Havok Publishing

Tag - africa

The Queen of Hidrasie

The whole town had one table.
Baie’s great-uncle Dwall had brought it home with him back in 1960-something after a long absence across the African continent. He’d promised to return with the town’s first car.
Many in the tiny Burundi hamlet scoffed. Dwall would not succeed. Even if he did, what good was a

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Rumble Stone

Once, long ago, an African king’s caravan stopped at a village for water. As its chief bowed before him, the bored king inquired what was notable about the place.
“Sire, here dwells Olayinka, the finest potter in the land.” The king yawned.
The chief gritted his teeth. He added, “She can make a jar…

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The Thing about Adventures

The thing about adventures is they’re only fun in hindsight.
Take last week, for example. My car broke down, which wouldn’t be too special, except it was in a ginormous mudhole. While it was raining. Actually, raining is too mild a description. This was a monsoon.
I stared out the windscreen…

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To Tame a Wild Mustache

I collapsed in the shade of an acacia tree, panting. My legs still tingled from the countless scratchy beards that had stampeded our direction.
Beside me, Archibald Waverly, renowned safari guide and wild mustache expert, lay flopped on the ground, pith helmet askew. “That was a close one.”
It was a moment

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Serengeti Karma

I have the best job in the world. I’m a game warden on Africa’s magnificent Serengeti. This wilderness grabs you by the heart and enchants you forever with its shrouded mystique and vast majesty.
My project is big game preservation—in particular, black rhino and African buffalo which share the same range.

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Purple Pachyderms

“Could you maybe… not do that?” I pleaded with the fairy as she zipped around the elephant pen.
I’m just an intern at Safari-Land Sanctuary and Tours, and arguing with pixies isn’t on my list of daily tasks—especially not when an important client is scheduled for a tour. I was finishing the

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Mustache Safari

The mud hut was thatched with grass that stuck out like my hair in the morning. Its only difference from the other huts was the paper nailed to the door. I had to squint to read the orange gel pen writing: Archibald Waverly.
I knocked.
An old man with tufts of white hair

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