Archive | December, 2012

Christmas comedy zombie novel – Day 1

8 Dec

Day One

 

To celebrate the festive season I shall print one chapter per day until Christmas Day of my E-book zombie Christmas novel, written in various coffee shops around Penarth and Cardiff last winter and published online now for less than £1 (crazy!) on Smashwords and Amazon Kindle store.

So, if you want a laugh on the cold winter nights and days, then read on. On the other hand, if you want to wallow in hate then I’d think the Alan Clark Diaries would be just the ticket. However, I do feel my book would be a little lighter on the mood.

Dawn of the Dave

 

Chapter One

 

At about seven in the morning, Sally declared, loudly, that she needed the toilet because junior was standing on her ‘bloody bladder’ again as she so delicately put it. I walked upstairs to the kitchen, ‘my’ kitchen, and made tea with the kettle ‘I’d’ picked out and toast with the four slice toaster and its semi-operating pop-up lever facility that ‘I’d’ paid for. This might sound very petty but when it comes to possessions one can become pretty bloody petty after seven years of marriage. ‘Oh, don’t touch my phone’, or ‘don’t get change from my handbag’ she’ll moan. Why? ‘Because it’s PRIVATE!’ You would think that after ten years of experiencing every inch of each other’s anatomy, of suffering every moment of wind, gas and morning ‘death breath’ to come out of those gradually ageing bodies, then the idea of privacy becomes absurd. Are my wages a matter of privacy when she spends them on her ‘tops’ from Nexty Debeny Spencyshop? Or is ‘my’ phone private when I catch her scrawling through my texts when she thinks I’m safely tucked up on the toilet carpet with a good book? But I digress.

As I waited for the bread and water to do their respective transformations into items of edible joy, I looked out at the street through the kitchen window. The usual traffic and accompanying racket of white vans, mopeds and Ford Fiesta’s was markedly absent this morning. Strange for Christmas Eve, I thought. Instead of traffic there was, well, nothing. Just silence. No cars, no pedestrians walking past with their dogs or pushing their crisp guzzling offspring, no pensioners off to the corner post office in order to lie in wait for me in case I had to send off some heavy packets of books in a hurry. Sally thinks I’m paranoid but as soon as I come around that corner with anything heavier than an envelope the grey Ninja’s communicate with low frequency grumbles and move with surprising stealth into the post office. Once inside they congeal into a queue, a faceless snake of nattering voices clad in a skin of nana coats and topped with identically short, grey perms. The line never moves, never seems to get shorter. I stand with tendons and muscles straining under the weight of the Tolstoy’s and Dan Brown’s that I sell on eBay (just a side line, of course), head beginning to swoon with the sound of all that nattering about ‘my Denise’s son at university’ and ‘never, never been the same since the prostate op’. How they find such endless fascination in each other’s illnesses is beyond me. I swear that if I survive the present disaster and eventually get varicose veins and the seemingly common ‘bit of nasty gip right at the top of me leg’, then I shall keep such misfortunes to myself.

Silence. Just the sound of the kettle slowing boiling and my wife quickly peeing in the toilet downstairs, audibly demonstrating her relief.

Suddenly there is movement. I almost didn’t see it. I was turning away from the window in readiness to wrestle with the right toaster-lever when what seemed like someone running quickly along the pavement beyond flashed in the corner of my eye. I turned back to the window and there she was, a woman this time, pelting past the house nine to the dozen. I recognised her from the neighbourhood watch meetings. Mrs Hackett. In fact, I should say she is the neighbourhood watch – its president, police liaison and most enthusiastic ‘activist’. Last year she wrestled a 21yr old man to the floor outside number 16 after seeing him walking around the house ‘suspiciously’ trying the door handles. Unfortunately the man was the grandson of the old couple at number 16 who’d asked him to watch the place while they were on holiday but had forgotten to leave a key for him. Despite a grazed knee and bruised gonads he declined to press charges against Mrs Hackett.

‘What’s she in a hurry for’, I wondered as I began buttering the toast. I placed the toast on a plate and carried it through to the dining table where Sally was waiting, quite still and silent. I began munching away and after a couple of minutes’ silence looked up. She was still sat there, quietly staring at the window behind me. Though not one for conversation whilst eating at the best of times, this was unusual even for Sally. It was the look on her face that disturbed me the most. Fixed. Frozen. Terrified. I doubt I shall ever forget it.

I turned around to see what she was staring at and I must admit that what I saw caused me to drop my toast on the floor. Usually this annoys the hell out of me but given the circumstances I decided to let it pass without comment.

Outside the window, with a bloodied face and hands irritatingly pressed against my recently cleaned windows was a young man, about nineteen judging by his acne and poor dress sense, staring at the both of us and groaning. I’m no fool. I’ve been to shopping centres, or ‘malls’ as the American’s call them, and the sight of staring, groaning teenagers is so common that one gets used to it. But this was different. M’laddo had over stepped the mark as far as I was concerned. Hip kicking frenzy approaching.

 

Chapter Two tomorrow…

Ot to read the whole thing now, go to Smashwords or Amazon Kindle Store – search ‘Scurlock Dawn Dave’

 

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