
The rumbling stopped. The ground ceased to quake. The blaze slowed and flickered out with a sputter. While the cloud of fumes from the Saturn V rocket cleared, two masked figures stood beneath the behemoth bickering.
“What do you mean, it’s over the top?” He normally would have stroked his chin and tugged on his greying beard at this point, but things being as they are these days, Continue reading


Marie-Anne Carolus-Duran would rather have been sitting in a dark and musty closet ensconced in a nest of her riding instructor’s malodorous paddock boots and picking lint bobbles from her Sunday frock than posing for a portrait with Yéti.
BURIED ALIVE: HOLY GUACAMOLE – HOW I ATE MY WAY FROM UNDER AN AVALANCHE OF AVOCADOS




Alice Wetherby-Pimms had a peculiar penchant for pickles. Be they sweet, sour, or dill, the child was mad about brined cucumbers. Chips, chunks, cubes, finely chopped relishes, halves, slices, spears, sticks and whole, no matter their shape, Alice craved them all.
Once upon a dreary Sunday many Mays ago, it was unclear whether Alice Wetherby-Pimms had quaffed the dregs of a liter of 




