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

 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...

In a last-ditch attempt to revitalise the fortunes of the only sandcastle team league in the UK, drastic steps have had to be taken, including allowing some teams to name ex-players as substitutes and for others to use only even numbers if numbers are low. Peterborough’s proposal for using an all-dough squad, however, is a step too far, a spokesman has said, from his window. So that’s that.

 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...