I woke up this morning feeling excited. Our books came out onto Kindle today. But what did I expect? To sell a thousand books in an hour? Ha ha! That’s a dream! No, I wasn’t sure what to expect. And I’m certainly not sure what to do about it now.
But then, marketing our books has always been our great hurdle. How can you let people, who know nothing about me or my books, know more about them?
Part of me thinks, why would they? It’s another book out of millions of titles. However, my only joy is that the people who have read them loved them and enjoyed them enough to read the entire trilogy. That is my comfort. They are good enough to read. Prison officers who work with my husband, both male and female, have enjoyed them. It’s a book unlike any other they have read before. Although, it’s science fiction it’s written in such a way as not to bore the reader with technical details. It’s a fast moving novel, racing from one dilemma to another.
I have included a snippet for you to read. I would love to hear your feedback.
A Frightening Encounter
It was a cold November morning in the small town of Wislington. Everything was peaceful except for a deep booming voice bellowing up the stairs of number 46 Willow Way.
‘Hey, worm bag! Come down here now!’
Connor Clover woke up startled. With wide eyes like an owl he stared up at the dark ceiling. Before he could think, stretch or yawn, the voice thundered again.
‘Are you deaf or something?’ it hollered impatiently.
Connor sat up. His head was spinning. It took several seconds to gather his bearings. He’d just had the strangest dream.
‘I’m coming!’ Connor called sleepily.
He twisted awkwardly as he struggled out of bed. He put on his slippers and tied his dressing gown around his waist. Connor understood from an early age that it wasn’t a good idea to keep his uncle waiting. Not unless he wanted to see him stamp his foot like a buffalo and scream down his ear.
Blind as a bat without his glasses he tripped over his dirty washing. He pulled out his glasses from the pocket of his dressing gown, where he’d left them the night before and placed them firmly on his nose.
The alarm clock beside his bed told him it was only five-thirty in the morning. Connor groaned loudly and quickly left his room.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ he grumbled, trying to rub his headache away.
Downstairs in the hallway he caught a shadowy glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was a mystery how his blond hair defied gravity and proudly stuck up like a tuft of grass. His latest attempt at pinning it down all night, by wrapping it tightly in a damp bandage, had failed miserably. The harder he tried to flatten his hair the more it insisted on sticking up.
He entered the living room in a daze. Through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke he saw the television flashing. Connor cautiously approached the sofa, where Uncle Dorcus was sitting next to Aunt Fagan. They had been stuck in the same chair for two whole weeks.
It had all happened after a serious food fight had broken out between them. Being his usual brutish self, Uncle Dorcus had squashed a cream bun on the end of Aunt Fagan’s lumpy nose. She, being just as savage had picked up a treacle pancake and thrown it over her brother covering his entire face. Losing his balance he had grasped hold of her and pulled her down on to the sofa with him.
The sofa had given a loud rumble, accompanied by a splintering noise, before collapsing under their weight. Now the sofa resembled an exhausted animal, its wooden legs currently pointing horizontally along the floor.
‘They don’t make furniture like they used to,’ Dorcus had commented, peeling the treacle pancake off his face and eating it. When he had finished, he had pulled the flattened bun off Aunt Fagan’s nose and eaten that as well. She didn’t mind; she had been otherwise occupied with her hand deep inside a box of popcorn, munching away like a potbelly pig with cream and jam smeared around her chin and whiskers.
The room hadn’t seen daylight for a good two years, due to the preferences of Dorcus, who had taken quite a fancy to dark, dim atmospheres. This gave the room no chance to air and rid itself of the lingering stench. Aunt Fagan, who was snoring loudly with her head rolled to one side, didn’t seem to mind the smell either.
Connor didn’t like being in the living room for two very good reasons. The potent cigarette fumes made him feel he was slowly suffocating and the foul smell radiating from his relatives was absolutely disgusting.
His uncle yelled again before Connor had a chance to tell them he was already there.
‘You good for nothing, green, warped toad. Get down here now!’
‘I’m here, uncle,’ Connor replied, covering his ears just in time.
‘Come round here so we can see you. Just as I thought. Nothing but a waste of space,’ his uncle scoffed. ‘Well you took your time, didn’t you, you little flea bag. Look at that clock. I want you to look at it closely and tell me what the time is!’ Bloodshot eyes watched him intensely.
‘Nine-thirty,’ Connor replied quietly, looking down at the floor to avoid his uncle’s fierce gaze. ‘It must’ve stopped last night. It’s only five-thirty in the morning.’
Connor’s heart missed a beat when Aunt Fagan turned her head sharply. She narrowed her beady eyes into an evil glare, eyeing him suspiciously. She’d been awake the entire time.
‘You liar! That clock is right! Explain to us why you haven’t prepared our breakfasts yet, you sluggish little worm. You lazy brat! You need to be taught a lesson. If only I could get out of here I’d soon sort you out!’ she spat coarsely.
She wriggled her legs desperately, huffing and puffing, but no matter how hard she tried she remained steadfast to the sofa. The only thing she achieved was a slight sweat on her forehead.
‘The clock really has stopped!’ Connor wanted to scream, but knowing it would only make matters worse he remained quiet. They weren’t interested in the truth. They never were.
Tears stung Connor’s eyes as his uncle pointed his dumpy finger at him.
‘Did I ask you to tell me lies? Did I ask you to talk back? No I didn’t. So shut up you little pip squeak!’ Uncle Dorcus thumped the arm of the sofa so hard it disturbed the dust. Seconds later he was suffering a coughing fit and wheezing breathlessly.
‘Now see what you’ve done to your uncle!’ Aunt Fagan screeched. ‘Get out of here and bring us our breakfasts!’
Closing the door behind him, Connor went straight to the kitchen. He opened the window and took a deep breath of fresh air. The only other lights to be seen were the street lamps down the road. All the neighbours in their safe little houses were still sleeping, like he should be.
The kitchen was chilly and dark. Connor switched on the light and shuffled sleepily to the cupboards. A small spider scuttled across the ceiling, retreating to a safe corner.
The upright freezer was overflowing with food and getting anything out was quite a challenge, especially since the shelves had been discarded to create more space. As soon as the door opened an accumulation of food and ice fell on to the floor.
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Connor cursed.