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A girl wakes up to a needle and a nightmare.

Onion is snatched. Which is proper shit because she still had nearly twenty quid left on her Angry Slut Teen Clothing gift card and now she was never going to get those flamingo-pink leather chaps she’d been eyeing up. She wakes up chained to an armpit of a river city, earmarked for a skin-trader called The Toymaker. Surrounded by a creeping rot she has just three days to escape before the sold sticker becomes a brand.

Forced into a knife fight with a world that has just pulled an AK47 on her, all Onion has to fight with is; a sewer for a mouth, a rusted up moral compass and a spanking anger that can sucker-punch kindness at twenty paces. She might survive but probably not.

Sour Fruit is a dark dystopian novel set in northern Britain, in a city called Kingston; a rotting scrap yard of misery. In a not too distant future, people are split into either Citizens with rights or VOIDs with nothing.  Forced to live in the former port, the VOIDs have adapted to the floods; the brutal nature of life outside of society however, is not so easy. 

The novel explores ideas about what is home, how friendship can come from strange places and the debts we can’t ever pay back. 

Eli Allison tells people at parties that she's a writer, but she mostly spends the day in her knickers swearing at the laptop. She has never written anything of any fame except for a jarringly bad poem which was read out loud at her secondary school assembly (the highlight of everyone else’s school year, predictably not her own). She gave up poetry and switched to the hard stuff soon after.  Writing stories about crushed dreams and balding men looking for love that you could buy by the hour. Those were her happier ones. She ping-ponged between one depressing job after another until her husband said, ‘take a year and write your book’. Years later the book is done…There is a sneaking suspicion he would have kept quiet had he known quite how long it would have taken her.

She lives in Yorkshire, works in her head and does not enjoy long walks on the beach or anywhere, in fact she gets upset at having to walk to the fridge for cheese. She suffers badly from cheese sweats but endures.

When I drag that beat-up memory from the past and prop it up with hindsight; it was all so obvious. It was only after it happened that I saw what old tripe face Vera’s scam was, but by then it was too late for me.

I’d only been at Sunnys a couple of months but it was the same set up as all the other care homes, only difference was the walls were a different colour and they served cardboard pizza on a Wednesday instead of a Friday like at my old place. The home did have a strange vibe about it though like a burrowing tick. The other kids were pitiful, never whimpering nowt but P&Qs, never raising their gaze above the chin, but none of the staff seemed touchy under the covers, so I just took it that they were nervous of me. As you’ve probably figured, I can be a bit wick.

I should have seen it, slack that I didn’t. All that cheap wealth dripping off her, old tripe face Vera swaddled herself in designers, fingers heavy with trinkets, had a fat Beemer growl her to and from the shopping arcades. She’d have done anything to keep the gravy pouring. She’d always had a slashing scalpel of a voice; cutting through the skull every room you went into. Crow-baring her rules into every move you made. Permission to shit? To eat? To shit again? Wafting her key-card like poisoned bait. “Be good,” she’d squeal, “or else.”

But that night she was more shrill than usual, eyes darting, sweat beading. She swept into our bedroom at ten with her nicotine stains and braless bangers, a whole hour early to switch the lights off. Said it was because growing ladies needed sleep. Said she had a treat for us tomorrow. Said it was gunna be a reet big day. Twat.

I was gormless sure, but it was the way those other girls; my so called fellow Charlies in care, Chats, Saffron, the toothy one I could never remember the name of with the massive arse, all clung to their beds like clams to rocks. They knew. They knew and they did nothing to help me; that betrayal was a sucker punch to the tits, no mistake.  Just one whisper could have tipped me off, saved me.

It never was anything but, eh?

One minute I was asleep, the next; a hand covered my face, a needle to the neck, the covers twisted between my legs as I was dragged out of bed. 


Abusing glue…

Friday, 19 May 2017

Kingston altered

Hello you gorgeous little nuggets of fun,

Wanna see something cool?

So I’ve been an industrious little Yorkshire lass, toiling away in my bunker, prep prep prepping for the big one. Searching how to survive, hunting for truths, raging against losing my mind, (and by bunker I mean my office with adorable  unicorn tape dispenser, and by big one I mean 50% funded and by  raging against losing my…

The Goat.

Thursday, 27 April 2017

After spending so long writing and rewriting; edit after edit of the darn thing, here I am in the belly of an unknown and strange beast called, ‘So Close’. It’s surreal like waking up half drunk, half naked in a port-a-loo at Glasto; you ‘ish remember how you got there, but you’ve no idea where the goat came from.

But here we are, no going back. The final draft is almost done, by which I mean;…

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