Life, Writing
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Aspiring Author!

Lately, I have been working a lot on several writing projects. These are projects that I plan on sending to publishers in the hopes of having them published, and possibly self-publishing as e-books as well.

I’m considering posting a synopsis as it gets closer to completion in the next few months, and am hoping to garner some interest with my followerIMG_1873s as well as the general public. I will also be sending out some beta copies (you’re first, Viv!), so please email me at felixturtledotcom@gmail.com if you are interested in receiving an advance e-book copy of the book.

In preparation for this huge new venture, I’m going to start posting more of my Creative Writing on my blog/site to get it out into the wide world (something I’ve been pretty scared of doing in the past), and start to get some feedback.

If you’re interested, you can find more of my writing here.

To kick things off, I’m going to share below a small paragraph of flash fiction I wrote a few years ago:


I remembered to take the paper with me. I held onto it as I ran out.

I threw up then. Twice. I felt so sick, with anger. And with hatred.

I looked down at the paper again. Why would Dad do that? Why would he do something so stupid? I still didn’t know what to do. Thankfully, I’d stopped shaking. I rinsed out my mouth and walked back out to the living room.

“What’s wrong, Kevin?” he looked slightly worried.

I ripped the page of the newspaper out, folded it up and shoved it into my pocket. Why did I have to move in with Dad? Surely after that mum’d take me back? No, of course not, I was too much to handle. I looked at Trev, he was obviously still waiting for an answer. .

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” I mumbled to him.

“Come on, Kevin, you can tell me. You tell me everything.” He reached out a hand to comfort me.

I pushed him away.

“I said I don’t want to talk!” I yelled, standing.

The look on Trev’s face was enough to drive me mad, why did everyone keep looking at me like I was some kind of freak? I’m not the freak; it’s my father who’s the freak. I grabbed my bag and ran for the door, flinging my self through it so hard the door almost fell off its hinges. Ok, that was an exaggeration. I flung myself through the door and ran down the street – in the opposite direction to Dad’s place.

When I got half way down the street, it began to pour. Bloody bastard. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He still doesn’t. He never really cared that I didn’t go home that night. That I sat at the bus depot 7 blocks from home in the freezing, pouring rain.It was Trev’s mum who eventually found me. She said she’d been searching for hours, and was worried sick. Why wasn’t Dad ever worried sick?

Because he only cared about money and getting that cow out of prison. All he was going to do now was get himself chucked in there. I refused to go back to Dad’s. I didn’t want anything to do with him. Him or that pathetic girlfriend of his.

Mum was surprised to see me. Dad didn’t let me see her often. They’d split up when I was ten. She’d heard what Dad did. She agreed that it was stupid, but told me I couldn’t stay there, because if I did, he’d come looking for me, and god only knows what he’d do. As it turns out, she was right, and he came looking for me sooner rather than later.

Two days later, he came to mum’s place, almost knocked down the door. Mum sent me to the back room and told me she’d sort it out. I could hear the slap echo from the back of the house.

He came for me then, I could hear his boots thudding loudly through the house. As he approached the back of the house, I heard the click. That all-too-familiar click of that all-too-familiar shotgun. 

I held my breath as he entered the hall that lead to the back room. I pressed my back against the wall, my old baseball bat in my hand. It wasn’t one of those new aluminium ones, but an old wooden one full of dents.

I brought the bat down hard on his shoulder.

I’m not tall enough to reach his head; I knew I’d have a chance if I could make him drop the gun. It worked. The gun dropped to the floor at my feet. I picked it up.

“You wouldn’t shoot me, you gutless worm.” He sneered and stepped toward me.

The safety was off, and the slight fear in his features told me he was aware if this too.

“Don’t come near me” I managed to spit. He stepped forward and I guess I was more scared than I thought.

I pulled the trigger. He stumbled backward and swayed on the spot for a second before he fell. I dropped the gun.

I remember feeling confused and hurt, but safe at the same time.

Mum turned the light on as she came in, she gasped, but didn’t scream. She looked at me with such horror in her eyes it scared me. I fell to my knees.

I remember now, the way I must have looked. Like a crazed lunatic, she’d told them. That’s probably why I’m here. Stuck in this psych ward with all the real lunatics. And too unloved, too untrustworthy to be believed. They’d taken everything from me, my family, my sanity, my belongings; even my scrap of newspaper, the only picture I had left of my sister, before my father decided that drinking 6 beers and driving was a good idea. They’ll never let me out now. I’m trapped.

By Samantha Lee Churcher 

© 2016

This entry was posted in: Life, Writing

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An avid self-taught photographer with experience both at a semi-professional level and enthusiast level. Experience working with children, animals, landscapes and nature, and portraiture.

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