Grim

by Gavin McCallion

  Here’s the link: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B072R5VWNP/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_dp_T2_qkLtzbHZVKP5W

  Too much pressure on Amazon?

  My Facebook is much more low-key. Like my page and tell me what you think there: www.facebook.com/itsgavinwriting

  Okay, so you don’t want to leave me an ‘official’ review, but you have like 140 characters worth of thoughts for me.

  Cool! Follow and tweet me here: www.twitter.com/itsgavinswords

  Okay, maybe you don’t want to tell me what you think, but you’d still like to get in touch. Maybe you’d like to send me some photographs of your dog. Some people like that.

  My email: itsgavinwriting@gmail.com

  Right, so you don’t want to review me, nor do you have a dog. Is there any chance you’re interested in more of my writing? Perhaps in blog form? I bet!

  Go here: www.itsgavinwriting.com

  It updates every Friday!

  I think I’m done.

  Seriously though, let me hear from you. Writing a book takes so bloody long. I’m desperate to talk about it now that it’s done. Talk to me.

  I hope to see you again, and thanks for-

  Wait, I should save the thank yous for the next page…

  No really, the book’s done now. You’re free to go.

  OR

  You Could Stick Around for the Acknowledgements!

  A couple of years ago I had this baby idea about the duties of the grim reaper as a council job, but I had no idea what to do with it.

  A pal of mine, Mercer, helped me develop the concept after a troubling showing of 50 Shades of Grey on opening night. (We were trying to be ironic by showing up wrecked, but it turns out the whole thing was a bloody hen party. We barely made it out alive.) He invited me round to his flat where I proceeded to drink all his whisky. I woke up the next day with notes scribbled up my arm. In the middle of all the ink were the words ‘what if he’s terrible at his job?’ and so, Grim was born.

  Two years later, bam.

  Acknowledgements.

  First of all, as an indie author, I’m obliged to thank you, the reader, more than anyone following. You put time into reading this nonsense of mine, and whether you enjoyed it or not, I owe you thanks for doing so. That time is mine now. You can’t have it back, ever. I’ve elbowed my way onto the crowded train that is your life. Thanks for making room.

  Not only for your time am I thankful, but also for your money. See, my only target for my first self-published book is to earn enough to take Simone, my girlfriend, for Mexican tapas and a cocktail. That’s roughly twenty copies worth (the money I spent making the book doesn't count, shut up) so thanks for being one-twentieth of my bloated belly later on that night.

  Thanks to Simone for everything.

  She’s the one who assured me that my writing wasn’t awful when I was in the middle of one of my several writing-induced nervous breakdowns. Conversely, when I thought I was the greatest writer of all time and pranced around the flat shouting about it, she was polite enough to stay quiet.

  I watched her read the chapter 'Actually' and her reaction to it is pretty much the reason I write.

  Thanks to my friends for listening to me for the past two years, and for allowing to poach key parts of their personalities to use in my characters. What? Didn't you allow me? Oh, neither you did… can’t copyright that stuff, sadly!

  Additional thanks to my beta readers: Mercer, Emma, Michael, Kev, Ian and Lisa. Everything you said helped me out massively. I’m sorry for badgering you with inane questions that usually started with ‘but did you get when…’

  Thanks to Lisa and Laura for the exceptional job they did with the cover. I didn’t really have any idea what I wanted, but they fished this blue wonder out of me somehow. They run a company called Ilka, and I strongly recommend you give them a click: www.byilka.com

  Finally, a preemptive thank you in hopes that you’ll be telling people about Grim now that you’re done reading. Come on, you know someone that likes a dash of fantasy in their comedy, right? Tell them about this book, go on.

  Done it? Thanks! You’re the fucking best.

  I mean it.

  Oh, you’re a stubborn character, aren’t you?

  Well,

  Here’s Stuff About The Author

  Gavin is a twenty-nine-year-old writer living in Glasgow.

  He loves comics, pizza, cider and expensive toys he cannot afford.

  He hopes - more than anything else - that his book made you smile, even once.

  It's Gavin

  ~

  December 5, 2016

  My heart is broken. I fear I will not be myself for quite some time, and for my lack of forthcoming charm and wit, I apologise.

  Early in the morning following Hugh’s attempt at a Reaper’s Gala, the beast let himself into my home. The fright I got when I awoke, oh-ho! I allow myself to forget his size, I do. He had no time for my dramatics, it transpired. In broken English he wrote me a note detailing the colossal failure of the whole evening, and – importantly – Hugh’s arrest.

  He has since visited me twice more. Once, to inform me that the creature he chose as his follow perished by his hands. A measure of revenge, I suppose, for the buffoon’s spectacular failure. Twice, to inform me that Hugh has had his immortality stripped from him.

  Without his immortality, Hugh is at the mercy of the Writers and Judges nudging death in his direction. It is another critical example of the court obeying their rules when it suits them best. Hugh is not long for this coil, and thus, my heart is broken.

  Though I feel compelled to mention another feeling within me stewing amongst my impending loss and a redeveloping thirst for violence. Another feeling not dissimilar to disappointment, sadly.

  Hugh let me down. He was wise to keep the wheels beneath him greased, but never thought to feed the monsters looming above him. O’ Hugh, I sigh, I’m just one of the monsters with power over you. You think yourself the grandest since my assumed passing? Oh-ho! Had you understood these monsters, you might have found yourself with me now. All you had to do was blow something up and run away, Hugh, must you fail at everything I require you to accomplish?

  He thought everything of those who kept him fed, but nothing of those who could keep him alive. Mortality is not hard to mimic, after all. One man to say you are, another to say you perished. Did I not teach you well enough to think up such a clear contingency?

  My blame should not lie with dear Hugh. To blame the victim of an atrocity is foolish. The beast’s crushing of his follow helped ease my pain, but there is another at fault. A girl, the beast tells me, somehow in the position of Reaper for my island (the court’s bias, again). For crimes against the court, Hugh’s follow was dead before he knew, I barely lifted a finger to arrange that, but the girl? This will take work.

  If it were easy to kill a Reaper, I do not doubt my dear son would have this past month.

  Good Night,

  Hugh Rabbit Snr

  ~