Ok so still the holiday season is kicking my ass workwise and I got a new phone so I was locked out my microsoft account and the lock out was supposed to end today so I could get to more edited GS Chapters but it’s a no go.
So I thought fuck it, why not just give up the first chapter of my NaNo novel. I may be releasing this on inkitt, I’m in talks with a publisher, so I’m not sure if I want to go through them directly but a glimpse at the first chapter couldn’t hurt.
As soon as christmas is over, I’m moving on to getting my novella edited and giving it away as a promotional gift to people who sign up to my mailing list.
Also banned on Facebook again because some piece of shit sjw from the nano group (That group is full of cancer) flagged my cover photo which happened to have the word ‘faggot’ in it completely not being used in the context of a hatecrime or being directed at gay people at all. So banned for thirty days and today I was supposed to be getting to grips with Minds and launching there but I got caught up in some twitter drama instead, so fucking productive.
But for what it’s worth my Minds page.
But here it is, the first chapter of The one who came back, the mystery novel set to take airport lounges by storm haha.
As per usual, this isn’t the whole first chapter but I’m too lazy to put it up on inkitt right now, actually fuck it, I’ll do it now.
There you go you ungrateful pricks haha. That took longer than I thought haha.
I was kind of manic as fuck when I wrote it, I hope it shows, enjoy.
“Police, go ahead”
“My wife and me are here as tourists-“
“-We’ve found a kid”
“He’s about fourteen or fifteen years old-“
“- No id, no documents on him”
“He’s very scared”
It was raining.
The rain beat down, getting in all the cracks on the sidewalk. It dashed cars and made those little muted tapping sounds as it hit people’s coats as they walked by.
Neon lights of a sign, car headlights, streaked in the rain like they were melting.
The soothing sound of the rain falling, muted the sounds of thunder.
A boy tried to make himself as small as possible in the bottom of a phonebooth. The rain beat down, tapping on the glass, trying to get in.
He wore a hooded coat with a cap and a pair of running bottoms with white stripes up the sides. He sat curled up at the bottom with his head in his knees breathing steady, the receiver hanging by his head.
The phonebooth stood alone in the centre of a cobbled townsquare lined with caged trees reaching straight up. European style lampposts dotted throughout the square cast sickly yellow pools of light. There was a square roofed totem plastered with aging posters advertising bands in Spanish. Stark bushes behind it, all their leaves long gone, left with only boney finger twigs stretching out in all directions.
Long distant sirens going somewhere else.
The boy in the booth peeled back the sleeve of his jacket and looked at a digital watch, the time was ‘9:58pm’.
The bottom of the phonebooth was made of some cheap plastic like a black shower matt curling at the corners. It was wet with people’s feet, the rain getting in through the cracks. Dirty cigarette butts mashed into it, little pink pieces of paper, fliers with girls on them soaking up muddy water and a boy.
A police car pulled up in front of the totem with its lights off, the headlights filled up the phonebooth. They stopped the car and put the lights on, red and blue flashing. They got out of the car and left the lights on.
Two cops with their hoods down, on the passenger side, the bald cop approached the phonebooth speaking Spanish. Reaching out his hand like he was trying to feed a small animal.
The boy lifted his head to look at the light through the crack in the phonebooth door. He shivered as the cold damp started to get to him. The man approached slow and low, the boy made himself even smaller. He shrank into his big rain coat and tried to get away from himself. But he was in a corner.
The police man opened the door of the phonebooth and asked him if he was alright. The cop was average build, in his forties with a greying beard. The concern lines on his forehead painted a vivid picture of a man with his own problems, he didn’t need to be out here.
The rain poured down on him as he spoke, trying to be heard over the constant beating of water around his head. The boy lifted his head an inch, hiding his eyes behind the lip of a cap pulled down low on his head. He cowered with his hands in front of his face.
The cop getting rained on, lost his patience for a moment and reached out for the boy at the bottom of the booth. The boy pulled back pushing his hands up. He was shaking.
“Tranquilo, tranquilo” The cop said slow as he put his hands up and backed off just a little. He eased back and signalled for the boy to come “Vamos”.
The boy was ashen, his hands in front of his face, shaking nervously. He looked lost and frightened.
The cop took his arm and gingerly helped him to his feet.
He led the boy hunched like a refugee towards the brightly lit police car.
The boys legs seemed weak, his knees buckled and the second cop swam through the rain to prop him up on his otherside. They carried him arm in arm to the waiting police car, the sound of the windshield wipers screeching.
They put him in the back seat and shut the door. He ducked his head and listened to the rain.
“What is your name?” A woman said in a robotic tone.
“Tell us your name” She asked again.
They watched the boy’s face even as he tried to hide, on the monitors. His cap was pulled way down and he had a scarf almost covering the other half of his face.
“Where do you live?” She kept asking.
The pixelated camera zoomed out as he said nothing. Hung his head like a frightened animal.
“Do you live with your parents?”
The boy sat in a windowed interview room with the door open looking at nothing.
He sat still against a blank cream wall in the warm room, speaking rarely and in whispers.
“Did your parents hurt you?”
It looked more like a glassed office than an interview room. It was wood panelled with opaque glass all the way around. He looked out the door and saw people at desks lit by old fashioned lamps sifting through papers. Phones ringing, people talking, clattering of chairs and hushed breath.
His hands were deep down in the pockets of his coat. He got comfortable in the chair sinking further and further down into it.
It smelled like cigarettes and heady perfume in the office. Sweet and bitter smells.
He sat at a straight wooden table. As he looked around there were loose pieces of paper in Spanish tacked onto the wall around his head, notices, pictures of people.
The woman across the desk was pretty, in her mid to early thirties but with a strain of concern on her face like it had always been there. Her sandy hair was tied back in a tight plait littered with split ends. She was in a blue uniform adorned with shiney gold buttons. She continued to talk and he watched her lips move.
He looked behind her, on the wall were more posters. A laminated one behind her head had large pictures of people and said “MUY PELIGROSOS” in bold letters above them. There was a book shelf with hastily tidied files. Binders and large books that looked like phone books piled on top of eachother in no particular order.
In the outer office people were smoking and tapping away at old computers. The bald police man who picked him up was on the phone looking at him through the crack in the door. He nodded putting out his cigarette and hanging up the phone.
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