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

  Can you feel it?   You shouldn't a’ but you did and now they gather to dance on your sod, wet mud spring ing high, no tears to mix with , just a maypole of joy ous reveng ing , new dawn and Sunday best. Each untruth heavier and sharpened, stab stab   stabbing in your side , taste savoury walnut justice whips.   You jumped in , a fter the fire , and w e, the avenge seven eight nine times it takes to speak the truth are there on the hill watching you unfold, s kidding zigzagging to the desk and the court and the beak.   W e face each other , nod to silver machine as you are wheeled past, down the chute. Past Truth and the whole hole, you f all , after the rabbit, after Alice, after all this, still falling H elter S keltering down b ottom to top .   Feelings let us down, down , what we thought was seen through   fairground mirrors .   Chute Shoot blows condensation messages on the windows we peer through.   W hen you have n...

  By then it should have been all over, the thin man had let everyone down. No more presents for the boys and girls. No more animal skins, no more stolen touches. If this was year Zero, then Cambodia looked day glo. Gordon cursed again as he stumbled over the exact same spot on the pavement that had eluded his spider sense each and every time he was forced to make this journey. At least the winklepickers didn’t scuff. Today was a good day to meet a ghost. He checked the piece of paper once more before shoving it deep into his jeans.

 The elderly pair who worked in service to the mayor of Les Gets were apparently caught stealing the family silver, when the unfortunate accident happened. You'll never put a better bit of butler on your knife, a giggling gendarme quipped.

There are no birds here. As rescue party becomes recovery becomes a wake, we walk, and trudge, our backs aching from the extra weight, the earth hungry to hold onto our feet for longer each step. A gun metal sky shoots rain like nails pricking any sliver of skin not covered up, contrails misdirect us back to the beginning, and voices sink in the slosh and squelch of boot and mud. Less now than before, we mark the moment in grunts and breaths, the path leads us through a drum of circular sound, washing us clear of feeling, of registering what we knew, to allow us to continue. There are no accidents here, no meanings nor wisdom to be gained, it’s just ugly and inevitable and waiting to pull you down. We who know how to forget will survive, those that can’t, will stay here. Who will break the news, lower the noose, choose to lose, and will anyone come to find them when the day is done? We stop

  Whether the discovery of a hyper intelligent evolution of the common Mole species will lead to the downfall of western democracy or is the first step towards solving the seemingly imminent extinction of humanity comes down to who manages to roll the highest score on a D20. Downstairs my mum and dad are watching the last episode of Vera unaware of the drama happening right above their heads (literally), this tells you all you need to know about their parenting skills and our super dedication to the campaign. We are shaking the dice together, on a count on 1, 2, 3. Roll.

  Swathes of pale men swarm the once empty shopping centre, briefly breathing life into a past way of life before shutting down, Some stuck halfway into walls, others glitched in md air, legs akimbo. This would not have happened if we’d paid attention to people who didn’t speak well on telly. Victorian novelist would have a found an overly verbose metaphor to point us towards salvation, but we press ctl alt del and hope for the best.

  It was smaller than he remembered but still hollow inside; as a child he and friends had used to sit inside it, plan adventures and tell stories. Now, slightly drunk, it was smaller than his memory, and he was squ ashed in , knees bunched up to his chin. Looking out t hrough the leaves he still had a good view of the biscuit factory, the s un was coming up, his arms full of Jammie Dodgers and Garibaldis' .     Simon Slot had executed the plan exactly as planned, right down to the pho ne call distraction and crushed can door jam. His lips were sugary, but  a feeling deep down began to twist into nausea , the cramped conditions not helping his now delicate stomach. To avoid being sick into his lap he  threw himself sideways out of the bush landing  with a thud onto the gravel drive behind a grey BMW. Checking he was still unobserved and gathering up the last of the treasure haul, Slot raised himself to his feet and set off in the direction of ...