Ryan Saunders has always had an affinity for words; he just doesn't know what they all mean yet. His earliest recollection of anything close to writing was looking up, amongst others, words like 'sod' and 'bugger' in the dictionary (in the grander scheme of things its what its there for, isn't it?) when he got hold of a thesaurus and miraculously his insults had variety. Writing only became a career decision for him when he realised he had the unique ability to make a sexual innuendo out of ‘in-u-endo’ (he still giggles).
Currently, Ryan lives and works in Jo’burg where creativity has momentarily taken a back seat to the career of a copywriter, but that 300 page masterpiece is always sitting on the horizon waiting to be written.
extract from Brother Evil
Captain James Bowman stayed low as he waded through no-man’s land. The war was over, but not everyone seemed to have received the message. Every night cannons lit up the sky in the distant hills. The men considered it simply as fireworks to their celebrations, trying not to think of the numbing torments every flash bought to the soldiers in those hills. Even the crows dared not collect their fees yet. Captain Bowman trudged onward through the morning fog. The faces of the dead turned to face him with open mouths as they floated past. With the addition of the recent heavy rains it became almost impossible to see where mud ended and bodies began. German and English bodies entwined in post-mortal embraces. Twig and bone cracked underfoot. With every step, Bowman’s boots stuck to the red, bloodied glue that coated the floor. For three years statues of dead bodies decorated the void between the opposing sides. Silhouetted against the burning evening sky, rigor mortis had sculpted them in their final moments. Their hands pierced the sky, pointing to the heavens, asking God for salvation.
