The Eighth Wonder of the World: A Rucksack Universe Story: Rucksack Universe

By Anthony St. Clair

Every hero needs a secret identity. 

 

"After touching the warped post, Aisling tried to wipe her skin clean of the black smudges. Little streaks of white shone through the charred-black wood that had once comprised the walls, the floor, the ceiling. In hair, white streaks indicate age, but in this burned-out one-story building, they were a reminder of a time before fire and ruin." 

 

While a scarred world rebuilds, Aisling gave up globetrotting to embrace the destiny she long rejected. But in a forgotten corner of Ireland, rain squenching Aisling's red curls into corkscrews, this hero in training also has to figure out her secret identity. 

 

Banter. Travel. A short jaunt into the heart of meaning and purpose. If you like decisive women and yearn for a new type of hero, then get ready for a trip to "The Eighth Wonder of the World." 

 

The Rucksack Universe series combines alternate history, speculative fiction, myth, adventure, globetrotting, and intrigue—all with well-poured pints of beer. Library Journal says Anthony St. Clair's storytelling has "universe building reminiscent of Terry Pratchett," and readers say they love the Rucksack Universe's unique combination of "quirk, wit, travel, and magic." 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rucksack Press
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781940119649

Anthony St. Clair

Anthony St. Clair creates compelling fiction and non-fiction for a curious world full of everyday discoveries, endeavors, and surprises. He is the author of the ongoing Rucksack Universe series; covers craft beer, food, business, and more for various publications; and is a copywriter and content manager for select clients. When not at his desk or in his kitchen in Oregon, Anthony is on an adventure with his wife, son, and daughter.

Book preview

The Eighth Wonder of the World

The Eighth Wonder of the World

A Rucksack Universe Story

Anthony St. Clair

Rucksack Press

Contents

The Eighth Wonder of the World

Thank You for Reading

Become a Wanderer

Also by Anthony St. Clair

Acknowledgments

Special Features

Sneak Peek

About the Author

Before The Blast, so many parts of Ireland used to shine. Perhaps, someday, they will again, but when all life seems like a falling shadow, light can seem as dead as the char left behind by the fires of The Blast.

—Guru Deep, Ireland Through the Third Eye

The Eighth Wonder of the World

After touching the warped post, Aisling tried to wipe her skin clean of the black smudges. Little streaks of white shone through the charred-black wood that had once comprised the walls, the floor, the ceiling. In hair, white streaks indicate age, but in this burned-out one-story building, they were a reminder of a time before fire and ruin.

Even now Aisling was certain she could still smell the char and hear the long-faded screams of the dead. It had been more than a century since the mile-wide, hundred-meter-high flames of The Blast had raged just south of the wee Irish town of Clifden. The hostel hadn’t been in the path of the flames, but falling embers had set the place alight faster than a few pints of stout could make her heart glow.

Aisling’s heart, however, was doing anything but glowing right now. She was so wet that she expected the rain would soon saturate the beating muscle, and she kept expecting it to start squelching instead. Perhaps the rain would have been drumming on the remains of the ruined roof, except for all the holes that brought the outside in. Underneath the scent of rain-scrubbed air, the sharp fester of funky mold flicked its green sharp-nailed finger at her tan, freckled nose. Rain dripped through the holes in the ceiling and pattered Aisling’s pulled-back, long, curly red hair. Little bright circles appeared on the shoulders of her black leather jacket.

She looked up—though she also took a step forward so she wouldn’t take the next drops in her blue eyes.

Feckin rain is going to squench my curls tight as corkscrews.

She grimaced slightly as she heard her voice rolling like the nearby hills. Twenty-five years old, with nine of those years traveling the world under her belt, she’d been back barely two months and it was as if her accent had been waiting for her.

"And here I was figuring you missed the Irish sunshine