Spider in the Sun.

I wrote this without having the slightest idea of what would come next or what the story was going to be about. I have no outline and no further ideas about where it may go. The only name that came to mind was "Spider in the Sun."

Guess it could one day be the opening chapter of a novel … perhaps … maybe … who knows?


Spider in the Sun.

The man screamed in agony as the sharp stone ripped through his flesh shattering his cheekbone. He lay where he'd fallen, loudly cursing himself for stumbling as he'd run headlong down the rocky slope. For perhaps half a minute he swore, using every profanity he could dredge up from the confines of his now pain wracked mind. Slowly he opened his eyes and watched in fascination as his blood splashed onto the ground in front of him, where it was greedily soaked up by the parched earth.

Slowly he rolled over onto his back and gingerly touched his injured face, crying out in pain as the touch of his fingers sent a shock wave through his body. He started breathing deeply trying to stop the wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him. Arching his back, he fumbled in the side pocket of his khaki shorts and withdrew a grubby handkerchief. This he pressed firmly against his cheek to stop the bleeding. He rolled over onto his stomach again and spat out a mixture of blood and grit, which sizzled when it hit the ground.

The sun was directly above him and he didn't need to glance at his wristwatch to know it was the hottest time of day. It began burning him almost as if it was angry that he had dared come between it and the tired earth it sought to char. Still he lay where he'd fallen, drawing in great breaths of the suffocating air into his burning lungs.

Presently when the pain in his face had become an agonising throb, he slowly lifted his head and held it on one side as if listening for some sound. Satisfied when all he heard was the rhythmic drone of millions of insects, he shifted his position slightly and pressed the blood soaked cloth more firmly against his wound.

He stared ahead into the distance where as far as the eye could see was mile upon mile of open grassland burnt brown by the merciless African sun. Thorn trees and red brown anthills were all that stood out against the shimmering heat. Still he did not move, but lay waiting for any unfamiliar sound to reach his trained ears.

This beautiful but barren land didn't deceive him. He knew that not too far away there were other men; black men with vicious, half starved German Shepherds and AK47 rifles, men who even now would be rapidly moving in his direction while he lay waiting for the fire to leave his face.

The thought stirred him into action and he suddenly got to his feet. He startled a large flying-ant that had settled on his back, probably to draw some moisture from the sweat soaked shirt that clung wetly to his broad shoulders.

He was a tall, powerfully built man with thick muscular arms and legs. His face beneath the blood and dirt was rugged and tanned, his short black hair wet with sweat that trickled down his forehead into his eyes. He blinked rapidly then brushed a hand across his brow before spitting out more blood. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he drew a deep breath and ran his tongue over his cracked lips.

Suddenly he stiffened, all his senses alert and the throbbing in his cheek momentarily forgotten. He turned his head and looked up into the cloudless sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. Above the now familiar sound of the insects, another much louder and far more ominous sound had reached his ears.

He uttered a single obscenity then started down the slope, the blood stained hanky clutched in his right hand. He ran athletically without looking back, but he was running towards nothing, for there was nowhere to run to in this desolate land.

The chopper came in low, the thrust of its rotors flattening the long grass and churning up clouds of red dust. It bore down on the fleeing figure on the ground, the nose pointing at his back and the tail high. The man abruptly changed direction and began running at right angles to the helicopter, which banked slightly. It hovered above him like a monstrous metal dragonfly.

He realised then that it was useless going on so he stopped and sank to the ground beside an anthill, resting his back against it. He squinted up at the chopper, his face now so swollen that his eye was completely closed and he drew up his knees. He sat with his hands held behind his back and despite the unbearable heat, he suppressed a shiver as the chopper put down about forty meters from him.

Two black men climbed out the helicopter and walked through the swirling dust towards the white man. Both were clad in camouflage battledress and the man wearing the flying helmet was carrying an automatic pistol. The other an enormous, almost bloated figure carried a swagger stick and from the brass on his shoulders, it was obvious he was a high-ranking officer.

The halted a few pace from the man on the ground and the pilot stepped to one side, the pistol held at the ready. The fat officer tapped the swagger stick against the side of his leg and stared at the seated man. Suddenly he gave a harsh laugh then stepped forward and struck him across his face with the stick. The man fell over onto his side and began vomiting.

The fat man opened his cavernous mouth and yawned, then scratched the side of his chin and belched loudly. His companion suddenly lifted the pistol and shot him in his mouth. The bullet tore away half his face and he was flung backwards crashing to the ground where his twitching body pumped warm blood into the grateful earth.

The white man had looked up at the sound of the shot and he tried to scramble to his feet. The killer moved to him quickly and smashed the pistol down onto his head so that he fell back senseless.

© 2013 Jett Black.

This put me in mind of early Wilbur Smith - someone I read many many years ago. An action story with the handsome, rugged hero in some kind of trouble.

I have to say it takes a long time to get going so as it stands it wouldn't work as the opening to a novel because it's too sluggish. For one thing there are far too many descriptors - every one slowing things down a notch.

Slowly he rolled over onto his back and gingerly touched his injured face

What little tension might have featured as the story unravels is being worn away because you drag the opening scene out too much. Over-dramatic details like his spit sizzling on the ground or millions of insects are bad enough. But this sentence - wow!

It began burning him almost as if it was angry that he had dared come between it and the tired earth it sought to char.

and cliches like 'as far as the eye could see' and 'the merciless. . . sun' - there's not much original writing here.

You even drag us out of the story to give us a pen-portrait of the hero.
He was a tall, powerfully built man with thick muscular arms and legs. His face beneath the blood and dirt was rugged and tanned, his short black hair wet with sweat that trickled down his forehead into his eyes.

Why you decide to do it at the pivotal moment when the reader discovers he is being hunted, goodness knows. It's clumsy and pointless. You need to show his attributes more subtly than listing them this way - assuming they are relevant.

One other word of advice - give your character a name right from the start. There's more chance of the reader engaging with him. . . and less confusion when other 'hims' and 'hes' arrive on the scene.
I had to read the part about the shooting three times to figure out who shot who.

It's a start - seriously in need of tightening, but you appear to have a story in mind and have had fun so far. Now step aside and let your main character take over. Trust him to tell you his story.

H

Thanks H ... You continue to open my eyes but thankfully always in a positive way.

For one thing there are far too many descriptors - every one slowing things down a notch.

Agree w/ hillwalker's comment, but the writing is otherwise engaging and pulls the reader along. It could stand alone as a vignette (one that begins in medias res, but it seems to beg for placement in a larger context. Who is the hunted guy and who are the hunters? from the landscape, I'd guess we are in Rhodesia or South Africa, and the white guy is either a white rancher or a mercenary soldier. If this is meant to be historical, Rhodesia is more likely, as there was quite a bit of brutal fighting going on there in the '70's between the whites and blacks. I never set foot in Africa, but I knew someone who did go there to fight with what I think was called the Rhodesian Defense Force, or something like that. He was being paid well, but I doubt that money was his main motivation. The Vietnam war was over, and just maybe he had a hankering for more warfare. Kind of like George C. Scott as Patton towards the end of the film where he nostalgically laments the end of WWII...Anyhow this guy did have tales to tell, and if he were the kind of person who liked to write, he could have written a fascinating novel or series of stories about the Rhodesian conflict...

BTW, if the hunted guy is a Rhodesian Merc, it would be odd for him to be in the bush either by himself or unarmed, so you need to explain how that happened. You'd expect him to have been carrying a .45 at his side and some kind of rifle. Even if he lost the long gun, he'd still retain his pistol. Maybe he was taken prisoner earlier, escaped and was fleeing? Also (again if this is Rhodesia), most of the "enemy" were what they called "bandits." They were relatively poorly organized. They did have AK's and heavy machine guns, but they were not commanding the air with helicopters.

For one thing there are far too many descriptors - every one slowing things down a notch.

Agree w/ hillwalker's comment, but the writing is otherwise engaging and pulls the reader along. It could stand alone as a vignette (one that begins in medias res, but it seems to beg for placement in a larger context. Who is the hunted guy and who are the hunters? from the landscape, I'd guess we are in Rhodesia or South Africa, and the white guy is either a white rancher or a mercenary soldier. If this is meant to be historical, Rhodesia is more likely, as there was quite a bit of brutal fighting going on there in the '70's between the whites and blacks. I never set foot in Africa, but I knew someone who did go there to fight with what I think was called the Rhodesian Defense Force, or something like that. He was being paid well, but I doubt that money was his main motivation. The Vietnam war was over, and just maybe he had a hankering for more warfare. Kind of like George C. Scott as Patton towards the end of the film where he nostalgically laments the end of WWII...Anyhow this guy did have tales to tell, and if he were the kind of person who liked to write, he could have written a fascinating novel or series of stories about the Rhodesian conflict...

BTW, if the hunted guy is a Rhodesian Merc, it would be odd for him to be in the bush either by himself or unarmed, so you need to explain how that happened. You'd expect him to have been carrying a .45 at his side and some kind of rifle. Even if he lost the long gun, he'd still retain his pistol. Maybe he was taken prisoner earlier, escaped and was fleeing? Also (again if this is Rhodesia), most of the "enemy" were what they called "bandits." They were relatively poorly organized. They did have AK's and heavy machine guns, but they were not commanding the air with helicopters.