Is Zenna a muse, a sleep-deprived apparition, or something much more sinister?
Three foodie facts about Jo:
She's British and she has amnesia, so she likes comfort food, food which subtly remind her of her childhood. I've provided links in case you have no idea what I'm talking about!
In the novel she makes her mother a cottage pie which she loves - https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/
Jam roly-poly, a staple of school canteen meals - https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/
3. She grew up on the coast, so crab is a firm favorite.
Excerpt from Small Forgotten Moments by Annalisa Crawford
This excerpt is taken from the middle of the book, when Jo’s dreams and hallucinations are becoming more severe.
In the middle of the night, I’m wide awake. An owl hoots, foxes cry, something screeches further along the valley and makes me shudder.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, evenly. Floating on the ocean, with Opera Pink mist swirling around me. To be more accurate, over the ocean—the mist holding me like a pair of hands. I drift to sleep, my lungs filling with crisp sea air.
Suddenly I’m thrashing against the waves. And Mum’s with me, both of us frantic, immersed by the tide. I struggle to keep above the water, stretching toward the surface, gasping for air. The hands which kept me up now push me down—pressing firmly on my shoulders to prevent me breaking free, easing me toward my death.
I call for Mum, desperately trying to find her in the black, churned-up water. My lips are moving, my words reverberating around my head. But I can’t hear my voice. In my head, I’m yelling, but the sound melts into the sea.
The hands loosen, and I wriggle away instinctively. I kick out and swim as fast as I can, swallowing water as I gasp with the exertion. I’m not moving. I’m stuck, tangled among the seaweed. Panicked and sinking as I flail. The hands are gone, but I’m going under.
At the very last moment, as I take my last gulp of air and expect to plummet to the ocean floor, all motion ceases. I’m in bed, flinching against the daylight; my arms are still trying to swim, my legs kick out. I’m bleary, as if I haven’t slept at all. The dream crumbles; pieces ebb away as I grapple for them.
About Annalisa Crawford
Annalisa Crawford lives in Cornwall, UK, with a good supply of moorland and beaches to keep her inspired. She lives with her husband, two sons, and canine writing partner, Artoo. She is the author of four short story collections, and two novels.