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

 Dumnorix lifted a stone, moved it over a darker stone into a square drawn in the dust, removed the darker one and grinned in the face of his elder. He was starting to win more frequently, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to play another member of the community, but right now, he enjoyed the moment. Some of those watching shouted with excitement. It had been a long winter, they’d lost half of people to the cold and disease, two others had been slain by animals, but they had survived to the thawing time. The shouting was continuing outside and as Dumnorix rushed to find out why, Aodhán burst into sight, screaming and pointing to the sky. The dogs thought it a game and ran to him, almost tripping him over, he kicked out at one and the others skulked away, whimpering. Grabbing a stick he started drawing on the ground, a diagonal line, the width of a hand, which then veered off at an angle, before after another hands journey adapted back to its original path. People gathe...

 It takes me a full ten minutes to free myself from the furniture and the rest of the day to put the house back in order. In doing so I find matches everywhere, hundreds of them, clusters in corners, taped to the underside of tables, in hinges and heads pressed between floorboards, like cat eye’s. This was definitely the wrong place to take shelter in, thank God the expected lightning strikes never happened.

 Breathe in. The air is different here, it fills our lungs in a different way, as if heavier or something, like diesel in our petrol bodies. We’ve gone over it enough now, still it is our only conversation, even when silent. If everyone had talked more, drank less, heeded signs and counted to ten or twenty, perhaps things might have worked out differently. When we touch now there’s a film over our skins, that we scrub and rub at until it’s almost gone, almost but not quite. Day by day we are learning to breathe again, learnt our lesson, matched our appetites to our bellies, and escaped to here. Exiled but together, and if anyone ever comes for us, we’ll deal with it head on. Breathe out.

 We are living in the post-post resurrection times, after we decided to put an end to allowing the dead to come back to life. Obviously, this ill thought-out experiment had led to a complete breakdown in society, a hatred of scientists and cordoned off bunker living. The world simply didn’t have the capacity for everyone and initially lacked the leadership to put the life returning genie back in the bottle, but finally, thankfully, after the uprising, we did. Of the four to five estimated thousand ex corpses, some have found fame on the television circuit, some slotted back into their families, and many more opted to start again and of the few famous born-agains, Frank Zappa, is now a junior meteorologist famed for his jokey forecasts and tired efforts to remind us how funny he was in the first place. He was annoying back then, and many feel his bulletins are divine punishment for getting above ourselves in the first place.

 During my first summer holiday from Humberside College of Higher Education, I painted three large paintings that I called we love telly, and on the middle panel, the mystery gang, scooby, shaggy, daphne and Velma stood behind a giant Anvil. I was studying Fine Art and had had a mixed year college wise. Socially it had been a blast. Scooby and the gang unravelled mysteries and told us there is nothing to be scared of really, it’s always an old man in a mask, they lived in a world of funfairs and mineshafts, hilltops and trapdoors.   I know I’d struggled in Hull a bit to start with, didn’t know what to do, and all of the doubts that come with moving away from home for the first time but I can pinpoint a fixed moment when things changed, when that first flimsy piece of commentary told me things would be ok. On a particular Autumn day in 1986, one the tutors, not even sure who it was now, but I’m sure he was male, said something nice about a scruffy little thing I was potteri...

“There aren’t that many people if truth be told and most don’t like fussing.” Mickey Miller, on the case, asks of patients with ongoing medical conditions, but all the outgoing Doc can offer is a few cases of asthma and one woman with bad arthritis whose son cares for her, getting whatever medication she needs from the hospital in nearby Leeds. Miller continues his evidence gathering, asking about teenagers wanting contraception, hypochondriacs, families with young babies or older incapacitated relatives. Each of his queries is answered with kindness and an increasingly apologetic tone but doesn’t require a lot to be written down. “We’re surplus really, them that need medical help call an ambulance or go elsewhere, to Leeds, like I said, even calling 111. There aren’t many who bother now, many think we’re already closed.” In summary, Miller writes on his pad, to fill the page, the village population is small and seemingly blessed with good health and of the few appointments he’d ...

 In 2029, after we’d reached peak enquiry overload, shiny faced politicians proposed to give democracy a rest for a bit to see if the old school tie could fix the mess the country had got itself into. Whilst there were many voices of opposition, a once in a lifetime vote was announced amid wealthy backslapping whilst the final of Strictly Come Dancing was on. Campaigns were given blank cheques and by a slim majority, it was agreed to cede power and decision making to those with the largest wallets, openly, instead of hidden. We were only given approximate numbers, as is the way nowadays, facts are so legacy. what did Lou sing? ‘You’re gonna reap, just what you sow’ Anway, 3 months down the line, the NHS has merged with a newly formed energy company and pet food business, the churches have been taken over by Bannatyne Health Clubs who offer two for one baptism and spa treatments, and Acme has just been awarded the highways maintenance contract in partnership with a hedge fund le...