Hey yall,
Still busy with the launch as you know, book one is launching, the 2nd of May. Going on another zombie podcast on the first, so that timing is great. Just busy writing/proofreading book two and of course spamming and getting reviews for book one.
Basically making excuses for the lack of updates and the brevity of this blog haha. This is just another pre-edit post proofread one of the first chapter officially of book two of Green Sunday.
So here it is chapter one ‘Crick in my Neck‘ on inkitt.
And of course you can pre-order my book for the low low price of 99c for a limited time only on amazon. Green Sunday
“Is that the smell of popcorn?” TJ heard himself say. “It’s so dark”
“Shhhhh, that’s cos you’ve got your eyes closed fool.”
TJ took a sharp snort of air and shook his head like he was waking but he wasn’t lying down. He was sat fairly upright in a soft if a little sticky chair with wooden armrests.
“And now the main part of the show. I, Zomnision, will talk to the deaaaad!” A theatrical voice boomed over the sound system.
“What the hell, what’s going on, mom are you there?” TJ opened his eyes a slit. His head felt heavy and all his limbs were stiff and unresponsive. His vision blurred, slowly coming into focus, he was in some sort of large room, at an incline. Red seats in rows, low soft light, the sound of people chattering quietly, sighing, ooing and ahing at something on stage. Stage, there was a stage.
Tj scractched his stubbly double chin and looked around a cosy small town theatre. The stage below was that of a small comedy club backed by large red curtains.
“Bring out your dead mwuahahaha!” A cheesey voice cackled over the speakers.
“Who the hell is that, where the hell am I?” Tj said biting his tongue into a hushed harshed whisper.
“Would you shut the hell up” The man next to him whispered. He was a black man around TJ’s age, he’d never seen him before but the way he talked he seemed to know him. “Look, TJ, a guy sent me to come and find you” The man was young with short hair, average build, a coiled frustration under the surface. He had the air about him of someone who felt like they were doing you a favour by not standing on your face. He looked around cautiously. “We can’t talk here, wait til the shows over and we can go somewhere quiet and I can explain everything. Names Jimmy.”
“And what is your name lovely lady?”
“Anna”
“And who would you like to make contact with today?”
“My daddy.”
On the stage a guy wearing a sequin covered smock making him look like liberachi’s buttplug spoke into a microphone in some weird old time radio voice. He wore a strange swammy hat with an eye in the centre that looked like one of those googly eyes you get with the fake glasses and moustaches. He had a large theatrical hipster moustache which dated him but he was a good looking if slightly effeminate man in his early thirties. He had the manneurism of a kid who got into his mothers wardrobe and pranced around in front of the mirror in her pantyhose. Taller than average with a gaunt build. He was holding a microphone with his pinky out, talking to a fat woman in a moomoo. The woman had dull cow-like eyes and after thought eighties hair that look glued on.
He faced out towards the stage and spoke to the audience.
“What befell your father my fine lady?” He spoke with his hands like he was trying to communicate through intepretive dance.
“Well he was drinking some, I dunno radioactive energy drink I guess, had some of them err, isotropes or whatever in ’em and he keeled over.” Anna stood unmoving with her arms by her side due to the nervousness of being in front of a crowd of people. Still smiling as she spoke as she couldn’t help but enjoy the attention.
“Ah yes, well I think it’s time we brought your father out here and see if his spirit still remains trapped in his earthly form.”
Zomnision clapped his hands together theatrically. Two large ushers that looked like they worked nights as bouncers due to the fake tan and pencil thin beards appeated. They both wore black shirts that said ‘staff’ on them. They wrestled a man with a bag on his head onto the stage. As they got closer to the swammy he turned to the audience and said “Now will my lovely assistants show us the dead man’s face. For the eyes are the windows to the soul and I must gaze deeply into them if I am to read the mind of the dead.”
The two ushers looked at eachother, scrunching up their brows and said in unison “What he say?”
“Take the bag off his head” The swammy whispered with a biting bridled rage.
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Darkly Dreaming Demographic. 
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