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Saving Tomorrow – Book Review

Saving Tomorrow by [Meggs, Remmy]

The time does not matter, that is a matter of your beliefs, however the temperature of the earth had risen to average of 59 degrees. The ice age as we know it, was over, and however man survived it, they did.

This is near the beginning of man himself. Pangaea or the “Garden Of Paradise” could have been around for millions if not billions of years. If you believe in the Tree of Knowledge, then you believe in the Tree of Life. If man and animals ate from the Tree of Life, then they too could have lived millions, if not billions of years.

If you believe in evolution, then the same applies.

Meet young Air, he was not a hunter or a warrior, but he had the talent to see what others could not see.

Saving Tomorrow is an epic tale of survival and coming of age adventure story written for young people, 13+.  Set after the second ice age, the story follows a group of friends who learn how to survive despite the harsh realities of their time.

Strong characters lead the way and one in particular stands out. A young boy called Air who doesn’t rise to the expectations of his tribe. Many heroes have started out differently from their peers, Air is no exception, he doesn’t fit in and is intriguing from the start.

Different tribes are drawn in as Air and his friend’s battle to survive against the odds presented by their challenging environment and greater challenges heading their way. Air’s friends also learn of his connections with all living creatures and must learn to accept him as he is. Not so simple for everybody they meet. Air isn’t affected by what people think, rather what is coming. Although, Remmy Meggs keeps us guessing at the specifics of that far into the story.

I enjoyed reading ‘Saving Tomorrow’ although the writer in me wanted to push it along occasionally. Some of the pitfalls of writing a long story came to light with the odd inconsistency but these don’t interfere with readability.

Regardless of technicalities, this was a great story from a young writer I sense will go far. He can certainly tell a great story. If I could award stars for writing and storytelling separately I give three and five respectively. I can’t do that on Amazon so I give a well-deserved four stars.

Editorial Reviews

From the Author

It took three years to create this book and another year of editing before it went to a professional editor. I am an author that does not believe a book, or movie for that matter, needs vulgar words nor do I believe a book needs raw sex in it, to be good.

For that I get a young adult (YA) rating which means anyone over the age of thirteen should be able to read this book without trauma. This is not a children’s book although I would like those over ten years of age to read it. However it does have violence and death in it as well as sexual situations. Actually more like a good science fiction book written by the masters. That will be up to parents to decide.

From the Back Cover

In BCE the temperature of the earth had risen to an average of fifty-nine degrees.The second ice age, as we know it, was over and how ever man survived it, they did  We do not know what the birth and death rates were before and during the ice age, but man had come into his own.It had never rained in Pangaea at this time. There was no aging.

Our story begins with the medium-light skinned areas now known as the Middle East. A group of tribes who avoided war as best they could. This enabled them to use their knowledge to improve their way of life. In this area of the world, the night could get very cold, but many days, if the winds were just right, it would be like a modern blast furnace.

Meet young Air. He was not, and never would be, the hunter or a warrior that histribe wanted, but he had the talent to see what others could not see. The war is not with man; it is with the Earth, and the Earth will win at any cost.

About the Author

Remmy Meggs started writing at the age of twelve. His third book, Legacy Grapes of Rome was published first. His first book, Saving Tomorrow was published in 2016. The book he loves most he wrote in the middle of those two and it is called Changes.

Discover Remmy’s books on Amazon

The Back of an Envelope

I’m editing my work in progress and thought it might be interesting to see what somebody else has to say about the process. Here’s what Nick Hornby, The Polysyllabic Spree said.

“Anyone and everyone taking a writing class knows that the secret of good writing is to cut it back, pare it down, winnow, chop, hack, prune, and trim, remove every superfluous word, compress, compress, compress…
Actually, when you think about it, not many novels in the Spare tradition are terribly cheerful. Jokes you can usually pluck out whole, by the roots, so if you’re doing some heavy-duty prose-weeding, they’re the first to go. And there’s some stuff about the whole winnowing process I just don’t get. Why does it always stop when the work in question has been reduced to sixty or seventy thousand words–entirely coincidentally, I’m sure, the minimum length for a publishable novel? I’m sure you could get it down to twenty or thirty if you tried hard enough. In fact, why stop at twenty or thirty? Why write at all? Why not just jot the plot and a couple of themes down on the back of an envelope and leave it at that? The truth is, there’s nothing very utilitarian about fiction or its creation, and I suspect that people are desperate to make it sound manly, back-breaking labour because it’s such a wussy thing to do in the first place. The obsession with austerity is an attempt to compensate, to make writing resemble a real job, like farming, or logging. (It’s also why people who work in advertising put in twenty-hour days.) Go on, young writers–treat yourself to a joke, or an adverb! Spoil yourself! Readers won’t mind!”

Interesting thoughts from Hornby says he who has just edited the following paragraphs relating to ‘Blue Star’ or ‘Blue’ as she is known by her friends in the Wiccan world. You might find her in “Under An Ancient Name” after I have edited it down to the back of an envelope.

Blue Star made her way to Simon giving the unnecessary excuse that she had made herself available to him as his Wicca mentor. Taking her seat, she smoothed out her ‘crinkle look’ skirt. Made eye contact with Simon for an instant, modestly lowered her eyes then raised them, showing a hint of mischief.

‘Shall we begin by stating our own positions on the points the speaker has raised?’ Without waiting, although Ben and Simon managed nods of the head, Blue outlined her beliefs.

‘I am a Wiccan priestess and Wicca is the only religion I follow. Nature guides, I follow the seasons like the natural clockwork they are. I believe in a single power, a supreme energy force that does not rule over the universe because, it is the universe. It looks after nature; it is nature and a mass of simultaneous Divine energy.’

‘I’ve been through this so many times, I often question my own thoughts, I guess that’s healthy but hey, who knows? Sorry, I talk lots when I’m nervous. No idea why I’m nervous either, it’s not usual.’

Oh dear, where will I put the rest of the story? E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly to the rescue.

“Editors can be stupid at times. They just ignore that author’s intention. I always try to read unabridged editions, so much is lost with cut versions of classic literature, even movies don’t make sense when they are edited too much. I love the longueurs of a book even if they seem pointless because you can get a peek into the author’s mind, a glimpse of their creative soul. I mean, how would people like it if editors came along and said to an artist, ‘Whoops, you left just a tad too much space around that lily pad there, lets crop that a bit, shall we?’. Monet would be ripping his hair out.”

Your own thoughts are very welcome. I won’t try to edit . . . promise.

Reaching Out

I’m surrounded by conundrums. I close my eyes and they float around in their little boxes with tags floating on the breeze of my mind. I dismissed a few during this mornings meditation because they are not important enough for action just yet. Some of those remaining are vexing. Challenges are fun but sometimes I hold up my hands and say, ‘I am not defeated but I could do with a few pointers.’

I will return to my need for pointers soon, one thing I find very exciting about writing is that I often find the answers to my questions as I write. The universe responds; it’s beautiful.

My publisher will not like this but I walk through a sticky mire in the dark and they don’t seem able, or willing to offer a helping hand. So, my philosophy is to reach out, discover where to go, and plot the course. Thanks to many wonderful people I’ve met on my journey as an author, I know where I need to go with some and the routes are planned. I use friend maps and they don’t lead me into any one-way streets.

Back to the conundrums . . . I must get my work out there and have identified several ways. Perhaps you can help?

  • I live in France but originate from the north west of England. Should I try to organise signing events in that part of the world or, go elsewhere? I’ve not lived in the north wet since 2003.
  • Waterstones and WH Smith say, ‘don’t contact store managers,’ true / false?
  • Does anybody want to talk to an unknown author?


Enough about my challenges, let’s move on to this weeks dusty file from an unknown author who I would love to reconnect with. I was a founding member of a writers group called, ‘Phoenix Writers’ in Blackburn, Lancashire in 2002/03. I’ve no idea how this file ended up on one of my hard drives but it’s a positive example of creativity with the potential of something great. All I can tell you about the author is her name was Pippa although I am sorry to say I don’t remember a Pippa back in 2003.

Anno Domini: 640

‘I never wanted to come here!’ He rubbed his stiffened hands, knuckles swollen by the  ‘Elves’ Curse’.   Now I’ m going to die here, Ithamar.’

Outside the wind whipped the rain against the wooden walls.  No hangings kept out the draughts, not even the vestige of a fire in the brazier warmed the bare cell.  I struggled to conceal my shivering. The hem of my sodden tunic dripped little puddles among the rushes and my leather boots squelched with every step.   On a peg by the door I hung the cloak I had clutched around me as I dashed from the nave where I was trying to teach some of the younger monks to achieve harmony in the alleluia magnus dominus.  I wiped my nose   on my sleeve, wincing as the rough fabric rasped across the flaked skin.  But it was always this way at Winterfylleth, getting soaked between church, refectory and cells, when even the pent roof around the cloister gave scant protection.

‘You’ll go back to the Holy City soon, Bishop.’  But I knew my words sounded hollow.  The old man looked frail.  The grey hair around his tonsure was sparse   and his long face was haggard making the big hooked nose more prominent than ever.  He breathed with a harsh rattle.   He’d never be able to withstand the rigours of the journey at this time of year.  The roads would be too clogged with mud for the ox carts to make much headway and even if he could reach the coast, no boat from the estuary would dare to set out in such rough seas.  It would be the same at Sheppey. Thanet and Dover.  The gulls had moved inland and stayed on the ground facing into the wind, a sure a sign of storms.    Even from Canterbury only a score of miles away there had been no messenger for a sennight.

‘And what’s worse I’ll never get my work finished. It’s too cold to write and too dark to see except for a few hours at midday.’  He gestured despairingly to the heaps of vellum strewn across the wooden trestle and underneath at the two iron-banded chests with large locks filled with even more.  For a man who denied himself every comfort, he was extravagant when it came to his books.  He trained a score of young monks every year to keep the craft alive and he had made me learn it a long time ago.   His love for learning was stronger than any of the Romans I’d known.   He’d brought the gospels of John and Mark for our church of Saint Andrew, but here in his cell he had all kinds of manuscripts, histories of his people, works of their philosophers and more and knew them all by heart; better than any scop with his lyre telling battle tales in the King’s hall.

Then there were all the ones he’d written himself, a record of all the doings of The Mission.  And of course The Book; he was the one who persuaded old Ethelburt to have his law-code written.

‘To be a truly Christian King you must have your laws codified.’   But it was the thought of having something no other king in these islands had that appealed to the old trickster.  It was hard work because he agreed to write it in the folk tongue.  He could write the script of the Book language so fast that that his hands flew across the page like the wind blowing across a cornfield but he had to find ways of putting our sounds down.  ‘Yours isn’t a civilised tongue, it’s a pain in the throat, he used to joke! He even used some of our runic shapes but I don’t think he knew about their magic.

‘I must finish my history.  I promised….’ A bout of coughing interrupted him.

‘I’ll get the women to prepare you a draught elderberry and horehound and put in some juniper to ease the pain of the elf arrows that slice into your joints.’

‘As you wish, but first you must help me, Ithamar.’

‘Father Paulinus, what can I do?’

I’d known this man for nigh on forty years, almost from the day he first came to our land.  If it hadn’t been for him I’d still be scratching a living in some woodland clearing, or dead of starvation these many years.

‘You can write the Book language almost as well as I can.  I can’t use these wretched fingers but at least I can tell you what to put down. ‘He clutched at the strangely carved cross hanging round his neck.  Where it came from I knew not but it was precious to him.

I thought of all the tasks that awaited me.   As second in command of all the monks in our little settlement of Rochester, most of the organisation fell on me, reading the Offices, preparing for the services, attempting to convert more of the locals and the administration, seeing that there was enough food, dealing with the messengers of the King    I had precious little spare time.  What he was asking of me was no small task.  Obedience Ithamar!  I reminded myself again of the Rule of Benedict, acceptance without complaint.

And as always curiosity got the better of me.

‘The facts are all recorded in the chronicles on the Easter Tables in Canterbury.’ I began.

‘Facts, yes!  But those are the bare bones of what has happened like the branches of winter trees.  If you just see those, you do not understand what the trees look like in the full splendour of summer, decked with the thousands of leaves that dance with the wind.  So it is with the lives of men.  Facts don’t tell of the feelings, the motives of men.    He taught me that.  He could tell a tale that could make you catch your breath with wonder.  I swore to him I’d set it down and the people we knew deserve that.  We can’t let the memory of what they dreamed, fade.’  His voice trailed off.

I was a plain man, never one to miss an opportunity if it would help me to be the first Jute to become a bishop.

‘If I will scribe for you then I’ll need more light and some warmth to keep my fingers from stiffening.   I’m not as young as I was.  We need a room with plenty of wall sconces and hanging bowls – and a decent fire.’

‘So be it.  Whatever you need.  The great darkness is coming.  The Lombards still threaten the Holy City of Peter and the Huns push ever westward. The lands where Our Saviour walked seized by the follower of a new prophet from the sands of the desert.  We must tell our story.  Why else are we here?  To show the good deeds of men as an example and to the wicked as a warning.’

He looked at me with a desperate expression.

‘Besides I must finish it and give it to her.  I must see her once more before I die.’

And I did not have to ask whom he meant.


Kirsten Nairn offered the latest in the #SynopsisThursday series,
scroll down and read her synopsis for A Sorry Affair.

You can follow #SynopsisThursday on Twitter through @SteveCostello8 .

Thanks to the authors who have offered their work, ‘as soon as it’s ready.’

Your support is much appreciated. Namasté

Send in your own synopsis by Wednesday to be included on Thursday. The first received each week will be given top place priority and additional Twitter, Facebook and other SM exposure, no strings attached.


A Sorry Affair is a romantic novel by Kirsten Nairn which examines the complexities of relationships and the heartache which can often accompany love. The story is told from the perspective of the three main characters, Mack and Jen, the archetypical golden couple, together since they were students and Abbi, who Mack finds himself drawn to, and eventually falling in love with. He ends up unintentionally in love with two women.

The idea for the story began as a simple question. What does it feel like to be the adulteress? To be the other woman? The sympathy, understandably, is always directed at the innocent party but what if there are two innocent parties? What if you are the ‘other woman’ and are completely unaware that you’re involved in an affair?

The story is considered initially from the view point of Abbi, the ‘other woman’ and focuses on how she feels. She meets Mack by chance and is immediately drawn to him. There is an innocence and naivety to her and the possibility that Mack is in a serious, long term relationship would never have occurred to her. Abbi would never consider having an affair with anyone, married or otherwise and because of this she feels utterly wronged. Everyone, including her own family and friends blame her and they can’t understand or believe that she had no idea that Mack has another girlfriend, another life. The most difficult thing for Abbi though is that she’s in love with Mack. She saw a future for them which has now been destroyed. She’s heartbroken and suffering the pain and loss of a failed relationship, but has no one to speak to, no one to support her.

Mack’s side of the story is perhaps more difficult to understand and to empathise with. He’s in love with Jen. She’s perfect. They’re engaged, they’re happy and it has never occurred to him that they wouldn’t be together for the rest of their lives, and yet for no reason he can fathom, he enters into an affair with Abbi. He realises, too late, that he has risked everything.

Mack’s immediate loss and helplessness are apparent, but ultimately the story examines the long term and wider reaching consequences of his actions. The impact on Abbi and Jen, on Jen’s family and his own family and the loss they all experience.

Later, as the story concludes with a twist, it becomes apparent how much hurt he has caused and the monumental mess he’s made of everyone’s lives. Not only has the future life they all imagined for themselves been changed forever, but he has a child, who may never be a part of his life unless he can prove he will never make the same mistake again.

My hope is that the reader will connect with all the characters and in doing so, be faced with the dilemma as to where their sympathies lie and to ask themselves what they would do in a similar situation.

Kirsten lives in Scotland with her husband, two young children and the usual array of pets that seem to accompany small children. She studied science at Edinburgh University when dungarees were in fashion and Dexy’s Midnight Runners could still cut it with the young ones. She should have studied Art and English and blames her guidance teacher whose words ‘what career would you have?’ still wring in her ears.

#SynopsisThursday – 31 August 2017

This week MJ Goodman shares her work with The BTP community. Click on the Amazon link when you reach it and read the wonderful reviews.
Messages From The Soul is a diverse collection of eclectic heartfelt poems that explore the very stuff of our dreams and fantasies. It touches on our hopes, longings, losses and at its heart explores the universal truths of the human condition that is totally relatable to any reader.
I started writing poems about 15 years ago after a (now friend) therapist suggested I express my emotions through the written word.
Messages From The Soul was released on 31st July 2017 and has already received five star reviews on both Amazon in U.K. the USA and on the publishers website.
I love writing and that is something that will never leave me.

Bloodlust, The Shifting Sands of Home and These Foreign Fields are just a few of the poems included in the book and they are written just as the title indicates – Messages From The Soul.

Born in Stamford, Lincolnshire in the 70s, M.J Goodman has moved around in the UK and lived abroad with her service family. Finally in her twenties, she put down roots in Gloucestershire where she started her writing career as an absorbing hobby. She lives in Gloucester with her husband Peter.
Find MJ Goodman

24 August 2017 from Austin Macauley authors Deborah L Pearson and George Roberts

From Ten Down To Three

by George Roberts

In 1986, James collapses after a game of football at school. The cause is diagnosed as a tumour on the brain. Although treatment is successful, James will never be the footballer he was. The story of James continues on into his thirties as he falls in love, starts a family and becomes, in a modest way, a hero.

In From Ten Down to Three George Roberts examines fate as events happen in James’s life that leave him questioning whether things are meant to be or are simply coincidence. A phone call made in error lead to him finding love. A bang on the head reveals the presence of the tumour. Saving a young woman’s life leads to an unexpected encounter.

From Ten Down to Three is a delightful read full of wit and a dash of tragedy

Passage of Destiny

by Deborah L Pearson

Two young people, will be inseparably linked through an amazing chain of events that will take them on an incredible journey of discovery, laced with intrigue, secrets and love plus an overflowing amount of adventure, visiting unimaginable places, encountering extraordinary creatures and terrifying horrors.

The book starts with both the birth of Melanie and the death of her parents James and Selemie; Melanie is left in the care of her adopted parents along with a bad tempered, black and white tom cat called Austin, who is no ordinary cat, but is in fact Melanie’s guardian, known as a watcher and turns out to be a shape shifting alien. She is eventually told the truth about her real parents and the special gifts she’d inherited from her mother, after a supposed chance meeting with a man called Vian and his two cousins Tarak and Raan. Eventually a romance blossoms between Melanie and Vian.

Vian and his cousins are here to escort Melanie back into the fold, with Austin’s help but to their surprise and utter disbelief they are introduced to Max, and sense almost immediately that Max was no ordinary friend. Max having been brought up in foster homes throughout his entire life trusts no one except Edna, his adopted grandmother who runs a boarding house. He had always sensed a deep rooted connection to Melanie after meeting her at Edna’s but he could never understand why, until it was much too late, from that moment on, his fate was sealed, and both they’re lives would never be the same again.

Max eventually makes an unlikely friend and ally in Raan the youngest and more powerful of the three visiting aliens, who loves everything earth has to offer, as all at once, Max and Melanie are their gradually drawn into friends’ world, but they do not go alone, as a host of friends go with them on this unforgettable journey: Lynnette, is a French born interpreter / translator, Sarah who has a degree in Theology but works as a model, and finally Edna, Max’s highly eccentric and downright unpredictable grandmother, who on a good day is described as the antichrists version of Miss Marple. Both Melanie and Max are eventually introduced to Taban, Melanie’s deceptively illusive and highly secretive uncle, who like Vian, Tarak and Raan are a race known as the Escenii, and it is from this moment that the story takes an unexpected journey, taking them to a serene picturesque alien world known as Munastas, where various shocking and upsetting secrets are revealed.

This is a modern day Science Fiction novel filled with everything you could wish for: Romance, intrigue, humour and kidnapping, and with it, a group of mad cap humans and aliens enjoy!


Thoughts of Time‘ An Anthology collection to absorb, revisit and enjoy. by Jenny Dunbar

In Summer Linen, Jenny Dunbar contrasts “The citrus hay days, apple dawn and wood warm,” against “the glass edged ice horn of the winter visitor who made old, hunched creatures of us all.’’

The poem highlights the main themes of the collection; the passing of time, and the sublime power and beauty of nature. With time comes memories; love, laughter, and contemplation echo through the poems. In, Last, Dunbar questions, “Where were you as the world tipped?

The city spewed. The last tree split.”…

Check out Jenny’s YouTube Trailer

Graduating from the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, Jenny followed a career in the performing arts. Writing has always been part of her life and she now divides her time between the landscapes of Languedoc and Northamptonshire, both of which she finds conducive to her writing. This is her first poetry anthology. She has written three novels and is currently working on a trilogy of short stories.

Thoughts of Time is available on Amazon, Smashwords . . .

#SynopsisThursday is an opportunity for authors to tell the world about their books.

Here’s how it works.

You send a synopsis and link to your current or forthcoming book in 500 words (or less if you prefer), and I will present it here. In addition, I will promote the first one I receive each week (for seven days) on my social media accounts which are steadily growing.

No catches, that’s it, send a synopsis today.

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