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

Herman hated visiting his Gran, even before she'd died. She'd look at him through misty glasses and poke him in  the ribs, remarking on how skinny he was. Granny Tuppence lived in Hull with his Uncle Ron, a crooked, beaked man with a moustache that bent his whole body over. He was once a big noise in local politics and called in favours with the Rotary Club and the local Mason Lodge to gain permission for a home burial. The service was short but moving, everything seemed in order, ashes to ashes and all that. The following week, however, when Uncle Ron premiered his 'Ultimate Ventriloquist Show' Herman felt his soul curdle. Those matinee performances spoiled his weekends for the whole summer.

As the fundamentalists regained power in Cyprus the world held it's breath as operation Dante began. In four days, it was claimed, the Underworld would be revealed. Members of the United Nations tutted and threatened to send in advisors, ambassadors and monitoring teams but he's not worried. Pygmy Goza, the new Cypriot President, alone on a hill, chuckling to himself, throwing meat scraps into the air for his his Hawk, if only they knew...

" Reckon it wouldnt be long before you showed up " Albert greets me with a plastic cup of liquified coco beans and indicates to follow him. My watch shows it's not nine yet, if I'm lucky I'll still get to Dads for supper. " how many you think we have ? " It's hard to answer, there's blood everywhere and a couple of hands, both slightly chinese looking, the rest of the stuff is too small to identify, clods of bone and gristle. " Well must be a at least three, Id say  " I indicate the three large areas of flesh and blood, each up to ten feet apart. " Idiot, "  the cups knocked from my hand and I get a slap round the face for emphasis. " These goddamn blocks, sent her hurtling from one to another, like a pinball, she got slammed into nothing. Just the one, pretty girl I bet, but she's gone now, mushed. " I nod, know better than to question. " Seems like no one saw it again." The collision blocks ...

The wind most knocked him sideways, twelve hours since the sun had gone out. Harry checked his watch, he was already late and thinking about how to sneak in without being seen. The world that had been handed from the religious to the scientists had now been left abandoned, nothing made sense anymore, all the prophesies had amounted to nought. In the lift, Harry gets the feeling deep in his gut, the world may be dying but he's still going to get it in the neck.

Like pulling a zip together, bringing the beginning and ending of my life together as it should have been. You've aged, the lines run deep reminding me of the times you've had without me. Those you've held, the tears you've shed, the laughing that couldn't stop, a lifetime in those lines. But as we sip tea and I pretend this is a one off I'm packing my bags and closing the few doors that hadn't been slammed shut in my face. This is my town now, Wrexham, you said we could meet up, the once and here we are. You've stopped drinking sugar and you've stop dying your hair, you're more confident and as beautiful as I can remember. We part and I walk away, my story saved for another day.

We gathered in Stephs room to watch the Olympics, her small black and white telly with the broken volume you needed scissors to change. The Cameroonians went off fast, and kept on fast, lapping the other runners who'd long since ceased to be competitors. Lia noticed it first, the difference in their stride, then came the booms, like concorde, the cameras struggled to keep everyone in shot until suddenly the Cameroonians ran themselves into a blur that became a hole and then nothing. It was hard to make out exactly what happened but I remember vividly the other athletes stopping and looking lost, momentarily unsure of what had occurred. Then they knew, some sank to their knees other stood stone still. A scrawny French guy started crying, he's the one I can see still, there in his vest wiping the tears away and crossing himself. The telly went off after that.

Since the privatisation of the United Kingdom the number of agencies franchised by the police force has grown at an alarming rate. In rural wales, where the local officers were often slow and drove creaky cars a new breed of horseback deputies has begun to appear. The most recent renegade law protectors arrived dressed as Lone Rangers. Roy, the only one to have appeared on youtube to date, sought to reassure the public by stating he and his gang were 'on the good side, god's side' and that it would be 'business as usual' distancing himself from the rumours of lynchmobs and the panic buying of beans. Meanwhile in Cornwall a group dressed in black and white striped tops with baseball bats have already claimed Tintagel as their Castle. It'll get worse before it gets better Mr Potato.