Book extract

 

AVRON

        No sooner had they arrived at the compound, all hell broke loose. From the first eerie whistle of an incoming shell Exor began barking orders.

        "Defensive positions!  Enemy to the west.  Take cover!"

        Before Avron's terrified mind figured out which direction west was, boom!  It was too late.  Hesitation is what gets people killed and she had hesitated.

        The ground shook so hard the vibrations knocked her off her feet.  The pulsating shockwaves and incessant ringing in her ears completely disoriented her and a wave of nausea overwhelmed her.  In a distorted space between reality and unconsciousness, she felt as though everything was moving in slow motion.  Unable to discern any specific sound from the muffled cacophony around her, she found it impossible to force her body to stand.

    On her hands and knees, still uncertain of which way was up, she gripped the wet soil, trying to hang on to her spinning world.  Fragments of colour danced in front of her tightly closed eyes.  Slowly she became more aware of her surroundings and the ringing in her ears sharpened and intensified.  She wasn't dead.  At least she didn't think so.

        Avron was at the bottom of a crater and could feel small, hard objects raining down on her, bouncing off her helmet and ballistic vest.  Her face, leggings and gloves were wet.

        Eventually she began to regain a semblance of composure and slowly, through gritted teeth, sucked air into her aching lungs as the sounds above her began to sharpen.  The crack of gunfire and explosions.  High pitched hysterical screams punctuating the muffled, pitiful groans of the injured.

        She opened her eyes.  At first everything was enveloped in a reddish haze, but soon she began to see more clearly and wished she hadn't.  Pieces of flesh, some with scorched scraps of clothing still attached were scattered about her.

        A hot spume of vomit erupted from her mouth as her stomach heaved and convulsed.

        "Get the fuck out of that hole now Vetsis!"

        Framed by swirling smoke was the face of Commander Exor glaring down at her.  Legs quivering, she got unsteadily to her feet and scrambled up the crater slope to the rim.  Exor grabbed the strap of her vest and hauled her out, dragging her behind what remained of a charred wall.

        Avron looked about in wide-eyed horror.  Smoke hung over the churned ground strewn with rubble, glowing pieces of metal and indistinguishable body parts. 

        The knees of her uniform and her gloves were caked in a gory mixture of blood, mud and bile.  She looked at her trembling legs and could see where the supposedly indestructible terrabium-fibre leggings had been ripped apart to expose a deep gash.  Wondering why she felt no pain she tentatively reached out a shaky hand to touch the wound only to discover it was a large piece of someone else's flesh stuck to her thigh.

        Avron Vetsis began to scream.

An extract from my yet to be completed novel, The Blight.

Pewsey Vale

 Before we crush their flesh,
we crush their spirit.

Eager young grapes emerge on the closely planted vines of Pewsey Vale, hopes high of becoming succulent riesling grapes.

For most of course, this is a distant dream.

Indeed, what lies ahead is a nightmare for many.

They expect lives filled with sunny days and refreshing rain.

Foolish, foolish grapes.

Sun-starved days and bone-chillingly cold nights are their lot in life.

And the wretched few drops of water to occasionally fall from the skies could barely be described as rain.

Add to this torment, the nutrient starved and ghastly named yellow podzolic soil.

Oh, and let's not forget the unbearably icy frosts that are all too regular at an altitude of four hundred metres. (What sadistic sense of humour named this place Eden Valley?)

But there is a faint glimmer of hope for the hardiest of the vintage. A few survive to become strong and juice-laden grapes worthy of bearing the name Pewsey Vale.

Naturally, once they have achieved such greatness, we crush every last drop of goodness out of them.

After swapping QuarkXPress for Microsoft Word, this was one of the first ads I ever wrote and was fortunate enough to be judged Best Copywriting in Australia at the Caxton Awards.

Cicadas of Rock

 

CICADAS OF ROCK

It was the likes of Daltrey, Holder, Coverdale, Dickinson, Gillan, Ozzy and Lemmy who introduced them to me, and once we met, we were never to part.

A mobile orchestra tirelessly working day and night.

From the moment I wake until sleep consumes me.

Countless critters chirping their tuneless little ditty.

A non-musical score that has become the backing track of my life.

They say silence is golden, but I wouldn't know.

Though I once thought the Simon & Garfunkel classic was written just for me.

For the tinnitus sufferers.