Deadly Scorpions Ate My Shirt!

Jimmy Olsen slapped his tattered passport on the table and pointed to the first page. It’s a long shot, he thought, but it might just work.

“Do you know what this says?” he asked.

Seid Suhail shook his head. Smoke eddied around his furrowed brow and collected in a thick layer beneath the trading post’s low ceiling. He bent over to examine the dog-eared page with a sceptical expression.

“It says that Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.” He smiled and pushed the passport towards Seid Suhail. It was lucky for him that the Arab trader had no way of knowing that Olsen was in the Sahara without the embassy’s knowledge or consent. “Assistance, Seid Suhail, and protection. Keid is still a British province. That means you have to help.”


Salt And Ashes

I will not fail.

The words burned like a thousand suns in Zolin’s mind as he knelt on the cold stone floor of the priest house.

It had been a long five days. Zolin was exhausted. Blood trickled down his neck from the piercings in his earlobes. He glanced around at the ash-smeared faces of his fellow priests. A few men met his eyes. Some whispered prayers underneath their breath. Most ignored him. Zolin recited his mantra in the privacy of his own skull.