I graduated with a first class honours degree in English and Creative Writing from the University of Derby some years ago. My dream at that time was to be a successful novelist. It's still not something I've given up on.
On here there are some samples of a novel I've completed (The Minotaur), another I've started (The Record I Want Played at My Funeral), as well as some short stories. I'd love to hear your feedback!
On here there are some samples of a novel I've completed (The Minotaur), another I've started (The Record I Want Played at My Funeral), as well as some short stories. I'd love to hear your feedback!
THE MINOTAUR
CHAPTER One
31st December, 1987.
Vincent Sharpe gazed across the fields, snow had formed a white, wall to wall carpet across his land. Only, he wasn’t the official proprietor — not yet. It was time for his patience to be rewarded— he had earned his legacy.
Firstly there was the small matter of his eighteenth birthday to negotiate. There would be no celebration, never had been. It was just another day — like every other miserable day of his miserable life.
It should have been one hell of a party —Vincent and his twin brother’s coming of age, coupled with the New Year. But the only cause for celebration
today was the impending death of his father. A smirk played upon his face, death was too generic, murder would be more accurate.
Vincent had continually fantasised about his father’s death for many years. Each night his dreams were littered with childhood memories, none of them
pleasant. He had hundreds of reasons to justify his feelings towards his father.
The summer had been long and hot. One day seemed like a week in his own private playground. He didn’t envy the other kids at school, didn’t covet their possessions or feel jealous of their close relationships — they thought him odd, called him names, but what did they know? His best friend was nature; he knew the bird’s calls, the animal’s complaints and the plant’s needs.
His father had promised them a ninth birthday party. Vincent and Peter, the identical twins. Facially identical. But they shared no other characteristics. Vincent pitied his brother; Peter would never run through the meadows and dampen himself in the brook, he would never see a sunrise or hear the morning chorus through an open window. His confinement was total and permanent. He couldn’t see, hear or speak. His wasting muscles and shambling frame caused him to shuffle around rather than walk erect. He was confined to the cellar — out of sight, out of mind.
So the birthday party was, in reality, just Vincent’s. He couldn’t even mention his twin for fear of a beating. No-one else knew of Peter’s existence — they all thought Vincent’s mother and the youngest twin had died in labour. But it was Peter, the useless good-for-nothing twin, who had killed her.
But Vincent was confused, should he shun him like his father had? Or love him unconditionally so his father would accept them as brothers? He was only eight years old — he didn’t know the answer.
His father waited at the gate. Years of working the land were beginning to take their toll. Deep rutted lines ploughed into his face, his grey, unkempt hair ruffled in the breeze — not at all distinguished. His voice echoed around the fields, silencing the bird’s chatter. “Boy! Your chores need doin’. Get here. Now!”
Vincent ran to the looming figure, feeling dwarf-like in his presence. The mixture of dirt and fresh blood on his father’s dungarees foretold tonight’s menu. He winced as his father produced a dead chicken. “Let’s see you deal with this.” he smirked. “And that party of yours —it’s cancelled. I’m going to Pa Smith's tonight.”
The cancellation wasn’t unexpected, Vincent knew his father’s methods. Psychological torture ran along the street hand-in-hand with the all the physical stuff. He carried the carcass into the kitchen. He was accustomed to dealing with meat preparation, it was his usual chore. All of his chores were
things a woman would have performed. He didn’t know which ones were normal and which weren’t.