Hilary… You’re better off.
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It’s a matter of pride to me that I have known many insane people. I even decided that Venice Beach was a place I could happily live, simply because of the number of residents so obviously crazier than me. But you, Tara…you are in a class apart.
Keep up the good work.
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I’m a bit choked up. I don’t think I’ve ever got so nice a compliment. *gulp
You’ll have to excuse me, John. It may be some time before I collect myself. In the meantime, I thank you.
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