Graeme Smith - Books
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So one day, I was slicing onions. For the record, red onions. I know. What the heck have - or in this case, did - red onions have to do with writing? Well, they did. Because I was slicing the onions - for a chilli, I think - when I 'saw' it. In my head. I say 'saw' rather than saw because - well, because I'm aphantasic. I can't actually see things in my head, or hear sounds or smell smells like I'm told other people do. Never have been able to. I only 'know' they're there. Numbers, logic patterns - not a problem. But pictures? Sensory content of any kind? Nope. But - well, back to the onions. So I was slicing them - and it was there. In my head. A truck, a big eighteen wheeler. It was going down the road. I couldn't see into the cab, but I knew there was someone in it. And I could see the truck's bright lights beaming into the night. And I couldn't help it. I stopped slicing the onions, and I started writing. Just a page or so. By the time I was done, I knew more. That there was indeed someone in the truck. That there was a hitchhiker up ahead.
And that that hiker would never be seen again.
That's how it is sometimes. Just like that. So I put the pages aside - and went back to the onions. But the pages, they waited. They can be good at that. And one day, they said 'Hey. About that truck...'
This is what followed. Over to y'all...
18 Wheels and no Roses - Road like a River(Book 1)
"Hey, Charlie. You like the truck better? Than the boat, I mean?"
That’s what she said as she walked away from the last ride she should ever have taken. And this one was smart. Kharon, even if he went by the name of Charlie these days, knew she’d be okay.
But this one wasn’t just smart. She was different. Because this one came back.
Charlie's a trucker, an Independent. Meaner 'n snakes, he’s been there, done that and kicked its butt—twice. What Charlie picks up, he delivers. Now Charlie’s biggest customers want him to take on an extra little job—an investigation into missing deliveries. Charlie turns them down flat. Because when god an’ the devil (not God and the Devil—it’s a union thing) are both sounding scared, a smart trucker drives away.
Then Rosie comes back, scarred from a whipping she swears Charlie gave her. It’s not like she’s the first to try to kill him. But she damn near succeeds, and not even the idiot in the lion skin did that. And it’s soon clear that whoever’s stealing souls wants Charlie in the frame—so they can take what’s in his truck.
Now Rosie's pissed. And Charlie’s pissed-er. And someone’s going to pay. Because nobody— not god, not demon, not poly-dimensional trans-optical hyper-sentient autonomous non-organic entity—nobody touches his truck.