Greetings from a cold, windy United Kingdom -- if, per chance, there is a reader of this Blog out there that has recently seen the sun, please let me know what it looks like -- a simple sketch will suffice.
-- curiously, this Blog is now racing(?) toward a 1000 readers. Okay, okay...I am well aware that this figure is but a pin-prick in the ocean of Blog and that the likes of Lady Gaga accomplish that amount hourly, but I'm chuffed and I thank you all for reading and dealing with my gloom and doom and scattered words. And, may I add, yet to comment! Selfishly I set up this Blog to promote my novels and will continue doing so until this tired brain surrenders or the laptop calls it a day.
Talking of surrendering -- +Ad Sense You win. I surrender. For those not in the know, +Ad Sense offers to place advertisements alongside popular Blogs etc,. etc. This Blog has been "under review"for a a few days but has been considered (by whom or what I ask?) as inadequate because it promotes copyrighted material. Ummm...yup...my/our material...but I get the gist of it all. I just thought it would be cool to allow you faithful readers the chance to share in purchasing plastic footwear, Viagra and cheap cosmetics...but forward we go. And, by the way, if you have your own Blog and are considering the Ad Sense route, ensure you have a degree in IT or the aptitude of a nuclear physicist. I sincerely think climbing Everest is easier than pasting an HTML code...whatever that means.
Before ending this digression, welcome to all the readers in Russia!
So here, FINALLY, is an extract from The Bone Traders. Our hero, Joe, is about to go to work:
The Bone Traders - Extract
Joe drops to his knees and begins digging with his bare hands. He soon reveals a glimpse of black material. It is wedged like a layer in a sandwich. He pulls at the material. It won’t budge so he gives it another jerk and applies more strength. He leans back on his heels.
The material suddenly gives and pops out
the hole. Joe falls back on his backside. Attached to the remnants of the
material are the well preserved, skeletal remains of a human hand.
You
can barely recognise the colour of this material, but you finally do. It is the
colour of the clothing worn by the armed, mounted Border Patrol.
Dog reacts by flapping his huge wings, the down draft causing a cloud of dust.
I am
Dog. We both seek a carcass.
Joe collects himself and kneels alongside
the remains. There’s an edge of excitement to him as he blows away the dust,
scrapes away the congealed soil, revealing more of the fingers and the wrist
bone.
Joe rocks on his haunches and looks at Dog.
“It’s time for my silence now Dog. But you listen to me now and listen well, my
friend. If I don’t come back, you eat me true and clean. You hear me, Dog? You finish me before the worms do. True and
clean is what I ask for.”
Dog stares and offers a blink from hooded
eyes.
He seeks
his for a different reason.
Joe takes a deep breath. “Good, Dog --
good. Yes, before the worms get me and before the Priest gets to me.”
From his trouser pocket, Joe pulls out a
strip of leather -- it is plaited, like a fake dog’s bone -- and he puts it
between his teeth, and chews down on it so it becomes an extension of his
mouth. He gets comfortable on his haunches, settles his feet on the ground,
ensuring his boots grip the earth’s crust. He’s planting himself.
Joe bites down on the strip of leather with
force.
The
dark feathered pigeons in Trader’s coop flutter in panic as he snatches one out
of the air. He holds the bird, calming it, stroking it with his manicured
fingers before opening the door and releasing it. A flutter of wings snapping
in the sunlight as the pigeon takes flight.
You are able, through the gap between the
two boulders, to see the man who is hunched over what you mistakenly think is a
pile of garbage, of plastic. Out of the corner of your eye you take notice of
the size of the bird that sits as stoic as a statue.
You see the naked back of the man. His
shoulders are broad and glisten with sweat. You inhale quickly as you see the
muscles on the man’s back tense and ripple. You hold your breath as those same
muscles remain taut. Your reaction is alien to you and you are confused by it.
You shift your position silently for a
better view. Now you see that his hands are hovering over what you think is
garbage, plastic. Every sinew in the man seems to be working. He rotates his
body and his chest suddenly expands with a breath of air or is it shock? That
thing between his teeth – he is gnawing on it, his jawbones set rigid.
You are trying to hold your own breath.
There is a tremble to his hovering fingers.
You exhale and ‘yelp’ simultaneously as the
man is suddenly thrown backwards as if kicked by an invisible horse, a
something. You clutch your mouth to stiffen any further noise as the man is
slammed against the ground.
There he remains motionless.
....(feel free to comment!)
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