This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice
RULES:
Grab a book, any book.
Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
Find a snippet, short and sweet.
Post it
from Page 56 of:
I take my shoes from the pack, and put them on, ready for a light jog. I want to hit civilisation before the world wakes up, and get a march on a quicker route out.
A farmer’s wooden access gate appears on my right, which seems the perfect way for a more direct route to Mortehoe, so I hop the wooden fence into a field of cows. The song birds are in voice, welcoming me with a staccato trill. In the distance, perhaps half a kilometre away, I can see the rooftops. I run as the crow flies precisely in that direction, keeping an eye on the floor for cow muck, nimbly hopping it as I see it. It reminds me of precise foot placement in areas strewn with land-mines, this time only with smelly shoes at stake.
I rely on the timing of my activity to be the best camouflage, but fat lot of use that was back at the beach mansion. Maybe the village is a hub of activity in the early hours, especially when wound up by the search for an intruder out on the Point.
My answer is immediate and as obvious as I could ask for.
A helicopter throbs over a distant hill, the surge of its rotors suddenly louder as it enters the valley, and I see it appear over the village. I sprint for the hedgerow which frames the field, before any airborne eyes can see me.
