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 an asylum and, every so often, badboy he's believed to be, 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 Sin. He doesn't like it and there's nothing he can do about it. But someone else knows, and Sin has to stop them... and himself...
Flip and catch...
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"Dark, disturbing and amazing!"
“Wow! This is totally fantastic! I've just finished it. This is so thrilling... and it actually gave me goosebumps. You're an amazing writer, Shaun! Your piece moved me to the core! Sin is truly a success! I've loved the rapturous combination of words, quick wit, and poetic elegance that makes every single sentence silly with pleasure. Terrific, Shaun! Keep it up!”
One of the best books I've ever read."
"A masterpiece of genuine creativity!"
"Consistently damned good!"
"Wow, this book takes you on a rocking ride! If you are a fan of Alfred Hitchcock or Stephen King, then this is right up your alley. A psychological thriller, it will keep you guessing until the very end."
"Dark, disturbing and amazing!"
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!"
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.
I didn't remember that session with Connors, nor any others where my particular brand of barbarism exhibited itself. I didn't remember being pushed into performing, like Marcel the monkey, missing only a tiny fez hat and a cup to collect money in. To my knowledge there were no blanks in my memory, no jagged edges where pages had been ripped out, screwed up and thrown into the bin, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. I wasn't sure if I ferreted enough I might be able to unearth them but I supposed it didn't really matter. If those memories were windows into the past, their glass shattered by the Doc swinging a nice big hammer, then there was nothing I could do. If, on the other hand, I could call in a glazier to do a quick repair job, then all the better. I'd flick through the yellow pages of my mind later. Right now there was a fan that was in dire need of some shit hitting it.
And I had a fistful ready to throw.
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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 in view of The Valley of the Kings, 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. He still refuses to stay now, though, so his sequel is soming!