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.
Yesterday, time stopped.
Not for long. Felt like about an hour, if there had been any time. But there wasn’t, because it stopped.
It happened at 12:06. I was cooking lunch, listening to the ticking of the clock.
And then there was no ticking. The pendulum hung at 45 degrees.
I stared. Found my watch. There too, time had paused.
My neighbours had the same thing.
The news that night said it’d happened all around the world.
We’d been gifted a few minutes. A few precious minutes of life.
And we’d spent them all wondering what to do with them.
This is the 100th story I’ve written, and it’s about arbitrary milestones.
—–
We were 17 light-years from the Sun, and celebrating New Year.
Sitting in the observation deck with Hayla, we clinked champagne glasses and looked at the stars. So very many. None we’d ever feel the warmth from.
The others think we’re odd, with our party hats and resolutions.
“But we don’t know what day it is on Earth.”
But I can’t help noticing how they fall into ruts they can’t escape, in these metal corridors and metronome days.
Nothing changes.
Me and Hayla, we mark time. It helps.
It doesn’t matter where the line is, see. Just that it exists.
Out walking one night, I came to a crossroads, and it was there I taught the Devil to play guitar.
He was trying to hitch a ride but having no luck on account of the hooves.
I had no wheels, so instead gave him a tune. Little earworm it was, burrowed into his head and wouldn’t let go.
He said, “You know who I am?”
I said, “Son, I know who you were.”
So the Devil conjured himself some strings, sat at that crossroads and started to play.
“Pass it on,” I said.
Far as I know, he’s still there.
Draegun’s muscles tensed. His fist shot out.
The dice clattered against Milandra’s flagon.
“Ha! 17! And 5 levels in Office Politics on top. Hell. Yes.”
G’drok checked his notes. “The board love your presentation. You’ll be leading the Henderson Account.”
Draegun let out the barbarian roar of triumph.
“Good session, I thought,” he said later, walking Milandra home.
“You would say that, Mr. Politics. I wanted to use my +3 Spreadsheet of Logistics.”
“Bound to next time. Quarterly target review.”
Milandra laughed. “You’re really getting into this.”
“Yeah, well. It’s escapism. All day, I raid temples. This is real adventure.”
—–
This story is from the prompt ‘Draegun’.
3 things that remind me of summer:
The seaside, Weymouth and knickerbocker glories.
I haven’t seen the sea in ten years, and Weymouth was hit by an N-bomb six months into the war.
But I still have my knickerbocker glories. I made sure the bunker was filled with enough tinned fruit, meringue and syrup to keep me going for ages.
Sunday is Knickerbocker Day.
My neighbours thought I was mad, giving up tinned-bean space. From the radio silence, I’m guessing they’ve ended it now.
I can’t believe I’ll be rescued, either. But getting to next Sunday… that I can do.
—–
In the last story, I mentioned a huge cyclopean ginger tom. His name is Gizmo, and here’s a picture:
These days, Mildred’s only company is her huge, cyclopean ginger tom.
He sits on the counter of her bakery in Croydon, tail going swisherswash and staring down her customers.
These customers include Zeus, Athena, and the man robbing her.
“I know you’ve got the food of the gods. Give it to me!”
So Mildred cut him a slice of cheesecake, which he ate, and to his consternation failed to become a god.
“This is just cheesecake!”
He was wrong. It was Zeus’ favourite cheesecake, and the old god had already paid the deposit on it.
Outside, stormclouds were rolling in.
—–
This story is for the charming collection of miscreants and weirdos I’m privileged to call my family, and is from the prompt ‘heavenly cheesecake and a one-eyed cat’.
The revolution wasn’t just televised. It was prime-time.
David Stellerman pitched the idea, and Westminster loved it.
Unfortunately, they didn’t check all the details.
“You didn’t say you’d let the public in,” the PM said.
Stellerman waved a hand. “It’s the auditions. The build-up. Everyone likes to laugh at the losers.”
The PM had to concede that, but regretted it when he became one of them. Stellerman said he didn’t have enough charisma for the main show.
The winner was a 19-year-old with pretty cheekbones. “Congratulations,” Stellerman smiled, letting him in to Downing Street. “I’m behind you all the way.”
The grown-ups won’t talk about what happened that day.
And now, the school’s overgrown.
“Come on!” Devon urged us forwards.
“Don’t like this, Dev.”
“Wassup? Scared?”
“No…”
We pushed through the treeline, and found it. A rusted roundabout. A climbing frame, blackened and half-collapsed. Rotten swings on old rope.
Even Devon stopped.
We’d speculated. An accident in the Science labs. One of the teachers murdering her class. Maybe she still lived in the building, mad and gibbering.
What we saw: a pristine building, surrounded by the burnt shadows of those who ran.
And…
No. It’s not “won’t talk”. It’s “can’t”.
Joe Thompson was waiting for the flood.
He’s got a treehouse built up in the old oak, and every day he loads it with a few more tins.
You’d expect him to be churchglue, but he’s a normal suburban guy. Wears a suit. Has little black-rimmed glasses. Works for the Met Office.
On reflection, maybe that’s more worrying.
“It’s just preparation,” he said. “Like an ISA. A little bit, now and then, gets you set for the future. Doesn’t suit me, worrying every time we get a shower.”
“I don’t do that.”
He smiled, after a fashion. “You will now.”
Just for a laugh, we nuked Australia last Tuesday.
Terry got to push the button, since it was his birthday, and he’d been the one to fashion the missile from old baked bean cans.
We watched the explosion through our spy satellite (Dave’s iPhone tied to a salvaged weather balloon), celebrated a successful test with a cuppa and waited for the media to recognise Wolverhampton as the world’s next nuclear power.
We didn’t really grasp just how big Australia was, though.
The bomb went off, just as planned, in the middle of the outback. Eventually, some bugger might even notice.