Category Archives: R.G. MacLeod

I work at a restaurant on the beach. Gin clear water. Blindingly white sand. Here they come, English tourists, once blindingly white, now blindingly red. I’m seriously talking baboon’s ass red. I can spot them a mile away. Maybe they … Continue reading →

Who am I, Indiana Jones? Is there any possible means at my disposal to create a map that will help others find this place? More importantly; find their way back again? I don’t even know where here is other than … Continue reading →

I’m standing chest deep in gin-clear water. I have to be in the right place at the right time with the right bait. The right bait is the easy part. Pompano and permit cannot resist a big fat juicy sand … Continue reading →

Yes she does.  They all do.  I glanced up when Mona came in. “I’ll be with you shortly,” I say, “just stuffing Mrs. Pennywhistle’s loins.” Mrs. Pennywhistle turned to her and remarked: “Mr. Johnson has a way with my loins, … Continue reading →

Breadfruit by R.G. MacLeod There it was again. Well, actually, it was another one, one of about a dozen or so. This big green bumpy lumpy thing, a breadfruit. Someone had just tossed it in the pit with the pig. … Continue reading →