Surely not the same one that I had wasted God’s time on - and distracted him from - by praying for that winning lottery ticket I hadn’t even bought?
You think?
Anyway hell seemed like the nicer alternative anyway.
It was certainly warmer.
I might even get a tan!
And the people were certainly less preachy and righteous. Oh and pasty.
So I had to sit at the dining table with a serial killer and a couple who refused to bake a wedding cake for a gay couple, but hey, at least I was still getting Christmas din dins.
And we soon became fast friends.
Life is too short.
Especially when you’re already dead.
So anyway the moral of my story - if there is one - is to keep your wits about you, this Christmas.
You wouldn’t want to choke on a £2 coin (due to inflation) in the Christmas pudding or be eaten alive by an escaped polar bear.
Death by Christmas.
It isn’t all it’s cracked out to be.
But don’t worry.
I’ll be up here… I mean down there… watching over you.
Well I would be.
If I liked people.
Or you.
But Happy Christmas anyway.
Ho, ho, fucking ho.
A POP TART IS FOR LIFE, NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS
This was going to be a Christmas unlike no other.
Felix and Holly were spending it on the moon.
It was one small step for man, one giant leap for pop’s finest.
They’d been sent there by shape shifting superwitch Ritazilla, who had then shifted into a fly and been swatted herself.
So they were basically stuck there.
And had been for a few months now.
Luckily she’d included refreshments in the package deal.
A lifetime supply of white zinfandel and a variety of pop tarts.
The breakfast of champions.
All inclusive or what?
They were surrounded by a magnificent desolation.
And seemingly pissed 24-7.
And Neil Armstrong was right.
The moon did smell like spent gun powder.
And it was dark and grey and covered in dust.
And there was nothing to do.
So each day they walked for a few hours.
And hoped they might come across something new.
But they never did.
It all looked the same.
Desolate terrain.
Dusty rocks and dark pot holes, which they kept falling into.
They were also starting to annoy each other.
Sure it was love, but despite living on what was technically their own planet, there was no space to breathe.
Ritazilla had been kind enough to alter the atmosphere so there was plenty of oxygen.
But the conversation had dried up in October.
This despite them having 20 something years to catch each other up on.
Anyway a new day dawned.
It was Christmas Eve.
But it just looked like every other day.
They got up, had some Travis Van Winkle flavoured pop tarts (Ritazilla had been kind enough to vary the flavours and even invent some new ones) and set off upon their routine daily sojourn.
They passed rock after rock, mound of dust after mound of dust.
They must have walked several thousand kilometres by now.
And just as they were starting to tire, they thought they saw something in the distance.
It looked lit up and sparkling.
Were their eyes deceiving them?
Was it a mirage?
They picked up pace and started to excitedly run.
Soon it turned into a sprint.
Ritazilla had provided gravity but it was a bit hit and miss.
So they bounced and floated a little too, tripping over and rolling into somersaults.
Or maybe they were just drunk.
They weren’t quite sure what it felt like to be sober anymore.
And you thought having a miniature bottle of wine on an aeroplane was intoxicating enough!
Finally they came to a small cottage which was adorned by sumptuous fairy lights, and twinkling every colour of the rainbow in complete reckless abandon.
They peered inside the window and saw a fat white bearded bloke in a red coat, sat eating chestnuts roasting by an open fire.
Was it…? Could it be…?
Neither had believed in him since they were about 7 years of age.
But they hadn’t believed in black magic or time travel either and now here they were living on the bloody moon!
It really did seem that anything might be possible.
And if that were possible, maybe it was possible to find their way home again.
They knocked on the door and the fat man answered.
He certainly looked like him, their thoughts both echoed.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling.
“Are you really him?” they asked in twin unison.
They had been trapped alone so long, they were not only thinking the same thoughts, they had even started finishing each other’s sentences.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckled and winked back at them.
“Can we…” Felix stuttered, nervously.
“…make a Christmas wish?” Holly nonchalantly finished off for him.
She was too shy to speak to him when she sat on his knee back in 1984 and ended up not getting a Girls World hairdressing salon.
So she was determined not to miss out again this year.
But she no longer wanted a Girls World hairdressing salon.
She just wanted to go home.
And Felix beat her to it.
“Can we have a one way ticket back to earth please?”
Meanwhile back on that very planet, fellow band mate Rhino Zagreb was spending Christmas at the Battersea Dogs home, having been turned into a poodle with a bad pink rinse perm, courtesy of the same evil incarnate.
And remaining pop tartlet Cherry Fontaine was spending it alone and feeling lonely, still puzzled by the sudden disappearance of the others several months ago.
So she went to the dog kennels to get a pet to keep her company.
Rhino had his paws crossed.
He knew he’d been in the kennels for a few months now, hadn’t quite worked out how to speak in woof and that he would soon be passing his expiry date.
But there was to be no Christmas miracles this year.
Santa on the moon really was just a drunken mirage for Felix and Holly.
And no matter how much Rhino fluttered his fluffy pink eyelashes, Cherry realised that a dog was for life, not just for Christmas and went home to spend it alone instead.
She sat miserable and poured herself a glass of wine, picking up a magazine to read because as usual there was nothing on the telly.
It was the same Smash Hits magazine she’d taken from Felix and Holly’s place the day they had disappeared.
She hadn’t realised she still had it.
And still squashed to death on the back of it:
Ritazilla.
But her wing began to flicker.
Perhaps she wasn’t quite as dead as initially thought?
And her bottle buzzed.
Perhaps there really was a Christmas miracle after all?
AUTHOR INTERVIEW
Can you briefly tell readers what your debut novel, Dream Myself Alive, is about?
Zachary Knight loses the love of his life Kelly in a tragic accident, but finds it doesn’t necessarily mean he has to say goodbye forever. He masters an art in which he can be reunited with her in an alternate reality he never knew existed. But was Kelly’s death really an accident? And with a possible killer on the loose - and secrets and revelations being unearthed - it seems there are dangerous consequences involved with entering this new and exciting world, from which there may be no return.
Who were your hardest characters to create and which ones were the easiest?
The easiest was Zac because I wanted him to be an open book. This guy pulls no punches and tells it like it is. He’s not afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. He can be blunt, crude and opinionated, but it’s always with his tongue firmly placed in cheek. I wanted readers to go on a rollercoaster of a ride with him and fly by the seat of their hot pants, so you better hang on for dear life. The other characters were a little trickier because I wanted to keep them shrouded in mystery. Zac didn’t know who he could trust and I wanted the readers to share that emotional part of the journey with him.
What are three words you would use to describe your novel?
Spiritual, exhilarating, and thought-provoking. I hope.
What is your second novel ‘Pop Tarts’ about?
I’m really think I took my second novel ‘Pop Tarts’ to another level. It’s about a flamboyant, tri-sexual pop star called Felix, who is about to turn half a century and his life is a glorified hot mess. He was lead singer of an 80s pop band and after starring in a reality TV show and winning another 15 minutes of fame, he faces an ultimatum to reform the band that made him a star… but they hate each other and haven’t spoken in over 20 years following an affair, an attempted murder and a scandal involving a strap-on microphone and a blow up goat! It’s even sillier than it sounds. I just wanted to have a bit of fun with this one and hopefully my readers will too.
What are your three tips that you would give to other writers?
Don’t start a story at the beginning, start at a peak of excitement in the third quarter and then flashback to the beginning. And it may sound a little clichéd but write about what you know and self-embody the characters. Or write about people you know, just remember to change the names to protect the guilty! And above all just believe in yourself.
What are your future plans for novels, if any, that you can share with readers?
I have a few ideas that I am working on, hopefully one or two of which will soon come to fruition. Without giving too much away, one is about some cousins that have lead a sheltered life in a small pit village and then make it to the big city. I’m basing it locally, so hopefully I’ll have a bit of fun with that. The other is top secret, so you’ll just have to just wait and see.
Is there any chance of a ‘Dream Myself Alive’ or ‘Pop Tarts’ sequel?
It’s always a possibility. Even though ‘Dream Myself Alive’ was a complete story and technically reached a natural conclusion, I do have ideas where I could pick it up again if I wanted to. ‘Pop Tarts’ could very easily pick up where it left off. It kind of ended on a cliff hanger and even though the special Christmas chapter I wrote answers a few of those questions, it also leaves a few loose ends of its very own.
Where can readers connect with you and find your work online?
They should be able to find me just about everywhere. I tweet. I have a blog on Word Press. And I also have my own web page - www.brianlovestar.co.uk - where you can add yourself to my mailing list, so please feel free to do so.
DREAM MYSELF ALIVE PREVIEW:
Zachary Knight is an anarchist, an atheist and a man in mourning. He loses the love of his life Kelly in a tragic road traffic accident, but finds it doesn't necessarily mean he has to say goodbye forever.
With the help of scientist Dr. Stefan Irving, he soon masters an art in which he can be reunited with her in an alternate reality he never knew existed.
But was Kelly’s death really an accident? And with a possible killer on the loose - and secrets and revelations being unearthed - it seems there are dangerous consequences involved with entering this new and exciting world, from which there may be no return.
CHAPTER 1.
I hadn’t seen Kelly since the day she died. And now here she was, right in front of me, looking more beautiful than ever before. Her face almost luminous, her pale skin, dainty nose, and her succulent lips looking more kissable than ever before. The way her long blonde wavy hair danced in the cool breeze was simply breathtaking.
Darkness surrounded us but all I could feel was light. I stared into her sapphire blue eyes. I couldn’t stop staring. I was too scared that if I looked away she would be gone again. I was too afraid to even move an inch. Was she really here? Was I going mad? I reached out and touched her. I took her hand in mine. She felt real. Tears streamed down my face. My heart was beating so fast, I felt like it was going to burst right out of my chest, the same heart that was so brutally broken just months earlier when I got the call.
I dropped the phone. Kelly was dead? She can’t be. Not Kelly. Not my Kelly. Not my beautiful dear Kelly. I was shaking, my lip was quivering, but I just felt numb. My whole body just felt completely devoid of all emotion, like it wasn’t really there anymore, like I wasn’t there anymore. Was my life over as well? The pain inside my chest was unbearable. It felt like my heart was shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. It hurt so bad I felt like I was dying myself, on this same despicable spot where I stood, locked in horrifying time.
I dropped to the floor. I wanted so badly to cry but couldn’t. I just lay down in complete and total silence, curled myself into a childlike ball and died inside.
Our life had been so perfect. It had been our three year anniversary. I’d been preparing a surprise home cooked dinner for the two of us. I’d cooked her favourite jalapeno-infused chilli chicken dish with boiled potatoes, mangetout and baby corn; and I’d made blueberry and white chocolate cheesecake for desert. Kelly was a sucker for anything with white chocolate in it. It was her number one passion in life. Well, number two after that Irish actor Colin Thingamajig’s bum. I am rubbish with celebrity names, but I’d always accepted I was number three behind Colin’s bum and a milky bar.
I’d lit candles. Hey, this was a big deal for me. I wasn’t exactly the romantic type. If there was a ‘Romance for Dummies’ guide book, I needed it. In fact, I tell a lie, I actually searched online once and couldn’t believe there was. I wish I’d bought it now; just one of many if only’s…
We met in late August. It was the end of summer. I was coming out of the Adriatic Sea in Stoja, Croatia, not looking like Daniel Whatshisname in a Speedo, while she was lying on a hotbed of lucky pebbles like a total goddess in heat. She laughed at me, stumbling on the rocks and nearly falling over and grazing my ankle, which stung like a dirty bitch for days as I may recall.
If I had known buying water shoes would have been advantageous in saving my humility and grace in front of a girl as stunningly pretty as Kelly, I’d have certainly splashed out the 50 Croatian Kuna I had been saving for an extra beer that night.
As it turns out though, then we may never have spoken. And I used the money to buy her a beer that night, so it was a total win-win for me.
She agreed to meet me for a drink in the Jack of Spades pub in Pula, though this hadn’t been my earnest suggestion. The smoking ban enforced in pubs in England, hadn’t reached Eastern Europe and she could barely breathe for passive choking. The Romanian band singing “rolling on a river” in badly broken English was deafening ear poison to say the least. We could barely hear each other. Oh and did I mention it was her least favourite song of all time ever?
I heard that bit, which she blurted out loudly whilst simultaneously managing to spill half a pint of local beer on a rather scruffy, bearded and pierced in all the wrong orifices Scandinavian, who just happened to be the band Death by Disco Ball’s number one fan. He had also heard her dissing them, so we had to make a quick getaway. We left the bar and went for a walk around the nearby Roman Amphitheatre.
“This is so pretty,” Kelly said, carefully minding her step around the dark unlit pathway that trails around the back of the Amphitheatre.
“I mean in the daytime, it is.”
It was after midnight and the street lamps were few and far between. I conceded that she was certainly as pretty under the moonlight as she had been sundrenched, earlier that day. We made our way
down some steps and found ourselves by the port where several lavish yachts were docked, and which was pretty much deserted at this time of night. The moon’s reflection glistened in the steely dark waters of the calm sea at night, as did our own. Admiring it for a second, I glanced back and caught Kelly by surprise.
“Mind if I kiss you?” I asked.
She didn’t have to say anything. I could see the answer in her eyes.
Those same eyes I thought I’d lost forever were staring back at me. I studied her face intently, like my life in the moment depended on it. Everything I’d ever felt. Everything we’d ever shared. Each of the thousand tiny shattered pieces of my broken heart felt like they were slowly coming back together. My heart was beating again. And I could feel hers was too. But how could this be? The love of my life, the girl of my dreams, was here again, with me, within reach. Yet this was the same woman I had laid to rest just little more than a few months ago.
I was happy and elated and worried and confused. It was a mixture of feelings so abundantly overwhelming that I was rendered a total mute. I couldn’t think of what to say, or what I wanted to say. All I knew was that I was with Kelly again and I felt like I was home. And it was a place and a feeling that I never wanted to leave or lose again, that I couldn’t lose again.
Slowly the words came to me and while catching my breath I whispered:
“How can this be?"
CHAPTER 2.
From an airy aqua blue to a stony concealing grey, the skyline definitely told us we were back in England again. It was the middle of September and we had been back from Croatia just over a fortnight and were missing each other terribly. Kelly was back in Leeds and I was at home in Newcastle upon Tyne. It was not exactly a million miles away but it sure felt like it.
We had been inseparable those last few days in Pula, basking in the last of those warm engaging summer rays. But now it was back to life, back to reality, and back to quickly cooling temperatures. Sadly, the rain in England doesn’t fall mainly on the plane. In fact it hadn’t stopped raining since the plane landed. And it was more than just drizzling today. It was pouring down, or as we say here in England ‘raining cats and dogs’. And rabbits and guinea pigs by the looks of it.