The last of my opening salvo of reblogs this week is from a man with a truly unique style. His blog, The Drivellings of Twattersley Fromage is a glorious mixture of fiction, poetry and the sort of outright nonsense that Edward Lear would be proud of.
Here is a slice of wartime intrigue, from the always artfully articulate Mr Mike Steeden…
‘No other capital city in the world can do grey quite like London,’ her passing thought. A thought dismissed almost as soon as it arrived. For as of now, there was the little matter of the naked Ambassador lying as prone as prone could be, upon his back atop a plainly hideously expensive Afghan rug to attend to. Clearly, her stiletto heel dug into his pudgy chest bone was causing the gratifying discomfort intended. Moreover, that he knew exactly what was coming next. Not that he needed a clue, the silencer affixed to her pistol and aimed at his forehead was, regardless, the giveaway. Was that a tear in his eye? Mattered not. She wondered how he might beg for mercy had it been the case that he had not been adeptly gagged. How so naked? Her trademark of course, her panache, her cultivated style.
“Gosh it’s so very bitter…
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