The Exchange

“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 silent.

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 here. Oiler!”

“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 so lucky.  

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, velvet pouch.

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.

©Bernadetteflynnauthor.com 2019

The Glass Castle

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.

Glossary

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.

Afterword

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.

News and Moon News

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 2019.]

Nasa 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.

Vikram 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.]

The 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.

As 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 history books.

This 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.

The questions which still exist, however, are; Firstly, where did these articles come from and secondly, what was their original purpose? We may never know.

And that is all for tonight. More from us at Momble Southern News, tomorrow.          

An Excerpt Taken from the Journal of Survivor T446, Tham Somners

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

It 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.

The 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.

The 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.

Still, we had existed – changed and mutated yes – but existence is existence, and we were survivors!

Our 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.

I 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.

Yes, 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?

I 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.

The Glass Castle

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…

https://fellowshipandfairydust.com/2019/09/02/the-glass-castle/

Eteroa – A Second Chance

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.

A Magical Series With A Healthy Dose Of Chaos!

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…

Calling All Poetry Lovers!

Solitary Secret Paths is on offer at Amazon in both kindle and paperback format at only £1.16 again at the moment (RRP £5.45). That’s a huge 79% saving!!!

If you haven’t had a chance to buy it yet, or know someone who enjoys poetry and deserves a thoughtful gift, the you can find Solitary Secret Paths via the link below.

Also, please remember that honest reviews are an authors lifeblood — the more the merrier!!

Have a wonderful holiday all.

Solitary Secret Paths https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1549857509/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_i_QpxUCbQ10G2C5

Behind Closed Doors…

I’d like to encourage you all to check out, and wish a happy book birthday to, ’Behind Closed Doors’ a fantastic new anthology of literary works from talented authors right across the globe.

This collection of short stories, essays and poetry has been painstakingly compiled and edited by the wonderfully talented Casey Laine.

It also features a piece of poetry by yours truly!!

You can find the 188 page anthology in e-book format for an introductory steal (at only £2.25) via the following link…

https://www.amazon.com/Behind-Closed-Doors-Writers-Assembled-ebook/dp/B07FDHRNQQ

Morality vs the Written Word

Today a question was asked in one of my writing groups and as it’s not the first time I’ve seen a question of this nature when thumbing through the posts, I decided it merited an article of its own.

An author had used the word ‘lame’ in the context of a character replying to a proposed idea as such.


Character 1: “I’m going to skip the party and just chill in the library.”

Character 2: “Lame.”


The author in question had then sent their work on to beta readers, one of whom came back and informed the author that by using that word they were in fact being ableist.


[Ableism: discrimination in favour of able-bodied people.]


The author was addressing the writers group to get further feedback to ascertain how other writers viewed the issue so that she could make the decision on whether to remove the word from her work as the beta suggested.

Many of the group agreed that within the context of her work, the use of ‘Lame’ was perfectly acceptable and that for it to actually qualify as ableist, in any real sense, there would have to be the proper intent behind the use which was clearly absent in this case.

One member was brave enough to challenge the overall opinion, however, citing that people shouldn’t use the word because it could cause offense and went on to describe an occasion where a friend of hers had used the word ‘crippled’ in her presence even though she herself was wheelchair bound for much of the time.

She cited that language evolves alongside empathy and that we have a duty to bear that in mind when writing, and that she herself would never use the word ‘lame’ in her work for this very reason. Several of the points that she made were completely valid and in one sense I applaud her bravery for coming forward and defending her beliefs.

The word ‘lame’ is most often used in today’s society to describe something that wouldn’t be good or enjoyable. When you take into account that it used to be the most widely used description for anyone with mobility issues that does sound pretty bad doesn’t it?

I must admit that in my real life I usually choose to err on the side of empathy and common sense wherever possible. That being said, in my opinion it is also important as writers to understand that the worlds which we write and our real selves/lives often lie miles apart in many ways.

One of the hardest things for any writer to accomplish is the formation of three dimensional believable characters. Without these, stories are little more than a block of uninteresting text on a page.

If we all only wrote characters with our own moral values then stories as a whole would become very dull indeed. Basically, we would spend our days either writing stereotypical superhero’s or every story would end up containing miniature versions of our most pedestal-living selves.

Let’s face it, were that the case, no one would want to read a single word we penned down at the end of the day, no matter how much blood, sweat and tears we poured into the endeavor.

The key to a great story is to have a wonderful array of colorful characters who cover the whole spectrum from truest good to darkest evil. That being said our characters also need to be as realistic and true to their natures as possible, including when it comes to swearing, crossing the moral and ethical line etc.

In conclusion

Should you use ‘lame’ when referring to another human being in your day to day life, down at the local supermarket maybe? Or in the schoolyard?

Certainly not in my personal opinion. To do so could be hurtful and rude in the extreme.

In that case, should you worry about putting the word, in the not enjoyable/not good context, because your character happens to be a teen and that, like it or not, is the language frequently used by real life teens?

Not even remotely! Be true to your characters, warts and all, as realism above all is one of the building blocks of a fantastic story!!

Happy writing all 🙂