LIVING ROCK

 

LIVING ROCK series by LIZ YOUNG

PROLOGUE

Picture the scene – a world dotted with volcanoes and cut by rivers of fire that glow bright gold under a dark sky. Dinosaurs graze and hunt, tiny creatures scuttle, insects zip and pester.

Then a meteor the size of a small moon screams a fiery path through the fume-filled atmosphere and bombs a mile-deep hole into the earth’s surface. A billion tons of pulverized rock fountain skywards and the explosion flings an ellipse of mountains around the crater.

The impact creates a hair-line fissure that zigzags down the continent, and the land immediately spews lava in a frantic effort to weld itself back together. Burning vegetation pours smoke into the thickening atmosphere, the stars vanish, and morning never comes.

All grazing creatures starve and the predators follow them to a premature grave, insects eat their flesh until that, too, is gone, and there is no life left on the face of the earth.

For centuries the world is in darkness. The fissure scabs over in time, and the crater, two hundred miles long and girded by mountains high enough to be ice-clad even in summer, is gradually filled by rain, snow-melt and glaciers until it becomes a vast inland sea, from which three rivers spill south. The dust-cloud settles, and in this deep layer of fertile soil long-dormant seeds crack open, and the earth shines with new green.

Eventually a few fish crawl out of the sea on muscular fins and the slow process of evolution re-starts, but when water seeps into the underground lava-flows, the impatient earth mixes it with minerals to create instant life. Before apes learn to walk upright, a race formed of liquid rock has spread out to inhabit the lands divided by the three main rivers.

Near a tributary of the most easterly of those rivers stands a small mountain which, when viewed from the plain, resembles a recumbent giant. Half-way up its steep side, just where the giant’s mouth appears to be, is a cave...

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This photo of sea-polished pebbles proves there are many more rock colours than brown and grey, just like the Rockmen in my books. If this prologue has piqued your interest, you can buy all four books in the series from Amazon by clicking on these links:

A Volcanic Race: a novel: Volume 1 (Living Rock): Amazon.co.uk: Liz Young: 9781979086578: Books

WOLF PACK (LIVING ROCK): Amazon.co.uk: LIZ YOUNG: 9781790375080: Books

LANDSLIDE: a LIVING ROCK book: Amazon.co.uk: LIZ YOUNG: 9798618061049: Books

ROCK FESTIVAL: a LIVING ROCK BOOK: Amazon.co.uk: YOUNG, LIZ: 9798677548314: Books

I ALSO WRITE A PIECE OF FLASH FICTION EACH WEEK WHICH CAN BE READ FREE ON THIS BLOG. I WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU HERE, AND TO READ YOUR COMMENTS!

FELIPE'S TROUPE

 

FELIPE’S TROUPE

Total darkness in the Big Top – the audience holds its breath, hearts throbbing in time to a syncopated drum-beat.

 A single spotlight ignites a man dancing in a kaleidoscope of red and gold, a second figure leaps into weightless flight onto his shoulders, then a third flies through the air to land like a feather on the flaming tower. The semblance to fire is so vivid the Big Top appears to burn.

 Then the topmost figure somersaults once, twice and off, the stack tumbles and disintegrates gracefully, all three figures bow and the clowns come in.

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I hope you can see these acrobats as clearly as I can see them? Thanks to J Hardy Carrroll for the image and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog.  https://rochellewisoff.com/

I am excited this week to announce that the fourth and last book in my LIVING ROCK series is now available on Amazon. ROCK FESTIVAL, in paperback or ebook format. Follow the link to get your copy.

ROCK FESTIVAL: a LIVING ROCK BOOK: Amazon.co.uk: YOUNG, LIZ: 9798677548314: Books

MY GRANDPARENTS' HOUSE

 

MY GRANDPARENTS’ HOUSE

I have no conscious memory of the house in Victor Harbour where my grandparents lived. Mum tells stories of her brothers sleeping on the veranda, and of me crawling out of the garden one afternoon and being found, after a frantic search, eating fallen kumquats next door.

 But after forty years in England I flew back, and as the perfume of eucalyptus assailed my senses at Adelaide airport, I recognised the land of my birth.

And that house, with its cool inner hall and gingerbread-trimmed veranda, seemed familiar – or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

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This week's image is so reminiscent of the house where my mother grew up that I couldn't write fiction - this piece is 100% autobiographical.

Thanks to Ted Strutz for the memory, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog. Welcome home, Rochelle - I hope your holiday was restful. X

CARVED HEART - A STORY IN 100 WORDS

 

 CARVED HEART

At preschool, Sam and Josie shared paint-pots and finished each other’s pictures. They weathered the storms of senior school together, and at fourteen pledged eternal love, carving SJ inside a heart on a tree.

Then Josie went to university, promising, “I’ll be back.”

“But you’ll be different,” said Sam, sadly.

Josie became Josephine, MD of a successful company, her photo in the papers, while Sam built houses with his Dad.

Eventually Josie returned. “I should have stayed – we belong together.”

Sam showed her their carved heart, the initials divided by time. “Not any more, Josie – we’ve grown apart.”

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Here we go again with another Friday Fictioneers' image that prompted a 100 word story. I still haven't mastered Blogger's new format - why DO these site insist on changing thigs? - but my thanks still go to Rochelle for hosting us from her seaside holiday spot.

PARTING - A story in 100 words

PARTING

PARTING

“I’m sorry,” he said, “It isn’t you – I just can’t do it.”

“But why?” she wailed, willing herself not to cry – he hated tears – “What will we tell people?”

“It’s no-one else’s business.” He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over as he slammed out of the diner. She grabbed her bag to follow, but the waitress called, “That’ll be five dollars,” and when she ran outside he was a hundred yards away. She held her breath as he crossed the tracks just ahead of the engine.

In the interminable five minutes it took for the wagons to pass, he had vanished.

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This may be the last FF post I do for a week or two - Blogger have forced a new format on me which I loathe. For one thing I can't get rid of the underline in draft, though it isn't there in the preview, and although I've opted for black type it's blue in draft and a horrid pale green on the preview! So when the weather - and my temper - cools down a little I shall be fighting technology. Grrr!