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Dweet takes a job at a slip factory to get him through university, and learns more than he bargained for; by Bill Tope. Image generated with OpenAI I've got to make some scratch, thought Dweet desperately as he motored down the highway to the darker, murkier side of the city. He was on summer break from university, having just completed his first year. Turning into a gravel parking lot on the corner of Front and Ridge, he parked his turquoise '64 Impala some thirty feet from an old brick factory building festooned with a metal sign that said: Excel Slip. Dweet alighted from the vehicle and walked past the parked bread truck, to the entrance. Finding the door ajar, he peeped inside. A voice from the nether regions of the factory floor beckoned: "C'mon in, Dweet." Although he had been born Eric Harold Dweet, II, Dweet took no offense at the casual address. When in grade school, he had been in class with two other Erics and had, by the ingenuity of his ...

Ed Dearnley's character returns to Tyneham in England for the first time in sixty years, and remembers his childhood, the war, and the witch's curse. Image generated with OpenAI I was taking a break from U-boat hunting when I spotted him, huddled in the bushes on the ridgeline. He was small for his age, almost like he could hide behind a blade of grass. "What you want?" I shouted. "Nuffin," came the reply. He wasn't much of a talker. He'd started school earlier that year and, with his family's reputation, it hadn't taken him long to become a target for our usual crew of bullies. Earlier that week, I'd dragged him out of a circle of jeering boys, all making little devil horns with their fingers as they kicked at their wailing victim. "Come down here," I said. "I've got my dad's field glasses. I saw two Spitfires strafing an E-boat last week." The boy inched down towards me on thin, bandy le...

Thomasina says goodbye to a well-to-do life in rural England to move in with her new husband in the endless cornfields of Iowa, when things take a shockingly dark turn; by Caroline Taylor. "Darling, remind me why we didn't fly?" "COVID." My brand new husband seems to grow more taciturn, the farther west we go. He is definitely what the Yanks call the strong and silent type, emphasis on the latter. But we've been in the motorcar for hours now, and I am growing weary of the scenery. "People do fly, you know. After all, we've just crossed the Atlantic." "Mother is an old woman. Can't risk it." Ah, yes. One must be careful these days. As our journey continues, I feel a mild headache coming on. Field after field of the same crop makes for a rather boring experience. I turn to Joe. "These crops. Are they corn?" "Yep." I've done my homework, checking out Joe Mason's claim to owning a large farm ...