Splinters: Tales that get under your skin
I've heard other authors refer to their books as their ‘babies', but that's not a term I'd use. I like to think of my book ‘Splinters’ more as a deranged son who mumbles creepy stuff at the dinner table, has an obsession with ‘purifying the flesh of the unworthy’ and inhabits a bedroom soon to be investigated by detectives scanning the walls with flashlights while muttering, 'What the hell happened here?'
Here's the link to get it on Amazon.
This abomination all began with the Twisted50 competition which was an amazing experience. All the support and feedback from other writers really bolstered my confidence, and I was incredibly chuffed when my short ‘Shenanigans’ won best story. All this got me thinking; maybe I should keep going with this...
So, I kept writing stories, some weird, some horrific and some that have considerably lowered the number of parties I get invited to. I also went back and, utilising the feedback of my peers, cleaned up some of the stuff I had entered into the competition. Many full moons later, after spending an age figuring out how to format it all and bring it together in book form (It was tough, I have the tech skills of a kumquat) Splinters was finally finished and my ‘deranged son’ was born.
And that's why I'm writing this as a proud, but conflicted parent.
I'd like to tell you that he's a good kid and to please ignore what you might have heard about him, that the peculiar things he says are just for attention, that when he's playing with knives it's only because he has aspirations to join the circus one day, that when he's etching ancient symbols into the walls with animal bones that he's just embracing his inner artist... and those horns on his head? Well, that's just a peanut allergy. That's what I'd like to tell you, but I know it's not true...
Really, he’s just the fucking worst.
Twisted50 vol 1 and 2