Wednesday, 30 May 2007



The African Veldt shone with the glistening glory of a million years of sun-baked heat.
The soil had turned to miniscule globules of sand, black spots on a flat landscape featuring only a few withered trees, their once green leaves long ago turned to brown.
An array of white tents littered the landscape for as far as the eye could see. Filling the spaces between the tents was a mass of black emaciated bodies: a Glastonbury of despair.



The forest was so thick even the bats avoided flying through it. The vegetation grew fifteen feet high and the water falling from the leaves gave the air the appearance of a sauna bath after a bucket of water had just been poured on the coals. Occasional shafts of light penetrated the black doom, stabbing like daggers into the undergrowth. The forest was home to all manner of creatures but most of all those with many legs or none at all. Centipedes and snakes roamed their respective territories in blissful ignorance of the isolation of the forest, let alone of the pacific island on which it stood.
A warm tropical breeze blew in from the south-east, curling the tips of the palm trees about a mile from the centre of the island. The ice-blue water caressed the white sandy shore. In the distance, a boat could be seen tripping across the top of the horizon. It was an ocean liner but from the beach it looked no larger than a dinghy. The sight went unseen as the sands were just as deserted on this day as when they were first formed. The island, although small, was one of the largest in the archipelago and had been inhabited for more than a thousand years. A group of people had drifted off course and landed their driftwood barge and secured the island for future generations. The nature of their arrival, in a fierce storm, had stimulated their normally superstitious natures. The safety of the sands had meant that from their first steps the beach had been seen as sacred. No member of the tribe had ever again set foot upon the sands.
There were plenty of streams flowing through the island. Fresh water streams which had their source high in the mountain and sea water streams, ebbing and flowing in the many inlets penetrating deep into the acres holding the island’s luscious vegetation.
There was no need to approach the beach to fish. Over the years the beach had grown in its sacred nature from something not to be walked upon to a near being that it was forbidden to mention in public, and certainly never to be viewed. This was all helped by the fact that the vegetation grew so close to the water and so high that it all but looped over the sand, forming an arbour between the edge of the trees and the seas. It was not possible to see the sand from any part of the island, not even from the top of the mountain.

On this morning dawn came as usual, with the light breeze creeping in from the south and tripping across the leaves. With the breeze came the familiar salt smell wafting up and over the vegetation to where two insects were lying in a glade playfully teasing each other.
Isla was hovering an inch over Gandon, who was lying quietly on the ground. Gandon was pretending to be still asleep. Isla butterfly-kissed his wings. Gandon stirred in the sand and repositioned his body a little further away forcing Isla to move yet again. She smiled as his eyelids contracted, the golden giveaway of sexual satisfaction. Isla slid down on a warm current of air until her body was lying beside his on the hot sand. Gandon lay there as long as he could without moving, but it proved to be an impossible task. He had fallen in love with Isla.
Every day they reaffirmed their desire for each other in a new way. Gandon saw Isla in his dreams as well as every hour of his waking life, never once tiring of her. Now his heart swelled with pride as she delighted him once again. His right eye opened and he watched her playing with her wings. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, softly kissing his lips as slowly and gently as she could possibly manage. On good days they could last like this for hours.


A hundred miles up in the sky, Eric Jorgenson, the Captain of Raphael, opened the document case with a sense of growing excitement.
This was to be his last mission before returning to his home planet to become Chief Controller of the Space Academy. It was the most prestigious job in the Galaxy and one he had been angling for since joining the elite of the Cruiser Convoys.
There had been precious little to interest him during the past five years apart from the Dragon Invasion that had turned out to be a Virtual Prank by a team of sophisticated but harmless youngsters.
The destination had ceased to remain a secret ever since they had left the security of Planetary Level One. The figures on the screens told their own story: Raphael was heading for The Forbidden Universe.
Tales about this place were legendary, and usual highly inaccurate. Despite this fact they managed to frighten the little children. Naughty boys and girls were quickly cowed into good behavior by a threat to send them packing to the Forbidden Planet.

About Me

Author of fantasy, thriller and adventure novels attempting to cast light on the human experience. Planet Earth is here to stay - but are WE?