This is a piece I wrote two months after the death of my husband.  It now forms part of my new book Not Your Legacy – OUT NOW on Amazon.


I’ve decided I’m going to write this letter as though you could still read it, if only you hadn’t killed yourself.  An odd decision to make I know, but in my books it’s not nearly as odd as committing suicide.  And yet it must have made perfect sense to you.  If only you could somehow come back and explain it to me and the kids.  It can never make any sense to us.  You have deprived us of the answers we deserve along with so many other things.

It’s almost like an avalanche is doing its best to bury me alive; pressing down on me, crushing me relentlessly.  There must be literally thousands of questions buzzing through my head.  Like a shower of snowflakes they’re all different.  I always have to have the answers.  You’ve always known that that’s the way I am.  So what kind of parting gift was this?  A snowstorm or a shit storm which ever you prefer and not a single answer in sight!  Is that what you wanted?

All these questions piling one on top of the other – each one leaving me colder than the one before.  There is no one to share them with, to stop me from sinking down and disappearing forever beneath their weight.  I can push them aside when I’m feeling strong enough, but when night time comes along or a day that feels wrong from the start, what am I supposed to do then?

Today is one of those days.  What makes one day harder than another?  Another question with no satisfying answer.

What about our children?  Surely the way you were feeling could never be more important than their happiness?  They need you.  I am not enough.

I feel cold.  Cold at the thought of what lies ahead for us.  Cold at the thought that you were so determined.  Cold at the thought that you wanted this for us.  Colder than ice when I remember how I found you.

Not Your Legacy

by: Samantha J Wright

published: 2014-05-26


sales rank: 526843

After a chance meeting at the age of sixteen, Sam leaves behind her father and her reformed alcoholic mother and moves to Northern Ireland to set up home with a man she barely knows.

The two of them continue to practice the religion they were both raised in but scratch below the surface and life’s not what it appears. This story documents her battle with depression, abuse, the aftermath of suicide, a troubled marriage, and most of all her disastrous involvement with the Jehovah’s Witness church.

It’s a journey that cost her dearly and as many of her readers have already discovered, Not Your Legacy is far more than just a series of real life events. It retells the story of one woman’s metamorphosis of mind, body and soul.

The Story

Naturally I remember the day we first met.  It would be strange not to when it altered my life so radically.  People around us thought it a dalliance.  But I felt differently.   I sensed there was change afoot.  Doors were opening.

December 11th 1994

“I’ve met the man I’m going to marry,” I told my mother when I came in that night.  She’d been waiting up for me in the living room, knitting a bright blue jumper for one of my cousins, by what was left of a once roaring fire.  A handful of shrivelled coals glowed in the grate, their heat reaching no further than the boundaries of the old shag pile rug.  Outside the wind picked up.  It toyed with the letterbox and rustled leaves as if it had lost something important and was hell bent on finding it.   A powerful down draft whooshed down the chimney scattering ashes and soot all over the place.  The wind must have changed direction.

“Hmpf,” was mother’s response to its mischief.  She set her knitting down on the table and reached for her trusty brush and pan.

Mother belonged to a generation of women who were typically very house proud.   She had a low tolerance for dust and dirt of any kind, even in places where it was quite normal to find it – like the garden.  After she’d swept up every little speck she settled back down to her knitting with a sigh.  I was beginning to wonder whether she had heard me at all.

“So was it a good night then?” she asked eventually.


I felt let down.  I’d been looking forward to seeing the surprised look on her face when I told her my news.  But she didn’t seem interested at all.  As I warmed my bare legs, I started to realise how ridiculous I must have sounded.  I’d walked in like a fool, spouting off about my latest crush.  Statements like that belonged in romance novels.  Not the lives of regular folk like me.  Yet the words had fallen out of my mouth before I could do anything about them. Something in them rang true.  They were instinctive, like the feeling of being watched or the knowledge that someone is honest.

No matter how trite they may have seemed at the time I have never been able to forget them.  Years later I would still remember the innocence they held.  In the dark.  On the road.  Whilst our children slept in their beds.  I would wear them again like clothes, found locked in a dusty attic.  They were the ball gowns and frocks left over from another time.  When I wore them I became another me.

I waited for her to burst my bubble, to echo that faintly audible warning coming from a far off place inside my head.

“You’re only sixteen!  What are you doing?  You’ve already had one relationship that ended in disaster.  Are you really ready for another?  What’s your rush?” the little voice had protested, as I had kissed my Irishman in the corner of the pub.

The more his dark eyes had burnt into mine, turning me to wax with the mere act of his presence, the more I shushed the voice of reason.  His strong hands had felt perfectly right on the small of my back as we shuffled around the dance floor of the market town pub.  I have no doubt that as we moved in synchrony he too was forcefully rebuffing his sensible side so that we could get better acquainted without hindrance.

“So I gather that you’ve met someone,” she said, looking up from her rapidly clicking needles.

The delay in her response was irritating.

“It doesn’t matter.  I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

How was I to have known she’d be so upset that I’d come home an hour and a half late?  Besides my head hurt and my ears were ringing, thanks to the pulsating beat at the pub.

“I have to go to bed,” I admitted, yawning widely.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hang on just a minute now.  I want to know what’s happened.”

My hand hung just above the door knob and I turned slowly on my heel.  Well, better late than never I suppose…

“I thought you weren’t interested,” I teased, slipping my arms around her neck.  She patted my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

“Of course I am.  I’m just tired and I’ve been worrying where you’d got to, you know.”

“I’m sorry.  We just lost all track of time.”

“So who is he?  What’s he like?”

“Hang on.  Just let me get out of these clothes first.  Then we can talk.”

“Alright.  I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

That was more like it.  We were both wide awake now.  Chances were we’d be burning the midnight oil on this one.

She stowed her knitting in the black and white check bag that she’d owned since the dawn of time while I shuffled off in search of my beloved PJs.  From in the bathroom I could hear the kettle boiling in the kitchen below and the familiar sound of the battered old tea caddy being opened.  Mum was never without a cup of tea in her hand.  Especially during moments of crisis or excitement.

A short while later we found ourselves sitting on my shell pink bedspread, dunking rich tea biscuits into scalding tea.  I was in my nightshirt because I couldn’t find anything else and mum wore her pale blue quilted housecoat that she had once bought for a stay in hospital.  I wondered if she could see that I was still slightly inebriated.  I hoped not, because she’d raised me as a Jehovah’s Witness since the age of four and they were never particularly impressed when one of their own went down that path.

Mother could testify to that better than anyone.  When her first marriage had broken up, she had turned to drink in a big way and had got into a terrible mess.  You would have thought that they might have offered her support, but instead she was expelled by the church and shunned by its members.  How they thought this would help, I don’t know.  Yet, somehow she managed to claw her way back from the brink of self-destruction and was now a fully fledged, teetotal member of the flock again.

“Well,” she said after taking a long slurp of tea.  “What happened then?”

I definitely must have been a little drunk still because once again I repeated my ridiculous claim.

“I’ve met the man I’m going to marry.”

She responded with a strange lilting laugh.  It made me feel good to hear it.

“Marry?” she said.

There was giddiness in her voice – a tinge of excitement, which I wrongly interpreted as approval.  I’ve thought about the way we were a lot since that day; the late night chats that ended up in me sharing far too much information and the way she had to know simply everything.  I’ve come to understand that there was far more to us than a mother and daughter who were just ‘very close.’

Modern thought has it, that some mothers develop a relationship with their daughter’s that’s so close it’s more like a friendship.  They become enmeshed in virtually every aspect of their child’s life to the point where they live vicariously.  In other words they live through their daughters.

Over the years we had become like that, especially after my first serious relationship foundered.  She had prided herself on being there for me, when my heart was broken and those of my own age let me down through one reason or another.  We would sit on my bed for hours, talking about what had happened and examining the minutiae till we lost all track of time.  Poor Dad must have felt out of it I’m sure.  But neither of us gave it much thought.  We were simply doing what felt natural.  It was parenting on a whole other level.

The lines were in danger of blurring further still now that this had happened, yet neither of us cared to acknowledge it.  There was a lot that I did not see that day whether by choice or through the act of neglect.   The recklessness.  The neediness.  The eagerness for this new relationship to simply be.

I assured her I wasn’t joking and gave her a little more background information on what I hoped would be the new man in my life.

“I met him at Steve and Rachel’s house.  It’s Antony’s brother,” I said, trying not to look too besotted.

“So he’s a Jehovah’s Witness then?”


That was important.  For us there was no such thing as dating for fun.  You dated with marriage in mind.  Nothing else.  And nobody was supposed to marry a ‘worldy person’ or in other words someone who was not of the faith.  You had to stay in the club.

“So he’s from Northern Ireland too.  How exciting!  You must tell me all about him,” she said, patting my knee.

I wasn’t hard to convince.  I’d been bursting to tell her since I’d walked through the door.  So regardless of the hour and the amount of vodka hurtling through my veins, we talked until the morning.  Not mother and not daughter.  But two friends with a story to share.

Not Your Legacy

by: Samantha J Wright

published: 2014-05-26


sales rank: 526843

After a chance meeting at the age of sixteen, Sam leaves behind her father and her reformed alcoholic mother and moves to Northern Ireland to set up home with a man she barely knows.

The two of them continue to practice the religion they were both raised in but scratch below the surface and life’s not what it appears. This story documents her battle with depression, abuse, the aftermath of suicide, a troubled marriage, and most of all her disastrous involvement with the Jehovah’s Witness church.

It’s a journey that cost her dearly and as many of her readers have already discovered, Not Your Legacy is far more than just a series of real life events. It retells the story of one woman’s metamorphosis of mind, body and soul.

Ground Zero Mark Two

They were coming I could hear them.  They wailed for no purpose because the one they sought to rescue was beyond all help.  A flash of blue whipped round the corner.  Dad was here.   And on his tail in hot pursuit was the emergency response unit.

“What has he done?” Dad said gruffly, as he trotted up the front steps.

I ran into his arms with a painful sob.  But in that moment there was no comfort on earth that could soothe away my agony.

“Where is he?” a voice asked.

It was the ambulance man.  I pointed up the hall.

“In the bathroom in the end bedroom.”

Dad went off to join him.  All alone I listened to their muffled conversation.  More people arrived.  I didn’t know who they were.  I found I could not simply sit there anymore.  I was in the way.

“He’s gone hasn’t he?” I said, appearing at the bedroom door.

“Go on out Sam,” Dad chided.  He looked visibly upset.  I stood just far enough away so that I couldn’t see, possessed by the notion that if I did not see then it couldn’t be real.  My wish was to be blind to it all in the hope that it would serve as a barrier between me and this very bad dream.

But there were bits of him everywhere.  The room, the house, my mind.  Everything was full of him.  It howled the message loud and clear that within these walls lived someone who could not cope.  The hopeless chaos of his last few days lay between every wall and corner.  The unmade bed, the unwashed clothes, the food uneaten and rancid.  I saw it all now, but it was way too late.  He was gone and he wouldn’t ever be coming back.

“This is all my fault,” I said blankly.

“You’d better take her out of here,” the medic told Dad.

“It’s all my fault!” I sobbed.  My face felt like a screwed up rag.  I collapsed against the door, unable to stand up.

“This is not your fault,” Dad said tearfully.  “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Before we left, the man in the bathroom had something to say.  He came out for a moment and stood just outside the door.

“I’ve seen many of these my dear,” he said, in a sombre voice.  “But there is one thing that I can tell you for certain.  It’s never anybody’s fault.”

Briefly a light glimmered inside of me.  Then it was gone, extinguished by guilt.

We went into the conservatory where there were two cane sofas faded from years of constant sunlight.  The memories in that room overwhelmed me.  We had spent many hours in it – watching our children play in our beautiful garden, giggling as they ran through its secret places.  Above the raised voices of the emergency services I could hear the memory of their laughter echoing through time.  This was our family room, the place that we loved best.  It was sullied now by the darkness of this shadow.  There would be no sunlight for us here again.

“Samantha, I’m Constable Hall,” said a voice, interrupting my thoughts.  “And this is Constable Ellis.”

Breaking out of my daze I saw there were two police officers standing to the left of us.

“First of all, I want to say how sorry we are for your loss Samantha.”

This unleashed another tide of weeping as it brought home to me with unapologetic starkness that this was as REAL as it gets.

“I know this is not a good time, but I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”

In some unspoken way he made it clear that he wanted my father to leave.

“I don’t want you to go Dad.  He can stay can’t he?” I pleaded.

“Constable Ellis will sit beside you, she’s our female liaison officer.  We’ll keep this as brief as possible,” promised Constable Hall.

The female officer took my father’s place but comforting the bereaved was not her forte.

“We need you to tell us what happened today Samantha.”

He took out a note pad and waited for me to begin.

Surely he cannot be serious?

I dragged my ragged tissue across my eyes and tried to compose myself enough to speak.

“Take all the time you need Samantha.”

I nodded, unsure of where to begin because like footstep in the snow the details had already begun to fade and merge together.  This made the telling that much harder.  I broke down over and over each time I remembered anew.  After I recounted the events, another set of officers interviewed me, sifting through every minute fact.  I became dimly aware that they were checking the details against my first account.  Hopefully this was procedure rather than an actual line of enquiry.

The house was full of people.  My mother and father were there.  They were overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.  Our family doctor arrived.  He took a peek at me crying and then rushed off to attend to Stephen.  Some of our neighbours were there also.  They came in and prayed with me.  We were all in a state of shock.

Suddenly a man appeared beside me, younger than I, dressed in a very sharp suit.  I had no idea who he was or why he took me by the hand.  The tears in his eyes made no sense to me.   But all the same I leaned on his shoulder and wept a steady river.  The beads stood out like molten metal and rolled off the expensive cloth.

“I am so very sorry,” he said.  His voice almost broke with emotion.  Although we were strangers the two of us were in agreement that none of it made any sense.

He held me for a while then handed me a card.  I was literally too blinded by tears to see what was written on it.

“I work for a private ambulance company contracted by the government to bring people to the mortuary.  I want you to know that I’ll be taking care of Stephen today and that you can be rest assured that he will be treated with dignity.  I also want you to know that I am on call twenty four hours a day and that if you need anything at all you can call me.  This is my number.”

His compassion was so genuine.  I could hear it in his gentle voice.  I thanked him as best I could and he left me with the others.  None of them knew what to say.  As time went on I felt increasingly dazed.

“Make sure she stays in here while we move him,” someone said.

“Where are they taking him?” I mumbled, standing up to see.

There was a trolley being wheeled down the hall cloaked in a white sheet.

“They have to take him to The Royal in Belfast.  In cases like this there is usually an autopsy,” someone said.

My stomach roiled.

The children must never know about any of this.  I must protect them.

That was the first I had thought of them.  My mind collapsed in on itself at the thought of telling them.

“Dad,” I cried, in an anguished voice.  I gripped his hand and stared out into the garden at the bright blue slide and scattered toys.

“What?  What is it Sam?”  His voice was tender and raw all at the same time.

“What am I going to tell the kids?”


Is it true, that I have dared?
To think differently than you?
I guess it must seem strange,
That I have broken that taboo.

I’ve pulled the tangled threads,
Of the questions in my mind.
And cut the cords of bondage,
So your lies no longer blind.

Your authority is empty,
A dark contagious plague.
Designed to rein the masses
And influence the vague.

What a waste of life it is,
To surrender your own will
To those that cannot comprehend,
What lies beyond the hill.

They forget about the snow,
And the lesson contained therein.
Not a single snowflake is the same,
No, you’ll never find its twin.

Their beauty lies in difference,
And their failure to conform,
Remember that and mark it well,
When you’re told you’re not the norm.

The Scourge from the North

Hunter’s lips curved upwards slightly as he watched the water burbling gently over the rocks.  The ravenous swarms blighting the land had spared several thickets of purple tympany and these stood defiantly at the water’s edge, propelling their tiny black seeds far and wide.  Near the curve of the river where a lone heron kept watch for that tell-tale flash of silver, a straggly bed of emerald reeds undulated slowly; their leaves whispering soothingly to the drunken nano bees roaming from flower to flower.  May had not yet arrived but there was a definite stillness to the air, a lull in the proceedings between spring and the onset of summer.  For Hunter the transformation of seasons was a welcome one as the winter before had been harsh. 

When the first sprinkling of snow had arrived, clinging to the hollows of the mighty fir trees on the hill, Hunter had stared in wonder at the starkness of its beauty.  The first dusting was merely a hint of what lay ahead and soon the week long blizzards obliterated not only the landscape but also any romantic notions he may have harboured concerning the aesthetic qualities of snow.  Further North conditions had been worse still, forcing the dreaded locust swarms to more southerly climes in search of any accessible sustenance.  In just a matter of weeks they decimated the local herds of deer and mountain goat which as it happened were Hunter’s main food source.  The flesh began to melt from his already meagre frame but there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it.  In order to stay alive he had to hide in the cave system behind his home as they went back and forth stripping the land bare.  There he lay in blackness hoping to avoid the dual enemies of starvation and detection.  Those times had been especially hard but summer was on its way now and he had already set about making up for his enforced fasting.

With a flick of his thumb nail he dislodged the hair fine fish bone that had gotten stuck between his teeth then casually tossed what was left of the golden finned talwan back into the river.  The river had provided his meal.  So it was only right that he sustain the cycle.   He crouched down low on creaky knees to wash the stickiness from his hands as the scraps from his dinner sank slowly downwards.   There they were carried along by the current until two triple clawed crayfish crept out from beneath the rocks to fight each other for the honour.

Hunter turned away thinking about the time before the war as he dried his hands absently on his tunic.  Back then very few of the species surrounding him had existed.  The golden finned talwan, the purple tympany, the reeds, crayfish and even the heron had all been tinkered with on a genetic level.  Mankind had taken it upon himself to fix God’s mistakes and in doing so had made even bigger ones.   

Hunter had come to believe that earth and all that inhabited it was never meant to be perfect.  He believed that there was a fine balance at work that was achieved by a meshing of various strengths and frailties’ across the species.  Life was a complex jigsaw puzzle with a multitude of dimensions.  Once one piece was changed it had seemingly limitless implications for the entire planet. 

Take for instance the golden finned talwan that he’d just eaten.  It had originally been a just a plain talwan; a notoriously difficult fish to catch because of its ability to perfectly camouflage itself and its refusal to take any kind of bait.  But scientists had created a new species by mixing its DNA with that of a trout and by making them all albino.  The trout component of its DNA caused it to snap at virtually anything lying on top of the water and the new albinistic qualities made them highly visible, especially as their long caudal fins now appeared golden.

So instead of being a rare delicacy that few fishermen were ever lucky enough to catch, the golden finned talwan became a high end stock fish for the lakes of the wealthy.  Unfortunately their albinism made them much more susceptible to skin cancer and various other mutations which were not always evident if the fish was in the early stages of the condition.  This introduced three new, particularly aggressive forms of communicable cancer into the human population so suddenly no one wanted the golden finned talwan.  A cull was ordered but for many owners it was far easier to release them into the wild by opening the gates between lakes, rivers and streams.  This further contaminated the food chain.

A year after the initial talwan incident a further complication was discovered once they began to migrate and breed in the wild.  The fish were so easy to catch that the population of their main predator – the North American estuary terrapin quadrupled in a matter of months.  This sudden imbalance in the food chain drew in another predator – one that rarely visited North American waters, let alone fresh water lakes and rivers.   This one had quite an appetite for terrapin – amongst other things…

In late autumn 2054, there was a flurry of supposed great white sightings in several of the major waterways of North America.  To everyone’s shock these were soon confirmed and an investigation was immediately launched.  It did not take long to ascertain that the sharks had developed a taste for the North American Estuary Terrapin and had naturally followed the rivers inland in search of this fine alternative to sea turtle.  This posed a major threat to people who lived, worked and played in the vicinity and not surprisingly the first shark attack occurred less than a week later.

Even at that no one blamed the scientists or the governments and companies who funded their research.  It was to take a much greater loss of life before people would begin to question the level of genetic manipulation taking place rather than marvel at their apparent Godlike successes.

This was just one of the many incidents that happened but each time something went wrong rather than admit their mistake scientists tried to fix it by further tinkering with the species.  Things began to snowball and eventually what would later be termed ‘the Lab War’ erupted.

It all started when a group of geneticists from Germany tried to fix a problem with a species of genetically modified wheat commissioned by a huge agricultural conglomerate in Israel.  They had made the wheat, nematode resistant by splicing it’s genes with those of a certain tomato plant that was known to be resistant.  The natural properties of the tomato plant contained an immune receptor that deflects attacks from both nematode and fungus agents.

Initially the Israeli company was thrilled with the new two per cent crop failure ratio as opposed to the traditional twenty three per cent.  But after about a year and a half some desk bound analyst noted that the birth rate had plummeted for some areas – particularly those surrounding the growing fields.  Tests were carried out and it was noted that women who had consumed the product on a weekly basis were unable to progress beyond the very earliest stages of pregnancy.  Women who had excessively consumed the wheat were experiencing changes in the way their immune system worked.  Instead of nurturing the foetus their bodies were now identifying the embryonic tissue as a threat and were dealing with it accordingly in just the same way that the wheat was programmed to respond to the nematode.  The changes were irreversible.

For a while there was some confusion as to why this hadn’t been uncovered during trials and then the second bombshell hit.  Four of the twelve scientists that had developed the super wheat were members of a far right group called The Pure Bloods.  Israel immediately demanded that all twelve of the group should be handed over for crimes against the Israeli State but Germany refused insisting that they would launch their own investigation first. 

Outraged at the delay tactics unidentified factions within Israel developed a strain of beer hops solely for the German market that possessed some of the hallucinogenic qualities of the minute fungus ergot.  In small quantities beer made with the crop was harmless but in large quantities it was a very different story.  The mixture of alcohol and the powerful LSD-like hallucinogenic caused psychosis.    The violence that took hold of the country was unprecedented.  In a matter of days 16,153 people were murdered as a direct result including 23 children who were slain whilst attending their first day of primary school.   

In retaliation Germany developed a swarm of locusts that had been crossed with piranha DNA and sent them into the farming regions of Israel.  In just five days they had stripped the land and had killed 73,000 head of cattle and sheep.  At that point the locusts had been programmed to die but the intense feeding program had strengthened their make-up.  Despite efforts to stop their advance a large number of locusts made their way into the cities where they killed thousands of people and subsequently bred.  The mayhem that followed became known as the Lab War.    

For the millionth time since then Hunter wished he’d had the courage to voice his doubts about the wheat during the initial stages of development.  Back then he was the youngest of the twelve geneticists who task it was to design the super wheat and as such he hadn’t the confidence in his own theories to speak up.  The men and women he worked with had many decades of combined experience.  Surely they would know far more than him about how the different gene strands would interact? 

In the aftermath of it all he felt that hind sight was a beautiful thing.  He had come to this conclusion the hard way, after reflecting on what striving for perfection had accomplished.   The mass species overhaul had taken mankind to the brink of ruin.  Playing God was not for infants, he mused skimming a stone across the river.  Compared to how he had been the last few months, his present mood was positively exuberant.

Still, foraging remained a protracted affair even though the snows had melted and the locusts had apparently lost interest in the area.  Today Hunter had scoured a four mile area on foot and the only thing he could find to eat were an undersized fish and a few berries.  Tiredness was beginning to gnaw at him so he began to make his way back to the strange make shift shelter at the foot of Flacon Cliffs.

The shelter was a primitive construct, even he knew that – consisting of nothing more than branches coated in a combination of dried mud and straw arranged in a semi – circle around a cleft in the rock face.  The door (if you could call it that) was the cured skin of a stag which he’d fastened securely to the branches with flexawire – one of the few concessions he was willing to make to the twenty first century.  As for the path, there was none, for the simple reason that he was determined to avoid discovery.  That was his sole objective in life – to avoid human contact at all costs.  In fact he’d sooner die than speak to another soul.  He’d proved that for eight years.

Once inside his ‘castle’ as he liked to call it he sat down heavily on his straw bed and marked off yet another line on the wall.  There were eight chalk lines in total now.  He counted them off one by one running his finger down their length as though reliving the years they represented.  Afterwards he lay back on the bed with his hands interlaced beneath his head wondering what the place would look like if he ever managed to cover the walls with his childlike tallies.  How long could he last, he wondered before the depravation of winter or one of the genetically engineered super species left over from the Lab War took him?  How much of the walls would he cover before he lost the struggle?  Some might think his speculation cold but to him it was an inescapable fact – all things come to an end.

It did not bother him in the least that this is what he’d been reduced to.  He welcomed the simple ways of his existence – the knowledge that little would change unless he wanted it to.  Once he’d taken people out of the equation his life had become bearable.  That was the payoff to hermit hood.

Gradually slumber stilled his thoughts and slackened his jaw, the fragrant berries he’d collected long forgotten.  They lay on a platter deteriorating in the heat, their juices oozing from them in tiny syrupy droplets.  Briefly a blue bottle came to rest on his forehead perhaps thinking him already departed.  It buzzed and danced for a little while then finally lost all interest and flew off in search of better and quite possibly even smellier things.  Hunter, blissfully unaware of the creature’s disappointment in him, slept on and on, his bated fish breath falling in contented sighs that rippled through the hairs of his grizzly beard.  All was peaceful inside Castle Hunter.  He was the king and the sole subject of his kingdom.

Then, twenty minutes into his nap a loud cry and a sickening thud jolted him awake.  Perhaps it was a vivid dream?  Fear constricted his chest as he listened intently.  Blearily he looked around his shelter wondering what to do.  There really were only two options open to him, he decided.  Go and investigate or go back to sleep.  He latched on to the latter, after a brief struggle, unwilling to genuinely consider the alternative.

Yet, strangely even though the decision was made his body did not wish to co-operate.  Having turned his back to the deer skin door he discovered he was unable to drift off to sleep again.  It was not a happy state of affairs to say the least.  As if to add to his torment the fly returned from its travels and began buzzing around his head.  He swatted it away with a limp hand deciding that it was time to put to rest this ridiculous and unfounded dread.   There couldn’t possibly be anyone out there.

He ignored the nausea building in his stomach and peeled back the mangy pelt that served as a door.  Within two seconds he’d come to a conclusion.  For the first time in eight years it appeared that he had a visitor.

A child lay motionless five or six feet away from his door; arm twisted and legs askew.  Rather than touch her, he walked gingerly round her, looking up at the rock face from which she had fallen.  He couldn’t see anyone else up there but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone.  What was she doing in such a remote place on her own, he wondered?

He looked down, sleepily noting the puce coloured blood flowing from beneath her long raven hair.  Raven hair.  He squeezed his eyes shut as a memory flashed before him both painful and sweet.  Unwilling to let it take over, he banished it to the furthest reaches of his mind and gently turned her over.

She didn’t move and she emitted no sound.  He knew that that was bad.  What was he supposed to do?  He needed time to think.  But this was not the place, as she could wake at any moment.  Then his secret hideaway would no longer be secret.

The swarms must have returned! realised Hunter upon examining her wounds.  How had she survived?

Her clothes were pretty ragged and she was losing quite a lot of blood from numerous bites.  These took the form of diamond shape gouges two centimetres in diameter that spanned the entirety of her torso, left arm and hip then stopped at the right as though it had been purposefully spared.  He decided to take her to the river where he carefully washed the filth from her wounds using a torn off sleeve from his tunic.  The largest was not so easily dealt with.   It was actually a gash spanning half the width of her forehead that gaped open like the mouth of a gossip, cascading blood down her face.  He decided to leave it alone as water would most likely prevent it from clotting.  Instead he pressed down with his hands hoping that the bleeding would stop – which it did after fifteen minutes of compression.

Once he had done all he could with what he had at his disposal, he examined the results of his ministrations.  Before long the sight of her dredged up a memory from long ago…

“Hunter, you cannot expect me to believe you!” said the woman with the raven hair.  Her eyes were as hard as flint as she held him in her steady gaze.  “You must have known what was going on; that the others were creating a weapon.”

“I promise you I didn’t Korah!  I thought what I was doing would benefit the people of Israel and eventually the whole world.  We talked about this many times.”

“Well I’m afraid I don’t believe you anymore,” she said coolly.  Her normally olive toned Israeli skin was ashen with grief after learning that her entire family had been killed by one of the locust swarms let loose on the agricultural areas of Hebron.  She was brave Hunter was willing to give her that.  But rational she was not.

“Just listen to yourself Korah.  We have been married for six years!  Have I ever uttered a racist slur in your presence or made you or your family feel slighted?”

Suddenly there was a loud crash as someone kicked the front door inwards.  The two of them ignored it.

“You and your family?” she said bitterly.  “I have no family now Hunter.  You and your far right friends have seen to that and now you must be brought to justice.”

“He’s in here!” she shouted as five men burst into the room, their weapons at the ready.

The rest of that particular memory was just too painful to relive.  Not only had Korah turned him in to the authorities, she had gone on to reject anything even remotely connected to science.  In fact most of humanity had in the years that followed the Lab War.

For eight long years he had suppressed that memory but now it had fought its way up to the surface as fresh as the day it had been formed.  So had his emotions.  His thoughts were in chaos again, all because of her.  He looked at the girl with the hair as black as Korah’s and decided that she could not stay.  It wasn’t safe for either of them.

Above his head a couple of birds were heading home to roost but he would not let the lateness of the hour to deter him.  She must be returned and soon.  He briefly went back to his shelter to gather up the things that he needed – the most of important of them being a torch.  The torch was vital, as the closest village was six miles away and darkness was bound to have fallen by the time he reached it. 

If he was to carry her and the torch he was going to have to come up with something innovative.  He looked around his humble home for a solution until his eyes fell upon a strip of old leather which he cut to size and knotted, fashioning a holder for the torch that he could strap to his back.  He would light the torch only when it became impossible to see, that way it would probably last.  Time was limited so he scooped her up in his arms and set off in the direction of the village praying that the locusts would stay away.

With every step he fought to quell the growing rebellion of his mind.  The thought of entering the village and being surrounded on every side distressed him.  People would ask questions.  They would want to know his business.  It was possible someone may even recognise him.  Then there would be trouble!

But there was nothing he could do.  If he was to sustain his life in seclusion he must make sure the girl was returned to civilization.  He resigned himself to what lay ahead and pressed onward.

His legs were already burning after only a mile and a bit.  The girl was either heavier than she looked or he was out of shape.   Still, he could not rest yet because the sky was darkening fast.  The sun was a rapidly plummeting orb that had slipped from its pedestal; a burning eye of orange gazing out across the land.  He promised himself that he would definitely stop half way.  There, he would light the torch and maybe eat a few of the raspberries to keep his strength up.  Until then he must ignore the pain and focus on just the very basics.   He was good at that.

Disappointingly the light failed before he reached half way.  So fumbling in the darkness, he lit the torch and sat munching the pulped fruit from his pocket.  They had gotten squashed on the way but they still tasted good.  Sweet with a tart after bite.

As he wiped his mouth he stared at the child uneasily, relieved that she had thus far remained unconscious.  Maybe it was a madness of his mind but in the flickering torch light she bore a striking resemblance to Korah.  For much of the journey he’d been looking at her face.  Now he was tired of it.  So he turned his back on her and managed to convince himself he was alone in the night, innocently searching for the Belt of Orion or some other Grecian constellation.  Well,almost…

After his rest he managed much better and in just over two hours he saw the lights of the village twinkling up ahead.  Other travellers may have welcomed such a sight but not Hunter.  What sort of reception would he receive in Headley?  Perhaps he would be better off leaving her on the outskirts?  No.  That wouldn’t do.  He needed to ensure her safety.

He stumbled into the village, bypassing the electrified glass houses filled with all manner of crops.  Beyond tired and bone weary his knees gave way as he reached the outskirts.  His cries of pain angered the dogs in a nearby house.  They stood baying at the front window, their breath clouding up the pane.  Suddenly they disappeared then a second or two later they shot out of the front door.  A man followed, dressed in the traditional coveralls of a labourer.  He strolled over scowling beneath his flat cap, drawing on a hokum pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.

“What’s going on here then?” he said noting the young child that had fallen from Hunter’s arms.

“I found her out in Paddock woods.  I reckon she must have fallen down a ravine.  Do you know of her sir?”

The man took a closer look and his expression suddenly altered.

“May chance preserve us!” he exclaimed.  “It’s Mrs Manrara’s girl!  She went missing this morning.  She has half the village out looking for her as we speak.”

“Well, they can stop now.  Would you take her and return her to her mother for me?  I don’t know her and I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

“Not at all lad!” exclaimed the man.  “Korah’s not that kind of woman.  She won’t hold it against you.  She’ll just be glad to get her daughter back.  Come.  I’ll take you to her.”

Hunter recoiled in horror.

“Korah, you say?”

“Yes.  Do you know of her?”

“I’m not sure.  The Korah I know of lived in Preston thirty miles from here.”

“Then it can’t be any other.  Korah moved here from Preston with her daughter Holly two years after the death of her husband.”

The urge to turn and run engulfed Hunter but the sight of Holly’s head gushing blood again restrained him.

“Take me to her.  The girl needs tended to,” he said.

“This way,” nodded the man.  He whistled his dogs and they set off towards the main street.

“There you go,” he said when they arrived outside a snug looking little cottage.  A light was on downstairs and voices could be heard from inside at a subdued level.

“There is nothing we can do just now Korah.  It’s just too dark.  We’ll try again in the morning,” said a male voice.

“Thank you James,” said a woman’s voice dejectedly.

“Mrs Manrara!” yelled the man at Hunter’s elbow.  “Holly’s been found!  Come quick!”

He turned and beamed at Hunter with the ruddy cheeks of a countryman who enjoyed his cider.

A chair scraped across the door and a flurry of footsteps could be heard as she ran full pelt through the house.  Breathless she arrived at the door holding up a lantern

“Holly!” she cried in distress.  The sight of her daughter’s injuries caused tears to well up, blinding her to the identity of those present.

“Would you call the Healer James?” she asked glancing up with a sniff.  In the amber glow of the oil lamp Hunter could see her tears.

“Of course.”

 Within moments he’d disappeared into the night leaving the labourer and Hunter standing awkwardly on the doorstep.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked attempting to compose herself.

Hunter lowered his head, lest she recognise him.

“Aye, of course,” said the labourer doffing his cap.  “You’ll no doubt want to hear how this man here found her.”

He nodded his head towards Hunter, ignoring his obvious discomfort at being singled out as rescuer.  She laid the child gently on the settle and applied a handkerchief to the worst wound making sure to keep the pressure constant.  It was rather inadequate for the purpose so Hunter proposed that they stay with the child whilst she went to fetch something better suited.

That was the first time that she had heard him speak since his arrival and at the familiar sound of his voice she looked up sharply.

“What did you say your name was again?” she asked looking at him closely.

“I didn’t Ma’am.”

The labourer looked askance at him.

“I thought you said you knew Mrs Manrara?  Are you not going to tell her your name?”

“There is no need George.  For we know each other well, don’t we Hunter?” she said knowingly.  “It’s just that it has been a while.”

Sensing the awkwardness between the two George hastened to take his leave.

“Unless I can do anything else for you Mrs Manrara I’m thinking I should return to my hearth.  These knees of mine still haven’t recovered from digging the footings for the new stable block.”

“Of course George.  I hope you feel better soon.  Thank you so much for helping.”

“I did nothing to speak of Ma’am.  It was Hunter here who you should be thanking.”

He declared his wish that Holly might make a speedy recovery then slipped away quietly leaving a terrible vacuum in the room.  Hunter felt more self-conscious than he’d ever done in his life.  He knew he looked a state.  He knew he was trembling with anxiety.

“I should probably go too,” he said.

“Please don’t,” she breathed grasping his arm.

A jolt of ten thousand volts seemed to pass through his body.  He was powerless to respond.  He just wanted to be gone – back to his shelter in the rocks, the place that had shielded him from the rigors of humanity and locusts for eight long years.

She saw his dilemma and decided to lay bare her heart.

“You have no idea how I felt after they took you away,” she suddenly blurted out.  “I realised my mistake but it was simply too late.”

She looked down at her restless hands in her lap twisting and turning as though she didn’t know what to do with them.

“I continued searching for you after the war abated even against the wishes of the inhabitants of Headley’s.  Eventually they saw that I couldn’t be swayed and they made me swear that if I found you I would ensure that you were brought to justice just like any other war criminal.  I accepted their terms so that I could carry on and carry on I did for many years.  I risked much Hunter.”

His eyes scanned her briefly and he noted the scars on her neck and forearms.  He turned away unable to believe. For all her protestations his head was spinning.  It was too much to take in.    He leapt from his chair and bolted for the door.  With no options left Korah did the only thing left open to her in order to make him stay.

“Before you go, I want you to know that Holly is your daughter,” she called out.  “She is ours.”

His outstretched hand fell from the door knob.  He stopped and turned in disbelief.

“She was conceived in the days before your arrest,” she said simply.

Hunter stared at her in disgust.

“You listen to me and you listen very carefully,” he said stalking towards her menacingly.  “I do not know what you are trying to do here.  But I understand one thing very well; you are determined to get revenge for the death of your family in whatever way you can.” 

“You have changed Korah,” he whispered.  “The Korah I knew would never have used her own flesh and blood in order to get revenge.  She’s just a little girl and it’s high time that you stopped trying to settle old debts and remembered that you are her mother!”

“If you can’t believe you’d better go,” she said in a choked voice.  “If I let you go, maybe then you will believe.”

“Maybe,” he said.  “Take care Korah.  Take care of little Holly.”

In three paces and the slam of a door he was gone.  Only an empty space remained.  Stunned that he had taken her at her word she slumped down next to Holly. 

How long must I live with these regrets? She thought sadly.  How long must I pay the price for my stupidity?  More to the point how much longer must Hunter pay for my stupidity?

As she waited for the Healer to arrive a familiar sound wailed through the village rattling the doors and windows.


She threw open the front door and shrieked Hunter’s name.  Perhaps he was too far away to hear her?  Or perhaps he was already a steaming carcass twitching in the grass?  Sickened by that thought her shoulders slumped.  Her breath billowed white; a voluminous blanket of terror expelled from stricken lungs.  Somewhere out there she imagined him cowering from the million voracious insect wings homing in on the promise of fresh meat.  Maybe he had climbed a tree.  Maybe he had stumbled upon the river.  Either way he would not be safe.  Fear for Hunter bit into her heart as though it were a freshly plucked apple.  Adrenaline coursed through her.  She would not go quietly.  She would not give up.  Perhaps there was still a chance. 

Snatching Holly from her spot on the couch she bolted through the door and hurried towards the communal shelter.  Many other villagers were doing the same, all of them wearing that same battle worn expression.  Everyone knew what the locusts could do to a human given four point nine minutes.  If that befell them only the village dental therapist would recognise them.

Korah had made the journey to the shelter many times.  But never carrying Holly.  And never in the knowledge that Hunter was out there unprotected and alone.  She had always imagined that he would be holed up in a bunker somewhere with his fellow researchers safe from the horrors that science had created.  How had he survived all this time and where had he stayed?

The situation made her blood run cold.  Thankfully she would be able to rest soon and get Holly the help that she needed.  It wasn’t much further to the shelter. 

“Here.  I’ll carry the child,” said a voice just to the side of her.

To her surprise she found Hunter standing there.

“What are you doing here?  I thought you had gone.”

He shook his head and lifted Holly into his arms.

“Hey you!  I know who you are!” shouted one of the villagers pointing an accusatory finger.

The man was holding a torch and had a new born infant strapped to his body.

“Nobody let him into the shelter!” he cried, looking slightly bug eyed.  “People like him will only perpetuate the cycle.  In fact…nobody let her in either.  I always said Korah was a sympathiser.”

“You scientists caused all this!” shouted the man’s wife, coming to her husband’s aid. 

A small disgruntled crowd soon gathered and someone lobbed a stone.  It caught Hunter a glancing blow to the shoulder.

“Stop!” shrieked Korah.  “We don’t have time for this!”

“She’s right.  We don’t.  Get our son to the shelter,” snapped the wife of the man carrying the new born.  Cowed by her venom the man did as he was told and the others quickly followed leaving the three of them alone. 

“Great!   Now they’re not going to let us in either!” Korah snapped turning full circle in frustration.  Hunter ignored her and looked heavenward.  The noise of the swarm could be heard above the wind. 

“We’re going to get eaten!” she wailed.

“No we’re not.  I’ll make them let us in!” he declared.  “Come on!  Hurry!”

Their feet pounded the ground as a myriad approaching wings did the same to the air. 

“There it is!” cried Korah, pointing to a few chinks of light escaping from a hatch in the ground.

Handing the child to her he ran forward and pounded on the wooden trapdoor.

“Let us in!  For the love of God let us in!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.  As he hammered on the door over and over, sweat poured down his back.

“Don’t you care that we will be killed?” screamed Korah clawing at the hatch with her nails.  It was no use.  It was locked firmly from the inside.

“You will only be getting what you deserve,” said an unidentified voice from below.  “You and your kind are dangerous.  I always knew you held sympathy for the Lab Rats.”

Hunter scowled at this derogatory term for former members of the scientific community.

“They’re going to let us die.  We’re going to die!” she whimpered laying her head hopelessly on his shoulder.

“No we’re not mummy,” said a small voice.

The two adults looked down to find that Holly had now come to and was holding out what looked like a tube of ointment.

“You’re awake,” said her mother cradling her head against her chest.

“Where did you get this?” asked her father, unscrewing the lid of the tube and sniffing the contents.

The girl suddenly looked very guilty but an unnatural gust of air signalled the approach of the swarm.  This wasn’t the time for prevarication.

Her hair fluttered in the wind as she said,

“I found it in an old abandoned building about four miles from Headley village.”

“Holly!  You know you’re not supposed to go off on your own!”

“Quiet Korah!” said Hunter.  “Holly, think back now…did you put the ointment on your skin?”

“Yes.  My arms get dry and scaly with the eczema but lately my left one has been hot and sore.  The stuff the Healer gave me didn’t work so when I found the medicine from before the war I decided I would give it a try.  It says on it that it’s for infection.  See?”

“Yes, I see.  This building where you got it from, did it have lots of other tubes and bottles on its shelves?”

She nodded.

“Do you think you could show me the way?”

“I think so.  But how are we going to get there?  They will eat us before we reach it.”

Suddenly a locust landed on Korah’s forearm.  She screamed loudly as it took several bites in rapid succession from her flesh.

“Here!  Rub as much of the ointment on you as you can.  Spread it all over,” ordered Hunter curtly handing them a large blob of the antibiotic salve.

Rather than question him the two did as they were told, furiously slathering their arms and legs.  As they did so the entire swarm of 1.2 million locusts descended upon them.  Never sated and never full.

In the bunker below the villagers cowered and wept at the terrible commotion above.  What had they done?  Their fear had turned them into monsters.  After two or three minutes the screaming stopped.  Then the accusations began to fly.

Two hours later the newly appointed guardian of the bunker popped his head above ground and gave the all clear.  Next the former guardian who had refused Hunter, Korah and Holly entry was hauled out by three of village Peacekeepers.

Once everyone was out in the open they all crowded round as the Presiding Peacekeeper read him his rights.

“Silas Eugene Whittaker, former guardian of the bunker for the people of Headley.  You are hereby sentenced to death for the part you played in the death of Korah and Holly Manrara as well as the unknown male that accompanied them.  Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“You know I had to do it!” he insisted, looking from one face in the crowd to the other.  “My job is to protect and that’s what I was trying to do.  Science is evil and so are the people who dabble in it.  Look what it has created.  Chaos.”

“You know he speaks the truth,” said a voice from behind the crowd.

The villagers turned and parted in the middle as Hunter walked through with Korah and Holly in tow.  A loud chattering broke out amongst those gathered.

“In his own misguided way he was trying to protect you all.  To him science is the enemy in whatever way it is applied,” said Hunter raising his voice so that everyone present could hear.

“What he and many others like him don’t realise is that science can save us all.”

“How did you survive?” demanded one of the peacekeepers eyeing him suspiciously.

Korah knew what was coming next so she pulled her daughter protectively to her.

“Science.  That’s how,” said Hunter triumphantly.

“You see!” spluttered the accused.  “He’s determined to drag us all down that same path again.  I was right to lock him out.  It’s just a pity that the locusts didn’t finish what they started.”

“Silence!” roared the Presiding Peacekeeper.  He stared sternly at Hunter, puzzled as to why he and his family had only sustained a few bites.

“Does science really have the ability to repel the winged scourge?” he asked hardly daring to believe it could be true.

“See for yourself,” said Hunter opening his fist to reveal a locust sitting on his upturned palm.  Everyone gasped.  A few turned and fled.

“He’s a maniac,” someone shouted.

“No he’s not.  He’s the man who’s going to win us back our freedom,” cried Korah. 

“How is this possible?” said the new guardian wonderingly.

“I haven’t been able to research it yet but I think that the locusts are homing in on us because of a certain bacteria that live on our skin.  The type and amount of bacteria that live on the surface of most living things is a good indicator of how edible it is.  Someone has designed these to feed on species that play host to large volumes of staphylococcus bacteria and oomecytes I suspect.  That’s why when Holly here used a tube of high strength dicloxacillin that she found in an abandoned pharmacy to treat her infected eczema, the locusts avoided that particular limb like the plague.  They no longer recognised it as being edible as the antibiotic had killed all the staph bacteria that had caused the infection.  We only discovered this when Silas here locked us out of the bunker.  Without him we would never have discovered the cure.”

“Can we use it then?” asked an old woman.

Everyone stared at her.

“What?” she said indignantly.  “If there’s a way to stay safe from the swarms I’ll take it – science or not!”

There were murmurs of agreement from those gathered.

“Will you help us?” asked the Healer stepping forward.  His eyes had been rimmed with red ever since he had lost his eldest son to a locust strike last winter.  Now they held a ray hope fuelled by the thought that perhaps no one else would lose their sons.  Not to the scourge at any rate.

“I will help you.  But on one condition,” said Hunter holding up his hand.  “You must set Silas Eugene Whittaker free so that he can assist me in my work.”

“Granted,” replied the peacekeepers nodding to each other.


I have to say that I found the title off putting at first – Broken Pieces does not sound like a very inspirational read.  It sounded depressing, as though the traumas that she went through somehow gained victory over her.

Thankfully that couldn’t be further from the truth.  In my view (and of course each reader perceives a story in their own way) the title is ambiguous.  It partly refers to the disjointed style of her story and partly to the fact that she did indeed feel broken or shattered by her experiences – emphasis on the past tense.

The way she presents each piece gave me a nice impression.  It feels like the reader has been given a bird’s eye view into the mind of a daydreamer sitting on a porch on a wet afternoon.  But rather than being a catalogue of idle reminiscence she is analysing how she became the person she is today – how the broken pieces all came together as one to make the whole that weathered the storm.

For me the backbone of this book is about learning.  Learning to make sense of her feelings and responses.  Learning to acknowledge them no matter how difficult and at times you sense it may have seemed much easier to deny them but life has taught her the folly of that.  She learns the way of the world and learns that she as well as the rest of us are still learning in one way or another and always will be – which is surely in part why she wrote this.

Her reflections cover a variety of subjects both random and sometimes disturbing.  But instead of dragging the reader into a morass of emotional outpourings she handles these ‘pieces’ or ‘essays’ with the authority of someone who is firmly in control of the past and has a healthy respect for it.  It is the vehicle that has bought her to where she is today.

There is rawness to Broken Pieces that will give you shivers.  This comes from knowing that she has given so much of herself in sharing her story.  As a famous writer once said “writing is easy.  All you have to do is sit down at the keyboard, open up a vein and bleed.”

Because of this Broken Pieces will not be everyone’s cup of tea.  It is not a fluffy read, but it is I promise you a deeply stirring read (pardon the pun) and one you will remember for sometime to come.