Death Sucks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

I've had this novel in my head for a really long time, and I've been dying to put it down on paper! Will update regularly, seeing as it is Summer time! Summary and warnings below!
Two more things:
1- Would any of you be interested in an audio recording? If so, please comment and let me know!
2-I am in the process of making a cover! Will post when it's done!
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Warnings: Mild language, sensitive themes (death, suicide, murder, afterlife), violence, machine guns, tearjerkers.

Summary: Flo Jones is no one special, certainly not someone you would write a biography on. Just like three-quarters of the world's population, her life isn't all that eventful.
Her afterlife, on the other hand, is a different story.
After dying unexpectedly, Flo wakes up in the Underworld, a place not so unlike its 'Northern' neighbour- except for the teensy, tiny fact that two Mafia-like groups are battling for dominance within it. Against her intuition (but not quite against her will),she goes from being your average teen to becoming a soldier for one of the undead Mafia clans. Smuggling AK47s in violin cases becomes as familiar to her as her locker combination used to be. Quotes from The Godfather replace her everyday speech. And all the while, she begins to befriend (read:fall in love) with the Consigliere, a flirty playboy. But some-thing's not right in the Underworld, and Flo finds herself as a fly tangled up in the web of a spider, that's easy to see.
Finding out who the spider is, however, is not so simple. When the recently dead start disappearing, and strange happenings number in the dozens, skeletons start knocking on the closet door. They want OUT. And Flo's the only one with the key.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Prologue

Submitted: June 18, 2011

Reads: 335

Comments: 3

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Submitted: June 18, 2011

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Prologue
I never really thought about being hit by a car before.
It’s a macabre sort of topic, death by automobile. Death itself is one of those things you just don’t talk about in everyday life. You don’t go up to your neighbor and say, “Hey, Bob- how do you think you’re going to die one day?” It’s a societal taboo; I’m sure that somewhere there’s a list of ‘No-No’s, and talking about death seriously in a casual setting is on it. It’s simply not done, so I should cut myself some slack about how unprepared I was today when I realized that the big, blue pick-up truck wasn’t stopping at the stop sign. Nor was it slowing down in the middle of the intersection. It just went on rolling at, let’s say, sixty or seventy miles an hour, straight towards the crosswalk I was standing in. Straight towards me.
Of course, it isn’t entirely driver’s fault for hitting me. I saw him coming, breezing through the red lights while he injected the California Roll with metaphoric steroids. I knew he was going to hit me if he didn’t stop. Yet I didn’t move. I watched, curiously, as the front of his automobile inched closer in leaps and bounds. We engaged in a lethal chicken fight, and I bailed out too late to get out unscathed.
My left side took most of the impact. I remember hearing the sickening crack of my rib cage as I went down to the asphalt, only to have the sharp edges of my bike dig into the other side. At around that point, some nearby drivers pulled over to stop traffic. One man ran up to me, to see if I was all right. I couldn’t even shake my head to acknowledge that I heard him; I was too busy trying to figure out why I felt wet all over. Apparently the car knocked both the wind and the sense out of me, because I couldn’t figure out why I felt like I was in a puddle until I saw the blood. Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t frightened, and I didn’t feel anything but confusion and a little pain- I had a headache from the incessant ringing in my ears. I had expected I would be screaming and writhing in agony after being hit by a multi-tone behemoth machine, but I just felt numb all over. Hollywood lies, dear reader, if you haven’t yet noticed. It lies.
Dozens of people had gathered around me by then. Sirens were whining in the distance, and I knew that they were twirling and shining for me. At that moment, my little brother’s face came into my head, and I remember thinking, “Just wait ‘till he sees this”, before it all went…
Wait for it, wait for the cliché…Crepuscular.You were expecting me to say black or dark, weren’t you. Sorry to disappoint.
My name was-and is-Florence Tuesday Jones (and please, humor me and don’t mention anything about my middle name) and I had just turned sixteen when I got hit by a drunk driver. Stereotypical, right?
Wrong! I didn’t even tell you the best part. Here’s the real kicker: I died. Yep. I checked out while I kicked the bucket. And let me tell you, death isn’t very pleasant. In fact, you could say death is inconvenient, or bothersome, or detrimental, or even pestiferous, if you want to be snooty like that.
But those are just the politically correct terms. In short, practical English that everyone from every walk of life can understand:
Death sucks.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I honestly wouldn’t have wanted to live after getting hurt like that. I most likely would have never walked again. Death was welcome, in my case, so I should clarify: dying itself doesn’t suck, the Afterlife does. I had expected the Realm Eternal to be akin to a villa in Italy, where I’m sitting out in the sun and a hunky, shirtless Italiano is holding a bunch of grapes over my mouth, not like Big-city USA Prohibition Style, complete with warring Mafia gangs and Chicago typewriters. Being coerced into joining one of those Mafia gangs is the whipped cream on the sundae. And the not-so-sweet-cherry on top?
Not a single one of those Mafiosi is a muscular, scantily-clad Italian itching to feed me grapes.
So I think you can understand, sympathize, and even agree with my ever so true sentiment: Death sucks.


© Copyright 2020 Anne Shepard. All rights reserved.

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