Blogvel. is a blog? is it a novel? An attempt at a novel through serialization .


This is an attempt at a sci fi/new age story, and if I get enough interest, I’ll continue the story. Don’t forget to donate, its  via Paypal I suggest 10 euros, but you can give what you want. Be generous!
 If I can figure out if the button works! 

Ah who am I kidding? Just read it anyway. As you scroll down, try to wipe out the image of me holding out an empty, chipped tin cup for money from your mind. Its just your over-active imagination. Probably.You’d better donate just in case, huh? 
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The Megalith portals


The misty roads were shaped into a tunnel by the gnarled old trees, their roots like cats claws, gripping the pale mud, almost white, like knuckles gripping the wheel of a run-away car, chalked up by the crumbling bed rock, yet buried by the passage of feet.
Roads that had measured the landscape for many generations, measuring the miles, the time and the changes. Around the chalk hills were dotted markers in time, standing stones of various ages, long barrows, half eroded and half destroyed, stone circles fallen into ruin or disrepair, markers in fields of death ,life, ownership and people. The winding tree lined roads, banked, as if the road had decided to settle itself into the chalk, worn down by foot and by hoof, trod by pilgrim, rutted by cart and wheel. People travelling to and from villages, towns, cities, continents. People with a trade or a religious purpose. Pilgrims or Romans, Saxons or Vikings, traders or traffickers, holy men or criminals, slaves and masters, all walking somewhere, nowhere. Ever since I was a young child, I’ve lived near Neolithic monuments, drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Are they markers on the communication routes or pointers to something else?

I was never really sure until that afternoon in the pub.

I hadn’t been driving very long, when I got my first car, an old Renault 12. I can’t have been older than twenty. It was a simple car, not sexy. I’d driven down to the pub to see some friends.
A summers afternoon, in the pub garden, drinking shandy. We’d been told not to drink too much by everyone, as we were driving.
It was a harmless conversation in the pub, in the summer, with friends. Talk of summer sports, summer girls and love sickness, summer holidays, spent without our folks for the first time, the talk of young men. Now I think back to the meeting, there must have been a group of us, but how many I couldn’t say.
The friend that told me the story wasn’t a close friend, I can’t remember his name, but his face and the conversation are etched in my memory.
He told me of the secret and the stories. He told me of the roads.

Of course, as children, our father had shown us the roads, driven down them in long forgotten and long sold cars, sailing down the hills on bright mornings. We were small children, excited, on the back seat of life. 



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