My LATEST BOOK-available now
In 1538 a group of monks set out from Glastonbury Abbey to deliver into safety a holy relic.
As the Abbot watches them go, little does he suspect that come November, he will be dragged on a hurdle to the top of Glastonbury Tor and then hung drawn and quartered for treason.
Strata Florida, a story of deceit, lust and adventure.
'A fascinating journey of discovery both for the reader and the pilgrims set during the Tudor reformation.
Well researched and unobtrusively woven into the narrative, we see life was not quite the bed of roses that some may think today of England's 'glorious' past.
Corruption in those who the people trusted with their souls, mirrors well some of today's current ills.
The author has created some memorable characters here who will live on in your mind well after the story has finished and this incident packed tale will keep you eager to turn to the next page, whilst also not wanting it to end.'
Amazon US http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0089MXNXC
Amazon UK http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0089MXNXC
R.D. Le Coeur
R.D. Le Coeur Email: email@example.com
My profile at the The Academi. Academi is the Welsh National Literature Promotion Agency and Society for Authors. http://www.academi.org/writers-of-wales/i/133111/
Roy is also a Goodreads endorsed author.
An interview with the author on AmeriCymru
I was pleased to do an interview with Ceri from AmeriCymru, who are based in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Click on the link and it'll take you right to it.
It's five thirty am in the Punjab. The scrawny cockerel has crowed and little eight year old Gunda Patel stirs from her fitful sleep. She is hungry again but there is no time to waste or food to eat. If she does not get a move on, the best pickings will have been taken by her rivals.
Selecting a used supermarket plastic carrier bag from a stack of hundreds she trudges through the dank dawn air down the track and into the clearing where most of the village goats are corralled.
Tired, but pleased that she is the first, she stoops to collect the small parcels of goat dung and put them into her bag. Being first is important, not only a matter of pride, but also a time saving device from having to follow the herd around all day whilst they gorge in the hedgerows and then waiting for their bounty. Half a backbreaking hour later the bag is full enough and Gunda returns home.
She hides her bag from prying eyes under some loose straw and goes to the well for a drink of water. Already the heat of the day is making her perspire, but she is only concerned with keeping her bag and its contents safe.
Gunda has a special place. A dry baked clay area at the rear of her tin and plastic lean-to. She designed it herself and she is proud of it. Retrieving the fruits of her morning's labour, Gunda tips the contents and spreads them out under the scorching sun. The smell is awful as the contents have sweated profusely inside the plastic bag. Gunda is used to this and knows that a few more minutes in the blistering sun will whiten the outsides and the smell will vanish, as will the flies.
By mid afternoon, after Gunda has kept a watchful eye on her crop, she picks up one piece of dung and sniffs it. The bad smell has indeed gone as she knew it would. She breaks it in half and knows instantly by the crumbling that it is dried right through. She retrieves another piece and tests this one too. Happy now that her crop is indeed ready she gathers it all up and places it in, what was at one time, an old animal feeding trough. Now for the hard work, she thinks, sadly. Rummaging through some old stained straw she finds an ancient baseball bat that she had stumbled upon a while ago. She had no idea what it was when she found it, she merely had a use for it in mind when retrieving it from the old town dump.
Someone had told her later that it was for playing games, but the only game she knew of was cricket and this did not look like a cricket bat. Taking the bat in both hands she plunged the end down into the dried material, pounding it loudly until much later all that remained were fragmented dusty granules.
At four 'o' clock in the afternoon the man came. He came everyday at four 'o' clock and was always prompt. He looked into the old food trough, bent, scooped up some granules and sniffed them. He smiled, then let the granules dribble through his fingers back into the rusted receptacle.
Gunda is happy. She knows that if the man smiles, then she will get paid real money. The man strolls to his ancient Land Rover and retrieves a large trunk, which always makes a reassuring rattling noise. Gunda gets excited as this is her favourite part of the proceedings when it is a good day.
The man opens the trunk and removes a scoop, a funnel and a batch of gleaming ornate glass jars.
Settling himself in his usual position he fills each and every jar up to exactly the same level. Years of experience have taught him to automatically place just the correct amount in each jar by eye. Then he sticks some sticky white plastic across the top of each jar which is exactly right for an airtight fit and are already cut to size. Then he hands each jar one by one to Gunda. She gets to screw the top on each one and takes pride in knowing that it is precisely three and a half turns clockwise to seal it correctly.
Gunda hands each one back to the man. Now comes her favourite part, she gets to stick the gaily coloured labels on. They are ornate, embossed and look as if they are fit for a Maharajah. She cannot understand the words because they are alien to her, but the man had told her once what they said.
'Organic Indian curry powder. Fresh as the day it was picked.'
“That's forty eight jars today, Gunda. Let me see, ummm... forty eight times one rupee equals forty eight rupees. So allowing for that damned decimalisation I told you about, I owe you four point eight rupees. I will be fair though and round it up to five rupees.” said the man.
Gunda smiles happily and knows she will eat again today.
Dictionary definition of organic relating to food:
'of food produced or involving production without the use of chemical fertilizers, pesticides, or other artificial chemicals.'
This is supposed to be a simple social satire demonstrating the West's obsession with authentic & organic goods without having a bloody clue as to what that actually means. It is also supposed to demonstrate that in '3rd world' countries its often their fellow countrymen who are the exploiters as much as western corporations.
Q: Do you read & understand the fine print on the labels if it's in a fancy glass jar and costs a lot?
A: Probably not.
If this little satire amused and entertained you, check out the rest of my website for my full length novels & a free downloadable short story from all your fav bookstores.