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.
A curious bond exists between people who grew up close to the sea.
When I met Jessie, she pulled my ear to her chest and said: listen. There was no heartbeat, just the crashing of waves.
We made love on deserted beaches, before rinsing away the sand.
Every time, we’d go further out.
Until one day she said, come with me, and pulled me under the water.
And I saw no legs as she dived, just a flash of silvery tail.
I kicked my own, still a pair, heavy and ungainly, and couldn’t tell if I was swimming or drowning.
I was at Wexford Harbour the day the whale beached.
I had no words to describe the size of her then, and I’ve found none since.
But it was her calmness that struck me most. The way she turned, lazy and deliberate. Stranding herself on Swanton Bank as if she were sunbathing.
I wondered, then, what drove her to it. So much size and power – what could make a creature like her give up?
It was the next day I saw pictures of the whale-calf carcass. Caught, killed and posed with by the fishing crew, then discarded over the side.
As I cook lentils, I hear the kids play in the neighbouring schoolyard.
It’s that time of day.
The bombing was two months ago, and the school’s abandoned now. But still I hear the sounds of that afternoon.
The police never found who did it.
But the kids know.
There’s the explosion. Fifty-eight times I’ve heard that.
The first time, the laughter became screams. Now it just gets louder, until it’s crashing against my door like a wave.
I don’t dare leave, though nothing’s left in the house but dried lentils and leftover fertiliser.
Not sure which I’ll finish first.
Grandma bottles rainbows and sells them to hipsters.
Each one comes with a little note saying where it was found, like ‘over a Kilkenny field during a brief April shower’.
In reality she’s got a farm in a Peckham garden shed. A hose, a dozen prisms and a crate full of empty Coke bottles, the old glass kind.
Sometimes, I wonder if her customers know. If the lie is just part of the package. All ironic, because what isn’t?
Grandma thinks I’m too cynical. “Everyone says don’t chase rainbows,” she says. “I just show that sometimes, the buggers get caught.”
Oryx and Crake. Sounds like an accountancy firm.
There’s no accountancy here. It’s emphasized repeatedly that the main character’s not a numbers guy, despite growing up surrounded by scientists.
Oh. That sounds more promising. Is he Oryx, or Crake?
He’s neither. He’s Snowman, though in his pre-apocalyptic life he was called Jimmy.
Jesse never understood Poohsticks.
I told her it was a metaphor for life. “All the sticks get dropped together,” I said, “but some end up ahead, some behind. They can’t affect anything themselves, it’s just where they fell in the current. And the journey always takes longer than you expect.”
And I smiled, because I knew I was wiser than her.
Of course, that was before she released The Tao Of Poohsticks and became a multimillionaire self-help guru overnight.
I asked her if she was proud, and she shrugged. “Just flowing with the current,” she said. ”Water under the bridge.”
“I… am sorry,” said Doctor Von Stranglehoff. “I’m sorry my Precipitator drowned your caryopteris.”
“I too must apologise,” said Professor Vortechs. “Setting your geraniums on fire with my Solar Refractor was most unsportsmanlike.”
The crowd hushed as the Mayor prepared to announce the winner of the Gotterdammerung In Bloom trophy.
“It will be you,” hissed Stranglehoff. “Your Sentient Sunflowers… genius!”
“No, your anti-slug Detonating Daisies are clear favourites!”
“The winner is…” the Mayor said, “Agatha Potter, and her fine Streptocarpus display.”
“But…” Stranglehoff stuttered. “They’re just flowers… they don’t DO anything…” He turned to Vortechs. “And they called US mad?”
—–
This story was written in support of a game some friends are currently kickstarting, about mad science, weather control and botany.
You can find the kickstarter here, and remember, when you support it, you’re not just supporting indie games. You’re supporting SCIENCE!
“My father wants me to kill you,” Mordred said, as he helped her to shore. “Fortunately, I’m not as stupid as he is.”
“I didn’t… know you cared,” Arfa gasped.
“I won’t claim to like you. But you are my King.”
Tristan, Cai and Guinever met them at the shoreline. Guinever pulled Arfa into a hug so tight she thought her ribs would crack.
“People will sing about this for years,” Tristan said. “The tale of Arfa and the Bronze Knight!”
“Don’t… don’t call it that,” Arfa said. “No titles, not for him. Call it The Lady Of The Lake.”
The Knight swung at Arfa’s throat.
She jumped back into the lake, splashing further and further until her feet no longer touched bottom.
The Knight charged, water wrapping round his breast-plate. “You will bleed, whelp,” he growled, but the lake slowed his every move.
Arfa, though, swam fast as an eel, diving and kicking his legs from beneath him. He collapsed under, water filling his lungs, death-sharp sword dropping away, armour weighing him down.
Arfa panted. “Deep enough.”
Her heart burned. Her eyes were heavy, and shore was… so far away…
Arms wrapped around her shoulders.
“Hello Arfa,” said Mordred.
Arfa stood, and there was nothing louder than her heart.
The Bronze Knight drew his sword, and walked forward.
She raised her blade to meet his swing. It was sliced apart, Uther’s sword decapitated. He swung again, she threw the hilt at him and he stumbled, giving her time to retreat.
Guinever said: don’t fight with a sword. But all she had was a sword, and now that lay in two pieces.
He swung again. She retreated again. He swung, she retreated. Again, and again.
Until her feet touched the bottomless Dozmary Pool.
The Knight smiled. “Nowhere left to run.”