Hi everyone and welcome to another Author Showcase! Today I will be showcasing author Ryan Marsh and his new debut novel Life on the Ant Farm. The release day for the novel was 11/08/17 so make sure you check it out to say you were one of the first!
Life on the Ant Farm is now available to buy Here
You can also keep up to date with Ryan on his website www.marshitis.com or make sure you check him out on Instagram @marshitis
About the Book
A story of many deep-rooted complexities, a story of contrasting dreams – this is the story of young Floyd. Immerse yourself.
Floyd wants so desperately to tell a civilian – any civilian – all about his clashing of dreams. Floyd had two dreams; one dream was constant and for the short-term, and one dream was ambitious and for the long-term. Floyd owned a Polaroid. Floyd adored his Polaroid. His Polaroid was his friend, his security. Floyd also had his witnesses. I can’t say too much else. Floyd’s orders. On that One Fine Evening at the House you shall be introduced to young Floyd. Allow him to tell you all about his complex tale. Immerse yourself.
Things to know about the book:
1. The novel is about a young man called Floyd who is trying to overcome his mental demons in order to become an independent crime photographer. He will do anything to become this photographer.
2. The novel is a dystopian take on modern life.
3. As well as being a work of fiction, I feel the novel raises awareness of mental health, eg; one young man has this dream however he needs to overcome his mental and external demons – something which happens to pretty much everybody in modern life.
LIFE ON THE ANT FARM Copyright © 2017 Ryan Marsh
[CHAPTER ONE — THAT ONE FINE EVENING AT THE HOUSE]
‘D-, don’t you have any dreams or aspirations, Marta?’ I humored with austerity, straightening my posture which means sitting uncomfortably on the ottoman.
Marta scooped up her Royal Doulton: Figure of the (can’t remember which) Year from off of the rich mahogany drawer and headed over towards the Food Prep room, o so theatrical, ‘Just good health, Floyd. Just good health,’ she replied, harmonious.
A short while after . . .
. . . my modus operandi: 2 go and severely convince the eternally-subservient Marta that I was severely indisposed with a severe case of the . . . no u just wait now and hold the bloody mobile flip-phone (!) as I can remember c when Marta abruptly-abandoned me I stretched the neck on my glitzy Rihanna crew tee and 2 I inspected my brittle shoulders so vigorously they couldn’t help but sparkle an I-really-do-adhere-2-myself gradient of infuriated caliente. Hmm, no, ha, no, maybe just stop. Hmm . . . could continue . . .
. . . I could continue to proceed with such an adrenaline-soaked passage but u c I’d rather avoid problematic nonsense. I must avoid. I must stop. Must stop now, I must stop . . . will stop . . . I think . . . I will . . . now.
Don’t want 2 go and get 2 over-indulgent and all self-referential in my own-self. C I’m not 2 certain if I want this 2 go and belong in the fiction works or the non-fiction works, hmm . . . no, you wait, tbh, not too sure, not 2 sure on the difference?!? Best stop now with the actual 2 . . . not literal enough, won’t achieve acclaim for the autobiographical or fictitious Life on the Ant Farm novel by brandishing the 2 around in order 2 come across so rebellious (like the Requiem for a Dream fellow) and no way, no! I won’t get 2 far by discriminating against to, two or too. Deter from the self-doubting, no more now; self-doubting portrays fractious signs of potential worthlessness.
There was this One Fine Evening at the House.
This One Fine Evening at the House: the mere hands of the clock. O no, the mere hands of the clock . . . hmm no, not 2day. Discontinue. I’m not introducing this impressionistic part of my narrative in such a bleak and cliché-ridden manner.
Once Marta floated off into the Food Prep room like a demonic fairy into a squatter’s dream, well u c it wasn’t long until Floyd, until Floyd was hanging off of the otto-, hmm, no, wait, no wait that’s, that’s just . . . accurate. C I was hanging off of the ottoman and this was an act of the pre-determined nature. No c I wasn’t accompanied by any of my witnesses. I had no idea as 2 where they were located at that time.
I: The bashful Tyrannosaurus: a veteran member of the Non-Stuffed organization.
II: The primitive Paddington bear with the red boots and the red hat: a tribal warrior of the Stuffed organization.
They weren’t around. They weren’t being their deferential selves. I couldn’t see them anywhere. Marta had probably hid them somewhere and if I would have independently-interrogated her (under the beam of the Terzani) about her evasive actions then she may have referred to those evasive actions as being (essentially) just humor or quite simply just a game or something down those sorts of ridiculing lines. It was so possible that they’d been re-located way up the steps.
I put two and 2 together and thought they were in Floyd’s room – the two of them there side-by-side – ha, both of them, the Dynamic Duo – there swaying on the small-double like some nostalgic Buzz—Woody scene of mass hysteria, and in a synchronized manner they’d go, ‘Husssshhhh,’ if I was to just stroll into the room with my Polaroid unexpected.
On that One Fine Evening your protagonist was located in the Open room and centered mistakenly due 2 the harsh restraints in time; c I was almost directly underneath the interrogating beam of the Terzani stream – nearby Marta’s rich mahogany drawer – the exact rich mahogany drawer which held her (recently-snatched-off) Doulton – it also held her symmetrical companion which was her highly-regarded automated radio, kept balanced on top of a bulky stack of papers.
U c every Thursday I’d go through thought-out stages where I would attempt to break the automated radio or disable or damage it by pulling hard and rash at the papers underneath. The Thursday before that special One Fine Evening I had planned my execution with precision, yet due to an unexplainable blip in m-
[TO BE CONTINUED]