by James Boyt
It was Saturday afternoon and I was walking down the alley to Alex’s house; Alex is my best friend ‘cos he can blow really massive snot bubbles from his nose. I was walking past this garden when I heard a woman making lots of noise like when mum stubbed her toe, so I looked through a hole in the fence and I could see her in the kitchen and she was on her back on a table and there was a clown on top of her. It was when she shouted Oh God I’m coming I knew it was killing her ‘cos people go to God when they die - we learnt that at school. I ran away as quickly as I could and told Alex all about it and he said not to tell anyone else ‘cos the clown might come and get us and we’d have to go to God too, and then no one would feed my snails I keep in a box under my bed so they might die and I don’t know if God lets snails in heaven when they die. It’s my birthday next week and Mum’s got a clown for my party. I don’t like clowns.
James Boyt, author of The Hunt, is a 31 year old IT worker from the Southeast of England, who firmly believes that, despite lack of ideas and motivation (not to mention talent), that bestselling novel is living inside him somewhere, if he can just find someone to write it for him.