The Groop

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The Groop

The Debut Novel by A. J. Sahnow

People are going missing on a world-changing scale, and only one man seems to care. Lydia Dove has been missing for four months. Sean Mallory, stuck in a dead-end job and afflicted by invasive dreams, believes that if he can find her, then maybe he can find others. Taunted by anonymous emails and troubled by his past, even he doubts his ability to see it through – but the ever-growing mystery of the missing is too alluring to resist.

Through his trips to the nearby city, explorations of the surrounding small towns, and interactions with individuals who seem to know more than they let on, his grip on reality is starting to falter. Perhaps trying to find Lydia is the last thing that he should do.

The first novel by A. J. Sahnow, a London-based writer and musician, The Groop is a mystery/thriller influenced by horror and weird fiction.

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Available at:

Amazon.com
Paperback | Kindle

Amazon.co.uk
Paperback | Kindle

Author’s Word:

This is a project that has taken a long time to come to fruition: I wrote The Groop originally between Feb 2014 — Feb 2015. It was, in fact, the first major writing project that I ever undertook, and it predates all of my short stories and poetry. To have it finally out there is strange, and somewhat terrifying. If you are a fan of psychological thrillers and horror, or weird fiction in the vein of H. P. Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith, I believe you will like The Groop.

If you read it, and enjoy it, please consider leaving me a review on Amazon! Reviews can go a long way in helping to establish new self-published authors, so I’d really appreciate it if possible. Either way, I’d be interested in hearing what you think of it — drop me an email at aj.sahnow92@gmail.com, or find me on twitter @SahnowScribbles.

If you want to support me further, I also have released eclectic rock music on Bandcamp as Noun Verb Noun: https://nounverbnoun.bandcamp.com/

Thank you again for your support.

— A. J. Sahnow

I Am Not Dead Yet

I Am Not Dead Yet

A Novel

 

Chapter One

I stab myself through the head with a serrated blade, but I am not dead yet. The story continues.

 

Chapter Two

I am shot six times in the chest at point blank range in a corner shop holdup, but I do not die.

 

Chapter Three

Six cars run me over, one taking the time to precisely drive over my head. My brain meets the morning sun, glistening below my broken scalp. But yet I live.

 

Chapter Four

I feel the weight of the collapsing bridge bend my spine forward beyond repair, and the chord is severed. Hundreds die in architecture’s folly, but yet I walk.

 

Chapter Five

At the centre of the atomic blast, my flesh is stripped from my bones, and my bones are obliterated. This conflict has drawn a hellish landscape. My lungs are naught but dust, and yet I laugh.

 

Chapter Six

Civil unrest results in my clubbing. Every part of me is bruised green in the attack. I am set alight on live broadcast television, and not a soul dares to piss the flames away. People want change, and they believe my death is the answer. But they are fools, for I am not dead yet.

 

Chapter Seven

Society collapses. Shops are looted, families are wiped out on sight. Breeding is no longer viable. Humans cease to exist, returned to an absence far more pleasurable to any sane being. The earth returns to nature’s chaos, cruel and perfect. The sun lights up the sky, and the planet dies. But even in the vacuum of space, I breathe yet.

 

Chapter Eight

Even trapped in Pluto’s darkest icy depths, I do not freeze.

 

Chapter Nine

Beyond Pluto’s Black Sea is the Nostro, and beyond which lies sights unbound – Darlons dance a shadow dance, and the Wheel is turned. The inner workings reveal themselves only to those who watch carefully. Here in the Nostro, there is no light, no texture, no third dimension of which to perceive. But even in the Nostro, I see yet.

 

Chapter Ten

Shath welcomes me into the Conclave of Thirteen. Millions more die, and their torsos ride forever upon ashen mounts down the riverbanks of Hael. The banner of the Elder is raised, but still the Old God sings not. I hear Artemis and Hermes bellow their wretched, tortured howls, their aspects reduced to nothing but carnal pain, their days of gold long over. Upon my escape back to the Nostro, I am apprehended by those that Shath has sent, who are to right what is wrong. My spirit is torn through my mouth, and hanged from the Dog Star for all the Conclave to see. With this, the Elder is appeased: the Old God sings. The voice, serene, sweet, soulful, a touch of Al Green – it breaks my form utterly, and I am shattered to the Very Corners that expand for evermore. There is not a single atom left in my body, but I am not dead yet. The story continues.