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Hi

Been following since reading Harry's excellent How to Write but new to Jerico Writers. I hope this is the right place to post my 250 words. 

Took Harry's advice and created a website with a free book to start a readers list. My excerpt is from the free book; 'An Assassin's Tale - Tuba'. It examines the transformation of an abused orphan to idealistic soldier and eventually, lethal assassin.

'Tuba' is a central character in my trilogy, 'Ned's Head - The Boy With The Unforgettable Memory'. One of fifty lethal agents, each named after a classical instrument, operated by a psychopathic banker code-named 'Conductor'.

*

He walked to the window with four foot-slaps on the bare linoleum and wiped frozen leaves of condensed breath off the single pane. The blurred red bricks of his neighbour shivered back at him. He dragged his clothes on and sat on the edge of the hollowed-out, single bed that had tortured him every night since leaving the orphanage. It squeaked its usual protest.
A cheap, plain table and doorless wardrobe – the only other furniture in his room – both stood within easy reach. Everything was brown. Floor, furniture and threadbare curtain. Even the ceiling was stained the dull, sticky caramel unique to nicotine. He examined the papers lying on the mug-ringed table and glanced once around the room.
“No contest,” he decided.
He grabbed his denim jacket – turning sideways to the window to put it on without hitting the wardrobe. Opening his wallet, he flicked a thumb across his entire life's worth. Two hundred and forty five dollars and change. It fitted perfectly under the button-down flap of his breast pocket. He took a black woollen beanie from the top of the wardrobe, beating it twice against his thigh and making a face at the dust. Lastly, he took the white sheets of paper off the table – his birth certificate, school report and diploma – sneering at the revulsion they still provoked every time he looked at them. He would never forget the look of triumph on Father Dooley's face as he tossed them on his desk – while the memory of Peder Swanbeck burned on the grate behind him. He rolled them together and slipped them into an inside pocket. Stepping out into the crisp air, he decided to walk the couple of miles to Tremont, and headed north with a light step and a head full of dreams.

*

Thanks

Seán.

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