Over three centuries had passed since the cataclysmic event that had reshaped the world, reducing it to a mere shadow of its former self. Civilisations had crumbled, their towering achievements reduced to ruins and dust. A chilling 350 years have passed since the world teetered on oblivion. A megalomaniacal tyrant, unleashed a catastrophic inferno upon the planet, nearly wiping the canvas of civilisation utterly clean. Now, gazing upon the landscape of England, it's as though time itself has been spun backwards, transporting us not to the 24th century but rather to the echoing depths of the…mehr
Over three centuries had passed since the cataclysmic event that had reshaped the world, reducing it to a mere shadow of its former self. Civilisations had crumbled, their towering achievements reduced to ruins and dust. A chilling 350 years have passed since the world teetered on oblivion. A megalomaniacal tyrant, unleashed a catastrophic inferno upon the planet, nearly wiping the canvas of civilisation utterly clean. Now, gazing upon the landscape of England, it's as though time itself has been spun backwards, transporting us not to the 24th century but rather to the echoing depths of the 12th century. The relics of progress and prosperity have crumbled into the annals of history. England was carved up into territories, each run by a warlord. These warlords were known as sheriffs. At first, their ascent bore certain benefits, offering a semblance of order in a world plunged into lawlessness. The sheriffs carved pathways through the tangled wilderness, resurrecting town walls, reviving forgotten roads, and even reconstructing castles, albeit at a heavy toll upon the hitherto peaceful denizens of the land. But the more power they gained, the more they taxed the populus, and if, like Loxley, that could not pay these taxes, slavery was the outcome.
After the tragic loss of my girlfriend as a teenager, I sought an escape. My pub upbringing introduced me to a traveling gypsy family, and they allowed me to join their journey under one condition: I had to contribute. Soon, they discovered my talent for spontaneous storytelling, known as "pantsing." In villages and towns, I showcased this gift, crafting stories based on audience suggestions after Mahala's performances. My dyslexia prevented me from pursuing writing as a profession, given the cost of ghostwriters and publishing. Now, with five children and a 50th birthday surprise, I've told countless imaginative bedtime stories. Reflecting on my time with the gypsy family, I've realised the profound impact of storytelling on people, contemplating the possibility of chronicling that journey someday. Throughout my 30s and 40s, I occasionally returned to the stage for charity events, driven by my love for storytelling. My daughter encouraged me to write a novel, leading to my first series under the pen name Barrel Coops, named after her. It took just five months to write five books, with four more for editing, mainly due to my struggles with spelling and punctuation. After extensive feedback and courses, they are being rewritten for release in early 2024. Despite dyslexia being a constant challenge, I'm committed to writing. I hope my stories will captivate and inspire you, bringing enjoyment to your life.
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