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The Witch

  We join Maximilian of Tyne as he rides into Barrow village. His first stop is the vicarage. Barrow, he has heard, is home to a witch, and if he can beat the famed witch-hunter Matthew Hopkins to a trial and execution, he may gain the favour he so craves with the church. That, and the chance, perhaps, for an audience with King James. But what a day for a headache. And what a headache! Maximilian’s cranium is subject to an enormous, throbbing pressure, as if the moment of the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil were drawn out into several hours. Putting on his best face for the vicar, he assembles the pieces of the rumour in his hurting brain: Gordon, cousin of the illustrious Spencers, has been losing his sheep to a pox. One of his shepherds stopped working then died. It is being whispered that this is the doing of a woman by the name of May, by means of black magic and assisted by her spirit familiar, a brindle dog. Max resolved to find the woman right away. But first he had to do somet
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Narnia Shop Hell Panther

  It was Sunday and it was still raining. Bex was the first awake. She opened the kitchen window, made herself a cup of coffee and then shuffled into the lounge with it. She peeked into the entrance hall. Jarek’s outrageous boots and Mazza’s Docs were conspicuous in their absence. She glanced at her lime green Baby G. It was almost ten o’clock. She hoped they hadn’t been arrested again. A door creaked open upstairs. She could tell from the ghoulish yawn that it was Kypo. She studied the contents of the low table as he hacked and gargled his way through his morning ablutions. The sorry pot plant was still hanging on for dear life after being knocked over innumerable times, smacked by Kypo’s pois, subjected to Al’s experiments and victim to Jarek and Mazza’s roughhousing. A hopeful shoot reached upwards from amidst the other frayed and battered leaves. One of Ash’s dioramas stood next to the plant. It can’t have been one she liked very much, since she’d left it to the chaos of the lounge
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Zinoviev

 Based on a true story. With thanks to Lt. Colonel Boris Sanochkin. It was a crisp February day in 1967 and the air was ablaze with thundering kerosene. Captain Zinoviev allowed himself a satisfied chuckle as the wheels of the Mig 21-PMF lifted off the runway and the brutal 60 kilonewton thrust of its Tumansky R11F2S-300 engine pushed him into the backrest of his zero-altitude ejector seat.  Many young boys grow up wanting to fly fighter jets. Few of them ever do. Fewer still get to fly brand spanking new ones. Fondly known as the Balalaika for its shape resembling a traditional Russian guitar, this aircraft was the pinnacle of Soviet aerospace technology. Zinoviev banked onto the planned heading and eased off the throttle as he approached the formation of other Migs. There were six of them altogether in Labour Banner Flight, and his call sign for the mission was Labour Banner Fiver. All of the aircraft were fresh off the production line in Lukhovitsy, just south of Moscow. He wondere
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Tea With Mr. Winterford

“Mister Carlos, I presume?” the author cheerfully greeted the journalist.  Raoul Frederick Carlos held his notepad in front of him, a little starstruck, or perhaps just surprised that he had been greeted at the door by Alistair Winterford himself, rather than a butler or a housekeeper.  “Yes sir! It’s an honour to meet you, and I must express my deep gratitude to you for agreeing to this interview.“ “Yes, yes,” Winterford said dismissively. “Pleasantries aside, you know as well as I do that this will do us both good. I couldn’t decline a request from a publication as illustrious as yours. Besides, I’ve got my great-grandchildren’s college education to think about!” His eyes gleamed with good-humoured mischief. “You have great-grandchildren?” Carlos couldn’t believe it. He was old, but not that old. “Ha! I jest! But I have plenty of grandchildren and I have faith that most of them will breed. Come in! Come in!” He followed him down a tastefully decorated baroque hallway which opened out
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