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

 The New Authorities continue to clean up the past this week by jailing the post punk Leeds legends for forty-eight days, shared equally amongst the group, both past and present members in a communal way. The headline slot, it has been announced, has been awarded to the one the judge had heard of who was probably most guilty. The sentence will be served in a staccato time period, with frequent outbursts in purpose built angular rooms Justice Morley, addressing the defendants spoke ending his summing up thus: “Equating love with Anthrax and generally attempting to incite youthful rebellion may well have been acceptable back in the late seventies and early eighties, and yes, I hear that you are less popular than you once were, your essence, I could say, remains rare but that is just a matter of timing, a concept, you claim to be in tune with. You will collaboratively serve forty-eight days, in the manner outlined, as a warning for those that still see you as some kind of cult f...

 You’ve been trained for these moments, flat on your back, waving through the window and to the camera fixed above you. Adrenaline in check, concentrating on doing what you’ve done hundreds of rimes before. No room for anything beyond the immediate, because beyond is coming soon enough. The craft as solid as a fifteen-story building, ready to shoot upwards at speeds you understand but as an abstract, from another reality, not one that can be seen or felt. Somewhere not far away every part of your body is being monitored, the pressure of your blood, the levels of oxygen and state of your major organs. Learning all they can whilst they can, before it’s too late. You can’t be certain if the thoughts in your head are private. It wouldn’t matter, every thought has been practiced before. It isn’t your first time but will be the last. The interviews and counselling are over. You’ve embraced this, gone past mourning and into a kind of transcendental state. No need of disclaimers or pap...

 Gemma can’t wait to see the reaction to her second show, nail gun portraits and framed redacted photographs. Loads of people had said they’d come to the opening; her social media was buzzing. It was always going to take time to build up a profile, find like-minded souls, (maybe a patron? -that would be nice). This was the advice she’d given herself after her first exhibition had been a washout. Portraits of politicians as sea birds was, she was still convinced, a great concept, showing the disrespect for the environment those in power have, the way they feed on waste, scavengers the lots of them. She’d self-financed the show, and it had wiped out the paltry severance pay, but she felt alive. She checks her balance whilst waiting for the bus, her banking app having failed to adapt to her newfound freedom, struggled to categorise breeze blocks into shopping expenses, (she’d watched a YouTube sculptor making a gargoyle, and they’d been on offer.) Her phone is one of her the las...

 She spoke no English, and we spoke no Portuguese, we’d been taken to her house by a boy that had met us as we’d got off the coach in small town somewhere on the outskirt of Lisbon. We were still young enough to see the differences in one city from another. Maybe that was just the time, maybe not. That night we managed to find our way to a side street full of restaurants and chose one at random. We got into a bit of an argument about paying for the bread we’d been given shortly after we’d sat down, which we’d assumed was free. Neither of us were experienced enough back then and felt we were being ripped off, which we told them, not our finest moment. Lisbon reminded me of Leeds, full of strong vertical buildings that leaned over us. We were back on the street by 7 or 8 but everywhere seemed empty so we went back to our peculiar accommodation earlier than we’d imagined. Didn’t know people went out later over there then. We drank Port and laughed at It’s a Knockout on a small T...

 As you will all no doubt remember, after the discovery of the scooby shroud and associated magical relics, this council assembled the greatest collection of mediums, archaeologists and code breakers the North has ever seen to unlock its secrets, which, as we all know, was much more troubling than we’d anticipated for. As reported to this office, the very real risk to life and all that we hold precious, from those hiding amongst us, those so-called masked terrors, particularly in schools and fun fairs is potentially catastrophic.   So today I delighted to announce the commencement of the initial monitoring, interviewing and demasking of over a thousand suspects and if, at the end of this exhaustive process, we find no hiding demons, or other worrying evidence then and only then we will assume whatever terrorised our ancestors is now gone. Or that we read it wrong.

 Frank scans the beer pumps, looking for something to take the taste away, Forgetful Summer or Wandering Peasant seem to be the best options, but he settles on a pint of Swallow Dive and tries to pay with paper money, as always, an ongoing protest on behalf of others that can’t use contactless. The Broken Collar is the oldest pub in town, no tv, no music, just a fruit machine to drown out the past, the racists, and the nimbies. He adds a cheese and onion cob as a side and takes his seat towards the back of the bar, which provides him with a good view of the main door, and close enough to the side entrance to leave unnoticed. He’s worn out, on the floor he crunches bits of old crisps into chalk. Last week’s vote had been close, the councillors had seemed more confused than suspicious, but seven days is too long for them not to have worked it out. He drains the last of his pint and places it back on the bar seeing in the distance outside, a taxi door opening and a tangle of disgr...

 She works the flecks of mud into the shagpile with her foot, her guilty dog looking on waiting to be fed, tail wagging, marking the curtain. The bed was made, in a way, most of the sheets were covered by a mound of duvet and the previous few days clothing, worn so not hung back up, but clean enough not to be thrown in the washing basket. It’s only Tuesday. Leaving the fish fingers till tomorrow she makes poached egg and avocado on toast, but the egg is stringy and watery, and the toast is burnt on the edge. Another five hours to go before bed. She scrapes the plate and rests it on the side, for later. A bottle of vitamins sits on the table, vitamin D, for bone health, the label claims they help the maintenance of the body. Even language is getting further away now, time seems to be endless, each minute another to get through, a mark on the wall. When the list of things to do is longer than the list of things you want to do, then you know you are awake. Outside someone is...