The eagle-eyed amongst you will have probably noticed that I’ve reviewed The Language of Dying before. I read the PS Publishing edition and utterly adored it. The novella is being re-released by Jo Fletcher Books today and as it is so bloomin’ good I thought someone else’s opinion might be worth exploring.  Over to @MadNad for her thoughts… Tonight is a special, terrible night. A woman sits at her father’s bedside watching the clock tick away the last hours of his life. Her brothers and sisters – all traumatised in their own ways, their bonds fragile – have been there for the past week, but now she is alone. And that’s always when it comes. As the clock ticks in the darkness, she can only wait for it to find her… Like me, I imagine there are some authors you hate, some you like, some you love, and some you would read anything they wrote just because it came from them. I have four authors that fit into that category: Neil Gaiman, Mark Chadbourn, Joe Hill and Sarah Pinborough. What book was it that added Ms Pinborough to this exclusive list? The Language of Dying. I read this novella a…

A woman sits beside her father’s bedside as the night ticks away the final hours of his life. As she watches over her father, she relives the past week and the events that brought the family together . . . and she recalls all the weeks before that served to pull it apart.  There has never been anything normal about the lives raised in this house. It seems to her that sometimes her family is so colourful that the brightness hurts, and as they all join together in this time of impending loss she examines how they came to be the way they are and how it came to just be her, the drifter, that her father came home to die with. But, the middle of five children, the woman has her own secrets . . . particularly the draw that pulled her back to the house when her own life looked set to crumble. And sitting through her lonely vigil, she remembers the thing she saw out in the fields all those years ago . . . the thing that they found her screaming for outside in the mud. As she peers through the familiar glass, she can’t help…