When Hazel Loman reached her front gate, she stopped and pulled the bobble out of her hair. She still felt tired and couldn’t get the smells of meat and dairy out of her nose, but just being able to shake her wavy, strawberry blonde hair loose made her feel that bit better. When she put the key in her front door and turned, the door was pulled open from inside. She yelped, before clamping a hand over her mouth. “Hazel.” Her father stood at the door, chuckling. “Sorry if I startled you.” She felt her cheeks burning as she stepped inside. “Hi dad. Yeah, no worries.” “How was work?” “It was work.” She said with a shrug.
Here we are! Cover art for From the Hill of Megiddo, which I have to say makes this whole publishing lark feel that much more real. It's not too bad either, if I do say so myself.
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.
Myles Dáithín was early, because of course he was. It was an uncanny knack that he had when he was trying to turn up late, or at least not first, that everything would take far less time to do than normal. Even the buses, normally reliably late, would arrive not just on time but actually early or late enough to coincide with him reaching the bus stop.
The full moon shone the deep red of spilled blood high above the ruins of Tel Megiddo. Gaspar glanced at it only briefly, thinking it somewhat unusual, before his thoughts went elsewhere. There were more important matters to worry about than the colour of the moon, after all.