Tag Archives: Death

What a Way to Go: The Best Fictional Deaths

DeathIn my scribblings, there always seems to be a lot of death. And, as we all know, writing about death is never a pleasant experience. It’s notoriously difficult to write about it without stepping in to the comical, caricature death scene, or making it so dismal it’s easily forgotten. So, as inspiration for that tragic death scene, here are some of the best death scenes in fiction… Continue reading


Filed under Booky things

Do Not Disturb Take Two

TypewriterSorry folks, it’s another brief wave and a closed door again.  As previously mentioned, I am beta-reading so there’s no book review this week. Plus I am wrangling with that rather tricky death scene (see here). Instead, why don’t you make yourself comfortable, grab a cup of tea, and watch Game of Thrones back-to-back until I return? Unless you have any bright ideas in which to make a death scene less… deathy and clichéd.

Yeah, I’d rather be watching GoT too…

Now, shh, I’m working.


Filed under Writing

Taking a Walk with Death

DeathIf I’m writing, Death usually shows up. It’s just the way we work together – he deals it and I write it. And, as a rule, we work quite well like this (I’m better at death scenes than love scenes – that’s why Cupid doesn’t hang around much). Now, in most cases if you’re writing about people (or animals or creatures of any kind), you’re going to have to get along with Death. Them’s the breaks. Continue reading


Filed under Writing, Writing Curves


The sweating bottle of Pisco is almost finished, sticky circles of abandoned alcohol littering the table. The doors to the Juliet balcony hang open, leaning drunkenly across the wall, and the floor-length curtains whisper in the hot breeze. The hard orange light from the streetlamp hollows out the room, casting maroon shadows from the sofa and coffee table. The smell of hot concrete hangs heavy in the air, slowly cooling with the scent of dew as midnight creeps into dawn. Continue reading

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The Book Thief

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Black Swan: paperback published 2007: 554 pages


Here is a small fact

You are going to die.

1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier.

Liesel, a nine-year-old girl, is living with a foster family on Himmel Street. Her parents have been taken away to a concentration camp. Liesel steals books. This is her story and the story of the inhabitants of her street when the bombs begin to fall.

Some important information

This novel is narrated by Death.

it’s a small story, about:

a girl
an accordionist
some fanatical Germans
a Jewish fist fighter
and quite a lot of thievery.

Another thing you should know

Death will visit the book thief three times.


I can’t even review this book properly. When I first read this book, I loved it so much that when I reached the end, I couldn’t bear for the story to end, and so turned it over and started all over again. That is how good the book is. Really.

I NEVER do this. I barely ever even read a book twice. Now I’ve just finished my sixth round of reading, and it still hasn’t lost any of its magic.

Narrated by Death – who is not only practical, but also witty and caring – this story follows the childhood of Liesel in Nazi Germany. Cue humour, heartbreak and some pretty intense secret-keeping. And a few stolen books. Liesel is a big and bold character, lighting up the pages and befriending you. And the other characters – the quiet ones, the kind ones and even the not-so nice ones – are richly written and tell stories of their own.

This is my favourite book of all time.

Review over. Now go read it.

Rating: 10/10 (with double points for awesomeness)


Filed under Book Review

A Short Story from the Airport

Today I felt Death. I felt Him brush past me, a chill and a darkness in the corner of my eye. He didn’t stop to whisper in my ear, just ran a finger over my shoulder as He went by.

I knew that today I was going to die.

I felt a tingling in my arms and legs, a lightness in the pit of my stomach. The rushing sound of nothing pressed against my ears.

I waited. I waited for Death to return, to take my hand in His, to grip me in cold and darkness.

I felt Him step closer as the day went on – as I slipped on the stairs, and swerved to avoid a pheasant on the road. He watched as I swung from lane to lane in panicked realisation, and as I stepped into the path of an oncoming bus.

But I didn’t die. What grace touched me? What took me from Him? There was no miracle, there was nothing remarkable in the day.

The day I was meant to die, I simply… Lived.

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