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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.
The Emperor drew his sword, and the battlefield fell silent.
The Turkish captain watched from the breach. Those walls had stood for over 1000 years. They had held against Goths, Persians and Crusaders. But the Goths, Persians and Crusaders hadn’t had cannons.
Once, our forefathers owned the continent. From Palestine to Britannia. Now, we’re just this one city.
Times change.
The Emperor Constantine looked around. At the tired remnants of his people. At the hole in the once-impregnable walls. At the massed ranks of the Turks.
“For Rome!”
We charged, falling on them with the fury of Caesar.
Rome fell.
The Prime Minister’s day was going well, until the TV picture went fuzzy and became the face of Loony Doone, the world’s first vegan supervillain.
“You broke our agreement, Dave.”
“What?”
“Your spy never had a chance. I fed him to Henry.” She indicated the bloated badger on her lap.
“…oh dear.”
“Yes! And you know what this means! ” She pushed a button, and the screen showed 5 McDonald’s restaurants exploding.
“Fiend!”
“Mwahahahaha!”
The screen blinked off.
The PM sighed. Eventually they’d have to stop her, but losing all that fast food was doing wonders for the NHS budget.
“Basically, it’s change. Transmuting one thing into another.”
“I get that, but…”
“Oranges to apples, black to white, life to death… it’s all just a mathematical operation.”
“Dad…”
“Honey, it’s really possible! All I have to do is work out the right matrix! And then… then we’ll…”
“Dad!” She ripped away my sheet of calculations and, crying, tore it to pieces. “I’m sorry, Dad. I miss her too. But you can’t bring her back.”
I looked at the picture on my desk. Emily. Not long ago, she’d been my wife.
And my daughter held me as I collapsed into tears.
Henri the tightrope walker gets philosophical when he’s performing.
Just body, rope and stick. Perfect equilibrium, the way Henri likes it.
One foot after another. Goal-oriented, single-minded.
Even the crowd vanishes. Even Amelie, turning cartwheels below.
Of course, Amilie’s trying to vanish anyway. Bruno the strongman wants to take her to Paris.
Bruno isn’t performing tonight. No-one can find him. It’s because he’s been eaten by Sasha the tiger, but only Henri knows that.
He shouldn’t have tried to upset Henri’s equilibrium.
Henri gives a slight smile. You need equilibrium to walk the rope. You don’t need to be balanced.
You give me just a minute o’ your time, I show you how to sing them blues.
Me and this guitar, we come a long way. One town after ‘nother.
Them stories? Exaggerated. Never was ALL the kids o’ Hamlyn. Just one. Not unlike yourself, she was. Here, I’ll play her song. Sweet as molasses, that voice. Listen close, you hear it?
She sayin’ “Help,” my honey. Like I say, pure blues. And you’ll sing just like her, oh yes.
No sense running. You got no rhythm, kid, but you got something we need. Something we crave.
You got soul.
Breakfast was toast, Marmite and the amount of coffee you need after someone else spent the night having sex.
Katie, with whose impressive octave range I was now familiar, came blearily in.
“Rough night?”
She looked shell-shocked. “We hit the 3rd Parsons Level.”
“What?”
“Y’know, the sex cycle. First level: hesitation. New partner, you’re both a bit nervous. Second level: repetition. Once you’ve started, you do it all the time. Third level: need more interest, so… deviation.”
“Oh. Oh. You… worried?”
“No, it’s natural. It’s just… different. That said, you might not want to eat any more of that Marmite.”
When I was a kid, Dad taught me to appreciate simple things, like the smell of fresh coffee.
By doing that, he distracted me from everything else, like how Mom had started sleeping in a different room.
I still remember being surprised when one day, she left.
I also remember finding out about plantations and trade agreements and everything that goes into a jar of coffee. That surprised me, too.
Dad never really worked out what happened between him and Mum. But then, he never realised that there’s no such thing as simple; there’s just complexity you choose to ignore.
I placed some flowers on the unnamed grave.
I’d come to this churchyard to find the headstone of a famous man. Partly through masochism, because I doubt I’ll be remembered myself. Partly it’s trainspotting with cadavers.
I didn’t find him. Instead, I found this. A tiny headstone. No name. Just a few carved swirls and a date: 1872.
I may not have fresh flowers in 100 years, but I’ll still have a name.
My hobby remains morbid, but I’ve changed who I’m hunting. Should you ever find a new bunch of roses on an untended grave, that’s where I’ve been.
I died, and woke to find myself naked, on a slab, overlooked by a girl with callipers.
“Oh hey!” she said. “Look at you, sleepyhead.”
“What…” I tried to sit up but found resistance, like the slab was coated in glue. “The bus…”
She sucked air through her teeth. “Yeah, bit of a splat I’m afraid.”
Her hand touched my forehead, and drew out… something. A tiny ghost of myself, which she put in the callipers’ jaws.
“Oh, look at that! 3 millimetres short. Another kind word and you’d be in. Ah well. Ta-ta.”
The slab vanished, and I fell.
I’ve got a mate called Harishami who’s a 21st Century revivalist.
He tells me the same thing every time we go drinking. “It was a better time, shiva. There was, like, this perfect balance between man and machine. People were, like, pure.”
That’s true, I say. And people also had aching knees at 37, still thought trees weren’t sentient and were scared of cancer.
I mean, cancer. They died of it. That’s serious barbarian stuff there.
But he won’t have it.
Got to admit they got some things right, though. Chewing on this dog hair does wonders for your hangover.