Book Title

Author Name
/

Keyword
/

banner banner
Canadian flag UK flag USA flag>

PAPERBACKS

E

Genre pages

 FICTION

Canadiana

General

Erotica

Fantasy

Historical

Horror

LGBTQ Fiction

Mystery

Poetry

Romance

- Contemporary

- Ennoble

- Historical

- Inspirational

Nostalgia

New Age

Paranormal

Vampires

Satire

Science Fiction

Thriller

Detective & Crime

Time Travel

Young Adult

Native American

 

 NON-FICTION

Art

Autobiography

Biography

Business

Memoirs

Cook Books

Pets & Animals

Self Help &

How To

Spirituality

 - New Age

 - Traditional

 

Sample Contract

 

Sumbission Guidelines

Artist Showcase

 Artist Submission Guidelines

 Links

  Articles

NEW eBOOKS AVAILABLE IN 6 FORMATS
Adobe acrobat = PDF
HTML = .htm
Kindle = .mobi
MSReader = .lit
Nook = ePUB
PALM = .pdb
PDF for iPhone = .pdf





HOME >> Product 0380 >> The Estate>>

Touch image to enlarge


The Estate

GARY ALLEN

The Estate is a gritty tale set in a large working-class housing-estate in Northern Ireland just after ‘the troubles’ when the residents living there are trying to come to terms with what ‘the peace process’ actually means to them, and the changing face of the conflict which is degenerated into casual violence, lawlessness, and deprived poverty, while trying to build on the future.

$5.99

Paperback Buy Link
$9.00

The story is told through the eyes of a local teenager – unemployed, unemployable, petty criminal, broken home, who navigates, with humour and a sense of survival, life on the estate, and tells of his friends, their sexual adventures/misadventures, and the one great goal that keeps them going from day to day – the dream of escaping to a better (if largely misunderstood) future.

The novel opens with the main character rising before anyone else is awake on the estate, to see the local commuter train passing, and ends with the main character ending-up in prison when - after his hopes of escaping are dashed – with him causing the train to crash.

The estate is buoyed along with black humour and social realism, and, although it is set in Northern Ireland, could be a story of any large housing-estate anywhere in today’s Britain.

 

eBOOK STATS:

   

Length:

63964 Words

Price:

$5.99

Published:

01-2015

Cover Art:

T.L. Davson

Editor:

Copyright:

Gary Allen

ISBN Number:

978-1-77217-017-7

Available Formats:

PDF; HTML; Microsoft Reader(LIT); MobiPocket (PRC); Palm (PDB); Nook, Iphone, Ipad, Android (EPUB); Kindle (MOBI);

Paperback Price:

$9.00 Paperback Buy Link

 

EXCERPT

   

YOU’LL THINK THIS FUNNY – or maybe not, depending on whether you’re fucked-up like me, or one of those pseudo social-worker/prison do-gooders or not, but anyway, not that it’s any big deal, but for a long time, when I was on the broo, I used to get up early, almost as if I was going to work – some chance – and get dressed, my balls freezing off in the ice cold bedroom with a thin sheet of dirty ice on the painted walls, out of the house, across the bone-hard council greens and the rubbish strewn waste ground, down the batten fenced alleyways, up the embankment, and wait like some oddball early morning fisherman for the commuter trains all one-way, to Belfast.

Fancy it, just sitting there at the side of the track, breathless, the rumble growing louder into an oven swish as the ground vibrated and, for a moment, a blur of metal hurtling past, clickety-clack, all the windows lit-up like Christmas, and those frog-eyed office-workers sitting with newspapers and polystyrene cups of coffee, not seeing this old boy on the outside. Though to be honest, I think the driver caught wind of me after a few times, for I’m sure the cocky bastard waved once. But imagine, sitting out there on my wet arse, to watch a fucking train rattle past, like in that song, what-do-you-call-it? About the man in prison, and he hears the train whistling on down the track, and there’s a big guy on board with a fat cigar. Some sort of country & western song, or something. Well, anyway, when the train was only a red light on down the track, with the stink of wind rush and coal and diesel in my hooter, I would get up, all zombie like, and walk back to the block of flats, get back into bed and try to sleep again, but I couldn’t get over, so I would just drowse there, thinking all kinds of crazy things, like what it will soon be like to no longer be a teenager, or how the sheets smelled sour like old vomit and sweat, about girls seen in dirty books or round the estate that I would like to fuck, or big Darkie – some of the boys called him the Sheriff, but I called him Darkie – with his bad leg that took a bullet and his rhinestone handled cane, with the faded tattoo of an eagle on his chest. Or I would try to dream about Shelia, but I could never get her up close enough to touch her. She always kept some distance off, never smiling with those thin lips, in that summer flowery dress with the lacy sleeves I saw her wearing the first time I saw her, down by the children’s play-area, the dark hair just a bit curly, the shape of her breasts and thighs, the sandals she was wearing, the fading nail varnish on her toes. She took one long look into my eyes, with those big sad brown eyes of her own, then turned her head slowly away and never looked again.

But then big fucking Darkie elbowed his way in, wanting the money I owed him. “Give it up son, or give me your dole cheque, or by fuck…!”

Fuck-off yourself, Darkie – but I felt a shit coming on at the thought of it. God it was cold, even with the blankets curled in round my legs, over my head like an Arab. Remember Eve? When was that? Last year? Nice little body. Soaking wet down there, my fingers out and in.

“Don’t be a prick, sniffing like that!”

I had to laugh, quiet like.

“Go on, oh yes, go on, deeper. Don’t put it in, use something…”

Too late, I had it well inside her, up against the fence of the Darkie’s yard, his pit bulls throwing themselves against the fence with every thrust. I swear, if there had been a gap, they would have ripped the little pink arse off her – and auld peg leg Darkie’s light on, as he got tanked-up on cheap cider and watched the telly – here’s your fucking money, my son!

 

REVIEWS

   

To submit a review for this book click here

 

RELATED PRODUCTS

   

        

comment display

 

Click on

image for our

featured titles


 

Author of The Month

 

 

CLUB

 LIGHTHOUSE

PUBLISHING

 INFO


CLP Staff

 

Authors

 

Cover Artists

 

News and Blog Page

 

Writer's Resources

 


Hosting

 

 

paypal 

amnest

 Northern Ireland, housing estate, peace process, teenager, petty criminal, poverty, violence, conflict, humour, dreams, escape, Britain

HomePrivacy NoticeFAQSite MapContact Us