The sky, on that first occasion, was alive with frosted stars, and a fat, over-fed orange moon sat on the brow of the Mynydd reflecting enough light as to make the crackling torches of the spectators almost superfluous. Lovely it was. Two sepulchral-white ghosts, dancing like smoke in the breeze. Clear in the air, the … Continue reading Excerpt from the Billy Bodman novel ‘RUNNER’.