#Extract from #TheDrowners by David A. Anderson | @crackedwriter

The Drowners by David A. Anderson publishes today March 18th 2025 with Whipsnade Publishing and is described as ‘a character-driven, existential, coming-of-age drama set in 90’s Dublin’.

David has kindly shared an extract with us today in celebration of publication day so I do hope you enjoy.

[ About The Drowners ]

For Aaron, this world is an unfathomable puzzle. Haunted by disturbing dreams, he drifts through empty days, shielding himself behind sarcasm and cynical wit. After being expelled, he sees an opportunity to rewrite his future at a new school. Connecting over a shared love for De Niro films with Robbie, an aspiring actor of Jamaican descent, he unexpectedly finds his companion piece, one person who truly understands him. Together, they navigate the chaotic waters of adolescence, from dramatic first dates to sociopathic bullies, iconic concerts, drugs, and a dead body.

With adulthood fast approaching, can their unique bond survive the crushing weight of societal pressures and devastating revelations? Confronted by the ghosts of his past, Aaron must choose whether to blaze bright or fade away.

A funny and poignant meditation on the forces that shape us, The Drowners transports us back to a time when our tolerance for hypocrisy was zero and life seemed infinite.

The Drowners – Purchase Link

[ Extract ]

My Grandparents arrived around two for dinner. My Granddad hugged us kids as though his life depended on it. Thanks to quitting the drink five years ago—a decision aided in no small part by his heart attack—he had shed a tonne of weight.  Once a mighty oak of a man, he now seemed frail. Almost brittle, like if I matched his strenuous hug, he might crumble to dust.

My Grandmother assumed a regal position at the head of the table. While my Granddad was busy complimenting my mum on her cooking, Grandma asked Dad if he’d received a promotion yet. Before informing him how well our uncle was doing. How he’d bought a summer house in Italy, and even though she hadn’t set foot in the place, she waxed lyrical about its luxuriant amenities.

Throughout, my father presented a stoic front. My mother chewed her food quickly.

“This meat’s a bit dry,” Grandmother declared, upsetting my mother. Mum took great pride in making Christmas dinner. My Granddad’s hand went to his head, his clenched jaw muscles bunched together.

“Surprised you can tell,” I said, turning to Grandmother with a mocking smile, “what with you wearing dentures.”

My Granddad wore a beaming smile while my mother lowered her head in a vain attempt to hide hers.

Only my father looked unimpressed.

My Grandmother pretended she hadn’t heard me. She turned to my mother. “You’re still running the play school?” My mum nodded. “How nice,” Grandma continued with a haughty expression and condescending tone, “Of course, in my day, a woman’s primary occupation was to care for her own children. Things change, I suppose.”

I smiled serenely. “Yeah, the suffragettes happened.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Ah, selective deafness, the affliction of the ignorant and conceited.”

“How rude.”

“You heard that all right.”

“It’s this darned blasted hearing-aid. It comes and goes.”

“Like a donor at a sperm bank.” 

My Granddad choked back the laughter, while my father looked like he might actually be choking.

Grandma reached for her napkin and began dabbing her eyes, throwing down the sympathy card, her holding ace.

The table descended into uneasy quiet.

My Granddad enviously eyed the glass of beer my brother guzzled from.

Our nuclear family had gone into full meltdown, Chernobyl-style. The toxic fallout would poison whatever life remained of this festive holiday.

After dinner, my parents washed the dishes I brought in from the dining-room, in monkish silence. My brother and Granddad chatted cheerily in the corner, two untamed spirits with shared tendencies. Deprived of an audience, Grandmother put her tissues away and pouted.

On the muted TV set Steve McQueen’s Virgil Hilts revved his stolen motorcycle, getting ready to jump a barbed-wire fence. Like my family’s attempts at the perfect Christmas, he was fated to fail.

After my grandparents beat a hasty retreat, on Grandmother’s orders, Dad disappeared upstairs to bed. My mum sat on the couch, tired and emotional. Literally. Not the euphemism for the state Johnny was currently working hard to achieve.

Though it may have been a by-product of the beer, he seemed taken aback when I handed him the VHS copy of Cantona, a documentary on the legendary United player. “Wow, nice one, Aaron… I feel like a bit of a wanker. I didn’t get you anything.”

He marched to the fridge and returned with a cold can, which he handed to me.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” my mum said. “He’s fifteen.”

“He’ll be sixteen in seven weeks.”

“I’m aware of his age. I gave birth to him.”

“Jesus, one beer won’t kill him.”

“Well, I don’t want him turning out like…” Her voice trailed off.

My brother gave her a cheeky wink. “Careful now, you’re starting to sound a little like Grandma.”

Mum broke into an involuntary smile. “Make sure it’s just the one. And only the one.”

After mum went to bed, we settled back in our chairs, while Bruce Willis battered hell out of terrorists in what we both agreed is the greatest Christmas film ever.

Johnny and I riffed along to Die Hard like we did when we were younger. It wasn’t perfect. But damn it came close.

[ Bio ]

Hailing from the cold, wet streets of Dublin, David Anderson is the author of The Drowners. Like a Hummingbird, after college, he migrated south to warmer climes. Namely, sunny Spain, where he teaches English to students who are confused by his Irish brogue. In his early thirties, he caught the writing bug. He has written several articles for the GMS website about his other obsession in life, football. In 2021, he won a YA Watty award for his novel The Art of Breathing Underwater.

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