chapter 1 - dicing with death

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Hi there I'm Jorja, author of Smile with Fangs. I'm completely new to Wattpad so I'm sorry if I seem to do something that doesn't fit with the Wattpad etiquette. But I'm really hoping to get this story published eventually so I was just wondering if people thought it was an interesting concept and would read it. Thank you very much xxxx 


I’m not much of a story teller. I’ll be honest, it’s not my forte. I’m not that silver tongued raconteur beside the camp fire seducing an entire audience with nothing but words. Well… that and a little torch light maybe. I’m also not that lunatic that deposits themselves beside you on the bus, when there’re plenty of free seats, to enlighten you about my day.

But I wouldn’t worry too much since I’m not here to tell you a story.

I’m here to tell you the truth.

People don’t like the truth. They pretend they do, but we all know that it’s much easier to live in a lie. It’s quicker. People thrive on instantaneous gratification. They like to categorize people into neat little boxes and tick them off with a sharp sweep of graphite before discarding the crumpled scrap of paper they’d scribbled it on. For example, you see me on the street, walking towards you in broad day light. What do you see? Snow white hair. Yellow eyes.

What do you think?


Of course that’s what you think. But if you took the time to delve into the truth you…

Well… you…

To be honest you’re safer sticking with the nutcase label. In fact you’re probably safer avoiding me all together. You wouldn’t like the truth.

So who am I then?

Well my name’s Luna Lobo, but everyone just calls me Lobo. Not sure why, it just sort of stuck. I’m nineteen years old. My favourite colour is yellow. I like to chew shoe leather.

Oh and I’m a liar, a fugitive and a murderer.

Told you, you wouldn’t like it.

Chapter 1

The great black waves lapped silently at the bow of the tiny ship, rocking it gently from side to side.

It was an average, run of the mill fishing boat - small, inconspicuous and hard to track, though the notion didn’t make Chaplin feel any better. He paced back and forth across the deck like a caged animal, panting heavily with every stride. If he was caught, he was a dead man; there was no room for negotiation. There would be no trial, no hearing, just swift capital justice. Maybe not even swift. Would he be tortured? Would the whole horrific ordeal be drawn out to the last possible moment?

His honest opinion – of course it would. Chaplin glanced anxiously back across to the cabin on the quarter deck, straining his eyes against the dark as he attempted to peer through the thick glass of its windows. Light streamed from inside. He saw the night shift crew, leaning hunch backed over a round wooden table, swapping stories and sloshing tankards of frothing liquor together in merriment. This wasn’t the time for drinking games, he thought, as he stared blankly at them. But at least that meant one thing.

They weren’t watching him.

Chaplin sidestepped quickly and pulled open the hatch at his feet, creeping down the steps into the lower deck. Ducking low beneath the beams and swinging hammocks, he slunk on through the almost pitch dark, groping for something – anything to lean on. A misstep sent him crashing to his knees and he scrambled around blindly, reaching for something to pull himself up on. That’s when he felt it. In the folds of the hammock he was hanging on to, was the very thing he had been searching for. It was a girl. A young girl, no older than five, curled up under a blanket with her nose buried in a story book. Sprawled across her lap was tiny puppy with plush auburn fur, eyes clamped shut in sleep. The young girl regarded him with a flutter of her eyelids.

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