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.
The hellfire preacher
A dark road home he took
After days condemning all living by the wrong book
A cart almost hit him
He cursed the driver with wrath
And as it left he saw the Devil to be stood in his path
Said the preacher
“Begone, angel who fell
Get thee behind me, or I’ll send you to Hell”
Said the Devil “To Hell?
We’re already there, son
There’s brains on those cart-wheels and your days are now done.”
Should you want a moral
For this tale to crown:
If you’re aiming for Heaven, don’t hold the map upside-down
—–
I have no idea how this one ended up in verse.
“Susan, it’s lovely!” (Ostentatious bitch)
“I know, isn’t it?” (Don’t you wish you could afford this?)
“However did you manage it, on George’s salary?” (Another credit card maxed and forgotten about?)
“Didn’t I say? He got a promotion, and a big raise.” (Suck that)
“How wonderful.” (Damn! Lindsey needs to work harder)
“Isn’t it?” (Ahahahahaha)
“It’s so lucky I saw you today. We’re off to Crete for a month soon.” (Aaaannnd we’re even)
“Oh, how nice.” (I will end you)
“Well, I must dash.” (I have no idea how my happiness became directly dependent on your misery)
“See you.” (Ditto)
I climbed the mountain to speak to the god of the heather.
It approached from over the rise, whispering, rushing, twitching the purple flowers as it sailed past me.
I said my piece, and waited for an answer.
But all this god ever does is whisper its name, a name that can only be spoken in a language of moorland granite, honeybees and cold sun.
I mean nothing to it, and it gives me nothing accordingly. Any answers I get out here come from inside my own head.
But I do get them, nonetheless.
“Thanks,” I said, and climbed down.
My wife collects functional things, and then never uses them.
I usually hear about new ones when she’s telling Amy. I may be her husband, but Amy still gets to hear about most things before I do.
Yesterday, it was eggcups. Even though she doesn’t like eggs.
“No,” she says. “I just like having useful things around me. It’s what normal houses have, and I like feeling like I’ve got a normal house. Right, I’m off to see Amy. Might not be back tonight. Ciao.”
The door shut behind her.
I look down at the ring on my finger.
Hm.
“I will give you the Sun,” the Queen said. “Just take his eyes! Take them out of here!”
“Well, if you insist.”
Magpie stuffed the sun and the eyes of Mr Snow back into his bag, and flew to the window. Mr Snow remained on the Queen’s throne.
“Why isn’t he leaving?”
“He will. In a few months. Course, he’ll be back, now he knows the way.”
The Queen screamed in fury.
Magpie laughed. “Toodle-pip.” And he flew home.
And that is how the Fae learned why humans say: ‘Don’t try to fool magpies. They’re better at it than you.’
“I have learned something,” Magpie said.
“Oh really? What have you learned?”
“To bring friends.”
“Who…” But the Queen didn’t say anything else, because for the first time in a thousand years, she felt cold.
The throne room doors rattled in the wind. The Queen opened Magpie’s bag, and found staring up at her the eyes of Mr Snow.
She screamed, and flung them back at Magpie.
“No! Not those! You’ve let him in!”
“Yep.”
“Take them back!”
“Nope.”
“Please!”
The Queen shuddered as Mr Snow’s icy fingers touched her heart, and she heard him whisper: “This place is mine.”
Knives were shiny, so Magpie liked them. Just not when they were pointed at him.
He was taken to the Queen’s throne room. The Sun hung from the ceiling, and the Queen basked in its warmth.
“Hello, little bird. Have you come to beg?”
“Not to beg,” Magpie said, putting down his bag. “I’m offering swapsies.”
The Queen laughed, and waved a hand. One of the Fae snatched the bag and threw it to her.
“Have you learned nothing, silly bird? The Queen of Elphame does not swap. The Queen of Elphame does not trade. The Queen of Elphame takes.”
In those days, they called Elphame the Summerlands, because the Queen had hidden it from winter’s sight.
Magpie flew there with a bag of his most precious treasures, and was met by two of the Fae.
“Tired of the dark, little bird?” one said.
“Did you not enjoy your gold… while it lasted?” laughed the other.
“I’ve come to see the Queen,” Magpie said. “Got some stuff for her. It’s very shiny.”
The Fae smiled. “We can take you to the Queen.”
“Guard of honour! Awesome!”
“Oh no, little bird.” The Fae drew his knife. “Not a guest. A prisoner.”
One night, Magpie sold the Sun to the Queen of Elphame.
He liked the Sun, but as the Fairy Queen said, it was just one shiny object, and she was offering an entire bag of gold.
The others didn’t react well.
“You sold the Sun?”
“Yep.”
“But it’ll be night-time forever!”
“Sure, but look at all this gold!”
“That’s fairy gold, idiot bird! It’ll evaporate in a few hours!”
“No it won’t.”
“Watch it then!”
So Magpie did. He watched it, and watched it, and then it wasn’t there.
He ruffled his feathers, and looked toward Elphame. “Oh, it’s on.”
If you’re on the e-mail list, you’ll know this already.
In case you’re not:
I just went on holiday. There will be ospreys. It will be amazing.
That means today, there’s no story.
Next week, there will be a story. It’s in 5 parts, and one’ll be going up every day Mon-Fri. And it’ll have Magpie in it.
To make up for there not being any stories today, here’s a little collection of all the stories Magpie’s been in to date, lovingly illustrated by people who aren’t me:
If you’re not up to date on Magpie’s adventures so far, I’d suggest having a read before Monday. We’re building a canon.
Normal service resumed on Tuesday 28th May.