Elliot Chandler – Dispencia: Vol I

Dispencia-Final-CoverTitle: Dispencia – Volume One

Author: Elliot Chandler

ISBN: Kindle: B00BK3ESNQ

Page count: 150

Genre: Young Adult/Children’s Fantasy

Price: $2.99

 

Author Bio:

Elliot Chandler is a writer from San Diego, California, who specializes in young adult and children’s fantasy with elements of science fiction. With a plethora of previous work just waiting to be released, Elliot has released the first of three volumes in the series “Dispencia.” The author is inspired by his travels across the world, as well as a distinct imagination that children and adults alike are sure to appreciate.

 

Tell us about your book:

“Dispencia – Vol. I” is an epic tale of about mystery, love, hope, revenge, and friendship. This enchanting adventure book is aimed towards children and youth, but can be enjoyed by every one of all ages. Its colorful vocabulary, absorbing descriptions, and delightful humor are sure to impress, expanding the knowledge of children while entertaining with fun and laughter.

 

How long did it take to write the book?

This book was written about ten years ago 2003 and took about one year to complete.

 

What inspired you to write the book?

I was inspired to write this series because I wanted to have a great story to tell my own children at bedtime, something that came from my own imagination, installing values and principles in their minds before sleep and dreams.

 

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

The writing process was very simple. I decided on the type of story I wanted to tell, and I told it on my portable computer. It didn’t hurt that I was traveling the world at the time and had unlimited inspirations and incredible views full of wonder and beauty, while meeting various people from different countries who had their own stories to tell.

 

What do you hope your readers come away with after reading your book?

I want to reach out to the young adults and children of the world, providing values of hope, generosity, understanding, and love through vivid images of color, wonder, and excitement, along with funny dialogue and clever characters who interact with each other in ways that will always be remembered by the reader.

 

Where can we go to buy your book?

It’s available for $2.99 on Amazon Kindle. http://www.amazon.com/Dispencia-Vol-I-ebook/dp/B00BK3ESNQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1361796283&sr=8-1&keywords=dispencia

 

Any other links or info you’d like to share?
I also have a brand new Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dispencia/334323440022130?fref=ts as well as a twitter account at https://twitter.com/YouthBooks

 

Excerpt from book:

“Please, you must understand, your majesty,” the messenger begged. “He’s not your average human being. There’s something unique about this boy; something strange and unexplainable. Something alarming.”

“Your lack of confidence is what alarms me!” he shrieked back eerily. “I know exactly how you feel about this boy, and I know you have a sinking doubt about my rule over this kingdom; a doubt about my supremacy and continued dominance over this land. You dare disobey my only request? The consequences will be wretched. Corma! Please show this feeble, timid fellow… to the pit!”

“Water… I need water,” muttered Quinn under his steady breathing. It was well over one hundred degrees outside in the city of Phoenix, Arizona, and the sun was beating harshly without remorse. He wiped the fresh sweat from his brow.

One more out to go, he thought, then I’ll be able to indulge in some ice cold, refreshing H2… CRACK! ”Oh!” he cried, startled back to reality.

“It’s hit high! It’s hit way up there!” shouted the announcer at a mind-numbing volume. “It’s back, to the wall. It’s going… it’s going further. It’s… caught! Left-fielder Quinn Dawson with the diving catch, ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd erupted with applause.

Quinn’s inning-ending catch landed him sharply against the breathtaking ground, which was deceptively masqueraded by the soft, flaccid grass. He glanced down into his worn, leather glove and glimpsed the crimson stitches on the white baseball before his mind fell into a hazy, subtle darkness.

“Wh-What?” Quinn groaned. He felt incredibly weak, as if every ounce of energy had been drained from him. He had blurred vision and wasn’t able to think properly; he also couldn’t move any of his limbs. Gradually, he came out of the darkness which consumed him only thirty seconds earlier. All of the sudden, the darkness became blinding until it was not a darkness at all. It became the opposite; a blinding light, whiter than a mid-winter snowfall. It only lasted a moment before Quinn could finally see a clear, baby blue sky with no clouds in sight.

Slowly, he sat up. He looked to his left, then to his right, and then to his left again. For miles in each direction, all he could see were fields of green grass. The grass appeared freshly cut, every blade synchronized and still. The field was noticeably level. There were no hills, mounds or deviations in the grass. The size of the field was a great mass, impossibly gargantuan. Quinn felt of pang of sympathy for whoever was responsible for keeping this open land mowed to perfection. The smell of the grass was overwhelming. It was as if his blackout had heightened his senses aside from his hearing, because he could hear absolutely nothing.

The baseball diamond was gone. He couldn’t locate any trace of the base paths. The bleachers were also gone. His teammates had disappeared, as did the crowd. It’s like everything and everyone was swept away in a wind storm, he mentally murmured. But, by what wind? He hadn’t felt a single gust of wind since he’d awakened in this strange, yet pleasant, place.

Quinn stood upright, wobbled a bit, and caught his balance. Then, he heard a sound that he instantly recognized. A stream. I can hear running water. It sounds awfully close. He carefully followed the sound of the water, glancing every which way, and noticed a small but prominent stream running all the way along the grass and into the far off distance. Quinn reached the edge of the narrow river and was astounded with what he found. The water was bright orange in color, and perhaps not even water at all. It resembled the Gatorade that Quinn was daydreaming about earlier.

“Oh my,” he whispered to himself. “Where in the world am I?”

Quinn kneeled next to the dazzling stream of orange liquid, wondering to himself how this was possible. It was the sort of thing he’d only read about in story books or saw on the television. It reminded him of a movie he watched when he was younger, but the name of the movie eluded him. He was in a state of shock. Just follow the yellow brick road, or in this case, the orange dyed stream, he thought, continuing his silent soliloquy. He contemplated following the stream. There was nothing else in sight, and he figured that following the river was his best bet at getting out of this dreamy, yet somewhat ominous field of lush grass, and finding someone who might be able to help him.

He considered touching the liquid. He considered smelling it. He even wondered what it might taste like. Finally, Quinn decided to follow it for a while and find out where it led. He got up off of his knees and noticed something dark, like a shadow, rapidly shoot across the stream. It sped past him at incredible speed. A fish? No, much too fast to be a fish. Wasn’t it? He wasn’t so sure. There it goes again! This time, he caught a better glance at the moving entity because it was moving at a slower pace. Quinn could’ve sworn that he saw bright, yellow eyes staring back at him as it moved past him in the opposite direction. Quinn stood idle, flabbergasted. “Things are getting weird,” he said.

He wasn’t scared, necessarily, but he was beginning to worry. He waited… and waited… and waited a while longer. He decided to continue with his trip down the yellow brick– I mean… orange dyed stream. As he strolled along with the smooth flow of the stream, he gazed up at the sky and noticed for the first time that, although there was plenty of sunlight, there was no sun in the sky. He could feel the warm rays on his body, through his baseball uniform and on his pallid face, but could not figure out where the source of heat and light was. His thoughts were interrupted by a sight that made him choke on his own saliva.

The stream began to change color. It was turning to a different shade of orange right before his unbelieving eyes. It was now a darker orange color, almost opaque, as if it was a river full of orange juice. Even if one of those speedy little fish things made its way back down stream, there’s no way I’d be able to see it through this uncanny river of… he didn’t know exactly how to finish that thought. OJ?

He stood there, astonished and numb, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past hour. What would Dad do? he surmised. I’m surrounded by an eternity of flawless grass. A mysterious stream, apparently full of orange Gatorade, magically turns into a stream full of pulp-free orange juice, and has torpedo-like fish swimming up and down it, watching me.

Quinn knew what he needed to do. He needed to wake up.

The hot rays of the nonexistent sun continued to wear on Quinn’s frail body. He was still wearing his little league Red Sox jersey which read “Dawson” and “17” on the back. When it came time for all of the children to pick the number they wanted on their jersey, Quinn’s first choice was number 25, in honor of his favorite player; but, at that point, it had already been taken by another one of his teammates. He went with his dad’s old jersey number 17. He was also still sporting his Sox baseball cap, but removed it so he could untangle his brown hair which was currently matted against his stark, blue eyes. He was sweating profusely.

The orange river had turned back to its original, transparent form. He observed the stream, searching for any sign of the yellow-eyed, shadow-like fish in which he witnessed earlier. There was nothing in sight. He began to ponder the possibility that maybe he was dead, and perhaps he was in heaven. This isn’t exactly what my idea of heaven’s like, and certainly not a hell that I’d imagine. I’m probably not dead, and this place is too real to be a dream.

He continued walking while he contemplated his situation. He realized he was now in the vicinity of a hill where the stream crossed over and disappeared. Another hundred meters in the same direction and he’d be right on top of the hill. He hiked towards it, and then up it, standing on the very apex of the grass covered mound. He noticed that the hill ended where a cliff began. He peeked over the edge of the cliff and was struck with amazement, shock, and terror. Is this even possible?

When he looked over the edge of the cliff, he gazed down upon a massive village. The quiet stillness that he had become accustomed to gave way to a bustling town full of movement and noise. He could see petite little country homes lined adjacently with tiny gardens flourishing beside each abode. He could see enormous tree trunks hollowed out and used as living quarters by hundreds upon hundreds of what looked like oversized rodents. They appeared to be either nestling inside of their homes or searching the branches protruding from each tree, most likely looking for food. He saw dwarf-sized tents on the outskirts of the extensive village. They looked like miniature teepees. He would’ve bet that if there’d been any wind blowing, each one would’ve blown away in an instant. The orange stream continued over the cliff as a thin waterfall, and became a large, wide river at the bottom, flowing past all of the houses and out into the edge of a forest. There was even a huge fountain located directly in the middle of the village. The fountain looked to be functioning with regular, clear water.

There was activity everywhere. This is like the New York City of villages, Quinn thought wondrously, except with tiny wooden houses, shelters, and tents instead of apartments, humongous redwood trees instead of skyscrapers, and a variety animals and birds rather than people.

The place was immaculate and superfluously crowded with creatures of every sort. Quinn could see a family of grizzly bears gathered around a spot where the stream widened on the ground below. He glimpsed many birds in flight. He spotted hawks and blue jays, cardinals and hummingbirds, robins and pigeons, all of which were gliding back and forth throughout the village, looking as busy as a hoard of bumblebees. He could see coyotes and peacocks, horses and camels, monkeys and… gorillas? Quinn mentally hollered. He could even see a pack of wild elephants and a lone ostrich strutting its stuff about.

This place is magnificent! He was speechless but his mind was running full throttle. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he realized that, not only were these animals living here in unison, but they seemed to be conversing with each other. He could almost hear the chitter chatter upon their lips. They were using hand gestures and body language that was only typical of humans. He wanted, needed, to get closer to the village. He had to be sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

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João Cerqueira – The Tragedy of Fidel Castro

COVER-FINALTitle: The Tragedy of Fidel Castro

Author: João Cerqueira

ISBN: ISBN: 978-1-938416-16-3, eBook ISBN: 978-938416-17-0

Page count: 188

Genre: Fiction – Historical, Literary, Satire, Humor

Price: $14.99

 

Author Bio:

João Cerqueira has a PhD in History of Art from the University of Oporto. He is the author of seven books: Art and Literature in the Spanish Civil War, Blame it on to much freedom, The Tragedy of Fidel Castro, Devil’s Observations, Maria Pia: Queen and Woman, José de Guimarães (publish in China by the Today Art Museum), José de Guimarães: Public Art.

His novels satirize modern society and use irony and humour to provoke reflection and controversy.

 

Tell us about your book:

The Tragedy of Fidel Castro is a political and metaphysical thriller where Jesus comes to Earth to prevent a war, Fidel Castro writes his memoirs and makes a pact with the Devil, whores and farmers refuse Marxism, monks start a revolution in a monastery, and, in the end, a true miracle happens.

LIVROExcerpts were published in the magazines Contemporary Literary Review India, The Liberator Magazine, Toad Suck Review #2 (Univ. of Arkansas), All Right Magazine, Danse Macabre, South Asia Mail, and Anastomo.

The literary agencies Kontext Agency (Sweden), Transent Contracts (Germany), Nova Litera (Russia), Book Seventeen Agency (South Korea), Nabu (Italy), The Book Publishers Association of Israel, Iris Literary (Greece) and  Partha Malik (India) are looking for a publisher for the novel.

 

How long did it take to write the book?

Two years.

 

What inspired you to write the book?

I always had an interest in the strange 1917 occurrence that happened in Fátima, when the Virgin Mary appeared to three Portuguese shepherd children, sharing several prophecies, including one that Communism would end.  I also spent considerable time in Cuba and hear stories of those who experienced Fidel Castro’s regime firsthand. So, The miracle of Fátima and the Cuba experiences inspired The Tragedy of Fidel Castro.

 

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

I am a professional writer, so I write at least six hours every day.

 

What do you hope your readers come away with after reading your book?

When I wrote The Tragedy of Fidel Castro I tried to create something truly original, involving contemporary problems and religion with humor and irony. As I said, I have a great interest in the figure of Fidel Castro in the question of the existence of God, and in the strange occurrence that happened in Fátima in 1917 (the Virgin Mary spoke to tree children and people saw the sun moving – millions of people worldwide still believe in this). So, I think that this novel will make the reader reflect on important issues in today’s world and also on the meaning of life.

 

Where can we go to buy your book?

Amazon, Barnes&Nobles, Bookshops.

 

Any other links or info you’d like to share?

Reviews

 

Interviews

Excerpts published in magazines

Cuba chronicles

 

Excerpt from book:

Varadero, the spy (an excerpt from The Tragedy of Fidel Castro, 1515 words)

As silently as the workers unloaded the cargo containers onto the quay, Varadero left the ship. A link of some sort had broken on the crossing, weakened, no doubt, by his and JFK’s actions. Confused, like someone who feels pain yet cannot locate its source, Varadero fell quiet. He didn’t really know what emotion to adopt. Like someone at a solemn ceremony who hesitates between joy and sadness and ends up confusing the two, he was cleft, and the opposing sides clashed together, leaving a single victim. There was nothing he could do about it. He had already lost control of the bumper cars lodged inside his head. The drivers were beside themselves. All he could do was wait until one of them ran out of fuel. But until that happened—and it might not ever since he owned the petrol station that refuelled both—the torture was tearing him apart.

His mission on behalf of Fidel had gone completely contrary to plan. He had obtained no important information, and had more than once forgotten what he was supposed to be doing in the enemy territory. His cover had been blown because he had become a regular presence at private parties, where the guests were delighted with his mojitos. What is more, he had even gone swimming in the sea with his enemy, who had then set him free. It was straight out of a novel or film, something that could never happen in real life.

Back in his home city, as his automatic pilot took him along routes engraved in his memory, he felt that something was different though everything was apparently the same. And the differences, tangible yet nonexistent, seemed to accentuate as he approached the places that he used to frequent and recognized smells, saw familiar faces, and greeted acquaintances in the street. He wondered if he had in fact returned to his country, or if he had not by chance disembarked on another island that was vaguely similar. Finally, when he realized that all the reference points were still the same, and that the problem must be in himself, he began to wonder who he was, after all, and what he should do.

These ruminations seemed to set in motion a huge complex mechanism, something like a windmill whose blades turned against the wind, and he found his strength being syphoned off. He was dizzy and shivering, with twinges of pain in his body. For a moment, it seemed as if his internal organs had become disconnected and, instead of functioning in synchrony to achieve an autonomous performance, were competing with each other.

Varadero had been trained to resist endless interrogations, sleep deprivation, and electric shocks, and was used to cheating hunger without food and food without hunger. In such situations, he would dig in his heels and refuse to bend, completely sure of his limitless psychological endurance. This, however, was something he had not been prepared for, an unknown game with hidden rules and inscrutable objectives.

He sat down.

Before him was an old ruined palace, which, like him, looked as if it was on the point of collapse. But the building had made a pact with time, while Varadero’s structure was coming apart so fast that it seemed centuries of erosion had been condensed into an hour. Thus, despite the great differences that separate stone from flesh, and insensible masonry from complex thought, both were under threat, in time frames impossible to predict. Renovation might have restored the palace to its former glory, but Varadero was too far gone. The only way he could be salvaged was for the old structure to be demolished and a new one built.

In the sky, the flock of celestial sheep gradually moved, chameleon-like, from orange pastures to purple ones and finally to grey.

Varadero sat there motionless, his eyes absorbed, unaware of the pulsations of the city and the marvels of nature. Nightfall was announced by the luminous eyes of a car that took its attention off the road to observe the man sitting on the pavement. The indiscretion made him jump, and he raised his arms and hands instinctively to shield his eyes against the beam emitted by the pop-eyed orbits of the vehicle.

He gradually became aware of how much time had passed since his strength had failed him, though he could not remember what he had thought about during this time. He thrust his fingers into his hair, tugging at it and twisting it like straw on a pitchfork, in the hope that such toil might bring some clarity to his thoughts.

He got up and walked on, directionless, impelled by mechanical impulses that forced him on rhythmically like a stubborn marionette. His will was no more than a muscular contraction that originated in the legs and spread to the rest of the body. But it was an iron will, for he felt a pressing need to walk as if that action had become an essential biological function, like breathing or the beating of his heart. In this way, he gradually found the right pace, adjusting it when he came to a slope, advancing without effort, unable to stop himself. He didn’t even feel the increase in his body temperature or the first warnings of the torn skin on his toes. To stop now would be to thwart the natural impetus of his body, propelled as it was by the energy of imprisoned winds. As he walked, he no longer saw or heard, for his mind was occupied with more important issues than the reality of the city, and the hubbub of his inner voices stifled the noises of the night. Nevertheless, he managed to avoid obstacles through sheer instinct.

Inside a bubble, he floated aimlessly on the breeze.

God and Christ were surely observing him, perhaps even monitoring his progress, having reserved some crucial role for him in the future. For Varadero managed to proceed unscathed, though he wandered along so erratically that anyone else would soon have been brought to a tragic end. He found impossible spaces right in the middle of a compact platoon of bicycles, anticipated a crossing so precisely that only his back was grazed by passing trucks, and always took the right decision at the traffic lights on the great avenues full of furious vehicles.

But, after hours of wandering back and forth, repeating trajectories and confronting dangers that had already been defeated, his spy brain—that gas-filled balloon—reached maximum dilation point. Varadero let forth a primal shriek that rebounded in the distance, causing shivers to ripple through the darkness. His clenched fists opened like a bow next to his chest, and arrows of sound propelled from his lungs.

Police officers, security guards, and curious members of the public trailed wearily to the scene and found themselves confronted with a figure heaped on the pavement. “Only a drunkard,” they decided, relieved that there were no political motives underlying this disturbance of the public peace. A small crowd gathered, watching Varadero attentively. Some of them grabbed his feet and shook him to confirm the diagnosis that had been proffered. Relieved that the infected waters of the regime had not been stirred up, they hauled him to his feet, censuring such anti-revolutionary behavior. “Shame on you, comrade,” they said, even though some of them really were drunk.

The spontaneous gathering soon broke up as interest dissipated and curiosity gave way to boredom. Held up by some, pushed by others, and feeling less tense but still confused, Varadero went on his wandering way, this time followed by a pack of stray dogs. For various reasons, the canines had also responded to his howl, perceiving that a human was desperately in need of help. From a dog’s perspective, a man can be both a god to be worshipped or a fragile creature in need of protection, and in either case he is prepared to serve him for the rest of his life. Seeing him prostrate, they licked his face and tugged at his clothing, trying to revive him. They growled protectively whenever humans drew near. Unable to understand Varadero’s internal conflict, they sensed his fragility and escorted him silently. They would have put him out of his misery, had it been necessary, but for now they were prepared to give their own lives to defend him. The passers-by could not get near him for he was surrounded by an implacable bodyguard, ready to attack; thus, a way opened up before him on the pavement.

The spy’s security corps, which contained dogs of all sizes, types, and colors, could have been taken as a model of a just society in which everyone was given equal opportunity. Or, it could have served as an example of a dictatorship in which the tyrant needs a praetorian guard just to venture out into the street. For Varadero it was much simpler. Accompanied by animals, feeling their soft fur and hot breath on his hands, he recovered his peace.

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Kit Tinsley – Beneath

CoverDark2Title: Beneath

Author: Kit Tinsley

ISBN: 978-1482576566 (paperback) ASIN: B00BH5IAGS (ebook)

Page count: 330, paperback though says 221 for ebook

Genre: Horror

Price:  $3.99 kindle $10.99 paperback

 

Author Bio:

Kit Tinsley is an English horror author. He is a fan of all things horror.
He graduated form DMU Leicester in 2002 with a BA (hons) in Media Studies and English. Since then he has spent time teaching both subjects in secondary and further education.

He has also worked on several independent films, Writing a film called ‘Red Route’ in 2007. Unfortunately the film, which Kit also acted in, has been lost in post production hell since completion.

Most recently he has worked on production of a film called ‘Shadows of a Stranger’, working with actors from the popular T.V shows Doctor Who, Rainbow and Torchwood, as well as an actor who appeared in both ‘Batman Begins’ and ‘The Dark Knight’. The film is being prepared for its release as we speak.

Kit is also a musician, He is lead vocalist/guitarist for a punk/folk/rock band called Dog Goblins.

He was born in Shropshire in 1978, but has lived in Lincolnshire since 1985.

22552_353858780201_4223437_nHe lives with his wife and their young son.

 

Tell us about your book:

Beneath is a terrifying horror novel.

Dan Martin and his family move into a new home. Soon they discover an ancient chamber buried below the house. As the secrets of the areas dark history come to light the family begin to experience frightening supernatural phenomena. Hooded apparitions stalk their garden at night, an unseen hand carves messages on their walls, and most disturbing, their neighbours start to die.

Opening the chamber has released a dark and evil force that existed eons before man. Can Dan Martin, a scientist, accept the existence of the paranormal in order to stop it? Can he protect his family? Violence, horror and death combine in a nerve shredding climax. Will they survive what dwells beneath?

 

How long did it take to write the book?

I started the book in november 2011, but took a 5 month break when my son was born. I guess the first draft took about three months if you take out the break. Then the editing process took up another few months

 

What inspired you to write the book?

I have written several screenplays, but have wanted to write a novel for sometime. I have several stalled projects. Beneath though came out of hearing a few local ghost stories which sparked off my imagination. My wife was pregnant with our first child when I started the book, and I think that the fear of whether I was going to be a capable father fed into the themes of the book. Dan Martin is a man who does not know if he can protect his family.

 

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

I did not have a routine as such, I would write as often as I could. Somedays I would write a lot, other a little. For some reason my most creative time seems to be the early hours of the morning, so I had a lot of late nights.

For this book I had to do some research into monastic orders in England, this was primarily done on the internet and through the local library.

 

What do you hope your readers come away with after reading your book?

As it’s a horror novel I’d like them to feel scared and excited. The sort of exhillartion you can only get from being frightened. But also I would like them to come to the own decision as to what happens in the book. My aim from the beginning was to not spell everything out, but to leave some things to personal interrpretation by the reader. I hope that they will make their own minds up about what they have read.

 

Where can we go to buy your book?

The book is available in all amazon stores in ebook and paperback formats

 

Any other links or info you’d like to share?

my website, www.kit-tinsley.com lots of info, and ways to contact me

 

Excerpt from book:

FROM CHAPTER TWELVE

‘I don’t believe in ghosts!’ I shouted at my empty living room. I sank down into an arm chair and put my head in my hands. I felt like I was starting to lose my mind. Here I was arguing out loud with a voice in my own head, a voice that was part of me. I was arguing with myself. I began to laugh. Just a little chuckle to myself at first, but quickly it became louder. The more I thought about how inappropriate it was to be laughing, and how ridiculous I must have looked, the more I laughed. Soon I fell from the chair to the floor, rolling around, roaring with laughter. Tears ran from my eyes down my reddening cheeks. I was beginning to choke on my own laughter. I was unable to take in enough breath. I began to panic, yet still I couldn’t stop laughing. I began to feel light headed, and the room around me began to fade away to darkness.

 

I was back in Bill and Mary’s garden. Bill was lying in my arms, dying.

‘They weren’t kids in your garden.’ He rasped at me.

‘Who were they Bill?’ I asked him.

‘They were.’ He looked at me. ‘Mmm…’

He closed his eyes. He began to shrivel in my arms. Drying out like a prune in the sun. His skin stretching tight over the bone and turning grey. Bill’s massive body was wasting away before my eyes. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t, all I could do was watch in mounting horror as the skin on his face began to peel away like paper, exposing his skull. The bones began to crumble and soon all that was left of Bill was dust.

I looked up and saw them.

There at the bottom of Bill’s garden was a line of hooded figures. Their black robes hung to their feet. The massive hoods obscured most of their faces, but I could see their hideous smiling mouths, lined with razor sharp teeth.

The figures, there was nine of them in all, began to approach me. They moved in unison. Each step exactly the same.

I did not want to be here anymore.

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