Today, by request, I am giving excerpts from the first paragraphs of my long short story (also available on Amazon/Kindle). Entitled 'Am I Confessing' it is a stand alone story but also the first chapter of my new crime story. I am intending to publish each chapter separately and then bring them together as a book at the end. The way Charles Dickens wrote and what's good enough for him

I was nine years old when first I killed. A human being. Not that I had killed anything before, knowingly. I hadn't spent the years up to nine doing away with animals or birds or even insects. No, I wasn't one of those children who start young by pulling off spider's legs and in adult life become an arsonist. I was rather the opposite. At that time I quite wanted to be a vet. I was very attached to my cat.

The victim, my first, was my father. And, no, before conclusions are leapt to and presumptions made, let me say he wasn't, in that much over used word today, an abuser, sexually or physically. True, he spanked me. Spank sounds better than hit. It was the word used in the days of my childhood. Has it gone out of fashion? A bit like me perhaps; having passed my threescore years and ten. Spank nowadays tends to be used in circumstances where older males, generally not clothed in everyday garments, engage in unusual activities with women wearing high heels, black leather and severe expressions.

We lived then in a small town edging the sea. Most of the town, having a long history of fishing industry, crouched down around the bay. Over time houses had taken to sprawling up the hills on either side. We, along with a few other houses, were at the top of one of the hills, West Hill. We looked down upon the town, literally and socially. The better off tended to live higher up as if being closer to the heavens somehow improved their social status.

View on www.amazon.co.uk

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