Postcards from Kronk - the second collection of daily stories. (2025)

Frank Doughty, newly elected Member of Parliament under the alternately vicious agreement lined up three bullets in front of me. 'pick one, you have a complete free choice' He, like many of the new breed, have a reputation for playing games, bamboozling with so much contradictory yet important sounding information that by the time you leave you've forgotten why you were sent in the first place. My hand went left and then conspicuously to the one in the centre, finding my way into the rules of the game. 'I have to say, before you make your final decision: one of the bullets has a name on it, underneath, where you can't see' he turned his hand upwards to demonstrate, 'and if you pick that one, someone will be shot' The background noise disappeared and all I could hear was two heartbeats, his much slower than my own. Whilst eating another spoon of ice cream I studied the scene; the new pro risk taking democratic manifesto dictated a way out of ...

Gillian stands smiling grimly, 'The story starts with the girl who ate too much salad running through the town chasing a horse. He watched her from the church tower and passed notes to henchmen by raven. Whilst drawing the horse the animator stopped, his pencil hovering in mind air, he couldn't remember how the story knitted together and like god realising he'd made a dodo he understood something fundamental was wrong.' She prods her finger roughly towards the new intake of students pausing long enough to point at each in turn. 'He never drew again you know, sold his mac and went into teaching, can you imagine that?' 'live in the moment' she continues, 'it's the only way, draw, fill, modify, never think, once you do, you're finished'.

During the back end of 2012 two anti-establishment sleeper Councillors will vote through a series of bills designed to bring down the Man, to show the system for the creaking corrupt corpse it has become and to herald in a new world of anarchy and peace. That they fail will be common knowledge, most of the bills will make little or no impact when leaked to the press but one, the infamous drink crime bill will change the world. That is why they will knock on your doors, that is why we will meet in private and that is why we must never vote for any of them ever again.

William G Peterson and Ronald F Waterstone faced each other over their over-sized leather desk and through matching horn rimmed glasses. Their deputies, armed with laptops, notes, kindles and folders, waited to be called up one by one to attack or defend a particular point of contention like besuited pokemon. It was only a matter of time before their internal power struggles became public and each realised whilst some compromise would be necessary, he who blinked first would be like prime fillet laid out before the master butcher. ' I am happy to concede your men acted with no malice ' Peterson began. ' And I am willing to accept the accident was not intentional ' Waterstone returned with the precision of a two handed backhand. George H Robinson meanwhile, ex of Peterson, Waterstone and Robinson was busy emailing another limerick to every name in the company address book.

Harold paced out the distance between his front door and the wall once more. Twenty two paces, seventy odd feet thereabout. Not too far enough away for him to have failed to hear it's erection during the previous evening, yet he had slept like a baby, ein kinder even. The wall was made of large bricks, each double the size of a regular brick and it encircled the whole of his property like a miniature cooling tower or a garden wall on steroids with no doorway yet as the wall was no more than seven foot he'd been able to clamber over and back again a number of times during the day. The first time he got over the wall he read ' welcome to berlin' daubed on the outside. The word Berlin didn't have a capital B and this too irritated him but not as much as being incarcerated whilst he was sleeping. Forty four paces there and back, Harold pulled a chair from the kitchen out and set it facing his new wall wondering what to do next (as the sun would set a little earlier...

From a distance it looked like two Godzilla sized drunken storks butting each other like deer, surely this couldn't be true? When we got closer we decided it was two helicopters playing a dangerous game of giant conkers with boulders but why would they do that? As we took out binoculars we could see in the whites of their eyes, the pilots unease, as if they too doubted the sense of their actions.

The baby thought his mother emanated strange high pitched drones whenever she wasn't speaking due to her addiction to playing music at the highest possible level through tiny headphones that managed to broadcast her tastes so loudly every person who came within ten feet of her was drunk on passive melodies. I thought she was rotten but I shouldn't have rescued her child and understand now that was a bad thing to do, I'll return the headphones as soon as I get out of here.