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Dead Serious Just the Extras Vol. 1 (PAPERBACK) Dyslexia Friendly Edition

Dead Serious Just the Extras Vol. 1 (PAPERBACK) Dyslexia Friendly Edition

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Dyslexia Friendly Edition

Dyslexia Friendly Print Edition

This paperback edition has been produced in a larger print size with improved spacing between sentences and paragraphs. It has been created around the Open Dyslexic font, which is designed to assist with symptoms of dyslexia. This fonts signature look has a heavier weight at the bottom of letters, which can help readers keep these figures upright and distinguish top from bottom.



Dead Serious Just the Extras Vol. 1

Dead Serious, Just the Extras Vol. 1 includes the following bonus shorts:


Made in Heaven
Dusty’s time on earth is done, but she’s not ready to let go. Settling into heaven is nothing like expected and she finds she has a very important choice to make.


The Three Ghosts of Christmas
Danny and Tristan's first Christmas brings a surprise for Tristan in the form of three ghosts, and he begins to realise his gift of seeing spirits might not be a freak accident after all.


El Dia del Amor
Dusty’s feeling displaced and lonely until her ghostly hook-up Bruce takes her to the land of the dead to celebrate
The Day of Love, and she begins to realise that being dead might not be so bad after all.


Danny, Meet Death
Danny has a rather surreal experience when he is shown just what life is like for Tristan being able to see the spirits of the dead.


The Double Date
When Tristan invites local Witch, Harrison to dinner to say thank you for helping him, and Danny invites his friend and private investigator, Sam to dinner to celebrate the birthday he’s trying to ignore, they inadvertently end up on an accidental double date.



Paperback - Dyslexia Friendly Edition 314 pages
Dimensions 9 x 6 inches
ISBN: 978-1-916916-13-5
Publication Date January 4th, 2024
Publisher  WENDY SAUNDERS

 

ALSO AVAILABLE IN STANDARD & LARGE PRINT EDITIONS

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Made in Heaven.

“Hello?” I call out with a frown. To say I’m confused is a massive understatement. “Hello?” I call out again. “Can someone please tell me where the hell I am?”
I don’t think it’s Hell. It doesn’t look like it or, at least, not what I imagined Hell to be. I guess I thought there would be more fire and maybe it’d be more brimstone-y… possibly backed by a Meatloaf soundtrack or ACDC’s Highway to Hell. I definitely hoped there would be more hot sweaty men in skintight leather pants.
Yeah… I think to myself as I glance around into the utter stillness. Definitely not Hell, unless someone’s idea of Hell is an Ikea-inspired minimalist waiting room.
I’m surrounded by white, and I don’t mean white walls and white floor. I literally mean white everywhere. I can’t see if there even are any floors, walls, or a ceiling because there aren’t any angles or joins or edges. Just white.
I stare down at the boring wooden-framed sofa with cream-coloured cushions. Sat next to it is a small cube-shaped coffee table, which holds a stack of magazines, and a tall, shiny chrome lamp.
Low-pitched music surrounds me, but I can’t see a radio or speakers. It just seems to be coming from everywhere. I strain to identify what it is as it’s playing so quietly and when I do, I grimace.
Urgh, panpipes.
I take it back. I am in Hell. If this is Heaven, I’d expect a full one-hundred-piece orchestra playing Unchained Melody. Instead, I feel like I’m stuck in a call centre queue.
Still, could be worse, like a non-stop loop of Maria McKee’s Show Me Heaven, and the only way that would be acceptable was if it came with a side of naked Tom Cruise circa 1990.
“Hello?” I call out again into the stillness. “Hey! Do you take requests?” I yell. “Anything by Queen would be great, unless you wanna tell me where I am?”
I listen for several long seconds, but when the music remains the same and no one shows up or answers, I sigh.
Guess not.
I cannot be the only person, surely. I turn and look back at the uncomfortable-looking sofa and purse my lips. It definitely looks like a waiting area of some sort—at least, I hope it is—and I assume someone should be along to collect me at some point. Otherwise, I’m in for a very long and boring afterlife. In fact, a few hours of nothing but a couple of crappy magazines and the continuous torture of panpipes, and I may just beg to be sent downstairs.
Curious to see if this really is a room despite me not being able to see any walls or doors, I walk forward slowly with my arms outstretched, trying to see if my fingertips meet anything solid. After twenty paces, I still touch nothing. I glance back and see the sofa a little way behind me. I wonder how far I can keep walking, if I’ll ever run into… anything.
Keeping the sofa firmly at my back as a point of reference, I start heading forward in what I hope is a somewhat straight line. As I walk, my ankle turns awkwardly on my one remaining stiletto and I stumble. To my surprise, the shoe pops off.
I lean down slowly to pick up the shoe, then stare at it as if it’s Cinderella’s glass slipper. I look down at my bare feet and then back to the shoe in my hand. When it doesn’t disappear from my hand and reappear on my foot like it did in Tristan’s kitchen, I narrow my eyes. I wonder.
Grasping the lone shoe in one hand, I pull my arm back and lob it as hard as I can. Now, I haven’t exactly got a great arm. I sucked at rounders in school—in fact, I sucked at every single sport they tried to teach me in PE—but I watch as the shoe arcs gracefully through the air and disappears into the white beyond.
I continue to stare long after it’s out of view. When it doesn’t reappear on my foot, I let out a loud whoop, jumping up and down with a fist pump of exultation.
Finally! I can change my outfit. I’ve spent weeks looking like I did at the moment of my death: bloodstained wig, makeup Alice Cooper would have been proud of, and a spangly gold lamé dress that I hate.
I don’t know how or when, but first chance I get I’m slipping into something else, and it will be a relief. Whether I’m Dusty or Dustin, I honestly don’t care, I’d just rather not look like an extra from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. Although I’d never have complained about being in a Michael Jackson music video, I’m no one’s extra. I may be dead but I’m still a headliner dammit.
Now that I can walk evenly on bare feet instead of limping along on one heel, I resume my path. It feels like I’ve been walking forever, and I glance behind me to see that the sofa is nowhere in sight.
Oh well, I guess I keep going.
After a few minutes, I see a blob in the distance. I can’t make out what it is, but there’s definitely something. Quickening my pace, I hurry forward but, as the blob starts to take a more defined form, my brows draw together and my mouth tightens.
It’s the bloody sofa.
I turn to look behind me. I could have sworn I was walking in a straight line, so how the hell had I looped around, ending up where I began? Maybe I got turned around when I threw my shoe.
Fuck a duck.
With a sigh of annoyance, I spin around sharply. Once again making sure the sofa is behind me, I march in the opposite direction, trying as hard as I can to walk in an absolutely straight line. The sofa disappears behind me, and I keep going, but a short time later I once again end up where I started. The stupid sofa is mocking me.
Fine. So that’s how they want to play it, is it?
I grab the wooden arm of the lightweight sofa and set off with stubborn determination as I drag it behind me. It’s awkward and cumbersome, but after a while, I see something up ahead. Smirking because I know it’s definitely not the sofa since I’m still holding onto it, I approach.
“OH, COME ON!” I yell in annoyance.
There, sitting in front of me, is the same bloody sofa, looking as if it’s never moved. I release my grip on the one I’m dragging, and as I do, it disappears. I let out an ear-splitting screech of rage.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Taking a deep breath, I manage to control my temper enough not to kick the stupid bloody sofa as my feet are bare and I’d probably only end up hurting myself. Fisting my hands on my hips, I drop my head back and stare up at the non-existent ceiling. It’s clear whoever put me here doesn’t want me wandering off.
Giving in, I flop down on the stupid sofa with a sulky huff of indignation, cross my arms, and scowl. I feel like a toddler trapped in a playpen.
I didn’t think being dead could get any more boring, but apparently I was wrong. I don’t know how long I sit sulking and grinding my teeth, but I finally lean over and grab the stack of magazines, then flip through them and read the titles.
Spirits and Destiny. The Bright Light. Being Newly Departed. Living your Best Afterlife. Heavenly Homes and Remembrance Gardens. 1001 Things to do with Eternity.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
My head drops back, and I stare up at… well, nothing. But there’s only so long I can stare at a big white nothing. I grab a magazine at random and begin to skim the articles.
“How to create your dream home in your little corner of Heaven.”
“Divine Centrepieces.”
“Celestial Colour Palettes.”
I snort as I toss the magazine over the back of the sofa and rub my face in frustration. Yep, this is Hell. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, but they could at least have a receptionist or a sign or something.
Minutes pass—maybe it’s hours, I don’t know—but when a movement catches my eyes, I lower the copy of 1001 Things to do with Eternity. I’ve only made it to number 69 anyway.
I squint as I see a blurry blob moving in the distance. Placing the magazine down on the sofa next to me, I stand slowly and try to make out what it is I’m looking at. As it nears, I can see it’s a person.
Finally, maybe now I’ll get some answers.
I open my mouth to give this person a piece of my mind, but as they come fully into view, my jaw hangs and my breath wheezes out of me like a deflating balloon.
“Hi. Dusty, isn’t it?” He smiles and it’s like being blinded by the sun. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
He holds out his hand for me to shake and I lift mine, but I seem to have forgotten what to do with it.
“Ihhhammyaaa…”
My brain has actually melted.
My disbelieving gaze slowly crawls over him, starting at his feathered honey-brown hair which grazes his collar and sweeps back from his face in wings. His smile is wide with perfect white teeth, his jaw gorgeously sculpted. His silky, long-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into tight, tight jeans which end in wing-tipped boots with a small Cuban heel.
“They thought you’d enjoy it if I came to meet you.” He smiles again and that low, delicious, American accent wraps around me, sending chills down my spine.
“You’re ahhhhhh…..” God, I don’t even know what that sound was that just escaped my mouth, but I seem to be currently incapable of speech.
He simply smiles even wider. “You can call me Patrick.”

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