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GS2 Chapter 8 ‘Five Fingers of Death’

Yo,

Gonna keep this short and sweet because I’ve been sending out querys to literary agents all day and I have some leftover fajitas I made calling my name. So quick updates, moving forward a little bit prematurely with The One Who Came Back. I don’t really know what I hope to achieve because I’m really that sure of it and I only have three chapters edited so far and trying to rush my editor seems to be in vein, I’m considering hiring someone else but I’m sort of broke and I can’t find anyone cheaper and she’s a really nice person, I don’t feel like an asshole giving money to.

This is sort of a dry tun I guess for Diana, just scoping out the thriller lit agents, seeding the ground before I unleash that insanity on them. Got all my women centric ones bookmarked because they might get a kick out of a female Dexter, I know I did ha.

Not that it really matters but honestly, have you ever googled literary agents? Like literally 90% of them are women, maybe even more so, it’s ridiculous and the amount that are looking for ‘women centric stories’ or just ‘women’s fiction’ is astonishing and you wonder why so many of the big authors this decade are women *Hmm emoji* haha.

Ranting aside, I’m edging my way out of the completionist funk, just by doing something and hopefully tomorrow I can throw myself into a new project just to get the gears spinning again.

That’s enough for now.

See you…

Five Fingers of Death

–

Bobby rummaged around in a large key bang as he entered the station’s jail muttering to himself in the near darkness. Only the orange emergency lights giving off an anaemic glow that lit nothing except the hands in front of his face.

“This is the last straw, he’s lost his fucking mind, fuck. First he’s making me bury bodies in the back lot, now he’s shooting people right in the office, he’s losing it, this is it, this is it!” He panted and took in disjointed slakes of breathes like he was having a panic attack. “Gotta, gotta let you guys out, gotta get out, gotta let you and we can leave this fucking mess!” He screeched.

The back of the cells were in complete darkness. He got closer, the hot nervousness in the back of his throat made his fingers and thumbs thick square blocks of dull round weiner meat. Which made finding the right key near impossible. The jangling of the key bang summoning fits of excited hackles from something akin to a dog.

A shadowed figure uncoiled, a dank smell and a quick fluttering of what seemed like wings and the voice. A hot stinking breath that smelled like raw potatoes and meat said right by his ear “Maybe I wanna be in here.” The voice said. Breath was hot and wet and burning like raw onions on the deputies face. He jumped back, tripping over his own feet and tumbling, the back of his head trying to make out with the corner of a metal desk not ending well.

He lay on the floor twitching, blood and brains spreading like hot homemade jam.

“Oops” Carpenter said as he slipped back away from the bars with a slithering sqeaking noise as his arms retracted into the dark cell.

–

0

GS2 Chapter 7 Happiest Girl in the World

Hey there,

Back again with more shitty news, got kicked off facebook again for a fucking filthy frank meme this time, I’ll post which one it was below. The thing is I didn’t actually direct it at anyone it was just a cover photo so what that means is that someone got so assblasted at something I said on fb about some such liberal sacred cow that nevertheless contained no objectionable speech for which they could silence me over so they instead scoured my facebook profile for any little thing they could report me on and all they could find was this one shitty filthy frank meme which is just edgy, it’s not ‘hate speech’ or whatever it’s just filthy frank, papa franku.

That or facebook actually has it in for me and is just picking through my photos trying to get rid of me and they’re making it harder and harder to create socks, it’s really fucking annoying. I just wish that some fucking body would come up with an alternative that wasn’t charging you to post content and wasn’t on this massive censorship binge. It really makes me sick that’s there’s really no way to stop this bullshit. There is nowhere as big and as user friendly as facebook where you can share your work and ideas and have freedom to say whatever you want, the place just doesn’t exist.

So that fucking sucks and they already destroyed the first two sock accounts I made and they just restricted the one I just made from posting. So they’re either tigthening up their posting regulations to stop spammers and force them to buy their reach which used to be free, now you have to pay to reach your own fucking audiences or they’re just tracking me IP amazon does.

Such fucking bullshit, anyway back to business, enough ranting.

I’ve been kind of in a funk recently, felt like I was treading water with Diana Darkly, thinking of changing the name to just ‘Darkness in Diana’. Something like that, I’ve gotta change the name. I just felt like I was in a dream and nothing really registered to me, a slog, I wanted to get to the good bit and had to wade through some of it to get to it. Which isn’t even true because there really are no slow parts of the book. It’s pretty much solid action and intrigue from the word go.

I dunno, I just felt like I was having too much fun with it and I can’t step outside myself.

Eh enough from me haha.

See you…

Happiest Girl in the world

–

Silence all around, and then as if out of nowhere a crunching of snow and a passing wind. A figure draped in darkness wearing a little bow peep poncho with a hood stepped onto the stage, out of the streetlamps ambivalent glare. Passing back into the darkness of the alley, blued by the moon now high in the sky beaming down. Visceral cold but white hot light like the gleaming teeth of a giant singing fee fi fo fum hungering for the blood of Englishmen.

His vision blurred and she split, she was everywhere all at once like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. His blood ran cold like the rest of him, he could feel little fingers working at the back of his neck, spiders hairy legs creeping up his spine. But then he could hear a voice he recognised and a wry smile danced on the tips of each syllable.

“Can I get that back?” The voice said.

“Huh?” Said no one in particular.

“The bat, I guess I should have said ‘mind your head’ or something” She giggled mirthlessly barely able to finish the sentence.

“Are you?-“ Juanita stuttered raising a fat digit in the direction of the hooded figure.

The hooded figure, lacking all credulity, pulled the hood down, shaking a thick shag of bright green hair in the brittle moonlight. A pixie smile and small razor sharp canines and said “Expecting a pizza?”

“It’s you! Bbb-ut you’re supposed to be dead!” Juanita stuttered.

“Yeah well, you’re supposed to be running” Sunday’s smile got wider and toothier and she tilted her head like a twilight villain.

“Nita, I think we should take her advice” Jaclyn squeaked trying to sound together.

“The fuck are we doing debating this, lets get the fuck outta here.” Kat exasperated.

“Bbbut, she’s right there.” Juanita tittered, lock jawed, her eyes fixed on her pale reflection, soaking up waves of naked of ambivalence flowing from Sunday.

“We need to regroup” Roch agreed grabbing Juanita’s flabby arm and pulling her out into the street. “We can’t fight that thing like this.”

Sunday watched them go and then turned her eye on TJ standing dumbstruck like he’d seen a ghost. She walked around him stepping over the corpse of Garylynn. “Hey aren’t you forgetting something?” She called out to the fleeing possee of angry women.

“You’re, err, whatever the fuck this thing is.” She said as she reeled back her leg like the pendelum on a grandfather clock. Applying a black army boot to the head of the felled giant like she was kicking a field goal. Lobbing it in an arched path into the street. It rolled and bounced in a macabre fashion due to it’s lumpy unorthodox dimensions, the wig getting wet and matted as it tossed up snow and black ice. It’s face frozen in a painless grimace of wordless peace.

The fleeing women watched the head of their champion roll into the gutter and then looked back frozen stuck in a miasma between fight and flight.

“Well come on, you gonna pick this shit up or aren’t you?” Sunday waggled her head mockingly, putting her hands on her hips under her poncho.

They looked at eachother without words, only animalistic nods and grunts. They slowly approached the downed giant dipping their heads. Each grabbing an oversized limb and dragging it out into the street, and around the corner out of sight. Only Jaclyn popping around the corner to pick the head up out of the gutter. First trying with her finger and thumb by the hair but the head was enormous and as heavy as it looked so when that didn’t work. Feeling the urgency of Sunday watching her she balled the head up hiking it up onto her hips hugging the dirty head close to her and waddling out of sight.

Sunday tutted and laughed, turning back to TJ who stared mouth gaped. She cocked her jaw to the side and tipped her head back. “You mind?”

“Huh?” TJ gawped.

She tossed her eyes up and blew a quaff of toxic green hair out of her face.

He turned to look where she indicated seeing the bat still lodged deep in the wall.

“Oh yeah, you want me to-?” He said pointing awkawdly at the stucco wall.

“Uh huh” She said.

“It’s kinda high up there, I mean” He stuttered.

“Just gimme a leg up there stud” She sighed.

“Oh sure”. He said as flattened against the wall, then leaning forward and cupping his hand. She stepped into his hands steadying herself. She straightened putting her weight on the bat handle and jerking it loose with a sword in the stone satisfying chipping crumbling noise.

She got down and TJ stood up dusting himself off “I crown you the new king of England” He said nervously.

“What?” She squinted.

“Err nothing” He said.

“Well” She said and shrugged “See ya” She turned to walk away.

TJ ran after her “Wait, how did you-? When did you-?”

Sunday turned looking at him, her eyebrows brought together. “Sorry, do I know you?”

TJ’s heart sank, his mind reeled, he felt like he could taste sick of some strange food he didn’t remember eating in his mouth. Did he know this girl? Was this the same Sunday? Did his Sunday ever exist?

Just as his mind was regressing, losing all grip on reality, attributing everything to a sad dream he had. She layed her hand on his shoulder and shook her head smiling “TJ, I was fucking with you”

“What?” He swallowed.

“I remember everything, it’s me, Sunday.” She smiled, some of the ice chipping off, melting becoming warm but still guarded.

“But I saw, I saw you die” he said, his voice rising at the end like it was a question.

“Yeah and it hurt like hell but look for yourself.” She lifted her poncho and her white cotton shirt underneath to show him her milky white belly. There wasn’t a mark. “See not even a scar, the doctors they have in that facility are straight out of star trek or some shit” She laughed and dropped her shirt.

TJ felt his blood pressure rising. “I think I peed myself” He said almost to himself.

“Gross dude” She took his hand and scrunching up her nose looking at his wet sweatpants. “Come on, we’ll get you someplace warm and get you something to eat and we can talk.”

“Oh there you are, I was wondering where you got to. I tried to go back into the store but the door was locked. They’re closed early I guess, heard some weird noises or something. What did I miss?” Jimmy was standing on the street in front of the alley eating an icecream. “Who the hell is this?” he said motioning to Sunday.

“Jimmy where the hell have you been man?” TJ said airing his wet crotch.

“I was just getting ice cream, you want some?” He said holding out the well licked scoop “Did you pee yourself?” He said reaching out as if to poke the wet patch.

TJ pulled back instinctively and tried desperately to change the subject. “Nevermind about that, I spoke to the guy, he said there’s a diner around the corner he wants us to go to for the next call. ‘Reverse cowgirl coffee’ or something.”

“’Cowgirl coffee’ I passed it on the way back.” Jimmy said licking an icecream cone.

“Why are you eating icecream, it’s like really cold out here” Sunday said watching Jimmy licking at the cold goop.

“I like icecream” He said without a hint of credulity in his voice.

“The guy?” Sunday said.

“You know your backer guy, he’s backing me and Jimmy, he said he could help us, don’t you talk to this guy all the time?” TJ asked.

“No, he’s never spoken to me once, I didn’t even know that was allowed, first for me” She said tossing the bat over her shoulder.

“Woah, who is this chick man? What the fuck is that, thing, where did you get that?”

“Oh this” She said motioning to the bat “I made it in the autoshop across town, cool huh?” She said as she bounced the violent piece of metal on her shoulder playfully. “So what did you guys pick up?”

TJ rooted around in his pockets and took out the crappy pen knife.

“Is that it?” She said.

“Blame that asshole, he spent all our money.” TJ said tossing an accusatory look at Jimmy.

“I didn’t spend all of it” He said licking at the icecream. “Stores closed now anyway, we’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“There won’t be a tomorrow Jimmy, don’t you get it? Didn’t Dp explain any of this to you?”

“Explain what?”He said licking the icecream casually.

“Dp?” Sunday said.

“You know zombies, ring a bell? Stores don’t stay open in the zombie apocalypse dumbass!”

“Don’t you go calling me a dumbass, if there are zombies all over the place we can just come here tomorrow and take whatever we want. That’s how that works.” Jimmy said nibbling at the cone of the icecream.

“Where did you find this guy?” Sunday asked.

TJ sighed and said “Let’s just get to the diner and maybe I can get a change of underwear or something.”

–

0

GS2 Chapter 1 ‘Crick in my Neck’

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.

–

0

Green Sunday Chapter 11 Eggs, hash and grits (Edited)

Yo yo yo people. Don’t know what I was going for or why the big font today but fuck it. I’m back with another edited chapter. My editor is back from vacation or wherever she went. Probably battling the forces of evil in japan, fighting godzilla or something. But she’s back and hence a wild new chapter has emerged. First thing she said was the beginning sucked but she seemed to like the rest of it, thankfully the beginning is short haha.
And here it is a voila’.

Only seven chapters left, as usual follow the link to the full chapter in a more elegant format. Hopefully I’ll be going live with it on amazon sometime next year so keep an eye out for that.

Eggs, hash and grits.

~
The smell of sweat and blood and tears, the sound bare of feet on a concrete floor. Soft flesh and bone colliding. A loud chorus of people shouting and smoking and drinking. The smell of motor oil and leather hanging in the stale air. A group of people were huddled around two half-naked men knocking the shit out of each other.

“Where the fuck is Bernie?” Mojang hissed as he reclined on a large, high-backed office chair. The wheels and stand were broken. but he sat on it as if it were a low throne. A sexy biker chick in her underwear straddled him.

She leant over him with a needle and a trail of dental floss, and delicately sewed up what was left of his eye.

“Keep still baby,” she said as she pressed her slinky tattooed flesh against his.

Mojang had set himself up in a garage on the far side of town. The smell of motor oil, and the tools and spare parts clanging, put his mind at ease.

He’d holed up in the dilapidated office and the rest of his crew were getting lit on the garage floor. They took out a couple of scrappy survivors they’d picked up on their day’s raiding and set up a little fight club.

There was a ring of drunken bikers on the concrete floor of the shop. They surrounded a skinny office clerk as he pounded the cartilage of a fat barista against the concrete floor, until a satisfying, greasy, wet, snapping sound cut a swathe through the loud, drunken crowd. The clerk pounded his sweaty mitts into the stubbly fat face of the barista against the grey concrete: hot, wet, slapping sounds of meat and bone colliding on the cold, wet floor; rivulets of muddy crimson blood that would make Jackson Pollock cry manly tears. Eventually he stopped shaking and a viscous red bile started pouring from his nose and mouth.

“We got a winner!” A hairy biker in a leather waistcoat picked up the dazed office clerk by his slick, skinny wrist, propping him up. The office clerk, almost unconscious, panted out a relieved smile as his eyes rolled back in his skull.

Bernie watched from a darkened corner as they took the ‘winner’ and threw his almost lifeless body into the net of half-dead, twitching corpses, laughing as they did it.

Bernie perched in the corner next to an old payphone bolted to the wall. He rested the receiver against his ear and spoke softly.

“I hear you…tomorrow…can’t wait.” He tried to hold a smile back, tightening his face as he looked about the dim garage, lit only by unwieldy camp fires and generator-operated standing lights. He hung up the phone with a tight, satisfying click.

As the crowd got a little quieter, coming down off their wave of excitement, Bernie could hear his name being shouted.

“Bernie! Get your fat Jew ass in here!”

Bernie unfolded his arms and sighed with icy aggression as he peeled himself off the cold, concrete wall of the garage.

He popped the door of the office open. It was one of those thin plastic doors you were afraid you might yank right off. He stuck his head around the door like a temp.

“You call me?”

“Take a seat,” Mojang said, through the girl still straddling him, sewing up his eye. He didn’t move from his seat.

“There isn’t another chair in here”

“Then stand,” Mojang said as he moved the half-naked girl off his crotch. “Two minutes.”

The girl flounced out of the small office. She dragged a feminine, two-day-old musk behind her as she shut the door with a definitive bang.

“Was there something?”  Bernie said as he turned around looking at the closed door, his eyes careless.

“How does it look?” Mojang spoke to a rear view bike mirror he held up in front of his face. He tilted it down, revealing his sewn up eye. It was swollen and bloody; it looked like there was a red baseball stuck in his skull.

“Like shit.”

“You talk to him? The man? He called you?” Mojang reclined in the seat and tilted his head to one side.

“Yeah I talked to him.”

“You didn’t call me.”

“You were busy.”

“Uh huh. Well, what does he want? Do they have the scores?” Mojang seethed, his eyes scanning every inch of Bernie.

“Err, yeah but that’s not why he called. Said there’s gonna be a drop. Not even a block away – good shit,” Bernie said, grinning and rubbing his stubbly face.

“’Good shit,’ huh? OK. We’ll take it, tomorrow. This whole town is gonna burn. That fat boy and his bitch included.”

“I heard about that. Some kid did that to your face?”

“You heard about it, huh? From who? The man?”

“Around,” Bernie snorted as he pulled out a candy bar from his pocket and began opening it noisily. “Some pudgy twelve-year-old fucks you up, people talk about it.” He smiled as he took a bite out of the candy bar. Strings of caramel and nougat dangled from his bottom lip.

“Uh huh, yeah. It’s pretty fucking funny.” Mojang hopped out of his seat. He stood a good foot taller than Bernie.

“You gotta see the funny side: you lose an eye, you still got another one. We’ll get him tomorrow; his bitch too, you’ll see. You want a bite?” Bernie snuffled with the candy bar in his mouth. He smiled, breaking off a piece and offering it to Mojang as he closed in on him.

“Yeah, we will” Mojang said. A vicious smile was stitched on his face as he clutched Bernie by his jaw, forcing him against the chip board wall of the small office with a dull thud. He snatched the candy bar out of Bernie’s hand and forced it into his gaping face, wiping it all over with a forceful hand. Bernie’s neck snapped back painfully as he spat out the wrapper and he groaned as Mojang delivered a powerful uppercut under his ribs. He slid down the wall, stunned by the sudden controlled burst of aggression. “Now get the fuck out of here,” Mojang said.

~

Eggs, hash and grits.

0

Green Sunday Chapter 10 ‘Romeo is bleeding’ (Edited)

Good morrow fine humans!

Back again just letting my asshole heal from the reeming of my day job. It’s been a crazy few days making dat paper. But without it I wouldn’t be able to pay for this fine editing or food.

But here we are with Chapter ten, should be on the way out soon so I can start something else.
I was thinking of completely throwing out my plan from nanwrimo and doing something else entirely but more thought is required on that, I’ll keep you posted.

Follow the hyperlink to read the rest of the chapter for free.

Peace!

Romeo is Bleeding

~

“There he is!” Dave said as he pointed over his Sikh billionaire boss’s shoulder.

“You littal caant!” Pete said as he cranked the pressure gauge in his custom air arrow launcher. He narrowed his eyes to keep track of a wily moving target.

The scope flitted around, trying to keep track of the ragged green form as it darted from cover to cover. “Keep still you little barstard!” Pete spat. “Think you can outrun me, you little facka?”

“He’s over there!” Dave screeched as he leant on the raised lip of the gun store roof.

Pete tried to steady his breathing; he tunnelled his vision down the scope of the rifle. A quick flicker of light and a sharp piercing feeling. Pete was sent reeling off his makeshift perch on the roof.

“What was that?” Dave said.

Pete patted himself down for injuries “Something came right at me.” He readied himself again at his perch.

“There!” Dave screamed. A lithe figure slipped through a gap in the wall of milling living corpses.

“You fuckin’ what?’” Pete said as he gritted his teeth, pulling hard on the trigger of the arrow launcher. With a satisfying release of pressure, an arrow soared into the crowd, just as the figure disappeared.

“Did you get ‘im?” Dave said.

“I dunno,” Pete said as he lifted the rifle up and rested it against the wall.

“Who the fuck was that?” Dave said, feeling a little buzzed and drained from the excitement. As if, for a fleeting moment, the shoe was on the other foot, he glanced back to the spot where he’d last seen the cornered animal through his binoculars. He had to catch his breath despite not having moved an inch. “Hah, does that one kinda look like Burt Reynolds to you?” he said as he looked out over the shambling corpses on the other side of the street.

“Another caant like us, I reckon. Didn’t get a good look at ‘im,” Pete said as he leant against the lip of the roof. He took out a hunting pipe and filled it with tobacco, lit it and took some measured pulls on the horn lip piece, with a faraway look on his face. He listened to the sound of his own heartbeat. As he put pressure on the wall, the other side cracked a little and pieces of mortar and brick crumbled.

Unnoticed by Dave and Pete, lodged a good four or five inches into the mortar was a shiny and very sharp-looking butterfly knife.

~

A sickly light trickled through the gaps in the shutters of an upmarket house on the more affluent side of town. The house was still and looked vacant in the bluing light of the evening. The night was on its way, bringing a much needed stillness to the busy town. The house was old-looking, reminiscent of some older New England town houses: a two storey affair, made of retouched white wood and roofed with grey tiles. The windows were partitioned with the same white wood. All the curtains and shutters were drawn.

Inside the house a deathly cold gripped the anterooms and the hall. A musty smell the owners must have gotten used to permeated the rooms. And the floorboards creaked like those in an old, haunted house.

The stairs were fairly grand, made of an elegant hardwood. They were cold as century-old bone to the touch. The faded blue light gave them a dreamlike quality, as if the whole house were some sort of display or diorama meant for looking but not touching.

Nevertheless, something lived there. Something stirred in the dull blue light. Little feet slapped the icy staircase as they descended, creating the slightest creaking noises on the old steps.

A little girl, maybe five or six, in a frilly night gown, descended the stairs, like a ghost. She held a stuffed iguana close to her little chest. She peered into the inky blue stillness of her home and saw a spark of light. There was a warm glow building in the furthest corner of her house, along with whispers and hissing sounds and a strange smell.

She tiptoed down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. As she got closer the angered hissing noises continued. She could hear a few choice words and laboured breathing as she approached the light source.

The light was coming from her living room. A small fire had been stoked in the old, wood-burning fireplace. There was a man sitting in front of the fire talking to himself angrily.

“I’ll get you, you asshole, you just wait! I know where you are! I’ll get you and I’ll-ergh!” The man muttered to himself as he nursed a wound in his shoulder. A bloody arrow had been tossed onto the hardwood floor by the fireside. He sat on a large green army coat in front of the fire, rocking back and forth like a caged animal, a blood-stained kitchen knife clutched in his hand.

“Santa, is that you?” The little girl said as she saw his scraggly beard and long hair. “It’s a little early. Where are all the presents?”

“Presents?” Carpenter said, furrowing his brow in a confused daze. Caught off guard by the little girl in her pyjamas, he gripped the knife tighter. “I don’t have any presents.”

“Oh,” the girl said, taking it surprisingly well. “Well, could you help me?” she said as she tightened her face a little. “My mommy and daddy are sick.” Her voice caught.

“Shhhhh,” Carpenter said. He put his finger up to his mouth. “Take me to them.” He smiled broadly, exposing his yellowed teeth. “Santa has something for them.” He stood up shakily, sliding the knife underneath his belt.

~

Romeo is Bleeding

 

0

Green Sunday – Chapter 9 Cobra Clutch

Here we are at last, the actual half way point of this beautiful disaster haha.

I’ve been a little preoccupied recently with not having any internet as of late, I have no idea why, last time it was copper stealing gypsies. Regardless my internet is back and I’m happy to inform you that because of it I feel a lot more pumped for nanowrimo. Because *drumroll/eyeroll* I actually reached a word count of around and above 1.5k. The necessary competitive amount for nanowrimo.
Now all I need to do is at the start of November, take an axe to my phone pole outside. Then I can be free from the distractions the internet levies on my dreams.

I dunno, I did like maybe 5k in three days, and its pretty crazy shit, I’m happy with it.

Ok enough of that this is actually my favourite chapter I had a lot of fun writing this one as you can probably tell. Even my editor could tell, it builds up to delicious crescendo of death and destruction, even reading over it again gave me chills of anticipation and left me wanting more. But that means writing another book and I’m just too fucking busy right now writing novellas and prepping for nanowrimo. And this one isn’t even making any money yet and why would it? I haven’t even started selling it or finished the editing process.

As usual you can find the full chapter and the previous chapters here completely for free.

 
Cobra Clutch

See you…

~

TJ squirmed on the back of the bike trying to lock his pudgy fingers around Sunday’s lithe frame. Fear overpowered his natural inclinations for tact and subtlety.

The engine of the Harley Continental coughed and spluttered. It roared like a rambunctious kitten. It was no huge feat for the bikers to catch up to them after finding their dead friend. Their bikes’ engine noises sounded like a giant bowling ball rolling down main street. TJ imagined that, to them, everyone looked like pins.

He looked back and saw only a cloud of smoke and dust. He half-expected a haunted pirate ship to emerge from it, with jet black sails. Crewed by stop motion skeletons. But as it cleared, only a parade of shiny chrome and black leather remained. A tide of ill-fitting pants and boots, with lots of buckles on them, moving gradually closer.

“Can we outrun them?” TJ yelped.

“No,” Sunday said, without even looking back.

“Then what are we gonna do?”

“This,” Sunday said, almost whispering. She stopped the bike with a sudden, anguished screeching of the Continental’s tires.

“What the fuck are you doing?? They’ll kill us!” TJ squealed.

“They might,” Sunday said. She propped the bike up with the kickstand and dismounted with the grace of a duchess.

TJ dismounted, almost falling. This brought back horrible memories of riding in a bike seat with his Mom when he was a kid.

“We’ve gotta hide,” he said breathlessly, clinging to one of his sweaty moobs. The sword in his other hand was shaking in its cheap faux lacquer sheath.

“Where?” Sunday said as she took up a batting stance, squeezing the grip of the bat in both hands. She took a few practice swings at that mean old air.

TJ looked around a full three sixty and realised they were on the edge of town. They were on an open street with no cover. “Looks like we’ll have to reason with them” Sunday said. A wry smirk peeled across her face as she walked past TJ with the bat across her shoulder.

The bikers didn’t speed up or slow down; they kept their solid, droning pace. They knew there was nowhere for them to run. And the building sounds of the engines filled the entire town with a primal dread.

They were on Sunday and TJ, like vultures, two at first, circling; the rest hung back a little to see what they’d do. The bikers were armed with pipes and chains and anything they could get their hands on. They dragged the chains behind their bikes and scraped the ground with their pipes, which, in a different situation, TJ would have found pretty cool. It kind of reminded him of the opening scene of ‘Akira’. But that was beside the point because they were probably trying to kill him.

Sunday breathed out slowly, closing her eyes and digging her feet into the cold, dry tarmac. She squeezed and released her grip on the bat as they circled, laughing and whooping.

One of them tore in front of her. His tires screeched in pain as they turned to face her, head on, but she didn’t move. He charged, screaming for her, but she remained still. He raised his pipe over his head as he angled his bike to give him a good swing. With an instant, ferocious finesse, she stepped forward into the arch of his strike and sunk her bat straight across his chest. He bounced off his bike. The bike came to a stop, scraping along the concrete.

Sunday breathed in calmly, closing her eyes again. She squeezed and released the handle of the bat as it hummed in her hands, sending shivers of pain all through her arms and down her back.

“You fucking bitch!” the biker’s friend screeched, pulling down the bandana covering his mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you up!”

Sunday wasn’t paying attention. She picked up the other biker’s discarded pipe, without looking at him, as he circled back to strafe her.

She looked it over as he closed the distance. Tears and snot streamed from his eyes, rage pounding on the accelerator.

She idly tossed the pipe away, and the biker was too angry to notice it fall directly into his path of destruction. By the time he wiped the snot out of his face, it was too late. He ran over the mangled pipe and it got caught up in the front tire. The front wheel twisted, forcing the bike to one side and down onto the concrete. It squealed to a stop and Sunday walked towards the downed biker.

He was pinned under the bike: both of his legs, broken for sure, coughing up blood, screaming, “You bitch, you fucking bitch!”

She was slower for some reason; she dragged the bat now, with one hand, and squeezed her arm with the other. She brought the bat up and split his head effortless. It made a mundane, wet imploding noise, like a watermelon dropped on concrete. His mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head.  She pulled the spiked monstrosity out of his skull with a soggy, sucking noise.

Then silence, a slow deafening silence. Then a thunderous clap, breaking the silence apart, like Thor’s hammer on the clouds. A man, on an enormous, bucket-seat Harley, sat as if on a throne, watching. Surrounded by his cronies and with a fine-looking biker chick on the back of his bike, clinging to him, he slowly clapped with his huge, gloved hands.

“That was cute. I really dug that,” he said as he leaned forward, across his custom handlebars. There was a cobra design on the front of his bike, and his breaks and clutch were ornate snake heads with a brass finish. “Oh, you’re finished. Allow me to introduce myself.” He stroked his Fu Manchu moustache. A large Latin man, with tattoos covering most, if not all his arms, he was adorned with Mayan tribal art and Japanese rip offs. He wore a loosely cut denim waistcoat, the back of which was emblazoned with their insignia: an angel in a straitjacket with the words ‘Los Angeles Locos’ written below it. The ensemble was completed by a pair dark red, leather pants and aggressive-looking combat boots. “My name is Mojang. It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Before he finished, the bikes had fired up again. And before she knew it, Sunday was surrounded by ten maybe twelve bikers. Clouds of smoke encircled her, a maelstrom of twisted metal. Her hair swept across her face. She raised her bat with a bitter defiance, ready to swing at the next one that came close. She hoped to take them one at a time, like balls in a batting cage.

Before she could take a swing, a chain wrapped itself around her bat and it was wrenched from her hand, wrenched away with a high-pitched banshee laugh. Sunday turned, just in time to see a leather boot heel coming towards her face at high speed.

“That’s for Lamb Chop, bitch!” the woman said as she got off the back of the bike. The rider watched with a vicious grin on his face as the angry young biker woman approached. Sunday rose again, spitting blood.

Sunday stuck her tongue out as she wiped blood away from her mouth. The biker chick snorted. She wore high leather boots, all black leathers, a pinch of PVC and a ridiculously tight corset, holding in a much larger frame than Sunday’s. She had black, dyed hair with flecks of red in it, shaved in odd places. Piercings all around her head culminated in an obnoxious bull ring in her nose.

She closed the gap, between the bike and Sunday, with a bounding leap, her angry excitement fuelled by the wailing crowd. They whooped and hollered like wild animals. “What, bitch? You think you can take me-?” Before she could finish speaking, Sunday had football tackled her to the ground. Sunday pummelled her with balled up fists, like an angry gorilla, and thought nothing of biting the septum ring out of her nose and spitting it at her face. Before Sunday could finish her, a large arm snaked around Sunday’s neck and began choking the life out of her, lifting her a clear foot off the ground before dropping her, in a bundle, on the floor.

The large biker picked up Sunday’s flaccid body like a rag doll. The angry female biker stood and coughed blood.

“Damn, Del, she fucked you up.”

“Hold her, Roan!” She approached Sunday’s lifeless body, pulling a small knife from her thigh high boot. Del ripped Sunday’s shirt, with both hands, as she dangled unconscious in the brutish biker’s arms. The torn fabric revealed her pale, porcelain skin and petite, anaemic breasts. Del took a moment to pick a spot to plunge the knife into. “Bitch!”

“WAIT!” A booming voice cut over the sounds of engines, like ritual drums, building to a climax. “Hey, tubby! Yeah, you! You can stop hiding now; we’re not buying it,” Mojang bellowed as he leant prone over the handle bars of his enormous Harley.

TJ shook. The spittle in his mouth became sticky and it was hard for him to breathe. He had spent the last couple of minutes cowering behind the tiny Continental, trying to make himself invisible. Sadly, at his size, it was wishful thinking. He’d spent a lot of his life just doing exactly that, pretending to be invisible, but now there was nowhere to hide. There were eyes and teeth and fists and pipes and chains everywhere he rested his eyes. Spinning and spinning endlessly. He got dizzy trying to focus on a single point.

~

Cobra Clutch

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Green Sunday Chapter 8 ‘Motorpsycho Nitemare’ (Edited)

Friends, romans country men, lend me your braziers.
No stop that.
OK shit, why do I do these intros again? Oh yeah to make me look like a crazy dumbass, check!

As you can see making decent progress, getting a handle on getting the older stuff edited and working on new projects. I’ve even assigned days of ‘marketing’, which just boils down to a couple of hours of copy and pasting, spamming the shit out of Facebook and twitter. I laugh at your ban hammer Facebook, I laugh at it!

I’m also in talks with some other independent ‘zombie authors’ for some shared content and possibly some cross promotion in the future. So yeah plenty of nepotism yet to come, yay for cronyism! (I’m being sarcastic).

I’m having so much fun with the other project I’m working on and it’s tricky to resist the temptation to completely pan everything else and work on that. I’ve been trying to increase my writing output to something resembling 2k words a day. So far life and work and just plain laziness and love of blenders is getting in my way. I don’t hold out much hope of winning nanowrimo as much as I see it as a fun way to get a really good start on new project I think has the potential of raising my profile significantly.
Right back to earth haha. This is the start of some interesting shit happening now, lots of action in this one, the next one is probably my favourite but this is fun too. Looking forward to getting this done and dusted so I can properly show this to people. I added someone on Facebook I’m interested for a cover design, it’s all coming together folks.

Enough blathering, you can find the full chapter for free as usual on inkitt at;
Motorpsycho Nitemare

–

The stillness of the early morning was deafening. Cold and brittle as the morning before, it was shattered by hurried footsteps and the sound of frantic panting. A red-haired man in sweats jogged with a limping gait, taking cold, wet, terrified breaths. He choked as much of the damp morning air down as he could to keep his limbs moving. Lactic acid seeped into every joint and muscle as he tried frantically to make his body work as it was supposed to.

A bright light pierced the mist of the ambivalent early morning, accompanied by an obnoxiously loud and tinny Harley continental engine tearing into life. A black-gloved hand revved it for the pleasure of the vibration in his gut. He grabbed his leather-clad crotch with his gloved hand to rearrange the furniture. The sound and smell of creaking leather brought a smile to his greasy, stubbly face.

“Let’s go fuck shit up.”

He pulled his denim waistcoat tighter across his skinny frame. The name “Lamchop” was embossed above the left breast pocket. The biker dragged a chain across his lap, the end of which had a barbed hook that he hung over the side of the bike. He nudged the kickstand with his leather boot and screeched off down the suburban street.

The town was so still, dead and dying. The red-headed jogger could’ve heard the engine on the other side of town, but he was sure it was closer. His eyes widened and his pupils shrank as he loped into the mist. He doubled his pace, his muscles crying out in pain with every terrified step.

The biker let out some slack in the chain, one hand on the handles of his bike. He let it swing idly at his side as he drove. Noticing a shape form in the mist, he took control of its swinging motion. With the strength of his wrist alone he began to spin the chain, building up speed, keeping full control of the bike as he did so.

The swinging chain reached terminal velocity. The shape was within striking distance. The biker released the chain as if launching a dog at an unsuspecting rabbit from the barrel of a gun. All the force from his wrist snapped it at the shape coming at him from the mist.

The chain struck with snake-like, snapping precision. It tangled around the feet of its victim, locking into place at the ankle. The savage, biting barbs rent flesh from the bone and stuck stalwart in the calf of the bait.

No noise was heard over the thunderous engine, no screams, no pleas for help. The chain stopped for a brief moment, slack as it was, then it took on life once again as the bike pulled away. The chain snaked up with a vicious, snapping sound, yanking its victim off their feet and dragging them across the neatly tarmacked suburban roadway.

The meat sack hit the ground with a sad, wet trumping sound. Bones in a bag of wet flour collided awkwardly as they were wrenched out of the mist with a hiss and a slick grinding sound. The biker stopped and, lifting his goggles, he looked back at the zombie he’d caught on the hook. A proud fisherman, the biker smiled and pulled his goggles back down. The creature writhed, ground down teeth falling from its mouth like popcorn. Its face was hot and slick from its date with the smooth tarmac, most of its features worn down. It reached its arm up, reminding him of the canteen scene from “Oliver Twist.”

“More? OK, well, why didn’t you say?” He laughed to himself and revved his engine once more.

The red-haired man in sweats reached his front door, his breath burning his lungs. The air felt like sandpaper, going in and coming out. His sweats were drenched and the cold tugged at him as he propped himself up against the door. He tapped on it.

“Sheila, it’s me. Let me in! They’re coming! For God’s sake, lemme’ in!”. He whispered in a low, raspy voice as he tapped the window of the door.

He looked back into the mist as he heard the engine’s noises carried by the empty streets. “Sheila, open the fucking door, or God help me, I wil- “An abrupt unlatching noise cut him off. His wife opened the door a crack and he slipped through it, as if by osmosis.

“Will, are you OK? Did you find any?” A slight woman with mousey brown hair stood in front of him, bunching up a plaid dress in her two skinny fists.

“I couldn’t. They were on me, these guys. They were staking out the pharmacy. They knew people would come for supplies. It was a trap; I barely got away!” His voice was hoarse. He took in large, gulping breaths as he spoke. Feelings of shame and guilt and terror fought for space in his brain. All thoughts were barged out of the way though by his singular desire for all the stale oxygen on the landing.

“I can’t last much longer without my insulin,” she said, whispering into her dress, a maudlin expression on her pale face. “If you were a real man, you’d get it.”

“Yeah, and if you weren’t a total retard you’d have stocked up before the zombie apocalypse. But we can’t all be perfect!”

“It’s not the apocalypse. The army’ll come. They will. We just have to last a little longer. I don’t know how much longer I can- “

“It’ll be OK, I promise,” he said softly as he collapsed on the stairs. “We’ll find a way.”

Just as he got a little comfortable and the air particles started forming an orderly queue into his lungs, a sharp tapping taxman knock set the couple’s teeth on edge.

“Who… who is it?” Sheila said

“Shhhh.” Will’s panic and anger flared into a harsh, sharp shushing noise.

“I’ve come to read tha meeta,” the voice beyond the door said in a faux, mocking English accent.

“W-what?”

“Shhhhhhh,” Will said again, sharper and louder.

“Yeah I can definitely hear a leak. You betta let me in or-”

A dead silence fell as the couple inside tried to stop breathing for moment. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” The voice became lower and more caustic. All the humour drained out of it, sending a chill down the couple’s spines.

Will’s breath creaked out of his mouth. Then a jostling of the door handle sent him reeling up the stairs, fumbling for the banister.

“Where are you going?” Sheila screeched as he fled.

“Little pigs, let me in!”
Motorpsycho Nitemare

 

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 7 “Take up Space” (Edited)

Time for exposition dudes and dudettes, I’m told I handled it less painfully than a full colonic irrigation by a clown making balloon animals, you be the judge.
Slightly hungover from a lovely wedding I went to last night, it was a good time, I didn’t know anybody there. It was an old good friend from uni and his misses only let him invite one of his uni mates, little did she know she invited the worst offender of them all haha.
It was a good night, I only wish I could have stayed longer if it wasn’t for my long journey and ill fitting suit.
Kinda makes me feel melancholic watching people so happy like that, so normal. Makes me wonder if I could ever have that without royally fucking it up. If it’s really that perfect or just seems that way and takes lots of work and compromise I’m too lazy/stubborn to do.
It’s a selfish thought to go to a wedding and think ‘but what about me’ I guess, but maybe it’s good I recognise that. I genuinely feel happy for them but it brings into question the life I chose. I wish I could see more of him and all my old friends but I’ve chosen a solitary path.
I knew I would have to take this journey alone, I had to seclude myself to find the best stories and be a success, there was no other options, to balance work and writing and friends would make me a failure at all three and too burnt out to do anything about it. I knew what I was doing but it still catches in my throat when I see that two people can be so happy and normal when I’ve always felt so broken and different. But there goes that narcissism again, too bad I spend all my money on knives and editing instead of therapy haha. Ah fuck it, as Tom Waits would; “It’s nothing that a hundred dollars won’t fix”.
Or a couple hundred thousand would be nice.
Anyway enough of this ceaseless faggotry, this chapter fills in a lot of the blanks so I hope you people appreciate this and I know you people exist. I was looking at the analytics for this on inkitt and Green Sunday has had just under a thousand reads since December/january I think, so they exist.

As always you can find the full chapter on inkitt by following this link;
Take up Space

~

The sun rolled down the hill faster than usual. Candlelight lit TJ’s mom’s little dining room. The sounds of knives and forks scratching plates filled the silence.

“So how did you and TJ meet?” TJ’s mom asked, cutting through the awkward silence of this intimate little meal. The table consisted of her and her son and a strange, green-haired girl he’d brought in off the streets who smelt faintly of dried blood.

“We met at the mall actually,” the girl said, turning a wry smile up at TJ who was sweating into his food.

“I’m sorry, did you tell me your name? I get a little ditsy sometimes,” his mother said; something wasn’t quite right. Like she’d walked out of one dream and into another unannounced.

“Sunday,” she said.

“Well that’s a pretty name. TJ, don’t you think that’s a pretty name?”

“Err, yeah,” TJ said, looking up from his plate of macaroni and cheese to glance across the table.

“Do you live around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. I mean, I think I’d – I mean -”

“Ah no, I just got here. Err, my… dad travels a lot for work,” Sunday said, choosing her words surgically.

“Well I think the candles were a nice touch. We don’t get to use the dining room much these days; it’s just been the two of us for a while now.”

“Yeah, well, it was TJ’s idea; he said it would give the room some atmosphere, right?” Sunday said, watching TJ squirm.

“TJ and I aren’t used to entertaining. After his father left, we mostly kept to ourselves.”

“Mom,” TJ whined.

“That’s right, TJ hates me telling everyone our life story.” His mom smiled with a melancholy intake of breath. “Oh, you’re finished?”

“Yes, thank you. It was lovely.”

“What a polite girl,” TJ’s mom said as she collected the plate in front of Sunday, a warm smile on her face. “You’re welcome to stay in the guest bedroom across from me if you’re too tired to make it home.” She fluttered out of the room with the dirty plates.

“No, that’s OK. I think I’m just gonna bunk with TJ and fuck his brains out all night.”

TJ’s perfectly timed sip of milk sprayed down his shirt.

“That’s nice,” TJ’s mom said from the kitchen, clearly not having heard anything she’d said.

Sunday handed TJ a napkin and smiled trollishly. He snatched it from between her two fingers and began to dab his shirt.

“Do you think we should tell her?” he whispered.

“Why worry her? Nothing should happen tonight as long as we don’t light the house up like a Christmas tree. Or make too much noise. I thought the candlelight thing would be cute,” Sunday said, reclining in her dining chair.

“But she has to know.”

“She’ll find out.” She closed her eyes for a moment, putting her hands behind her head.

“Are we gonna die?” TJ said, a hint of anger in his hushed voice.

“Yeah, probably”

TJ’s mom barrelled into the room with some sort of lopsided cake and plonked it down in between the two of them, oblivious to the mounting tension she had just crudely carved in half.

“Dessert.”

~

The door to TJ’s bathroom opened like a sealed vault door, or an alien craft billowing steam. It had been closed for a good hour and a half. Sunday walked out barefoot wearing an old XXXL ‘Walking Dead’ T-shirt that went down to her knees. She rubbed her whole head with a towel as if she was trying to polish a lamp.

Her legs, clean, were surprisingly dainty-looking, covered with little cuts and plasters, but her skin looked soft and smooth. TJ stopped dead on his made up futon on the floor. She opened one eye underneath the towel and saw he was looking at her. She dropped the towel on the floor and crossed the room to the window.

“Thanks for the shirt.”

“Err, no problem.”

“Let me guess, you wanna know if the curtains match the drapes?” She smiled as she turned back towards TJ.

“Err, wut? No! I wasn’t!” TJ’s face turned a purply red colour and his tongue swelled up in his head.

She perched on the windowsill and looked out at the cool, quiet trees swaying in the dark. There were fires burning in the distance, muffled screams carried by the shiftless night. The smell of the smoke was sweet and homely to her. She sighed after taking in a lungful through the small crack in the window.

She cocked one of her legs up on the sill and TJ almost burst a blood vessel.

“Err, I made up the bed. I’m fine here,” he said, motioning to his crude futon.

“OK,” she said dreamily, staring out the window.

“What’s happening?” He bit his bottom lip as he said it, not wanting to know.

He could see her blank expression reflected in the black window. “It’s a game.”

“What?”

“I was brought here to play,” she said, her voice trailing off.

TJ furrowed his brow and got quiet. She looked over at him as he hung his head, trying to make sense of what she had said.

She sucked her bottom lip and sighed again. “They did it before, to my town. I was working in some fucking diner and then one day…”

“Please, I don’t understand.”

“This happened before, in Arkham; that’s where I’m from.”

“But, the TV, it said only one person survived,” TJ stuttered.

“The TV lied. Me, that guy you met before, and a few others: we’re all leftovers, survivors, but now we’re ’players.’” She turned her face back to the window, but didn’t look outside; she didn’t look at anything.

“How do I play – the game, I mean – how do you win?” TJ rose a little from his futon. A frustrated resolve boiled beneath the surface; he was sure there was a straight answer somewhere under that mess of green hair.

“You just have to survive.”

“What’s happening?” he asked again.

“In three days this place is going to be a ghost town. It’ll be wiped off the map, blamed on a nuclear plant leak or a fire or terrorists, whatever.”

“Three days? Why just three days?” TJ’s voice took on a frantic tremble.

“It’s how the game works. The zombies are just the first part; the second day is when it starts getting messy.”

“Messy? What the fuck does that mean?”

“If you win three games in succession you get to leave: a new identity, a new life, somewhere far away.” As she said it, she turned her head away as if she almost believed it. “The winner is the person that scores the most points. Points are allocated per zombie and recorded by a series of drone cameras flying overhead, as well as security cameras they’ve hacked throughout the town. There are no points for killing people, but on the second day, a backed contestant is worth double points.”

“Backed contestant? What does this all mean?”

“To be a contestant you have to have a backer. There are thousands of people watching: some just gawkers, stumbling onto the deep web; others are rich sickos who want to pay to control someone, someone like me. They take bets on who wins and they pay to keep you alive or watch you die.”

“Can we escape?”

“You can try.”

“What about phones? The Internet?”

“All cut off. Only they can access the net through their own satellite. That’s how they broadcast through the deep web.”

“What happens on the third day?”

“The third day, all bets are off. This town will burn.” She stood up, walked away from the window, wafting a sweet scent as she passed him, and climbed into TJ’s bed, which had never looked so neat.

“How did you survive?” TJ asked, still prone in his futon.

Her body was rigid and she spoke while still facing away from him. “I didn’t.”

~

 

 

 

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 18 ‘Game Over’ (Raw)

Well the end of what seems like an era is at hand, this is the final chapter of book one of Green Sunday. I do have a planned sequel that could spin out into a series, we’ll just have to see how well this does on amazon or if someone picks it up. But I enjoyed writing it as much as I enoyed reading the comments I got on facebook and the glowing reviews I got on inkitt for such a silly ass book haha.
This has been a growing experience for me in my life and in my writing. I feel like I’ve already taken the first steps into a new world and I’m really excited about the new stuff I’m working. This is the beginning of something really great for me and there’s nowhere to right now but up.
I’m editing the first chapter of the novella I’m working on today, so I should have that up as soon as tuesday, maybe earlier. Then I’ll get it up on inkitt and see what the folks there think of it.
I just wanted to give a big thanks to people who read this blog and people who enjoy and support my writing today and in the years to come.

As usual you can read the full chapter absolutely free on inkitt by following this link; Game Over

Cheers!

~

Helicopter blades span slow. Giant straight blender blades whipping up the thin air. Making it as thick as eggs and cream allowing the helicopter to climb – Laura thought to herself as the large ex-military chopper lumbered into flight. The chandelier inside adding maybe another metric tonne. Ensuring a luxurious but unhurried flight.

Laura sat in the co-pilots seat securely fastened and with a headset on for full effect. She smiled at Carpenter who leaned over her seat, the gun on the headrest pointing sideways at Nigel. The aging pilot seemingly attempting an escape by sea, gradually filling the cockpit with sweat.

Carpenter erected a toothy grin feeling somewhat like a pirate, an air pirate. Riding into the wind, to freedom or death. What’s the difference he thought as he squeezed the head rest and rapped his fingers across the handle of the gun. Feeling a dramatic swelling, like he could hear ride of the Valkyries. And just over the those snow capped mountains rested a Vietcong rice paddy just waiting for a lick of fresh napalm.

~

A monitor glowed in a dark room. The image panned back on a small town gunstore with a what seemed like a mosaic pattern of blood and bones out the front. A tapestry of offel and brain matter spread over about a ten foot area radiating out.

“Well at least he paid in advance” Murray said with a wry choking laugh, choked off entirely by a stern searching glance from Evergreen.

“Indeed” Evergreen sighed.

“Well you know he signed a contract, what are we gonna tell his helicopter pilot?” Murray quickly tapped away at his personal monitors keyboard. “That reminds me, the team guarding it haven’t reporting in. Err- going on fifteen minutes now, should I send another?”.

Evergreen gave a small breathy laugh and seemed to suck the inside of his cheek. “Hnh no, I’ll go, I need the excercise”. With that he opened the mobile command centre’s door and stepped out into the bright noonday sun. Allowing it to penetrate the perfect dark of the little mobile mancave.

Murray called after him, his voice trailing off as he sat alone in the half dark “HEY YOU MIND!- closing the do- ass”

~

“tj-TJ-tj…..TJ!” A girl’s voice phased in and out, accompanied by an annoying ringing noise.

“I can hear you.” TJ said as he clicked his jaw and held his head. It felt like a balloon full of cracked drywall and every word sent sharp shards of pain throughout his skull. “Shit, did something explode?”

“Err, I don’t think so, you just hit your head.” Sunday said, her face blurred, then became focussed then blurred again. TJ gave up and just looked at the pavement trying to stop his head from spinning.

“I think I’m gonna throw up” He said as his breathing became long and laboured.

“At least you’re not dead” She said with what he could hear was a wry corner mouth smile.

“I feel like that would be an upgrade.” He said wincing as he put his hand on the pavement to lever the weight of his mighty girth.

“Big baby” Sunday said, punctuating it with a breathy bitter guffaw.

TJ lifted himself up onto two shakey feet and looked down at Sunday. She stretched out on a large broken no entry sign on the sidewalk like it was a beach towel.

He turned towards her and blinked a couple of times and put his hand out to her. She swivelled around in her lounging position to look up at him. Her hair was still that messy shock of toxic green. A little more matted and dirty with dry blood and good old fashioned dirt.

“M’lady” TJ said tipping an ironic invisible fedora in Sunday’s general direction.

Sunday squinted, turning her eyes into two sharp slits and shook her head smiling. She batted his chubby hand away like a playful kitten leaving its claws out. “I think I’m good” She said as she signed and made the painful ascent onto two legs. Dusting herself off completely unaware how like a Saturday morning cartoon character she looked. “What?”

“Nothing”.

“It’s gonna be dark soon, this town is gonna be swarming with mercs”

“What for?”

“Sweep and clear.” Sunday gave TJ a knowing glance but after no discernible nod of the head or recognition. She went on; “They’re gonna burn the whole town to the fucking ground. Round up the remaining survivors”.

“And?”

“And make them ‘un-survivors’”

“Oh”

“There can’t be any witnesses”

“But you said it was streaming live”

“On the deep web.” Sunday paused, tapping her heels together, thinking no place like home undoubtedly.

“Hah?” TJ actually scratched his head.

“Didn’t we go over this already, the deep web, it’s like err- you know”

“…”

“It’s like the dark side of the internet that can’t be reached with a regular search engine. Child porn, hitmen, drugs, slavery, live murder, and now this shit”

“O-k so?”

“So only a select group of sick fucks can see this. Sick rich pricks, dumb kids with more time than smarts. Regular perverts, criminals, gangsters, you know, not the fucking pta”

“Err I don’t get it”

“The point is they’re not the kind of people that would turn states evidence. Who would believe them anyway? ‘Err excuse Mr policeman. Err there’s a reality tv show on the deep web that fills a town with zombies and films it for bitcoins”. Sunday said in a mocking imitation of TJ’ voice holding up her fingers in a faux telephone shape. A patronizing smirk sealed onto her face. “No one gets out alive”

“What about you?”

“It’s different with me. They kept me, and a few others alive because this is a show, and shows need ‘characters’. It needs some kind of a plot, a story, drama. It can’t just be a bunch of people running around doing ‘stuff’. It has to have some progression, someone to root for, someone to watch die. It’s like any other tv show.” Sunday sucked the bottom of her lip after using air quotes twice in a single rant.

“But it kinda was just a bunch of stuff happening”

“If people are watching us. Enough people give us likes or clicks or votes or whatever, they let us go on into the next stage.”

“This is so fucked!”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed”

“Shit” TJ looked down, squeezing his double chin.

“What!”

“Who wants to watch some fat kid kill zombies badly and shit his pants? My youtube career was exactly souring. People just tuned in to laugh at me.” TJ pointed his chin and sighed. “I got more death and rape threats than Anita Sarkeesian”

“Anita who?”

“Nevermind”

“Don’t give me that shit! What are you fishing for compliments like some Instagram camwhore? That could save you. There might be a huge demographic of people who want to keep you alive just to watch you do a Mellissa McCarthy impression, split your pants and shit. You could even have a goofy catchphrase like ‘That’s gonna leave a mark!’”

“Yeah she sucks and people love her”

“Her one joke is just falling over while fat, that could be you”

“Yeah you’re right” Tj mused on it further before shaking his head like a mini truffle shuffle.  “No fuck that we’re gonna get out of here, you’ll see, there’s a way out, I know there is!”.

“The tunnels?”

“There’s no way they could know about them. That guy kept them super lowkey, they’re not on any map, or blueprint. He built it all using his own guys, he was crazy paranoid, didn’t want anyone to know they existed. Only me and a few other kids even knew it existed.”

“Yeah you already told me. So why don’t we get the fuck out of here before some roided up merc puts a black leather size nine up our asses?” Sunday yawned picking up a parking meter and tossing it over her shoulder.

“Ok”

~

 

 

 

 

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