Just what I need: another distraction. But this one didn’t take too long and I could whip it out in an hour or so. Besides, like the anthology, it’s a chance to get published. Sort of. Not the snobby-nose-in-the-air kind of publishing. Not the I-am-getting-paid kind either. But the vanity, self-publishing-for-free kind.
Here’s where I need you. I need you to vote for my submission in this little venture. I am submitting a segment to a longer story that is being written as we go. It’s like a progressive dinner, where the party-goers have cocktails at house #1, appetizers at house #2, salad at house #3, and so on.
The host blog for this never-ending story is The Bradley Chronicles. You can read about the details of the overall project here:
There has already been one segment selected and added to the original prompt. It is from this point that my submission, which you can read below, starts. I will be adding a comment at the end of the post at this link. If I understand how the contest is being conducted, it is on my comment where you will do the voting. Please vote for me. This is for fun — not English composition class.
It was fun writing this. I had to go into my man brain. I ran the submission by my husband to see if what I wrote rang true (manspeak, shifting gears, and all things manly and unmanly that happen to the character). He gave it a pass. I hope you will, too, and vote for me. Please, please, please. (And if you submit a segment, let me know and I will vote for you.)
The voices in Jacob’s head chattered.
Jakey Boy, any plans you had to visit that cute redheaded bartender tonight are out the window if you do anything but get back in your car. Now.
You can’t do that! This guy is hurt. You’ve gotta help.
Are you kidding me? His face is all over the news. This smells like trouble. Move your ass now while you still have a chance.
Oh, god. Is that a gun in his hip pocket? No. Whoever beat him up wouldn’t leave him with a gun, would they? Why does he have a gun? If he has a gun, why is he beat up?
Are you fricking stupid? Run, you bastard. Run. Now.
Something in that last thought rang true to Jacob as the man’s eyes flew open, locking Jacob in his sights. Jacob felt ice form around his heart, threatening to shut off his blood flow. His face paled and his body drew into itself. Rather than follow his instinct to bolt, Jacob started backing slowly toward his car as he spoke. He watched for any movement from the man on the pavement.
“Hang in there, Buddy. I got a first aid kit in the back seat. Lemme get it.” He was walking faster now, backwards, as he continued. “You need to call somebody? Let me get my cell phone. You can call whoever you want to.”
The man was straightening out his legs and beginning to roll over to his stomach as Jacob turned and ran the last couple of feet to the car. He jumped behind the wheel, shoved the car in gear, and stomped the gas. He ducked his head, raking the gears, as he heard gunshots ring out behind him. The driver’s door swung loose. There was no time to pull it shut.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Holy Jesus,” he muttered, concentrating on keeping his head low and putting as much distance as he could between the gunman and himself. He ran the Saab close to the red line before shifting. When he hit the first right hand curve, the driver’s door swung out, away from him. Only then, did he dare to slide upward and check his rear view mirror. He saw nothing because the curve in the road obscured his would-be murderer from sight. As he grabbed the door handle and yanked the door shut, he felt his hand shaking. The shaking traveled up his arm to his shoulder, spreading on to his torso. His teeth started to ricochet off each other so violently, he thought the teeth would chip.
“Son of a bitch,” he shouted, glancing down. The front of his pants were wet, the warm dampness spreading across his lap and down between his legs.