There’s 3 books of these stories available on Amazon. Put your e-mail address in the box below and I’ll send you the first one for free, as a PDF.
Not only that, you’ll get new stories as I write them. That’s about one a week, at the moment.
And they’re more fun to find in your in-box than more ‘BUY MORE STUFF!’ messages too.
Now in the time of David there was a great flood, and the lands of Somerset were washed into the sea.
And the people said ‘Yea, ‘tis God’s punishment for the sin of gay marriage.’
But above the people appeared an angel, and it was beautiful and terrible to behold.
And the angel said unto the people ‘Yea, you receive God’s punishment. For thou show intolerance to foreigners, give your healthcare system unto private companies, and hast a distressing disregard for Keynesian economics.’
And the people beat their breast, for the Lord was revealed unto them, and He is socialist.
I don’t think it was love at first sight.
I know, that’s not how it’s supposed to go. But what can I say? You’re not The One, but you’re A One. I’ve loved a hundred people, and one of them’s you.
Bear with me. I never was much good at romance.
See, I’ve fallen in love at first sight, but when I fall in fast I fall out the same way.
You, I’ve looked at a thousand times. And I don’t know on which glance that arrow finally struck home, but I know it’s still there.
Striking deeper, every time.
—–
The inspiration for this one was a poem by a past contributor here, M. A. Barr. You can read it here – it’s pretty good.
I stand at the corner of Park Avenue and 72nd, and listen.
I read once that thought is just a by-product of arranging information, and as I look at all the people swapping stories and making deals I have to wonder, just what the hell else are we doing here?
“…I’m an accountant, not a Mafioso…”
“…I had to do it…”
What is this? Definition. Justification. I am here and I have a right to exist.
Maybe that’s the secret of this place.
We are flickers and sparks. Nerves and impulses. Arrangers of information. And the city is waking up.
I walk the Paris catacombs. Me and my torch. The only living boy in the ossuary.
They moved the bones down here when the graveyards overflowed. That’s what we tell people, at least.
In reality, they’re what’s left of the ones who didn’t read the sign. There’s always some who aren’t satisfied with the tour and go exploring.
So every night, I come down here. See who walked off the path. Find their skeleton, stack them with the rest.
We did warn them. It’s there on the sign: Il est tout noire. Vous êtes susceptibles d’être mangés par un grue.
The Arctic Circle runs through my garden.
Somehow it always feels colder once I cross that invisible line.
I grow yellow poppy and purple saxifrage, alternating through the flower-bed. Yellow and purple might not seem like a match, but any single colour becomes bland after a time. Contrast reminds you what you love about both.
I remember we’d come out here in summer, bask in the seven-degree heat. Even then, I think, I realised you weren’t happy. You missed the south.
It was still a shock when you left.
Now, it’s just me. Flat. Featureless. But I’m hardy. I’ll survive.
The zombie apocalypse didn’t get far. Shuffling corpses put up less resistance to a shotgun than Hollywood has you believe.
We thought it was a job well done.
So it came as a bit of a shock when the first tyrannosaur broke through the permafrost.
It’d devoured most of Narvik before the Norweigan army took it out, and by then there were reports of many more.
Boats were pulled under by skeletal plesiosaurs. Reanimated sabre-tooth tigers crawled from Doggerland and ate their way through East Anglia.
As a species, that was our biggest mistake. It’s not always all about us.
Breaking a young girl’s heart can lead to dangerous places.
For Emelia-Jane, it led to a biology degree, a masters in herpetology, and a doctorate in genetics. From there, it led on to funding struggles, long nights, and years spent in the lab.
And finally, it led to a kitten-sized creature with gold-flecked scales, leathery wings and smoke rising lazily from its nostrils.
“He’s called Freckles,” she told the stunned reporters.
All because on her 8th birthday, her father said “Oh, sweetie, I know I promised you anything you wanted, but there’s just no such thing as a pet dragon.”
She was lithe, beautiful, and moved like she was made of smoke.
She looked at me from the dancefloor, smiled, winked, and vanished.
I ran to the door, but the street was empty. Just a man with a cigarette leaning against the club wall.
“You won’t find her,” he said.
“What?”
“That girl. She’ll be in your dreams. In your head. You’re not the only one, kid. Men are driven mad hunting for her, and none of them ever see her again.”
Bugger that, I thought, and typed ‘eldritch smoke girl’ into Match.com.
We’re going for a drink next Thursday.
It was, he had to admit, a very impressive cleavage.
“But I’m not sure it’s… practical?”
“It’s very practical,” she said. “It focuses attention where I want it.”
Draegun sighed. Barbaria was beautiful, and a skilled warrior, but her armour barely had enough square-inches to protect a guinea-pig.
“Look, I know most of the Death Horde are male and don’t get out much, but in battle they won’t go ‘ooh boobies’, even for yours. They’ll go ‘look, an unprotected midriff’.”
“Like I said, focusing attention.” She rapped a hand on her stomach. “Enchanted. Harder than diamond. Gets them every time.”
They told me I was a pioneer. They told me I was charting new frontiers, expanding human civilisation to new stars.
They didn’t tell me I wouldn’t be able to make a decent cup of coffee in the whole damn trip.
“Goddammit!”
“What is it?” Katie asked.
“Milk,” I said. “Maybe it’s the engines. Maybe it’s the grav condensers. But something on this damn ship turns every bit of milk into this.”
I emptied the goo into the sink. It went splot.
“Yeah, you can’t use milk here.” She handed me another carton. “In space, no-one can. Here, use cream.”