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.
I kissed Sarah Parker as David Bowie sang.
She was a fan, and after that, so was I. We were Aladdin Sane and Jean Genie. Rebel rebels. Young dudes.
Then, thanks to a guy who played Starman at parties, we broke up, and I decided David Bowie sucked. Derivative. Complete sell-out. I started buying Opeth records, to underline the point.
But the other day, I found that album again. Every track had some memory. Couldn’t help smirking a bit when Suffragette City came on.
With Sarah, I’m still bitter. But Dave, you’re forgiven. Ziggy Stardust always was pretty damn awesome.
—–
In other news: hell yes David Bowie
When I’m writing a larger story, the idea will generally start with some clear image or phrase. The rest of my world-building is devoted to creating something in which that image could exist. Build up logically.
In the case of the one I’m writing now, it was an old woman, on a horse, who carried away people about to die. I don’t know where that came from, but one day it was there.
That leaves a few questions to be answered:
The last question is the most important, because that underpins everything else. You need a reason for your world to work the way it does.
And I find the best way to get a good answer is to ask more questions. What would they do with the dead if she didn’t take them away? Probably bury them, so why don’t they do that? There’s lots of possible answers here, but i’ve decided that it’s because they don’t like putting their dead in the ground. They think death taints the earth.
Now we’re moving on to culture. You could, and should, ask why they think that, but you should also start thinking about whether this belief affects anything else. If people think this, how else do they think? What do they think about dead animals – do they bury them? How does this belief affect how they act around dying people, how does it affect their conception of an afterlife, how does it filter in to their language and art?
The answers to these questions might never make it in to the finished story, but knowing them means you can add in the details that make the world real and your characters believable – and more than that, it grows story. It’s the stuff that gets whole new plot strands developing.
In this story, I’ve already built up quite a lot of world. I know that the woman is a Rider, one of many who collect the dead. This started me thinking about how people become Riders, and that’s how I found my narrator.
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything in a longer form, and while the 100-worders are great practice, I need to get back into bigger stuff. I’m going to try and get this one done by the end of January. At my usual writing speed, that’s a big ask.
So let’s go.
Despite Jenna’s white hair and twilight eyes, the other kids don’t believe her mother is the moon.
They say it’s just a tale her Dad tells her, and call her names.
“It’s true,” her Dad says. “See how the ocean swells when you’re close?”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t swell much. You’re still small.”
Her aunt gives her funny looks when she mentions this, but Jenna knows her Dad wouldn’t lie.
And she feels better, seeing her mother up there.
But once a month, the sky’s empty. That’s when a white-haired woman knocks at the door, and Jenna answers.
“Hello Mum.”
Jess pointed. “He’s going to tame lions in Kenya.”
“She’s going to move to Peru.” Ben tilted his cup at a girl with hair like ravens.
This was the third New Year they’d spent in this café, making resolutions for strangers. Looking at Jess, Ben wondered if he’d ever keep his own.
He finished his coffee. “Any more? It’s getting dark.”
“One more.” She pointed at him. “He’s finally going to take me to dinner at the Parisian. Tonight. We’ve got a table at 8.”
Ben stared.
“You’re very cute,” Jess said, “but I don’t plan on waiting another year.”
Agnes and the Spinster Sisters had this thing they did.
Every winter solstice, they’d go to the Merry Maidens, drape the stones in holly and ivy, and chant all night.
Said it was to bring the sun back. And when Spring arrived, a few months later, they looked so proud.
We let them be, but still sniggered when they walked past, weighed down with greenery.
But it didn’t happen last year.
Council said they were defacing an ancient monument. A man in a hi-vis jacket chased them off.
And yeah, we laughed.
But it’s June now. And it’s still snowing.
It doesn’t snow on December 25th. No crisp white blanket under cool winter sun. Just mud, clouds and a robin soaked with drizzle.
And you could complain, also, about the raised expectations, forced jollity and religion co-opted by commercialism.
But don’t.
Because though it may be dressed up with wise men, Dickens and the Coca-Cola Lorry advert, the things that really matter on this darkest of nights are the same things that have always mattered.
A cup of mulled wine, a warm nest, and someone to share it with.
If you have those, you’ve every reason to smile.
Happy Christmas.
As the seas boil, forests burn, and that asteroid we’ve all been watching for weeks gets closer, I can think just one thing:
Bloody Mayans.
21st December 2012 passed with only a fistfight on Oxford Street.
And that wasn’t surprising. Like Mitch said, if the Mayans could tell the future, we’d still have Mayans.
Turns out they could tell it. They just couldn’t change it.
They worked it out centuries ago. Abandoned their cities, because what was the point?
They saw us coming too, and what we’d do. That’s why some joker left that calendar, marked with the wrong day.
—–
The Mitch is Mitch Benn, Doctor Who geek-in-chief, purveyor of funny songs and doer of an awesome reading of ‘A Christmas Carol’. You can find his stuff here, though not the song about the Mayans.
They only let him out at night. He can’t remember the colour of dawn.
All because he once stole from the wrong house. He, the best thief in Byzantine. Her, the best enchantress.
He once lived like a king.
Now all he has are the echoes of distant hammers, the chittering of those… creatures, the endless icy wastes.
And that night. That long, desolate night, where he must atone for his sins by giving instead of taking.
His sack heavy as mountains. His body dragged across continents. Feet worn to bloody stumps.
Wanting nothing but the rising of the sun.
It’s my birthday, so have a bonus 
—–
It was 2 in the morning before they went home.
He looked at the church clock as they walked the quiet street.
“Twenty-four minutes,” he said.
“Twenty-four?”
“I was born at two twenty-four. I’ve got twenty-four minutes left in this decade.”
There had been a gig. And a pub. And some shots. Lucy linked arms, keeping them both upright. He wasn’t usually one for birthdays, but thought changing both digits deserved a celebration.
“Y’know, Mum says you’re going to have to start being a grown-up now. You’re getting old.”
He laughed. “Yeah, she said that when I turned 70 too.”
At the start, they were just words.
And he was just a 30-year-old with a hobby.
Sick of endless kings, armies and invasions, he began to write. He wrote about his country, his people, and their stories.
The words became lines, lines became verses, and verses became thousands.
And of course there was another king, another army, another invasion. Maybe they were mighty. Maybe they ruled the world. They’ve been forgotten.
But his words remain.
Because a king can only ever be a king, and an army can only ever be an army.
But words never stay as just words.
——–
This is about the Shahnameh, which I’ve not read, but which has an amazing story surrounding it.