I guess you'd call it a blog

Relative Anderson was the only living thing for about 300 miles. Oh there were brutalist shrubs and the occasional reluctant bacterium, but the proper animals - cows, rats, humans - were starkly missing. The reason? No fresh water for about 500 kilometres.  (Unhelpfully switching units was one of Ms Anderson's favourite little jokes. Were she ever invited to parties, which she naturally wasn't, she would not have been a hoot.)  This was the desert, as arid and deadly as a holiday to the sun. The midday rocks could serve eggs over-easy and every now and then a grain of sand melted into a globule of glass. Dramatic narrators couldn't even say 'this was a place where people went to die' , because most people would run out of food, water or sanity before getting here.  But Relative Anderson had something up her sleeve that even nature's hostility couldn't overcome: eccentricity.  A raw and utterly unhinged sociopath, she rarely noticed life's obstacles, neve...

[This is part two of a serialised story that I'm writing with remarkable inconsistency. Here's part one . ] The man across the table was Cavendish Scroot. Lording over a sheaf of papers like a hungry albatross scanning the water’s surface, he was impatiently waiting for Alacrity Johnson to wind up his sermon.  Oh how he would relish being the bearer of bad news. He'd already planned how he would look up into the man's eyes as he delivered the killing blow. He would see the confusion, the refusal, the dawning anguish.  He would hear the man beg to retain his position. He would listen with studied apathy as he kicked the legs of this swindling, masses-deluding charlatan out from under his body.  There was a certain smile often deployed during these moments. Equal parts sympathetic and recalcitrant and entirely absolving of blame. It was a smile that said I would love to but I can' t but which really meant I've done everything in my power to make sure this terribl...