Author of From the Hill of Megiddo
Joe and his friends were sat on a very old bus, with frayed seat covers, graffiti on the back of the seats and a weird lingering smell that he couldn’t identify. A little after nine o’clock, the sky was only just beginning to darken, and the bus was now full. There was a buzz of noise and excitement.
It is the early hours of the morning, still dark. A strong fire fills the air of the roundhouse with thick smoke, as inside the mud walls and thatched straw roof a child is born. Caoimhé finishes pushing and almost immediately the child starts bawling, grasping at the air.
