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THE AUTHORNick Moran was born in Bosnia, but has lived in Australia since 1965. He works as a business consultant with an international organization as well as writing and working as a life coach. Choices, is his second book to be published. Book
1
Zar of the Skies (read
a sample) Tired,
ancient eyes scanned the inhospitable vista.
Before him lay endless miles of scorched sand and earth.
Above, a glaring, cloudless sky cruelly crushed any hope of rain, giving
no hint of reprieve from the relentless sun sucking dry whatever moisture
remained. Indifferent
to the scene, he scrutinised the forbidding landscape, no longer affected by it,
or the night-cold, or a cool breeze or the fresh scent of spring. Hunger was the
only sensation still driving him, and that, he surmised, was because beyond it
stood Death, and Death was the end. There
was no bargaining, no doing a deal with Death.
When the Grim Reaper came to one’s door; there was nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide, no compromise to offer. Death
was to be feared beyond all else; Death stood beyond all. ‘Yet,
everyone kowtows to and fears Satan,’ he would find himself musing. It made no sense to him.
Satan did not obliterate souls. To
be sure, ending up in Satan’s domain was not a fate to be desired.
However, at least one’s soul remained conscious, existing. Death
extinguished it; Death, he concluded, was God. Nothing
stirred, his stomach rumbled. The
branch on which he stood trembled violently as he spread his mighty wings and
pushed off into the azure sky. Lazily,
he climbed. High above the ground
he caught the rising thermals and began to circle.
His piercing gaze never left the earth below.
Glorious bronze black wings spanning nine feet, held him aloft like an
angel in the sky. Suddenly,
he noticed a movement directly below him. Only
his eyes shifted, locking onto the object like laser beams.
Languidly adjusting his soaring, he watched the small shape falling to
earth. Gliding lower, he realised
it was a small bird wildly, futilely, flapping its wings. The predator smiled to himself. Lunch was at hand. He
saw the small bird strike the ground. Struggling
to get up, but scarcely able to lift its head.
Little wings flapped pathetically and then it was still. He circled lower and lower until he too touched the earth and
crouched not far from the little white bird.
Its eyes closed and a drop of blood trickling from its beak, the tiny
creature remained still. A strong
hooked beak opened slightly in anticipation.
As he sauntered closer to the minute morsel, it moved. He was even more surprised to hear it whisper, "Please help me." He barely made out the words.
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