... is now available to buy. It's a dystopian thriller set in an alternative-reality contemporary Britain. £2 digital, £8+pp paperback, with 20% of all royalties going to charity. If anyone's interested, PM me.
My new book...
- Thread starter Jip Jaap Stam
- Start date
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You're darn tootin'. My book should hopefully be in libraries across the whole of the Borough of Wigan in the new year
Sure, I'll put something on here. I've PM'd you
Got it I'll check back later/tomorrow.
Prologue
When the young man came to he feared he was blind, such was the darkness of his location. The absence of light was absolute, whether his eyes were open or closed. He was prostrate on a cold, stone floor, and the smell of blood was in his nostrils. His throat was parched to the point of soreness, and the faint sound of water dripping was the only noise he could hear.
Tentatively rising to his feet like a newly-orphaned fawn, he tried to gain some sense of his surroundings by reaching out with both arms. With a yelp of alarm, he realised that the room was about the size of an aeroplane toilet cubicle. The ceiling was no more than two inches above his head, and it was rough to the touch, unsanded wood perhaps. Despite his plight, the boy was relatively calm, but this was probably due to the tranquiliser that had been administered. Otherwise he would have been screaming himself hoarse and bouncing against the walls.
People had often claimed to share the youth's neurosis. 'I'm the same,' they would say. 'I always take the stairs instead of the lift.' He would ask them; would they happily gouge out their own eyes and chew them like Brussels sprouts, rather than ascend one floor in an elevator? The amateur claustrophobes would laugh at his dramatic ultimatum, until they realised he was not joking. Apart from the bubonic plague and overly-crowded places, nothing terrified him more than confined spaces.
How long did he have until the medication stopped working? Would they let him out in time, before he had a full-blown meltdown? Would he ever be released? The boy started to run his hands over the walls around him, his fingers searching for a crack, a doorframe, anything that would betray an exit. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No indication as to how he had ended up in this hole. Hands beginning to shake, he tried the ceiling. To his intense relief, he felt a small vent, roughly six inches square, through which cool air was entering the room. Its air-holes were tiny, far too small for his fingertips to gain any purchase, but at least he would not suffocate. Surely they would come and save him soon? He had caused a bit of a ruckus and insulted a guard, but that was no grounds for this level of castigation. One thing was sure, he had learnt his lesson. It was the straight and narrow for him from now. He would keep his nose clean, toe the line, mind his p's and q's. He would behave. There was no way he would be put in this tomb again.
By the youngster's estimation, he had been conscious for just under an hour when the sedatives started to wear off. There was no sign of anyone coming to free him. Sweat beaded on his skin, and a sick feeling in his stomach steadily worsened. His skin was unnaturally hot, and his whole body was shaking. Sharp pains shot down his arms and legs, and his head felt like it was being microwaved. The room was getting smaller, he was sure of it. Smaller and darker, if that were possible. He felt an overwhelming urge to bite or hit himself, anything to relieve the pressure that was building inside him. Soon he would explode like an over-inflated tyre.
The prisoner shouted, a pointless plea for help. He had to do something. Had to get out. The vent was blocked! Or was it? His fingers were numb; he could not feel the draft he had felt earlier. But he could barely feel anything. Out. Had to get out now. The boy started to punch at the ceiling, then the walls, then the floors, whilst screaming at the top of his voice. Eventually, when he could take no longer, he headbutted the wall repeatedly like a beakless woodpecker. Until he passed out.
When the young man came to he feared he was blind, such was the darkness of his location. The absence of light was absolute, whether his eyes were open or closed. He was prostrate on a cold, stone floor, and the smell of blood was in his nostrils. His throat was parched to the point of soreness, and the faint sound of water dripping was the only noise he could hear.
Tentatively rising to his feet like a newly-orphaned fawn, he tried to gain some sense of his surroundings by reaching out with both arms. With a yelp of alarm, he realised that the room was about the size of an aeroplane toilet cubicle. The ceiling was no more than two inches above his head, and it was rough to the touch, unsanded wood perhaps. Despite his plight, the boy was relatively calm, but this was probably due to the tranquiliser that had been administered. Otherwise he would have been screaming himself hoarse and bouncing against the walls.
People had often claimed to share the youth's neurosis. 'I'm the same,' they would say. 'I always take the stairs instead of the lift.' He would ask them; would they happily gouge out their own eyes and chew them like Brussels sprouts, rather than ascend one floor in an elevator? The amateur claustrophobes would laugh at his dramatic ultimatum, until they realised he was not joking. Apart from the bubonic plague and overly-crowded places, nothing terrified him more than confined spaces.
How long did he have until the medication stopped working? Would they let him out in time, before he had a full-blown meltdown? Would he ever be released? The boy started to run his hands over the walls around him, his fingers searching for a crack, a doorframe, anything that would betray an exit. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No indication as to how he had ended up in this hole. Hands beginning to shake, he tried the ceiling. To his intense relief, he felt a small vent, roughly six inches square, through which cool air was entering the room. Its air-holes were tiny, far too small for his fingertips to gain any purchase, but at least he would not suffocate. Surely they would come and save him soon? He had caused a bit of a ruckus and insulted a guard, but that was no grounds for this level of castigation. One thing was sure, he had learnt his lesson. It was the straight and narrow for him from now. He would keep his nose clean, toe the line, mind his p's and q's. He would behave. There was no way he would be put in this tomb again.
By the youngster's estimation, he had been conscious for just under an hour when the sedatives started to wear off. There was no sign of anyone coming to free him. Sweat beaded on his skin, and a sick feeling in his stomach steadily worsened. His skin was unnaturally hot, and his whole body was shaking. Sharp pains shot down his arms and legs, and his head felt like it was being microwaved. The room was getting smaller, he was sure of it. Smaller and darker, if that were possible. He felt an overwhelming urge to bite or hit himself, anything to relieve the pressure that was building inside him. Soon he would explode like an over-inflated tyre.
The prisoner shouted, a pointless plea for help. He had to do something. Had to get out. The vent was blocked! Or was it? His fingers were numb; he could not feel the draft he had felt earlier. But he could barely feel anything. Out. Had to get out now. The boy started to punch at the ceiling, then the walls, then the floors, whilst screaming at the top of his voice. Eventually, when he could take no longer, he headbutted the wall repeatedly like a beakless woodpecker. Until he passed out.
forget my last, just found and ordered it (well my wife did, I could not for the life of me remember your surname, first name was easy as we share it)
An aspiring author, at the moment
Nah, you're an actual author mate. You wrote something, and what's more you finished it, which is more than most of us will ever do.
Finished it yesterday.
I actually quite enjoyed it and am no talking ****e for once. It's quite a bit out there but the originality in the characters design made the book for me.
I'll sort out a review on amazon soon.
PS: Latham = Micks dream wife.
I actually quite enjoyed it and am no talking ****e for once. It's quite a bit out there but the originality in the characters design made the book for me.
I'll sort out a review on amazon soon.
PS: Latham = Micks dream wife.
My most complimentary review so far:
(Bits in bold are spoilers)
Read S. Kenyon’s compelling dystopia and you will never drink tap water again. Because you can get more than is good for you with it. And it can be more fiendishly oppressive than the overt brute force of communist tanks. You thought the nanny state was bad, but wait until it becomes a tool in the hands of a megalomaniac of a mother with a Nazi penchant for human perfection. Under the guise of resolving the ills of capitalism, such as unemployment, and the shortfalls of democracy, caused by social welfare, immigration, aging population, she dreams up a much more devastating weapon than insidious political correctness, Goebbels’ stark propaganda, and even Stalinist fear to deprive people of the very thought of freedom and human dignity. Liberty, equality, fraternity – the much-abused magical formula of democracy – experiencing the ultimate annihilation of all its parts.
How vindicating it is then, that the perceived misfits of society, those labelled “subnormal” for being physically weakened, or mentally different, or rejecting unquestioned authority, should rise up to overthrow this paralysing tyranny. The so-called weaknesses of the main characters – an Aspergers young man and his injured brother, a young depressed single mother, a disobedient soldier and an idealistic politician – make them more likeable and effective than super-heroes. The book ends with a nuclear strike disaster, the demented politician’s revenge, which turns the triumph of the underdogs into a powerful call for vigilance and timely action on the part of all members of society. Do not read at humanity's risk.
5/5
(Bits in bold are spoilers)
Read S. Kenyon’s compelling dystopia and you will never drink tap water again. Because you can get more than is good for you with it. And it can be more fiendishly oppressive than the overt brute force of communist tanks. You thought the nanny state was bad, but wait until it becomes a tool in the hands of a megalomaniac of a mother with a Nazi penchant for human perfection. Under the guise of resolving the ills of capitalism, such as unemployment, and the shortfalls of democracy, caused by social welfare, immigration, aging population, she dreams up a much more devastating weapon than insidious political correctness, Goebbels’ stark propaganda, and even Stalinist fear to deprive people of the very thought of freedom and human dignity. Liberty, equality, fraternity – the much-abused magical formula of democracy – experiencing the ultimate annihilation of all its parts.
How vindicating it is then, that the perceived misfits of society, those labelled “subnormal” for being physically weakened, or mentally different, or rejecting unquestioned authority, should rise up to overthrow this paralysing tyranny. The so-called weaknesses of the main characters – an Aspergers young man and his injured brother, a young depressed single mother, a disobedient soldier and an idealistic politician – make them more likeable and effective than super-heroes. The book ends with a nuclear strike disaster, the demented politician’s revenge, which turns the triumph of the underdogs into a powerful call for vigilance and timely action on the part of all members of society. Do not read at humanity's risk.
5/5
And the strangest:
Jip Jaap Stam fists donkeys.
5/5
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00QQ8CQ84?*Version*=1&*entries*=0
Jip Jaap Stam fists donkeys.
5/5
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00QQ8CQ84?*Version*=1&*entries*=0
Well deserved - and I am very impressed at how articulate your little girl is.