Tires screeching, the armoured truck thundered up the city street, ignoring traffic lights, barrelling around corners with just enough deceleration to keep from toppling over. Ray could hear the police sirens wailing outside. He couldn’t see the cars escorting him, though. Not through the windowless steel walls of his mobile prison. The bench he sat on was unforgiving and cold and the chain between his collar and the floor was too short. Every bump in the road rattled his spine and, if he didn’t hunch down to give the tether a little slack, painfully jerked his head forward. He’d asked his guards if the increased precautions were really necessary. They replied by attaching them with extra vigour. Despite moving on without him since his incarceration, it appeared the world was still plenty frightened of what he represented.
Writing is a notoriously solitary business. What keeps you at it? The fame that constantly eludes you? Getting a lie in mornings? The rubber?
I’ve worked as a teacher, for a non-profit, and as a lawyer. None of them worked out because I don’t deal well with hierarchical social structures. It’s best I work alone for everyones’ sake. Seriously though, I come from a tradition of storytelling. My grandfather used to tell stories that ranged from absolutely true to complete farce as a way of connecting with people. He was a big rig diesel mechanic who seemed to come truly alive when he was able to spin a tale for his friends and see their reactions. I guess I inherited his calling to entertain.