Dead, dead, dead. Say it enough times and it becomes just another word.
What would you do? Could you kill a killer? Does the death of one appease the deaths of a hundred? What about that hundred against a thousand?
What if you had no choice?
Meet Sin. No, not that sort of sin, but Sin, crazy as a loon (you ask Sister Moon), and proud of it. Sin locks himself away in a mental home and, every so often, gets violent. That’s only so they’ll give him those nice drugs, though. The ones that help him forget.
It’s a pity they don’t work.
Sin, you see, has a serious problem. Well, it’s not so much his problem, as ours – yours, mine and everyone else’s. People die around him. He doesn’t like it and there’s nothing he can do. But someone else knows, and Sin has to stop them… and himself…
Flip and catch…
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Sin began life, almost ten years ago, as a short story. It had the prerequisite beginning, middle and end, and that was that. Or so I thought.
Sin, it seemed, was a part of me. He wouldn’t stay quiet and insisted on speaking his mind – something he does tend to do quite a bit in his book. When the book was finally finished, after a marathon writing session on the banks of the Nile in Luxor, I thought he was finally put to bed. So much of myself – random thoughts, feelings and experiences, were woven into his story, he felt like a decade long therapy session.
But he still refuses to stay down, and now writes his blog from within the asylum (the book following what happens after he has escaped). You can find his blog – his diary, almost – at singularityspoint.blogspot.com or by clicking the link at the top of the page.
Praise for Sin:
Read the amazing review from Miz Loves Books at: http://www.mizlovelovesbooks.com/2011/08/sin-by-shaun-allan.html
Read the wonderful review from Connie Jasperson at:
You can read excerpts from the book below and you can buy Sin in various ebook and print formats from the following places:
Autographed copies of the print edition, as well as the ebook version of Sin are now available direct from the author! Please visit the Bookstore!
Excerpts from Sin…
Yep. You heard me right. Sin. Sin-sin-sirree, there’s no place for me. Or ‘thee’ as my dear old father, God rest his weary shade, used to say.
“You’re a waste of space, boy!” he’d yell when he was feeling in a good mood. “Sin-sin-sirree, there’s no place for thee!”
And he’d laugh. He’d laugh until he cried.
I just cried.
Say it enough times and it becomes just a word. Dead. Dead. Dead. Four letters thrown together to mean something that was so much more and so much less. Dead. An absence of life. An absence of anything. For the few days that it took my mind to wash away the spectacle of the train crash, I said that word to myself over and over. I didn’t feel responsible for the accidents, for that was surely what they were, but I didn’t feel quite… right. But, like I say, eventually it becomes simply a word. Meaningless. Emotionless. Dead.
She raised one hand. The hand was missing its flesh. Skeletal, with withered tendons struggling to stay attached, it pointed at the remains of her face.
“Is this better?” she asked. Her voice oozed from between decayed lips, no longer velvet but slime, still smooth but bubbling slightly and on the edge of coagulating in her throat.
I regarded her for a long time as the maggots feasted on her flesh and wriggled into her ears and nostrils.
“Nothing a bit of foundation wouldn’t fix,” I said.
She laughed, spraying blood and teeth on the ground between us. A molar landed on my foot and I picked it up and handed it back to her.
“You dropped this,” I said. Whether Joy was a ghost or not, this was a dream, so there was no point in being disgusted or frightened. None of it was real.
So. To be honest, and I’m lots of things if not honest, Chaos Theory may well play its subtle, sinister part in all of this, but it was like an extra in a Lord of the Rings battle sequence. There were thousands of others in the fray and unless it was wearing a pink hat, feather boa and a frilly little sequined tutu, it wasn’t really going to be seen amongst the polystyrene armour and fake blood. No, this time it was… erm… Time. Something we were in as short supply of as we were salt and vinegar Pringles. It was a Mother Hubbard day today and the cupboard, both of Pringles and Time, was bare. With every tick of the clock, Connors and his hounds were closing in and once they popped, I doubted that they’d stop.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. What time is it Mister Wolf?
Time to bite off your head from the twinkle toes up.