Hi all. Just to say I won't be adding to this because I'm concentrating on getting it ready for publication (I got a long way still) but I felt like posting something (seeing as I haven't added any work for ages)
So here is the new and improved chapter one. Compare and contrast to see the beauty of rewriting and editing.
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Kidnapped by a Passionate Fool
Chapter one
The bus, with the warm and spicy stench of Dallas’s greasy chicken, jolts along London road at a life threatening speed. I slide a cautious look to the back of the bus and see a group of college students ravaging their yellow boxes of junk food. My lip twitches. They give the impression that their mothers could never cook that well. Along with the smell is the migraine-inducing, distorted British rap that blisters out of someone’s mobile phone. To top it off, one of them is rapping with a chicken bone sticking out of his mouth. My God, do they stink. But man, my mouth is watering all the same. I shudder and turn back round and flick my glance between the four head-backs in front of me. From what I can gather, they don’t bizness. I ruffle my newspaper and get back to my article.
The Mirror had a feature spread on several missing people in Greater London. Their disappearance ranged from a good twenty-five year absence to just over a year. The thing that made this feature significant is that the list of people literary disappeared. The authorities couldn’t find them anywhere. Not even abroad. And when reporters and the police harassed and accused the families of fowl play the following few months later, there was a huge apology all over the media because the reports and police came to the conclusion that the missing literally dis-ap-peared. And, as much as my mind tells me they’re dead… well that’s all my mind tells me… They’re dead!
It just seems odd and suspicious that a man could go missing for a good twenty-five years and no one have a clue as to where he has hidden himself. His daughter, with her sullen face, matched her mother’s features completely. A spilt picture shows how much time has past since she was five and now thirty. Sixty-four year old mum looked like she wanted to break down and cry. Eerily, her down cast eyes led towards the next photo of a young Mr. Yellow-Moon. Jason Yellow-Moon; with his neatly sized dreadlocks and small dark eyes all radiating from a proud, graduate photo. I doubt someone could miss those four blackheads in the shape of a box by his right eye. Next to Jason’s picture was that of a handsome young man by the name of Steve Clamphall. For a split second I can’t take my eyes off his face. It was simple, nothing special, but I could see ambition surface from this pampered brown skin and a glint of determination wisp from his cool dark eyes. Even his timid lips seem to hide a passionate wild side to him… what am I think? The last anyone heard of Steve was that he was lured away to have a chat with a beautiful young woman. Typical. And before I could think to say, ‘it was her!’ the next sentence says this young girl is also none identifiable and missing. I know I shouldn’t think it but it’s so flippant in my mind. They are dead! Steve’s admirable but he’s gone to the big sleep!
I glance up suddenly and try to look out the steamed windows. The bus is turning. Why is the bus turning? Isn’t London Road a long and straight road with no sharp turns? It really is turning! Before I can register where it’s turning to I am jerked forward into the back of the next seat. The hollow sound of metal hitting metal vibrates through the sides of the bus and the pitched cry of the lamppost bending ascends from the out side. The bus lifts off the ground and is arched at a slight angle in the air. The students at the back cough, choke and scream while the four in front panic. I take a deep breath and clutch at my collarbone. Tsk! I don’t believe this! And so close to home too. And on a Wednesday! Everyone knows the roads are empty on a Wednesday afternoon. This bus driver had no excuse!
I stand up to look across the other side of the road when the students shove me out the way and trample on my trainers as they run off the bus. I stay seated for a while and wait for the other four to get off too. As they climb down, they peer over to me and sarcastically tell me ‘this looks to be the last stop, love’. Really, there is no rush. It’s not like the bus is going to combust into flames or split in two. I sigh the last of my discomfort out of my body and rub my neck before reaching forward to grab each bar to get downstairs.
The beautiful fresh air stabs my face as it is so cold. I am about to join the other passengers outside when I take a quick look towards the front of the bus and into the side mirror, near the doors, and see the driver is still sitting in her seat sipping on a small bottle of rum. I widen my eyes. Of all the bloody things! I climb from bar to bar to the driver to see if I can pry an excuse from her. I stand in front of the old, Caucasian driver, running my lazy eyes over her unfazed face.
I give a quick yawn and rub my neck. "You awright?" Stupid question for a stupid situation, but the ill-concerning phrase seems programmed into my mind.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She mumbles and I don’t recognise her accent. It’s English at the most.
"What the hell's wrong with you! You, tryin' to get us all killed, you stupid woman!"
Those were the words that made her glance up from her bottle of rum. “Oh, it’s you.” Oh it’s me? What on earth is she on about? “Listen, little girl, it’s fortunate that you should show up. You’ve made my day that little more easier. Though it looks like an accident, I know what I'm doing."
“Oh yeah right! My left foot says you know what you’re doing with that trickle of rum dripping from your lip!”
Like the weather that passes through on this tiny island, her eyes bore into my eyes, into my thoughts and into my soul. It burns. It burns with the same acidic intensity as her rum. I watch cautiously as her saggy hand pops into her pocket. She opens the door that keeps her locked in the driver’s seat and glares at me with such evil intent that a lick of fire rages into the background.
Her silver eyes leer at me to a point where I am frozen to my spot. I’m not scared, at least I don't think I am, but my heart tells me otherwise as it knocks against my chest like a mad man bashing down a door. The next thing I know, the driver blows a glittery, blue powder in my face, that blows up my nose, over my eyes and on my tongue. It’s oh-so sour that I clench every muscle in my body while tears well in my eyes and my mouth gathers up a load of saliva to spit out. The driver quickly squeezes my cheeks as if she knew what I am planning to do. I swallow the lot. I gasp and instantly am overcome with a strange dizziness. I reach my hand out to try and cling to the driver but it’s too late. I fall backwards. The last thing I feel is my head hitting the filthy floor, the driver stepping the front of her boot into my ribcage and a warm gush of air circling around my body.
End
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Yeah. Wow, it's completely different from the first post. I'm quite surprised. Hope you enjoyed that.
Come to think of it... from chapter 14 the concept changes and instead of running to Sean, the main character runs for Gabriel.
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