What is Guardians of Our Future’s Past by Ross Corrigan about? Sly reptiles, revolting humans and the worst dad jokes in literary history. I know, I know, what’s not to like? Okay, I admit to an element of tongue resting against if not entirely in cheek. Seriously, the cover blurb goes something like this:
A little over forty-two light years from the brightest star in the Auriga constellation lies a graveyard of sorts. It is an area of space bereft of life yet strewn with the debris of a once vibrant planet. Earth.
Finally, two hundred years after Earth’s destruction, the surviving colonists discover why … and who. More, they unearth a terrible truth: they are next…
With exaggerated effort, Merl freed himself from the couch’s embrace and headed towards the only clean place in the apartment: the stainless-steel shrine to all that is edible. The refrigerator. On it was a single fridge magnet and Merl’s favourite pun: RIP boiling water. You will be mist.
The light flickered before settling. In what looked like the cold, deserted hold of the Mary Celeste, the last of the dry-cured bacon hid in a lonely corner. With some effort, Merl prised the remaining three rashers from the child and idiot-proof container, ignored the “best before” recommendation and submitted the offering to the height of rigorous scientific examination: the sniff test.
Despite curling at the edges like Aladdin’s old slippers, the liberated slices smelt okay, and Merl deemed the bacon breakfast-worthy. Left-handed, Merl draped the limp end of the offending rashers on the baking tray and pressed the start button. Thankfully, the hub-controlled grill did the rest.
Within a minute, the enticing aroma informed Merl that breakfast was ready to be served. But on what? A quick recce of the bread bin revealed two questionable choices: an aged oven-bottom muffin, which had stiffened to the point of rigor mortis, and half a pack of week-old sliced bread. Discarding the top two slices—the greenish tinge not being particularly appetising—the culinary delight was almost complete. “Now, where’s the sauce?”
Performing a forlorn peek-a-boo search for the elusive HP, Merl yanked each and every cupboard door open, one after the other. Mid peek, or boo, Merl glanced down to discover that one of his lucky socks had a hole in it and his big toe was “doing” a Steve McQueen: leading the great escape.
Luck. According to the latest datasphere propaganda, the most likely time for good fortune to unveil itself was when there was a chance meeting between opportunity and hard work. The message was unambiguous, if missing one vital ingredient: work, at least the paid variety, was increasingly hard to come by.
All about Ross
A Bite of... Ross Corrigan
Q1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?
Well, I consider myself to be dashing, charming and, above all, delusional. Yep, I suppose there’s a bit of that in the protagonist.
Q2: Why do you write?
Doubloons …. lots of doubloons. Seriously, I just like to paint pictures with words. I might not be any good at it—judging by the reaction of certain UK literary agents—but I couldn’t imagine a day without exploring and giving flight to my imagination.
Q3: How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?
Well, it’s either that or the pub. Come to think of it …
Ross Corrigan is a (mostly) retired insurance guy, a former international banker and inveterate science fiction and fantasy reader. And, apparently, a writer now. Did not see that coming.