My attention had shifted to Helena, hijacked by the pheromones (or perfume) wafting on the air currents in the auditorium.
Professor Carmichael was droning on about Lepidoptera and the infinite mutations that made something as simple as a Madagascan Sunset moth possible.
My attentions were more carnal. Although genetics were not top of mind, all that mattered were the variations that made such a beautiful creature possible.
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“What a year!” Emma hadn’t been this happy since her teens.
Yes, she’d raised two wonderful children that she wouldn’t trade for anything. Still, an ache inside, she didn’t belong here. Her spirit longed to escape its cage and soar.
Finding Celine had set her free.
Just chilling with the family today. We’ve been laughing and carrying on most of the day. My six-year-old has just learned about swirlies. He was being silly, saying he would put Mommy’s head in the toilet and I may have explained that if he flushed, he would be giving Mom a swirly. Now, with uncontrollable giggles, the little bugger keeps threatening my wife and me with a trip to the sewers.
I swear this part is not a recipe post although the Spaghetti Pomodoro from The Floured Kitchen looks delicious. My hunger has caused me to digress so let me bring it back on point.
In our travels earlier today, we saw a sign with this cracker of a joke out front of our local East Side Mario’s restaurant. Being an Italian-American themed restaurant with New York City as its design motif, put on your best NY accent and have a go at what the sign read…
Q: What do you call a fake noodle?
A: An impasta!!!
Budda boom, budda bing…
Photo Credit: Bek at The Floured Kitchen
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.
Kneeling in the front pew,
alone, paralyzed.
I want to run.
He’ll return,
in mitre and full vestments.
The crack of the staff,
Rings through the sanctuary.
Ashamed, I will obey.
It didn’t matter if this tinpot dictatorship trampled on the rights of its citizens or those sharing a border. He was the President’s guest, and as such smiled while flippant comments about war crimes and human rights violations flew around the table.
Back home, blame for the Ambassador’s cozy relationship fell squarely on the Prime Minister. Like a good civil servant, he tendered his resignation to conceal the government’s secret support for the regime.
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Terryl felt ill, a gnawing in his stomach that had started in the hours following his return from Orion Prime’s surface.
The mission was uneventful, a ride through the red tide mist to the Orion-Beta mine site where the landing party deployed new communications boosters and completed routine software updates on the mining bots.
No one else from the team was reporting anomalies but several days later Terryl sat in sickbay awaiting his fourth assessment; his previous scans had come back normal, but he was certain something was eating away at his insides.
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Andi survived alone, hidden from the Chinese military patrols. America’s interest in democracy had waned three generations earlier, inevitably falling to the Communist regime in the anarchy that ensued. Her only escape was imagining the picturesque herds of wild buffalo, tall grasses and the endless blue mid-west sky she’d read about in forbidden books.
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Beaver Springs was vernacular in every sense. Every detail focused on making the homes of this community intuitively functional, yet unmemorable. An architectural achievement rarely seen in cookie-cutter neighbourhoods.
Despite its utilitarian appeal, there was something deeper, sinister at play. The residents congregated at nightfall, like lions, tense as they waited. Their prey, almost always a woman, plucked from the dirty forgotten streets across town.
When she was too weak to fight back, the sun fixing to rise in the east, they would share in a communion of blood sacrifice.
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A Month had passed since intercepting a message. Most believed it was intercepted from a Chinese-Russian military satellite, our enemy in a war the Allies were losing, but I believed it had come from someone or something else. Everyone knew cracking the code, completely indiscernible to the best and brightest working around the clock, was key to our victory.
As I sat staring at the letters, numbers, and symbols, my eyes bugging out of my head, they began to lift from the page and realign before my eyes. I had done it, I’d found the key to deciphering the entire transmission. The message read,
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