Chester Parsons is Not a Gorilla by Martyn Ford

Chester Parsons is Not a Gorilla

Chester Parsons is Not a Gorilla by Martyn Ford
English | 2020 | Children/Young Adult | ePUB | 2.6 MB

When Chester discovers he can mind jump, his sister Amy wastes no time in putting his new skills to work boosting the viewing figures on her video blog. And when a TV company takes them global, he does his most daring mind jump yet, into the brain of Tito the gorilla. The trouble is, when he tries to return to his own body – it’s gone!

Has it been stolen? But who would want it, and why? And how come Chester suddenly has the urge to search Amy’s hair for fleas? The quest to find the answers takes him on a journey beyond his wildest imagination.

A fast-paced, mind-boggling and hilarious yet thought-provoking read from the author of The Imagination Box series.

Who are you?’ the man asked.

That’s a fairly big question, I thought.

Who are you?

Like, are you your brain? Or are you a thing that lives in your brain? Are you that little person who talks in your thoughts – if so, who are they talking to? Or is your entire body you? But then, if you lost a finger, you’d still be you, right? If your head was in a jar, would that be you? Hmmm …

I stared back at him in silence, squinting.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, noticing that I’d disappeared in thought.

‘Oh, sorry. Chester Parsons,’ I said.

The man ticked a box next to my name and told me to go and sit at the back with the others. Taking a deep breath, I strolled towards the empty chair at the end of the row. I was auditioning for a TV advert – the role I had been given was ‘Potato 1’. Yeah, that’s right. A potato. I was playing the part of a potato. I think we should repeat that, so we’re completely clear: I was playing the part of a potato.

The audition was being held at a proper theatre in London too, the real deal. Even though all the characters would be different vegetables, they were taking it very seriously. A few of the others stepped out onstage and read their lines. Carrot went first – she was a girl around my age – and then Broccoli, who must have been about fifteen, and finally Beetroot, who seemed to be the only adult here.

Then it was my turn.

The stage lights were bright as I stepped out of the shadows, past the thick red curtain. Above me there were ropes and more lights and that sort of backstage theatre stuff, which is all messy and covered in bits of tape. Smells of dust and lofts. And wood. Makes you somehow itchy after a while. Anyway, I walked into the centre of the stage, stood on a small cross on the floor, cleared my throat and began to read my line.

‘Stop, Mrs Carrot,’ I said, throwing my voice like an absolute pro. ‘Stop this madness, stop in the name of the—’

‘No, no, NO!’ the director yelled from his seat in the middle of the stalls.

I lowered the script and looked into the darkness.

‘You’re moving wrong,’ he said. ‘You’re a potato. Walk like a potato. Go again.’ He clapped twice.

Frowning, I stepped out of sight, exhaled, then walked on to the stage again – this time waddling slightly with straight legs and my arms at my sides. Really, he’d given me an impossible task. Potatoes, as I’m sure you’re aware, can’t walk. Never have. Almost certainly never will.

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