Amble, Part 3

What I should be writing is .... the prequel to ...

Monster Moored, a novel still hanging around unpublished. With a beautiful front cover, ready to go ...
 

I know I'm slow, when in my Google+ writing groups people are publishing constantly. Talking about publishing. Talking about marketing. Talking the talk.

My health is slowing me up. Dare I say my age is starting to slow me up? Regular life is slowing me up. I'm at a stage where Writing, with all its bells and whistles, can not be number one. Bummer.

Following is Page 1 of what I would like to be writing. 

Amble woke in someone else’s skin, seeing through not-his-own eyes. A woman’s. Impossible. It was only men and herd animals he could be, for the weit sicht.

Then he remembered. She lay her hand on him. Made him hers. The Esse. The damned stone wolf called her that.

All he saw through her eyes were bare grey walls. She woke to an empty room. As though she'd been abandoned as a piece of collateral shit.

Zap!

That sound. He opened one eye. The newly re-upholstered seat-back of his own cab? A hole in it! With clean cream foam rubber bulging out.

Za-att!

Another hole, closer to him. The scream of a projectile followed it an instant later. Windscreen totally gone? How? He was being shot at?

Both shots too high. Safe for now. Don’t move, just feel. Observe.

Hurt. Handbrake digging into his side. He lay across the seats of his own car. Knees under the steering wheel.

“I want to see a white flag, Surly!”

Surly? Yeah well, who he used to be. Don’t give them the satisfaction of telling them he was awake. Esse stood waiting for a bus. Busy city streets in the background. Not the person she was, either. A crow on that sign near her. Keeping her company?

Caw caw.

A couple of them flew across above him. He glimpsed the scene through their eyes. An open valley. Eucalyptus forest either side. A creek/gully at the feet of the southern trees. …..

The rear vision mirror angled into the car bothered him. What if the damned shooters could see him reflected? Shoot at the pretty toys dangling from the mirror you dumb bastard and show me where you are. He blew at the charms hanging from it. Delayed reaction while the force travelled through the air. There, they jiggled.

Flup!

“What the fuck are you shooting at?” Older voice. Man in charge.

“Ow! He moved! Something moved! If only we had some real guns!”

At least two of them. They were close. And ha ha ha, they didn’t have a real gun. The sun’s rays were nearly level with the dash. Early morning. The Esse was on a bus making for the harbour. The crow flew ahead. Go Esse. I am with you.


“The passenger door is swinging open. Shoot?”

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