For busy people and procrastinators.
Percy had been waking to vomit every night at 2:30 a.m. for six long weeks, the bucket on his bedside table as much a fixture in the bedroom as the snoring colossus he called ‘dear’, sleeping next to him. Despite Margaret’s attempts to find him a solution, even with all the back-patting and gentle nursing, Percy suspected her of foul play. Evidence did not align with his suspicions; he had never caught her in the…
Karen flipped through the smudged pages of the Farneholme Gazette with the grace of someone rifling through garbage. The paper, much like the village itself, offered nothing but petty crime, damp politics, and obituary columns. She’d once cared — once fought — but the creeping disillusionment that had infected Farneholme’s older folk had finally reached her too. Whatever fire she’d held for saving this place had gone out. Yobs, druggies, council rot… they could all…
London was under siege. Its people were stooped — eyes firmly on the stone bricks, lifting their heads only to gauge the next ten steps. There was no danger of bumping into one another. They dared not touch. Most did not leave their homes. The Black Death could not sympathise with the repercussions of its presence — it knew nothing of clemency. It thrived in the weakened human spirit, the pessimism working as fuel in…
Garrison’s mother had always said he wasted too much time and far too much money on “pointless contraptions.” She said this often, especially during dinner, and especially louder when the bills arrived. So naturally, the moment Garrison completed excavation of what he insisted was a “cosmic telephone” from deep beneath the Skeleton Coast, he did what any self-respecting futurist would do: he tried to make a call and spoke a call destination into the container.