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

The first phantom voters were seen in Masvingo, a small city in Zimbabwe, the invisible work force that keeps the world turning and were never meant for our eyes. Our scepticism had killed off all we couldn't see or measure and finding ourselves abandoned, the most influential and powerful men of Earth created an army of silent watchers to watch,measure, record and vote; to take care of business. The phantoms, hidden until today. This then, is the Black age, where once we had gods and nature we now have democracy but knowledge is indeed power and Africa is purring once more, calling to its children.

I am watching myself, almost eleven, its teatime and Frank Bough is on television discussing the prophesies of Nostradamus. Running upstairs, I appear to be alone in the house but that’s memory fitting events to emotions. I see my reflection in the small mirror above my dressing table, the tears forcing their way out. Am I attempting to hold them back ? like I did whenever Seasons in the Sun came on the car radio; not wanting my parents or God forbid, my sister to see me so weak. Or am I forcing them out, eager to feel everything and anything, hampered as I am by a remarkably content uneventful life. Frank has just told me I will die before I've even kissed a girl. The end of the world is due before I am sixteen and I know I won't be ready.

If a photo was taken from above overlooking the city zoo tiger enclosure, the dividing wall between the car park and the said enclosure may not have been visible to the naked eye as it was very very thin. The new one currently being built will be much much thicker.

The forgotten look, the parents absent, without their knowledge this time and then it was decisions were made and longer regretted. That without those to look after or with or for were set sail, are set adrift, set free abandoned. No time to look back, to change, to send for help, for their parents.

"Frankly even if the door was unlocked I don't know why in the name of Pepper Joe you'd take your brother in there, what in toots did you think would happen ? " This wasn't the first time Dad had been disappointed in me but it was the first he'd spoke of Pepper Joe since the accident.

Ruk the disco detective, recently recalled from tropical Malibu hated the late english nights, especially those when he was investigating dead people. " Batteries ! " the torch had gone again, Stano, his partner swapped torches silently, reassuringly. Sweeping side to side from where the body lay they'd failed to find any clues so far, hopefully the other teams had had more luck, the air, silent and oppressive felt like it was attempting to strangle them. Moving aside a broken ash tree branch Stano spotted something glinting in the torchlight, an Ipod. Inching closer, careful not to miss anything else in their eagerness they creeped. Ruk picked it up and pressed play : a dirge poured out the tiny speakers that hung from his hand, he closed his eyes to listen. " Norwegian Black Metal, " turning his head slightly to one side, " Fimbulwinter, good, we have a start ". And with that the ipod was pocketed and the two detectives walked back to the centre. ...

Approaching a scary Altostratus Ahmed reached into his bag to consult Orville Wrights head but just a handful of thick unkempt hair was enough for the amateur pilot to realise he'd packed Stephen Kings head once again. Don't let me down this time Master of Horror, he thought, nervously.