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

 To those who have kindly stared this journey with me, you may well have noticed in the week the stories appear later in the day. I work full time therefore I can’t be certain in advance when I’ll be able to sit down, find a suitable headline and write up the story. I hope you like todays one.

  The day was dawning, pausing for breath Logan did his best to move forwards, making sure he stayed undercover; he was 29 years 362 days old and needed to last another four days. He was still in Channel 6, had a month left before he could move to 7, and for the first time, felt scared. Logan had signed up, desperate and willing to take any risks to win. He was confident in his ability make friends quickly, adept at appearing to listen to others and making his words count and since the lynch mobs are started, Marianne had called to say so long, Jim had called him beautiful, but Wayne had made it obvious he wouldn’t mourn his passing and was likely responsible for those on the streets calling for a change. Something cracked or snapped ahead of him, a branch perhaps. Visually everything was perfect but the audio seemed to go in and out sometimes, breaking the auditory fourth wall, the grass momentarily Dralon. “Who are you?” A woman’s voice, inquisitive, not threatening. Loga...

  Jun, trying his best to not seem tired and irritable, addressed the committee. “Last night was hard for everyone, well done for pulling together, but I think we need to consider an alternative solution.” he paused, hoping for some affirmation but no one spoke. Freed from the daily grind and depressing commute the people of the imagined future had quickly began to take up any and every opportunity available to them. Perhaps unconsciously fearful the devil would find work for idle hands, every knitting circle, orienteering club and millennial LARP group found itself inundated with enquiries, somewhat ironically causing a great deal of work and logistical problem solving up and down the country. The woman with a face like a blunt pencil whose name he couldn’t ever remember, stood up and cleared her throat. “I don’t care if we have a hundred or a thousand knock on that door tonight, I am ready, I know my lines and if need be, we can do it outside, it’s not that cold” Murmur...

The windscreen wipers thrummed. A sliver of moonlight shone. Breath fogged the glass. She and him return. Walls made to tumble. Tomorrows regret far away. Moonbeams of foggy glass. Moonstones for foggy gals. The screen wiped regret. She thrummed a sliver. He made to dash. The dashboard in strobes. Tumbling, shining she wipes. He returns with glass. Tomorrow’s silver. She breathes.  

  How long must we stand aside and let these barbaric parasites blight our world? Now the truth can be told, as more and more old school organisations banish the fact checkers and let us speak our truth. For every hugger there is a victim, every druid there is a curse. The playwright warned us back in the day, with his now maligned and reinterpreted tale of woodland consciousness and insurgent urges, their magnetic hypnotic hold over the young idealistic minds as poisonous as those elders with little left to lose. To those legacy nature lovers I say this, where are your mothers now? Where are your sisters? Thank God for free speech and the smell of a musky messiah in the morning.

All families tell lies about themselves, these lies are usually minor, often unintentional, or at worst, drafted to keep people happier than the truth. These lies frequently dwindle into unreliable memories and vague feelings, ill-formed thoughts that occasionally pop above ground briefly like dozy gophers before being malleted back into a comfortable lawn, or with no more difficulty, an unloved tarmacked backyard. Very rarely are these revelations dramatically revealed at banquets or gathered around a board room in a glass skyscraper, despite what writers and film makers continue to peddle. People gasping and shouting, some crying, others swearing, threatening and gesticulating. No, this isn’t how most of us carry on, not the way we address inaccurate familial facts, especially those of us who are born and bred in unfashionable areas of the Northeast of England but unfortunately for my Uncle Andrew, the third generation to run our, what has been called, artisan jam making compan...

  Frogs the size of hubcabs, locusts and more, biblical deluges always used to be well, more natural. That was until A.I. took over and now we face two ton terrors and this is just the beginning.