Bronson suddenly spotted Celia wheeling a small hound and pushing her way through the circle of Howlers towards him. ‘Arthur Snout,’ Bronson whispered to himself, ‘is that really you?’ This was not the young pup he remembered from the orphanage days; here, staggering towards him, looking dazed, was Lonely Dog grown up. The bikers were […]
At over six feet tall, dressed in coal-black
The little town snuggles contentedly against the warm Esparrow Sea, protected from the cold winds that blow off the snow-capped Shipwoods to the east, splayed like a sleeping hound in the velvet darkness.
Peering through the barred porthole of his cell, Bronson watched Ruddegan striding down the jetty towards the main gate.
Rolph Flannegan Short Stories:
No one could predict how many days a Midsummer Madness Festival might last.