At the risk of showing you my knickers, here’s the first five hundred words of my next Kindle release. I only started it this evening, and this is posted without revision or re-writing.
Canon City was burning.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have set it on fire.
John Smith straddled the crown of the Metropol Tower, letting the wind flick his cape with dramatic flare. Hands on hips and a steely frown, he imagined himself an icon.
“Your underpants are on inside out.”
The mocking tone of her voice ruined his moment. He turned to see her, staring back at him from a safe perch, her camera aimed at nothing.
“I don’t have time to be teased,” he tried to sound enigmatic, “The city’s on fire.”
“You’ve got time to strike a pose though,” she said, finally pointing the camera his way and taking a snap without framing it.
“I was gathering my strength,” he lied, nodding his head at the sun just as it emerged from behind a cloud. He smiled inwardly, hoping she might think he made that happen.
But Leigh-Ann Lopez seemed distracted by something. He followed her gaze, and swore softly.
The stadium blew up.
The shock wave nearly tore his cape from his shoulders as it whipped behind him ferociously. Leigh Ann was knocked off her feet, leaving one single stiletto embedded in the gravel of the rooftop. He could see her legs sticking up out of a pile of rubbish bags.
No time to be a gentleman now, he’d help her to her feet once the city was safe.
Chivalry wasn’t dead just yet for The Common Man; just on hold.
That was his name here on Earth. The Common Man. With his blue cape, white suit and red pants, he was a beacon of justice in Canon City. The red cross emblazoned across his chest was a symbol of everything good about humanity.
John Smith had chosen his outfit wisely.
Except the thong.
That often got hitched up in his crack.
He reached round behind his cape and tugged it free from its buttocky prison. As it snapped back in to place, he took a moment to feel his ass. Nice and muscled, the way a good ass should be. Not like that dick The Dark’s ass, all moulded plastic armour; this was all his.
John Smith stared at his boots. There was something he was supposed to be doing.
He lifted his head up, just as a car smacked him in the chops.
The flaming chassis burnt into his skin and knocked him clean off the tower, sending him hurling out in to the air with a face full of Mazda. Grappling with it, he extricated himself from the twisted metal and tossed it aside.
It landed on a dog.
The Common Man hovered and bobbed twelve storeys up, his hair smoking, and spat out some teeth.
They landed in the splattered remains of a dog.
Two new incisors slowly began to grow in his mouth. He might be called The Common Man, but John Smith was no ordinary man.
He wasn’t even a man.
We’ll see what happens over the coming weeks. I might post some more as and when I feel like it, but who knows.
Rotten Apple got a second 5 star review today, so why not have a look?