writers-circles.com

If it gets any colder, I'll freeze to death. My fingers belong to some other guy. It's just a matter of time before I fall. That'll solve the freezing problem. You'd have thought she'd have given me somewhere to put my feet. It's always like this at the end of a chapter. Last time she left me on a burning boat full of dynamite. It was three weeks before she put my disk back in the machine.

Let me introduce myself. The name's Glue, Jim Glue. It's a goddam stupid name, but I'm stuck with it, if you'll pardon the pun. I can't imagine how she thought of it.

I've a goddam awful pain in my biceps. I don't think my fingers will ever straighten again. Hang on (that's a good one), she's coming.

Hey! Mrs Author. I'm here! Didn't anyone ever tell you that it can go cold in late summer in northern Arizona? This is seven thousand feet above sea level for God's sake. Try doing a bit of research. All the best authors do it.

Don't just walk past! If you don't help me now Secret Agent Glue will be a statistic; inactive due to him being dead, deceased, expired, defunct and all the other words in the goddam thesaurus. Do you hear me? You'll have no story because your superhero will be a mashed up splodge fifteen hundred feet down at the bottom of a canyon. And why did you have to choose a sandstone canyon? The goddam rock's crumbling!

She's picked up the box. She's opening it. No, you stupid dame, you picked out the wrong disk. That one's your romantic novel you're writing under your other name. At least I won't have to share the front cover with Candy Honeycomb. I'd throw up. Mind you, the way you're going on, this story is on its way out. I suppose where I'm concerned you've got this 'writer's block'. If you don't get unblocked soon you'll have no story anyway.

That's the problem with her. She puts me in impossible situations and then she can't get me out. In the burning boat scenario, the sea was full of Great Whites with a taste for blood. She cheated there. A touch of the Deus Ex Machina when a chopper turns up and winches me off a few seconds before the boat blows.

As if I hadn't got enough problems, there's a storm coming. If she'd set this in spring I'd have a chance. Do you want to know how I ended up like this? I'm going to tell you anyway because it takes my mind off my little problem.

After I'd gotten away from the boat she gave me a bit of leave. Had a few superficial burns. Two weeks in the Caribbean with Agent Spencer was enough to cure any guy of anything. Agent Spencer is one fit lady. (Mrs Author doesn't believe in using clichés but she's not listening, so who's to know.) I mean Spencer is the answer to any man's prayer. About five eight with long auburn hair and green eyes that promise the Universe. And her body ... I'll not go into that, I could lose concentration.

After the leave they sent me to follow up a lead. We'd had the nod that GRAB, that's Guns, Revolutions and Bombs, were storing weapons up in Piper's Canyon, in a cave half way up the side. It could only be reached by mule or chopper. Using a chopper was pretty risky. One freak gust up the canyon and the chopper was matchwood and scrap metal. Talking of freak gusts, it's getting goddam windy. Chunks of rock keep falling past. If only I could get a foothold. One foot would do.

Hey author lady! Forget Priscilla's dilemma. She can have both men; nobody bothers these days. What about me? Your old buddy Jim Glue. I'll even forgive you the name. Just get me out of this mess will you? She's not listening. Women never listen. She made me into a chauvinistic womaniser so I'll behave like one. Not my fault.

Hey, I've found a bit of ledge with my right foot. That's better. It's only about an inch wide but that's an improvement on thin air.

GRAB's top guy is Rodney Snodgrass-Smythe. Probably squirms like hell when he tells people his name. He's a Brit - ex SAS captain gone bad. Real bad. I mean he makes Al Capone look like an altar boy. Do you get the picture? (If she keeps ignoring me I'll turn the whole goddam story into a string of clichés.)

I thought Smythe was in the cave. I threw a rope over the edge of the canyon and started to climb down the side. Somebody had tipped him off. We think one of our agents is feeding them info. Anyway, then Smythe appears at the top of the canyon. He's holding a machete and he starts hacking at the rope. It breaks and I begin the slide. I grab anything on the way. That's how I come to be stuck here, hanging on for dear life in the middle of a storm. Smythe didn't stay. I guess he must have reckoned I'd no chance.

Hey Mrs Author! That's your chance. Smythe thinks I'm dead. For God's sake let me climb out of here before its too late. She's getting up from the machine. It's only to rub her butt. Why don't you get a cushion?

Now her old man brings her coffee. Spoils her. He should be a bit more like me. Show her where her place is. As far as I'm concerned women only have two uses and one of them is cooking. He's asking her about me. You tell her, pal. Yes, it is about time poor damn Glue was rescued. Send for the cavalry. He's telling her what to do. Some guy, huh! Great minds and all that stuff. My disk is going in the machine. Tough luck Priscilla!

That's it Mrs Author. Click on Open. File name Glue Seven. Click on OK. Oh no, she can't remember what she's written. She's starting to read from the first page.

Hell, that was close! I could end up being fried here. Speed it up Mrs Author or Agent Glue is going to get frizzled by lightning.

What's that noise? Another chopper. Perhaps ... Watch the wind, buddy boy. Oh hell, it's theirs. There's a guy hanging out. He's got a rifle and I'm target practice.

She's up to page eight. I'm on ten. C'mon surely you can remember. I'm on the canyon face hanging on by my fingertips and one foot. I've been here for two weeks.

Page nine. A bullet's struck the ledge under my foot and I'm sli…'

Wow, that was close. My goddam heart's beating fit to bust. Just managed to hang on that time. The chopper wasn't quite so lucky. It hit the side of the canyon and went down like a stone. There was one hell of a firework display when it hit the bottom.

Don't look down any more, Glue. You gotta see if you can find a way up. Hey, watcha playin' at. There's a rope just hit me on the head. Somebody's shouting. Yeah, I've got the harness. It's fixed. C'mon now, for God's sake pull me up.

I'm out. Legs are like rubber. I've gotta sit down. I wonder if my arms are any longer? Now, those are what I call a nice pair. I'm looking at legs covered up so tight that there can't be room for any air between skin and material. They remind me of Spencer's. Oh f... f... God damn that woman. She can't say the f-word you see. If she can't say it she won't write it. How can I curse real bad if she won't let me say the f-word? And believe me I need to curse now.

You see, it is Spencer. I ask her what she's doing. She tells me to shut up and points a gun at me. I feel real let down. Spencer and I were ... well, I thought we were. Looks like I was wrong. Please Mrs Author, can't you give me something permanent in my life? This womanising's okay but a guy wants to settle down.

Spencer, love of my life, is working for Smythe. We knew we had a bad apple but I never thought it would be Spencer. Shit. (Mrs Author lets me say that.)

I'm stuck here with Spencer pointing a gun at me, telling me that Smythe wants to talk to me and he's not very pleased about losing his chopper. Talk to me! No way. I watched him too long; know the way his mind works. He's pissed off because he lost his chopper. He just wants to watch me squirm before he kills me.

She's left me alone again. Mrs Author I mean. Gone back to the other novel. If you remember, some dame called Priscilla had to choose which guy she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Lucky Priscilla. Well now Mrs Author's decided that neither of the two guys are good enough for Priscilla. I remember what she looks like, tall, leggy, blonde, athletic. Very tasty. It's a pity the rest of the story is crap.

I wonder if she's gonna kill me off. Is this the end of Jim Glue? This is the seventh Glue thriller. Perhaps she's doesn't like me any more. Naw, I'm goin' soft. This is only chapter seven. She can't kill me off in chapter seven.

Chapter eight and I'm back in the machine. I'm being flown to Smythe's ranch somewhere in southern Colorado. Ranch he calls it; it looks more like Fort Knox.

Spencer doesn't speak all the way. I keep catching her looking at me but when I try to make eye contact she just turns away. Perhaps she has some regrets.

Smythe meets us at the door. He and Spencer go into the big clinch. I can see by the way his hand strokes her butt that this is not a brotherly gesture of affection. Well, you lose some . . . I don't get what she sees in him. He's got a prissy clipped voice that makes your teeth grate. It's not that I'm anti-Brit; I've worked with some good guys from across the pond over the years. But Smythe and his eye patch, they both give me the creeps. Somebody should tell Mrs Author that stereotypes are out. Heck, I'm just jealous; he's got my woman. One of Smythe's heavies pushes me through the door and then down into some kind of cellar. There's meat hooks hanging from the ceiling so I guess it was where they kept the carcasses in the days before they had iceboxes. Thick walls to keep out the heat. Nicely soundproofed. Have you ever been locked in a room in total darkness forever, that's what it feels like in here? Roaches don't exactly freak me out but I sure don't like 'em crawlin' on me. Hope Mrs Author's not gonna leave me like this for weeks. I thought hangin' off a rock face was bad enough. How wrong can you be?

I reckoned I'd been down in that cellar for two or maybe three days when the door opens and Smythe stands there. He switches on the light and I screw up my eyes because it hurts like hell. Asks me how I like my cellmates. I tell him to piss off and he laughs. Sounds like a mule with adenoids. Spencer's behind him carrying a semi-automatic. I take one look at her cold eyes and tell Smythe he's welcome to her. Perhaps one day she'll find another guy and sell him out. He doesn't like it. I know that because he sticks his foot in my gut and then as I double up he plants his fist under my jaw. I ask him why he didn't let me die in the canyon as if I didn't know. He says I've been on his back for too long and I've cost him a lot of dollars and dying quick's too good for me. Says he's gonna leave me in the cellar 'til I rot.

I spit blood and wish I could say the f-word and he closes the door and I'm left alone for the rest of my life. How are you gonna get out of that, Mrs Author?

Well, she must have heard me. The next thing I know the door flies open and I see a woman silhouetted against the light outside. The first thing I think is that it's Spencer come to put me out my misery but as my eyes get used to the light I see a tall, leggy blonde in full combat. Believe me, it isn't just women who get turned on by uniforms. Behind her are a couple of guys with guns. She looks me up and down and then says, Daniels MI6. Did I say I didn't like the way Brits talk? Forget it.

I turn on the old Glue charm. Call me Jim, I tell her. She tilts her head and smiles. She is beautiful. She holds out her hand to help me out of that hellhole. 'Hello Jim,' she purrs, 'you can call me Priscilla.'

Copyright © 2002 CHRIS WOOD

Ashton Writers would be very happy to hear from anyone about this story. Please email them at Ashtonwriters@aol.com