See Donna Moore in action

Still hung over (well, things don’t change *that* quickly) but feeling a little more human, enough to point to the prologue of Donna’s upcoming debut novel, GO TO HELENA HANDBASKET, which you can read here. I can’t be the only person who wants to read the rest of this book now:

If I was going to become a serial killer, I needed to learn more about the job.

I’d bought a copy of Serial Killing For Dummies on eBay from a Seller called RitualSlasher. He was selling his entire book collection because he was ‘going away for at least 25 years.’ I’d thanked him for the book and told him I hoped he had a lovely time on his vacation.

I couldn’t help thinking that one day, I too might be able to give up serial killing and enjoy my dried, cured and well-preserved memories.

The book wasn’t in the ‘excellent’ advertised condition. Rusty brown stains were dotted throughout, and there was a pervasive coppery smell. But what annoyed me most was a leathery object bookmarking the chapter entitled: ‘Collecting Tokens From Your Victims And How To Store Them So They Don’t Rot.’ I couldn’t work out if the bookmark had started life as a rasher of bacon, or an ear.

Putting both my irritation and the bookmark to one side, I opened the book at the first chapter, ‘Your Childhood: It Was Really, Really Bad’. All I could remember of my own childhood were endless lazy summer days when my parents and two older sisters would spoil me rotten with toys, picnics, ice-cream, trips to the park, holidays at the seaside. I ran wild in our huge garden, climbed trees, caught tadpoles in the nearby river, and made a den in the woods where I crocheted tea-cosies for the village fete and pressed my collection of woodland flowers—typical boy stuff.

No, I’d repressed the darker side of my hideous childhood for too long and I wasn’t prepared to allow those horrific events to remain buried deep in my warped psyche a minute longer. Perhaps my evil parents had brainwashed me. If I was to have any sort of future as a serial killer, I needed to find out the truth. Right now.

I reached for the phone.

“Hello, Mum.”

“Darling, how are you?”

“I’m trying to remember my traumatic childhood, bitch. Can you give me some pointers?”

And remember the mantra: Donna is a real writer. Donna is a real writer…