Shrediting

 

Shred has entered the editing/proofing stage!

 

The first part of my six part series of novellas is now being dissected and rehashed to finalise plot points and add some much needed sparkle. It has in some ways been tougher than writing a novel, as I have to lay plot strands (some of which will run all the way until the final part) without making the story too diffuse. As usual my main man Bentley Drummle is on hand to help with the plot points (cheers!) but anyone else who wishes to give me their two pence worth (I'm British innit) is welcome. As it's a novella it's only 22000 words, so not quite the task of my previous books. I will also be trying out new covers, and will probably put the final two or three up for a vote to see which one is the most popular (or least hated).

 

Here's a little bit of un-proofed goodness...

 

He saw a second body.

She was sprawled half out of the kitchen door on the way to the garden, her stick thin arms twisting around her body in her blood stained white and yellow floral dress, as her head rested on the gravel outside at a sickening angle to the rest of her body. When she had died, she had for some reason pulled her hands in, curling them to her torso with a strange protective action that reminded him of a dead spider. Her eyes were stretched wide, a sense of dread forever etched on her cold features as her mouth hung open in a silent scream, blood staining her teeth and showing through various cuts and lacerations that covered her face.

He quietly approached and glanced inside the kitchen. The house was still, quiet as the grave. Was the killer gone? The most likely suspect was still the husband at this time, though he could have suffered the same fate if there was another party in the mix. As he stared down at the corpse of Jacqueline, Aleister half hoped that whoever had done this was still around so that he could beat the living shit out of them before the police arrived – in self defence of course...

She looked emaciated, not only from lack of food but her drawn features seemed dehydrated as well, almost mummified. Having never seen a photograph of her it was possible that she was this thin, he supposed... if she had an eating disorder of some sort. Perhaps the suspected infidelity had driven her onto a self destructive course that she hadn't wanted to reveal in the emails.

Aleister reached down and gently closed her eyes, though the action did not make her look any more at rest as the last shriek of terror had forever transformed her face into a terrifying milk-white mask.