“Wolfran haunch… git yer fresh wolfran
haunch right ere! Five trills a kilo… Goin fast! You won’t find no better deal
this side of Kantar!” The man’s booming voice made Lorne cringe, as he made his
way through the bustling market place on Amari 4. He’d always hated market day.
The heaving mass of sweating bodies crammed inside a sweltering space — fit for
around only half their number — made his skin crawl and his head ache fiercely.
If only Eddie would move with the times and
get himself a decent relocator! But then, Eddie was a Vulg, and Vulg’s were a
notoriously skittish species; technology really wasn’t in their wheelhouse.
Even something as low tech as a simple cell regenerator, was looked on with an
overwhelming degree of suspicion and distrust. Lorne had even brought up the
idea of moving into the relocation racket on a couple of occasions, but Eddie
had just shut him down cold, saying that he had no intention of handing himself
to the enforcers on a silver platter. It was ridiculous! Everyone and their
cousin, from Amari 4 to Iridion, knew that, although the enforcers monitored
all on-world transportation signals, relocators worked on a completely
different principle. They were nigh on untraceable — even if you somehow
managed to get your hands on the source machine.
“Damned Vulgs!” Lorne muttered to himself,
rolling his eyes as he squeezed his way past yet another overflowing cart —
fresh fish this time… at least that’s what the badly scrawled and misspelt sign
claimed. Personally, Lorne had his doubts. The ripe smell made his stomach
churn, as the day-old bagel, which had the audacity to try and call itself
‘breakfast,’ threatened to make a final curtain call. He bit it back, the
acidic taste in his mouth only adding fuel to the fire of his irritation.
“To hell with Eddie! If I had any sense,
I’d just cut ties with the odious little scum-sucker once and for all!” The
words should have made him feel better, but they fell short… mainly because
they rang about as hollow as an Urok’s skull.
Eddie was a lot of things – most of which
would turn a man’s stomach more so than invite a closer acquaintance – but
there was one thing that Eddie was not… and that was a liar. Ignorant and
repulsive, yes, but if he said he would hook a guy up, then the little sack of
black-hearted bile would do just that… so long as there was enough ready trill
in the exchange to make it worth his time, of course.
He needed Eddie… or, rather, he needed what
Eddie had. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t curse the stars above, that the
repulsive little Vulg just happened to be the one person on this godforsaken
rock who’d manage to get his grubby little claws on one!
It was sheer luck alone, which saved his
ass as he ducked into the alleyway entrance to Eddie’s black-market dive… well,
that and the superior might of the renegade bagel, which chose that same moment
to forcefully insist that they part company.
With a groan, Lorne staggered over to the
stack of broken crates, which littered one side of the narrow, cobbled walkway
and noisily launched his partially digested breakfast into the overflowing
refuse channel which ran sluggishly along its length. The barely moving
wastewater disappeared into a storm-drain just outside of the doorway to
Eddie’s shop — a doorway which was, at that very moment, belching out what
seemed like an endless stream of hard-faced, chorium-plated enforcers.
Lorne would have tried to slip back out
into the crowd, which was still jammed together like red-faced sardines in the
main drag, but apparently the bagel wasn’t quite done with him yet.
“What do we have here then?” One of the men
said, walking over to where Lorne was leaning miserably against the
slime-covered wall. “Just anuva
‘skaghead’, Sir. Damned place is crawling wiv em. Magister needs reportin ta
the top brass if yer ask me…”
“…but I didn’t ask you, did I, Oiler?” The
commanding officer’s words were somewhat refined, hinting at a high-born past
perhaps — in Lorne’s experience, those ones were the worst; sadistic devils to
a man. He also kept his tone smooth and low, but there was no missing the
underlying threat in them. He had witnessed the reality of that threat one more
time than he’d ever wished to. The man called Oiler gulped audibly and fell
Lorne kept his head firmly lowered; he
couldn’t chance being recognised by one of the men. He had sworn to himself
more than a decade ago that he’d never surrender to what the enforcers termed
‘justice’ ever again — not while he still had breath left in his body. The
enforcers liked to pretend that they were ‘guardians of the allied planets,’
but all they really were, were a group of corrupt mercenaries. These days, it
wasn’t even all that clear if the powers that be had hired these crooks, or if
the enforcers had just amassed enough dirt on them, to keep them firmly in
their place and not asking any questions. Lorne was betting on the latter.
“Is Oiler right?” The commanding officer
grabbed his shoulder and forced Lorne round to face him.
“Sorry, sir, I… I’m just sick.” The man
clearly wasn’t buying his show of humility, and he reached a gauntleted hand
down to grasp Lorne’s chin, clearly intending to force his head up so he could
get a proper look at him. He had to act fast! Only he had no idea what to do.
He was outnumbered by at least six to one, and that was if there were no more
of the hulking psychopaths still inside.
“Sir… please, I… I…” He stuttered, stalling
for time and trying to play into Oiler’s insulting assessment of him being just
another skag-addled waster. The commanding officer growled under his breath,
patience nearly at an end when the gods decided to smile down on Lorne for the
second time that day. The tepid breeze changed direction, bringing the foul
stench of fermenting fish along with it. Within moments it had engulfed them.
Several things happened at once; Oiler bent
over double, coughing and choking. The commanding officer dropped his chin and
raised his hand to his face to try and ward off the terrible smell. And Lorne,
stomach heaving once again, bent double and found to his surprise that there
was still some contents left in his stomach, even after his earlier argument
with the stale bagel. The fact that said contents was now colourfully adorning
the commanding officer’s shiny black boots was less of a blessing. It earned
him a metal-fisted punch to the gut and left him lying, gasping like a beached
plovak, in an unidentifiable puddle of filth on the ground.
“I think we’ve seen all we need to see
“Yessir?” Oiler smothered yet another
wheezing cough, trying his best to stand to attention.
“Gather the men. I want the whole squadron
back at the citadel and ready for debriefing before noon; tardiness will be met
with an hour in the stockade!”
“Sir! Yessir!” Oiler choked out between
another bout of uncontrollable coughing.
The commanding officer wiped his soiled
boots on Lorne’s shirt, then gave him one final kick to the stomach before
stomping off into the hastily departing crowd. No one gets in the way of the
enforcers, not unless they want to pay with their freedom — or, in quite a few
cases, their lives.
Oiler barked orders to the rest of the
squadron, and they all marched from the alley without giving Lorne so much as
another glance. He’d been lucky. A few moments later, he was alone again.
Clutching his abused stomach, he pushed
himself painfully to his feet. If a couple of bruised ribs and a sore gut were
the only take-aways from an encounter with the enforcers, then a man could
count himself truly blessed. He’d never complain to the fish vendor again, that
was for sure! The man’s less than hygienic practices had miraculously saved the
day… or, at least, they had done so for Lorne. As he staggered through the open
doorway, he couldn’t miss the fact that Eddie and his goons hadn’t been quite
The place was absolutely coated with the
distinctive blue-black sheen of oily Vulg blood. Eddie must have had guests too
as there was definitely some dark purple in the mix as well — Andurian perhaps.
It was impossible to tell, though. Whatever had been unleashed in here had
pretty much obliterated anything it hit. A long string of stinking slime
dripped down from the ceiling and landed on his shoulder. Lorne shuddered. That
the enforcers had got their hands on a weapon powerful enough to do this level
of ground zero damage left a sour taste in his mouth, and it sure as heck
wasn’t the bile this time.
He picked his way across the gore covered
floor to where the battered remnants of Eddie’s desk lay. Three of its legs
were in splinters, and half of the top had gone, but one of the drawers was
still intact, and Lorne held his breath as he carefully pried it open.
It contained some coffee-stained pages, a
number 2 pencil, and an assortment of rather unappealing looking candies;
clearly, Eddie had a sweet tooth. Other than that, the drawer was empty.
Lorne’s heart sank. It wasn’t there. He’d come all this way, had his ribs
kicked in, and it was all for nothing!
“Damn!” He kicked the broken desk, smiling
grimly as the last remaining leg snapped off, and the whole heap crashed to the
ground. It felt good to release some of his pent-up rage, so he kicked it again,
harder this time.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” The impact hurt his
foot, sending pain shooting up his leg, but Lorne didn’t care. Eddie was gone.
The enforcers were gone. There was no one, and nothing else left for him to
take his ire out on; so, the desk was going to take his abuse for no other
reason than that, other than him, it was the last thing still standing.
It could have been the fifteenth kick, or
maybe the twentieth that did it — Lorne had long since lost count, focused only
on the desk’s complete and utter annihilation — but suddenly there was a loud
clicking sound, and something fell down from under the desk to land in the
sticky mire on the floor.
Levering the desk over onto what little was
left of its scarred surface, he could see that there had been some sort of
hidden compartment in its underside. The small, well-concealed door was now
hanging open, but still wedged inside, was a fat roll of notes and a small,
Lorne’s heart skipped a beat in his chest
as he carefully extracted the roll and the pouch from their hiding place. He
stuffed the notes into his pocket without bothering to count them — he knew by
sight alone that there had to be at least ten thousand trills there, but he had
much more important things to focus on. Gingerly he undid the cord on the pouch
and peered inside.
“Thank the gods,” his voice was barely an
awed whisper as he reached in and plucked the unassuming, silver device from
within its protective folds. He stared down at the ionic breather, feeling
moisture well in his eyes. Such a tiny little thing, but it was the final key
in securing his family’s freedom from this god-forsaken hell hole. Talia’s weak
lungs had tied them all to this place, and to the costly medicine, which he and
her mother had basically had to sell themselves into slavery in order to
procure. With this little device, their savings, and Eddie’s little nest egg,
he, his wife, and daughter could finally afford to leave. It looked like the
slimy little Vulg had come through for him after all.
Thinking of Eddie reminded him that
something else had fallen from that hidden compartment. Trying not to think
about what he was sifting his hand through, he searched around in the puddle of
slime until his fingers located the small cylindrical tube. Wiping it off on
his already filth-stained trousers, Lorne squinted down at the writing etched
on its side;
‘Dr Orris’ patented cell regeneration wand’ the small silver letters read. Lorne couldn’t suppress a grim chuckle.
“Why Eddie, you progressive, dark horse of
a Vulg.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’ll just hang on to this if you don’t
mind, old chap. It’s not like it would do you much good in your current state,
after all.” He pocketed the device and the pouch containing the breather and
walked back out into the stinking alley. Elbowing his way back out into the
crush on the main street, he turned in the direction of the shipyard to book
passage for his family on the first passenger ship he could find, which was
heading to the outer planets.
As Lorne walked, he felt his spirits lift, and he began to whistle an upbeat tune. Perhaps market day wasn’t all that bad after all.
If you enjoyed reading my work and would like to see more of the same, please also consider donating to my Kofi fund via the following link… https://ko-fi.com/bfauthor all purchases and donations are very much appreciated.
A poetic retelling of the meeting between Saint Collen, a 7th century warrior monk, and Gwyn ap Nudd, Celtic god of the Otherworld, leader of the Wild Hunt and guardian of the dead.
Cymru – (Come – ree) the original Welsh name for the country of Wales.
Saint Collen – (Coth – lenn) A 7th century warrior monk, who later went on to become an Abbot. Collen didn’t take to abbey life, and so he spent much of his time travelling from place to place, and preaching the Gospel to the people he met. For a time, he became a hermit and lived at the foot of Glastonbury Tor, and that is where this poetic retelling finds him.
Gwyn ap Nudd – (Gwin – ap – Neeth) Celtic god of the Otherworld, leader of the Wild Hunt and guardian of the dead. Gwyn also features in Arthurian legend, and at various points throughout the Mabinogion (a collection of the earliest prose stories native to Britain).
Tylwyth Teg – (Tell – uth – teyg) Welsh fairies.
Annwfn – (Ann – oo – ven) The Otherworld, which is said to be located deep beneath Glastonbury Tor. The Tor is also thought to be the location of Avalon, as described in Arthurian legend.
Caer Wydyr – (Cayr – wid – er) One of the entrances to Annwfn and the ‘Glass Castle’, after which this poetic retelling is named. It is said to reside on the very top of Glastonbury Tor.
There once came a man to Glastonbury Tor, Collen of Cymru was his name. His cross well shined, though his robes were poor, and a hermitage he claimed. Neath his vestments beat a soldier’s heart, though he’d cast his sword aside; in pursuit of a higher calling, ‘neath God’s grace, he’d e’er reside. But in new-found devotion, he soon forgot, that while his God claimed the skies, there are ancient beings who walk the earth, and their dominion there abides. In time, there came to Collen’s ears a conversation strange, in which two men spoke of Gwyn ap Nudd, and praised his noble reign. They claimed him ‘Lord of the Wild Hunt’, ‘King of the Tylwyth Teg,’ ‘Ruler of the Otherworld’, and ‘Guardian of the Dead.’ “What madness is this? Be still thy tongues”, Collen did decry, “Tis surely demons of which you talk, your souls they seek to pry.” “Hush now, Father,” the first man said, “For Annwfn’s reach is long.” “From Caer Wydyr, it’s Lord sees all, and he’ll not acquit a wrong.” The men departed, and sure enough, that night, there came a knock. “Gwyn ap Nudd commands thee meet, at noon atop the rock.” But noon, it came and went again, Collen stayed within his cell; he wouldn’t risk his mortal soul, for these minions of Hell. On the second morn, came another rap, and again, the messenger’s call. “At the peak of the sun, be atop the Tor. Please heed my Master’s call.” But Collen wouldn’t venture out, beneath the midday sun, to meet this ‘Warden of the damned’, his faith was too hard won. Day three dawned bright, but sure enough, the messenger returned. “Go ye not today, Collen, His ire you will have earned.” With each day’s passing, a fear had grown, within fair Collen’s breast, it seemed that no amount of prayer would spare him from this test. Collen took up his sacred flask, and with holy water did fill, then placed it safe upon his belt, and left to do God’s will. When he arrived atop the Tor, Collen’s eyes went wide, for there he found a castle fair, not barren countryside. It was the most enchanting place, but his trepidation grew, as he passed the gleaming Honour Guard, all decked in red and blue. At last, he saw a courteous man, atop the castle gate, who bid that Collen come inside, lest his Master have to wait. He passed by hordes of minstrels, all making a merry tune; comely youths on shining steeds, maidens – fairer than the moon. Finally, he reached a chamber – at its centre, a gilded throne, upon the throne sat Gwyn ap Nudd, who bid him feel at home. Not seeing any other course, Collen took a seat, and was promptly offered the richest fare that he could ever eat. Gwyn told him that, as honoured guest, luxury was his due, that his wisdom earned him their respect, and every courtesy too. “I will not eat leaves off the trees, as I know your tricks fair well.” “I will not sup on fairy food, lest I damn my soul to hell.” Gwyn just smiled politely, and sent the serving girls away, “How about my Honour Guard? What think you then of they?” “Their uniforms are good enough… for creatures such as that.” Collen replied and reached his hand to where his flask was at. “Good Sir,” Gwyn asked, “I beg your leave, to ask what you might mean?” “What possible offence give they, that I have left unseen?” “The choice of colours!” Collen said, “did you think I wouldn’t know?” “Red for burning and blue for death, your demon natures show!” With that, he leapt up to his feet, brandishing his flask, and shook the contents all about, so ardent in his task. The next he knew, King Gwyn was gone, as was his royal court; feast and castle, maids and knights, no sign left to report. To this day some still swear, that Collen banished Gwyn; that holy might and pure of heart combined to vanquish him. Others know a different truth, that King Gwyn still abides, within his halls beneath the Tor, where departed souls reside. They say that Gwyn had noble aims, inviting Collen in; that his intent was to explain, and try to learn from him. How sad it is that such a truce could well have been in reach; that a little understanding could have helped to mend the breach. The lesson that I take from this, is when in foreign lands, it’s best to wait, to show respect, and offer up your hand.
The name ‘Gwyn’ is traditionally
translated as ‘White’, ‘Fair’, ‘Holy’ or ‘Blessed.’ Within the Celtic
tradition, things/beings which are seen as intrinsically good, or spiritually
enlightened, are often associated with the colour white, or more literally with
emitting such a light or shining in some way. Someone with this trait would be
seen as possessing a divine inner light or radiance.
Gwyn ap Nudd tended to be given the raw end of the deal, as many early Christians often associated his realm as being synonymous with Hell. This was far from the truth of it. Annwfn (or the Otherworld) is considered to be a light and blessed place, more in tune with the Elysian Fields of ancient Greek legend. It is a place inhabited by gods, immortals (such as the Tylwyth Teg – welsh fairies, and the Gwragedd Annwfn – a race of female water spirits connected to rivers and lakes), and truly good or noble souls from amongst the human ranks.
Gwyn is also said to have assisted King
Arthur in the hunt for the great boar, Twrch Trwyth, an impossible feat without
his assistance, as well as several other tests. In some texts, Arthur and
Guinevere are even rumoured to have taken their rightful place at their ally’s
side in Annwfn upon their deaths.
Long and short, being the person
responsible for the gathering of human souls is not an easy thing to live down
– even if you are also the one bearing them, at their predetermined time, to a
place of beauty, rest and protection… just ask the Grim Reaper! It’s a hard
job. It takes someone with great purity of heart and strength of will to do it
well; and in Celtic myth that someone is Gwyn ap Nudd.
The events which take place in this poetic
retelling, are taken from Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation of the 16th century
Welsh ecclesiastical manuscript, ‘Buchedd Collen.’
This tale is usually told as if St. Collen
successfully banished the fair folk from Glastonbury Tor, but continued
analysis of the original text has found little to actually evidence this claim.
Rather, it seems to suggest that it was, in fact, Collen himself who was
banished from the fairy court for his disrespectful behaviour in the face of
Gwyn’s hospitality, and not the other way around. Indeed, there are accounts of
Collen, despite his alleged victory, becoming deeply dismayed by the whole
exchange, to the extent that he prayed to God to guide him to a new place where
he could live out the rest of his life in peace and seclusion.
As with many of these old tales, they have
been re-written several times, and so there are several, very different
perspectives at work here; this poem merely conveys one of them.
Also, as a point of interest, the colours
which Collen seems to find so much issue with, likely have a far more benign
interpretation. Red has, for as long as memory, been considered the colour most
associated with the Fair Folk. It is associated with both magic and ‘otherness’
– no demonic ‘burning’ in sight.
As to the blue, which Collen saw as
representing the coldness of death, Glastonbury itself has a close connection
with this colour. The word ‘Glas’ in Welsh means blue/grey, and there is
evidence that the people who inhabited the lakeside village back in the Iron
Age were known for producing a high-quality blue coloured cloth.
Danu Forest, in her book on the subject (Pagan Portals – Gwyn ap Nudd: Wild God of Faery, Guardian of Annwfn) – which served as much of the inspiration for this poetic retelling – suggests that, rather than being demonic and evil, these two colours simply represented the court’s proud ties to both fairy and to their mortal, Glastonbury-born ancestors.
Sadly, Saint Collen did not have access to
all of this information back in the day; perhaps if he had, things would have
turned out very differently indeed.
Here is another fun little piece written by my father – it seems he is on a roll! Enjoy…
News and Moon News
By A. A. Moss
[Earth, 27th September in the year
has failed to locate the Indian lunar lander, ’Vikram.’ The Indian Space
Research Organisation (ISRO) lost touch with the craft as it approached the
south pole of the lunar surface earlier in the month. It is still not clear as
to whether it landed or crashed. Nasa’s Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter has
scanned more than ninety-two miles surrounding the targeted landing site, but
it has not as of yet managed to locate the craft or any residual debris.
was launched on the 22nd July 2019 from the Satish Dhawan Space
Centre in Sriharikota – an island off the coast of the southern state of Andhra
Pradesh – taking several weeks to reach its final destination, it was scheduled
for touchdown on 6th September 2019.
[Lunar Surface, 27th September in
the year 2019.]
Momble’s Unidentified Landed Objects Team (ULO) has announced that another
object has fallen from the sky. The object appeared to be only slightly
damaged, with many still usable parts. It seems that this sort of occurrence is
becoming commonplace these days.
most Mombles know, these occurrences began fifty solar cycles ago, when the
Momble Gatherers first discovered significant amounts of mechanical debris,
which had mysteriously arrived on the solar side of our planet. All of the
debris was gathered together and suitably processed, becoming a matter for the
latest discovery, however, was a surprise – landing, as it did, in a previously
unlittered sector of our world. ULO Gatherers have released a statement
confirming that this find had been especially fruitful; with many of the parts
being disassembled and re-utilised. The flat, tile-like structures have been
used to create a beautiful patio area in the South Lunar Park, and the dish-shaped
pieces, into an attractive water feature.
questions which still exist, however, are; Firstly, where did these articles
come from and secondly, what was their original purpose? We may never know.
that is all for tonight. More from us at Momble Southern News, tomorrow.
This flash fiction sci-fi story was written by my father (who writes under the pen name ‘A. A. Moss’). It’s a great little story, so I decided to share it here on my page. I hope you enjoy reading it.
An Excerpt Taken from the Journal of Survivor T446, Tham Somners – By A. A. Moss
has finally arrived! After all of the years of planning, the millions of hours
of work, preparation, deadlines, time running out, and the countless lives lost
by every single delay; hope was once again flickering to being deep in my heart.
The planet was virtually dead, it had given all and more, and we had taken all
we could from it; giving back nothing but pollution, death and destruction –
tainting its very lifeblood. We had reduced it to a lifeless husk, a pale
shadow of its former glory. How we had even survived this long, is a miracle.
There aren’t many of us left now. Millions had fallen to greed and want; the giving
in to the material demands of society. In the beginning, there had been enough resources
for everyone; very little of that was now left for those of us who still remain.
few women who did endure the hardships of living on a dying world, and against all
odds managed to become pregnant, had either been faced with the trauma and pain
of bringing still-born infants into the world or had watched as their precious babes
fell victim to the ever-growing infant mortality rate. The last viable birth
had been decades ago – our species was dying out. We were an ageing race, desperate
to survive but living on a planet which we had long ago pushed past the point
of supporting life.
pollution count was high today – higher than before; a much-overused phrase in
these times. Everything we recorded was ‘higher’ than any previous records.
Temperature, ice cap reduction, water toxicity levels, air quality – all
hitting record highs with each and every passing day. We are constantly besieged
by extreme weather and terrible earthquakes – caused by our ever more
destructive mining, extraction and fracking practices. Flooding had reduced entire
continents to little more than a series of islands. The ground that had survived
the inundation of toxic, waste-filled water, turned quickly to desert; sitting,
barren and unworkable, beneath the weight of a dismal grey sky – it was nothing
short of Hell.
we had existed – changed and mutated yes – but existence is existence, and we
remaining scientists have been searching far and wide for a new planet, one with
the specific environmental conditions rendering it capable of supporting our dying
race. Finally, a suitable host world had been located; and, alongside it, our species’
renewed hope of salvation. We would be able to settle there, in this new garden,
and reclaim at least some of what we had lost. It would take months for us to
reach this new world, but we have the means to get there.
have read the brief on our future home, and it sounds perfect. A few of the scientists
had been slightly concerned about some of the indigenous creatures which were
scattered across the planet’s surface, but others had argued that they wouldn’t
pose any problem at all. In fact, they claimed that these low creatures would prove
a valuable source of food; the strongest could even be used as beasts of
burden, to assist in the building of our resurrected society. Besides, they had
continued, we already have access to all of the technology which we had used to
adapt this planet to serve our needs.
it had finally arrived! The day had come, at last, when we would travel from
this dead world to a new home. In light of that prospect, my former concerns
seem not quite as important as they once had. Perhaps we had learnt from our mistakes?
Maybe not? Either way, was it really of any importance, now that we had a whole
new world – fresh and young – waiting to welcome us?
have to sign off this entry now as the launch sequence has just come across the
intercom. As I listen to the numbers counting down, though, I feel a thrill run
through my veins…10, 9, 8, 7… this is it! ….6, 5, 4… before long we will be
setting foot on this Blue Planet, the one which the indigenous species rather crudely
calls ‘Earth.’ …3, 2, 1.
If you enjoy poetry, myth and mysterious historical accounts, then please check out my poetic retelling of the meeting between Gwyn ap Nudd, Celtic God of the Otherworld, and Saint Collen of Cymru, a 7th-century warrior monk.
I will be adding the piece to this site in the next few days, but in the meantime, you can read it over at the Fellowship and Fairydust blog and magazine via the following link…
Hey all, I would greatly appreciate it if you would take a look at my brand new short story in audiobook format. At only £2.50, it costs less than a cup of coffee and is far more entertaining!
“A short story of love, loss and redemption. In the wake of the downfall of humanity, Tane, a lonely and ancient deity, decides to take action and bring about salvation for his human children, the planet which he created, and his own twice-broken heart.”
Written by Bernadette Flynn, and narrated by the amazingly talented voice actor, Kenneth Elliott. This professional-quality audio recording is 14:20 minutes in length – just right for listening to on your lunch break, the drive to work, or just before you go to bed! It is a work of fiction, based on one of the many wonderful creation myths from Papua and it’s surrounding nations.
This audiobook contains dystopian themes, but is suitable in content for all ages. The language used within this tale is aimed at those with a reading comprehension of age 12 and above. If you would like to purchase this audiobook, or want to listen to a free sample, please visit my Bookstore.
Many heartfelt thanks in advance for your ongoing support.
Karen Chance has stayed firmly at the top of my favourite authors’ list for more than a decade now. The Cassandra Palmer and Dorina Basarab series are nothing short of brilliant. With a cast of colourful three dimensional characters (sometimes four if you count time travel) and addictive plot lines, these series will leave you gasping for more.
If that doesn’t make you want to pick up her books then you can also check out a review for Brave the Tempest at the following link…