Hi there.

First some book launch news…

You may have noticed a flood of “Future Britains” book publicity, with its 23rd October launch now imminent. Perhaps not surprising, as this anthology of twenty-two short stories encapsulates the efforts of an equal number of unashamedly British authors, including myself. The inspiration for and extracts from my own contribution, ‘The Moho Man’, were teased earlier this month.

Pre-orders for the hardback, paperback or eBook versions of the anthology are still being taken. Use FUTUREBRITS at checkout for a 30% discount!

During the summer (remember that?) I wrote some unpublished flash fiction. The prompt for the tale below was:

“Write a 300 word story told from the point of view of a non-human. For example: a plant, animal or inanimate object.”

I applied my usual wide interpretation and took the PoV of a painting, drawing on a 1999 art exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in New York City called ‘Sensation’ - which it certainly was. One featured piece, The Holy Virgin Mary by British artist Chris Ofili, drew inspiration from his Zimbabwean origins and Catholic education. It was an unconventional painted collage of the Virgin Mary, consisting of multiple layers of oil paint, resin, glitter, and elephant dung. This African Madonna was dressed in a traditional blue robe, but was surrounded by close-ups of female genitalia cut from pornographic magazines. The Virgin’s bared breast was made of dried, varnished elephant dung, and the large painting was supported by two large balls of the same substance. American accusations of blasphemy, acts of vandalism, political condemnation and failed legal action by NYC’s mayor to defund the Museum did not deter it from exhibiting the piece.

Retrospectively, the ‘punk’ artwork has been praised for “its innovative approach to traditional religious iconography and its commentary on cultural identity”. It now hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Chris Ofili became the first Black artist to win the Turner Prize in 1998.

You can read my inspired and uncontroversial vignette below.

Until next time…

Subscribe now

A Virgin’s Framed Tears

Most walked by. Some stopped to stare, cupped hands masking their reflection. Disbelievers pressed their noses against the shop window, candles of condensation fluctuating with each breath. We could only return their unabashed scrutiny, for every part of us was on display; watching, waiting. We’d overheard we held a gruesome sight. Being blind to this newly forged layer, their subjectivity was all we had. For who holds a mirror up to a painting?

The woman’s gaze was brief but intense, her eyes older than us. Her breath still fogged the window when the door chimed her interest – if not intent. Our keeper bustled from his backroom to find her stood beside us. She put down her clasped bag and unpeeled a tight glove. Her face drew close, our canvas tighter with each warm breath. She examined us like a lover, eyes filled with wonder at our hidden perfection. Her index finger traced all of our frame. Only our maker had ever touched us like that.

Instead of a grimaced rejection, she whispered a question: “How did you end up here?”

As our keeper spun his providential lies, we prayed for a fair exchange. Then we heard a miracle: “How much?”

Unwrapped from darkness, the woman placed us in a room with no view. A large ornate mirror adorned the opposite wall. Within it, we saw the superficial abomination we held. Heretical brushstrokes, forged from the profane, had smothered sacred beauty with wide eyes, bared throat and parted lips. Our new keeper smiled through her sorrow at this virgin’s fate. She knew what we still held safe between our four corners, immersed in shimmering gold, enveloped in a cascade of blue. Our tears merged, their tracks dissolving the false veneers on our face. Freed from unoriginal sin, we knew her iconic artistry would emerge again.

(304 words)

A few months ago, I sent out ten snippets from a short story I’d written for the Future Britains speculative anthology. They were selected for being omitted from the final draft of my 5,000 word story. But now that the book’s launch is imminent, its 300 pages overflowing with unleashed imagination, I’ve sneaked out through the publisher’s door another little teaser of what’s in store for those who purchase a copy.

‘The MoHo Man’ is just one of twenty-two stories in the wide-ranging and imaginative collection, which is proudly Brit-centric. My own contribution came about from contrasting some months of life on the road with prior domesticity — and then throwing an unspecified apocalypse into the mix.

For my story’s premise I made some basic assumptions about British life. (Please be aware there are no British hills of sufficient height from which to defend against the ignorance I’ve wittingly uncovered. This isn’t Switzerland.):

1. Cooking a decent meal from scratch is a challenge for a sizeable minority of the British population, let alone breed or grow the necessary ingredients. We’re surrounded by the sea, but fishing is optional, a past-time, unessential. Ask any Icelander or Spaniard. A majority of the population have little clue about where basic vegetables like peas come from, and we can forget about wild foraging – not enough salt or sugar or additives. But we do know where the nearest Costa, Greggs or gold-leafed arches are. (No, not Washington in Tyne & Wear – the other one.)

2. Taking a shower at least once a day is now viewed by most Brits as an unalienable human right. An average person’s domestic water consumption is almost 140 litres/day, of which less than a toilet flush enters their body. More drinkable water passes through British toilets than taps – no, I am not taking the piss. If the mains supply fails you would need to lug a tonne of water per week from a standpipe or river or pond to shut a moaning teenager up. ‘What about rainfall?’ you cry. Just try. To harvest free rainwater for any purpose other than watering your garden costs more than £15k. The authorities don’t like it. Water companies certainly don’t. You wouldn’t suffocate under the mountain of regulations, because you’d first die of thirst before they were relaxed – those nosy neighbours are watching, don’t forget. And all this assumes a daily supply of clean underwear come the apocalypse. As if.

3. Owning a gun is rare in Britain. To see one in real-life involves either visiting an airport or witnessing lethal danger – or shooting p(h)easants. National service? That’s for cutting and now caring. So go buy a Swiss Army penknife if you fancy a bunny for supper. I don’t care if you have a cousin in America who shoots RPGs at baby deer. Tsk… honestly.

4. Repairing… well, anything. Basic skills are in short supply now we've accidentally sent the EU back home. We struggle to fix a plug; read a map; build a basic wooden shelter; connect a solar panel; build a fire; change the oil or spark plugs on a traditional vehicle (forget trying to repair an EV, even the dealers can’t do it). Maybe one in five hundred Brits are good enough with their hands to face an apocalypse. It’s a crisis of polytechnic proportions, I tell you.

5. Queueing. Brits derive both schadenfreude levels of pleasure and extreme stress from their national sport. Even when road signs say “Use Both Lanes” or “Merge in Turn”, there’ll be a helpful truck driver providing moral, middle-of-the-road guidance to the highway literate. But a straight line doesn’t work when people think supply is less than demand. Ask an ex-Northern Rock saver. Or a ‘Spoons publican yelling ‘last orders!’. Or a Harrods Yuletide part-timer. Or any displaced refugee. When push comes to shove, the strongest and most resourceful win the food fight. Human civilisation is just a very thin veneer over our animal instinct to protect and survive. Ask any threatened mother with a newborn. Better still, threaten its (peri-)menopausal grandmother.

6. Supplying the country with goods people think they need, day-in, day-out, is hidden from most Brits. ‘Stuff’ just appears like magic on shop shelves. Hence the epic whingeing when the middle-class hummus goes AWOL. But our complex logistics are optimised to the nth degree. Because ‘cheap beats resilient’ from a British perspective – particularly the knee-jerked brains of short-lived politicians. A typical medium-sized supermarket is restocked with basic items every two days. Now introduce media-driven panic-buying of the absolute essentials – toilet freshener, pet food, antibacterial spray, charging cables, etc. Then assume those ethical truck drivers care more for their endangered families than your soiled bum or employer profits. If you can think of a worse nightmare, do tell. (Running out of pseudo-Italian food or mocca-wocca-chocca doesn’t count.)

7. Calling out the Army is the traditional Best of British™ gammonista war cry when faced with any ‘absolutely outrageous’ situation. Loiter within any British village online group if you doubt this. However, as the ultimate backstop for a population of seventy million, this response is now somewhat lacking. We don't have a civil guard or drone-raid wardens. One very busy squaddie per thousand hungry, angry, and scared Brits isn’t enough, let alone the now murderous grandmother you annoyed earlier. Or a spineless, paralysed Parliament.

By now, I hope you’re getting the gist of the background to my story. It's a given that every empire or civilisation has or will collapse, mostly into rubble. The hubris to imagine otherwise is fictional, verging on the delusional. Dynamic complexity rules apply.

Yes, folks, we’re well and truly screwed. Although, “we“ might be a tad over-inclusive…

« To be continued after this short ad break... »

Share

“Future Britains is a speculative fiction anthology exploring alternative visions of Britain’s near future, created by authors from across the British Isles.

Each original tale reflects an endpoint in the disturbing trends we see today – from political unrest, rebellions both silent and loud, to the rise of machine life, the fragility of human identity, rising sea levels and then… then there is always ‘The End’.

Where will our choices and actions today – or lack of – lead us? Join us on a journey through these disturbing Other worlds, and discover for yourself what Futures may await these hallowed British Isles.…”

Martin Grace - Sol Stories publisher

Welcome back.

You might now be fearing for all of humanity’s survival (although I’d focus on your own, to be honest, but don’t let me stop you).

However, ‘The End’ – as applied to the final, most apocalyptic stories in Future Britains, and only briefly alluded to in ‘The Moho Man’ – doesn’t have to be that. Despite my doom-laden analysis and existential predictions, I sincerely believe there is hope to be had. Certainly for this planet as a whole – she’s always bounced back – but also for a small slice of humankind.

I don’t think our end-times will play out as a solo prepper’s wet dream or some silly billionaire’s ego-massaged fantasy. Pouring lots of money into lots of poured concrete and/or high-calibre ammunition isn’t a viable long-term solution, or else we’d all be speaking Latin (or Greek or Persian or Babylonian or Sumerian or…). The deluded and paranoid – both gold-leafed emperors and grizzled Adams – will lose out in quick succession, no matter the macho tripe injected into our heads by the weapon-obsessed hero Hollywood set. Very little pity, a deal of desperate pleading and a small locked room is the contemporary route for ousted presidents or dictators.

So we can wipe the smug golf-cart grins from the psycho/sicko-phantic faces. Because the higher the pile of people and services and parts and water and fuel, and all the other resources they need to sit atop, just to keep their carbon-sucking lifestyle afloat, the greater will be their terminal fall into a pit full of extremely annoyed former wage slaves. Ask the French how well that goes.

On the other hand, I believe some communities already exist who will ensure the human species doesn't expire. Tight-knit, cohesive groups of multi-skilled humans who will survive straitened times and have done so for at least a thousand years. Just not the ones you assume (or those you want to prevail, if you’re less liberal than you pretend).

These groups of people already know how to get by, even thrive, in a world run on rampant consumerism, for the benefit of those who already have too much. Tightly-knit tribes who have the necessary skills, the appropriate attitude and keenly enforced values; who won’t lose their heads in a crisis, when all those about them are losing theirs. People who trust each other far more than those who don’t trust them…

Intrigued? Then please read on into ‘The MoHo Man’ extracts below. Then buy the rest of my story and twenty-one more and read them all. You never know, one of them might save you…

Until next time. (There's optimism for you.)

Order your copy of 'Future Britains'!

Extracted from ‘The MoHo Man’

I wrote the below competition entry in late August this year, after the fifth heatwave to blast England’s parched landscape had dissipated. It’s a tightly wrapped ~300 word tale called ‘Escape’, inspired by a visit to Mumbai and its compact suburbs almost two decades ago. The memory was triggered after reading the judge’s brief:

‘A man (or woman) stands on a beach looking out to sea. Write 300 words based on this scenario, any genre. I’m looking for great prose, story, character or simply something that makes me think’.

The story unfortunately didn’t achieve a placing, unlike many of my other competition entries. Nevertheless, I hope you can spend a minute or two with it.

Until next time…

‘Escape’

The sun was a ripe mango as it slipped into the limpid soup of the sea. Along the crescent bay, city lights twinkled like fireflies in diminished ripples of heat and dust. The man dug his toes into the wet sand and stared at the horizon. Around him, families headed home and unwed couples dawdled. Horns blared from the unceasing traffic he’d cut through heedlessly.

He could be a braver man and return to their apartment. She’d still be there. Before the family discovered her. Or the neighbours, the people he’d kept smiling at through marriage and fear.

He let go of his leather sandals and took another step. The tepid water lapped at his ankles.

Breathing out would be easiest; holding on to empty lungs more difficult; inhaling without panic the hardest. But that was only his imagination. The escaped reality was worse: her lying on the kitchen floor, blood pooling around her hips, the knife still in her hand.

He hefted the large stone clutched in his palm; felt the scooped pebbles in his pockets. ‘Pathetic’ was the last word she’d spat at him as they’d fought a final time. Over nothing. Before the mist had descended and he’d grabbed her threatening hand. When the knife turned, them both panting like lovers, it had slid inside too easily. She’d always liked them long and sharp. Familiar anger had turned to disbelief with a distressed cry; her eyes wide, lips parted, still beautiful. His hand had covered her mouth as he’d lowered her to the floor. Then he’d ran, escape at last. From an unplanned prison to an ill-determined end.

He waded deeper, ripples reflecting off his scarred body. A child’s laughter faded as the tainted water touched his chin.

Breathe in and dip down. The water enveloped him, blurring the city’s fireflies and smothering its sounds.

Breathe out. Bubbles of a failed life forgotten. Forgiveness unclaimed.

Now inhale and end this pain.

Share

Forgotten Fragments

The rain fell in greasy, synthetic swathes as Keira waited high above the flooded lower tiers. She licked her lips, tasting ozone and dirty copper, and gripped the railing of the rust-flaked gantry. The next shuttle’s cylindrical bulk stretched up the towering structure, its tip shrouded in lox vapour. Launch was in thirty. In her other hand she clutched their ticket out of here: a silver plexiglass cylinder no bigger than a hydration vial. Within it pulsed a licensed crop dot, a genetic pearl good for a one-way Outer passage – for two, she hoped.

It had been three years since the Sector’s directorate had re-zoned her family. Her mother had been absorbed into a Care-4 facility in the eastern quarter; her sisters decanted into off-Grid cubes. Left alone with her feed to endure interminable ad credits and blinking compliance scores, she’d sought solace and escape in the city’s dangerous undertow.

A lucky strike in a retro gambling den had led to chancing tonight’s launch. Rocket-bound for a frontier wilderness, the Corp promised no watchful Grid, no algorithms, and no return. It also offered the terrifying luxury of wide horizons and cloudless skies. But it wasn’t enough. There was also the company she kept in the city’s dark recesses. Lars also deserved a break.

A different set of footsteps sounded on the wet staircase behind her. Keira didn’t react. She’d insisted on at least a last goodbye and recognised the uneven rhythm: a hesitation before the dull scrape of a heavy boot. He’d fought those head techs too hard before succumbing. She’d screamed for his life as the Corp’s drill had spun into his defiant skull.

“We shouldn’t be up here, Keira,” Lars said. His voice was a gravel rasp, barely audible over the ubiquitous hum of the city’s carbon scrubbers and hiss of escaping gas.

She turned to face more than a part-time lover. Chance had given her a no-good, emotional drain; but a dreamt significant other. A man who still deserved a better life.

He was shrouded in the same oversized puff-jacket, its inflated collar pulled high, the dark waterproof sheen reflecting the neon glare of the billboards below. Raindrops glinted on his wayward, spiked hair and tracked down his hollow cheeks. The jagged scar which curved out from behind his left ear glistened. The mark of an enforced head op, his cortical mesh had been extracted by warrant and purged a long, painful winter ago.

Lars could recall shards of memory: the smell of fresh-sawn pine; his sister’s laugh; the first bite of spinning steel against his skull. But names and dates and faces had been wiped without care, leaving dark voids and deep mistrust of those who crossed his path. On his worst days, that included Keira.

“Shuttle closes up in twenty,” Keira said, holding up the vial. The warm crimson pulse of its genetic payload illuminated her trembling fingers. “Then a seed-ship to the Frontier. Just think, Lars: no grid, no lenses. No-one tallying our lives.”

Lars stepped backwards, jamming his hands into deep pockets. His dark eyes narrowed and flicked upwards in a reflexive scan for drones. “It’s a trap, Keira. It’s always a trap. The Corp doesn’t give away freedom and limitless horizons. They’re only harvesting biomass to sow more expansion.”

“It’s not what you think. I’ve double – triple-checked. This seed’s code is good. The dot will get us through.” She stepped closer, ignoring his flinch and the hidden fists threatening to rip seams. His gaze darted over her shoulders, avoiding her half-hidden face, a cornered alley cat looking for predatory lenses. And a way out without her.

“Please, Lars. Come with me,” she said, her voice tight with pleading. “There’s nothing left for us here. My family has been spat out from the Grid. And yours…? You’ll never get back what they took from you. But you can make new memories. With me. Shared ones, which you won’t forget. I prom—”

Lars shook his head. “No, don’t say that.” His thumb pressed the scarred ridge behind his left ear – an obsessive check for an absent jackhole. His thoughts veered along worn paths of mental retreat into raw, dark spaces, avoiding the promise of her unfiltered truth. “Leaving means I’ll forget the fragments which remain.”

“So what!” Keira shouted over a gust which rattled the railings. “We’re both living ghosts, hiding from machines which only pretend to care.”

She reached for her lenses, her fingers grasping the insectoid frames wrapped around her eyes. With two sharp tugs, left then right, she detached them from her forehead. Grid disconnected, the feeds blinked frantic red as she tossed the lenses over the railing. Their flickering data was lost to the rain, leaving her alone with a scarred and frightened man. One who still couldn’t – wouldn’t – see their chance of escape.

“Look at me, Lars. Now I’m raw too. No filters, no feeds.” She pointed upwards. “I don’t know what tomorrow looks like. I don’t know if there’s rich soil or dry stone out there. But I’m not staying here, decaying into a sack of Corp feed.” She held out her hand as the clock ticked down. “This is our last chance to be safe. To be together.” There were memories of Lars which she needed to share and he needed to know; which could be retold. But she needed space and time. She needed him.

Share

Lars stared at her outstretched palm, the blue veins a skein on her pale skin. He’d traced the same across all of her two nights ago as they’d lain on his crashpad; holding a finger to her lips to prevent another promise. Now his chest heaved with indecision. He pressed harder on the purged stump in his skull, trying to douse the undeserved fear triggered by her naked gaze. The fear of being alone.

The shuttle’s klaxon sounded from the boarding bay two levels above. Simultaneously, with a rumbling that vibrated metal and bone, the gantry’s umbilicals withdrew. Down below, pump turbines stirred into a high-pitched whine, scattering roosting pigeons into the neon-streaked sky.

Those hazel-flecked eyes did care, offering a comfort he never wanted to forget. With a deep breath, Lars pulled his other hand from its pocket and gripped Keira’s cold, damp fingers. “Okay. No more pretending. No more forgetting. Not by you, or me, or any damn machine.”

Keira smiled, her eyes now alive, and squeezed hard in return. “No pretending. I promise,” she said, pulling him towards the staircase, into an uncertain future they would both remember.

Hi there

You might not be aware of the Future Britains science fiction anthology that's available for pre-order before its imminent October 23rd launch. The collaboration has come about through the indefatigable efforts of publisher Sol Stories, managed by fellow SF Substackers & .

Available as a special edition hardback, plus paperback and ebook versions, the anthology comes with a blurb from no less than award-winning science fiction author, Ken Macleod:

You might be even less aware that I'm contributing a 5,000 word short story to this speculative collection of unashamedly Brit-centric stories. It’s called ‘The MoHo Man’* and has allowed me to distil several months of lived experience into a future fictional tapestry.

After any drafting of a story you lose words in the edit. With my writing process that can be up to a third of the total. They're normally paragraphs which help me (as much as any beta reader) understand the fresh new world my brain is creating. (What's that? You think I'm in charge of what initially splurges out? Er, no. Unfortunately, that can also include my verbal outputs…).

As the story pours onto the page, it (should) begin to tell itself – through setting, characterisation, dialogue etc. Very often, I also want to leave some leeway for my readers’ own imagination and even guesswork to play a part. Spoon-feeding a story isn't my style. Your intelligence and a little bit of effort is assumed, even expected.

So snippets are snipped and cuttings are cut. But they never go to waste. Like an obsessive squirrel, I sweep them up from the editing floor and retain them all. You just never know…

Now you can find below the ten snippets from my Future Britains short story which didn't make the final cut. They total over a thousand words and are arranged in a way which should excite your speculative taste buds and leave you wanting more. Think of them as an oversized amuse bouche; a foretaste of what this literary chef has to offer.

Best of all, there are twenty-one other creative chefs cooking up an SF storm for this Future Britains anthology, all of whom are on Substack, all of whom have contributed an amazing story. Find out more about my compatriots here, and don’t forget to put your order in now for the launch on 23rd October!

Until next time…

Subscribe now

*MoHo = Motorhome. No wordplay intended.

Offcuts from ‘The MoHo Man’

#1

Steel and concrete; electricity and connectivity; authority and sanity; they’re all meaningless when engulfed by human chaos. It had only taken two days. That’s how long the country had lasted without a truck delivering food. The government and its craven advisors had assumed truck drivers would put jobs and money before themselves and their families. Forty tonnes of food could save a street of neighbours, even a whole village. But it could also mean a lorry and its driver being ambushed at night by people prepared to kill for more pasta and toilet paper, despite being surrounded by corn and cattle.

The animal instincts which we’d philosophised and patronised away had never departed our bodies, unlike the teeth and claws we’d eradicated or herded into reserves and zoos.

#2

Humans couldn’t help making connections within their heads or between themselves. As individuals or tribes, they sought structure and formed networks, even as they decried clinging to hierarchy. But their brains hadn’t evolved to deal with civilisation and technology and enlightenment. They’d existed to aid human survival. This had meant belief continuing in not only the invisible, but also the impossible.

But logic and reason had been in short supply since the End’s madness had engulfed the world. Hunger had cut humanity in half. Violence had crushed those who remained in the cities. Only the physically and mentally agile had escaped, leaving the immobile, irrational and inflexible of mind to rot where they lay, disbelief etched on their dead faces.

#3

It became easy to venerate the few who knew the things Dad had taught; who had the means to leave their home and still live; and who had long-ago resolved to shoot first and eat without regret later, whilst still giving to those more deserving.

#4

The preppers and their paranoia had been proven wrong. They’d never been short of comforts before being hit by the reality they’d preached about in preceding years. They’d never imagined there would be no room for individual self-sufficiency, no place for egos, no need for them. They’d never imagined no-one would want to help them, despite offering so little in return.

Allotments were now protected like the money of yesteryear. Barbed wire wrapped around hidden half-acres of serried root vegetables and entwined trellises. Growing and storing food had proven to be the hardest task of all. Those who knew how to coax precious calories and vitamins from the soil were protected like the gold of old.

#5

As the edible dwindled, the violence increased. As the hoarders hid, the desperate sought them out. As authority collapsed, the strong preyed on the weak. The thin veneer of civilisation the goyas boasted made them different was sawn and hacked away by ignorance, panic and irrational greed. Just ask Mum, who’d bared her teeth and screamed her defiance as she’d stabbed a wide-eyed raider to death. The one who’d extinguished her pillar of love and strength. The blood from Dad’s final lesson had covered her and her children.

#6

If her people had survived without land for five hundred years, then they could manage five centuries more. They knew about being on the margins. They knew how to live off the rump of an uncaring society which worshipped land and its ownership more than family.

The End’s arrival rendered land and property so plentiful its ownership became meaningless. The lawmakers who’d fenced out and ridiculed the old ways now survived by learning from those with travelling in their blood. Who knew that kinship outdid killing. Their life had been restored and was now relied upon – for all the wrong reasons.

For those who’d decried our ways loudest still couldn’t part with their old ways and habits. They still wanted it all; still grovelled to wealth, hierarchy and status; and remained dangerous.

#7

But human brains hadn’t evolved to deal with civilisation and technology and enlightenment, but to ensure survival. They couldn’t stop making connections, either within heads or between tribes. So the Code’s birth into a newly fractured world was both inevitable and its spread unavoidable.

The Code wasn’t created like an inbred newborn, its parents fearing the worst as they counted every finger and toe. It instead appeared as a cloud bubbling above a sunlit mountain peak; seeding new stories and laws from the cold ashes of human destruction. Tales which now provided strength to tight-knit communities instead of lonely, painful deaths; which required belief in not only the invisible but also the impossible. Songs and chants to transmit revived knowledge from parent to child, elder to youth. Music to help heal and forget; forging passionate rhythms to bond people in public and private unions.

#8

As Laura had lain awake, her home of fifteen years growing more visible in the dawn light, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t depart her old life like her pal Jeanette. She’d walk into the woods willingly, even if she’d likely never return. Jeanette, whose father had died from an infected cut two months earlier, had been dragged away by another, younger Guardian, kicking and screaming, pleading to stay. Her screams were like those at the End, not a new beginning. No-one had mentioned her since, not even her mother.

#9

A Guardian was neither invisible nor could achieve the impossible. Their authority stretched no further than a community’s implicit respect. When facts and decisions faced up to thoughts and prayers, only reality could remain, however harsh. That’s what he dealt with now: life pared back with tooth and claw, framed in a new belief. Not in Guardians such as him, but in the Code they applied.

A Guardian knew things, could say things and was permitted to do things which were feared far more than cold, thirst or hunger. The Code saw to that. They had the power of judge and jury despite the lack of any written word. But the personal cost was being in permanent forfeit to a broken world; enduring a loneliness that might never be broken; hiding memories which could never be shared – or forgotten.

But if respect for his kind failed to lodge even in the shifting scree of a dislocated camp, or deceptive and delusional minds, a Guardian could enforce the Code by other means. With methods to make a lover shudder when whispered in the dark; using instruments no-one dared name. The outcome was an unforgettable warning to anyone who witnessed a Guardian’s concluding judgement.

#10

A child’s face emerged from behind a tree, their hand clutching a bucket. Their eyes darted from the metal water bottle clutched in his left hand to the shopping bag in his right, stuffed with ‘burb scavenged scoff. Their curiosity was no surprise. Food and water were always a powerful draw, but most knew to leave him alone. It was unlikely they knew he’d been summoned. But even the children had learnt hard bargains had to be struck when a Guardian called.

#end#

Future Britains is a speculative fiction anthology exploring alternative visions of Britain’s near future, created by writers and artists from across the British Isles.

Each original tale reflects an endpoint of the disturbing trends we see today – from political unrest, rebellions both silent and loud, the rise of machine life, the fragility of human identity, rising sea levels and then – then there is always The End.

Where will our choices and actions of today, or lack of, lead us? Join us on a journey through this disturbing Underworld, and discover for yourself what futures may await these hallowed British Isles.…

Martin Grace - Sol Stories publisher

Share

For over three years I’ve been trying to win the monthly fiction competition set by my local writing group, the Hampshire Writers’ Society. I’ve had some success, gaining a highly commended, a couple of thirds and four runners-up placings from my sixteen entries. I suppose a ~50% hit rate is pretty good when repeatedly entering an anonymous competition. But pole position has always eluded me, with the running joke amongst my fellow writers of being “always the bridesmaid, never the bride”. Hmmph.

Until today, when I was delighted to discover I’d finally won that coveted first place. ‘Discover’ being the operative word, because I was camped two hundred miles away in the Peak District as the results were announced at the Society’s June meeting. Yes, the gods aren’t that generous.

So it was up to the evening’s main speaker and also competition judge (whose talk explored how she uses research as a creative engine — shaping characters, sharpening settings, and deepening emotional truths) to kindly read my winning entry to both local and streamed audiences. She of course did a better storytelling job than I could ever manage.

My winning story was a neatly-wrapped, ~320 word package I called ‘Buried Evidence’. It was inspired by this detailed brief:

‘For this challenge, research is not background, it is the engine of your story. Show us characters who are gathering data, asking dangerous questions, delving into memories, or uncovering hidden worlds. You may write in any genre, but the piece must highlight how research propels action, creates tension, or leads to transformation. Keep the narrative tight, the stakes sharp.’ (Max 300 words, +/- 10%.)

Louise also made the following kind comments when not handing me my prize certificate, no doubt printed like the others on heavyweight, cream laid paper (I will get over this, I promise):

You can find my winning entry either below or on the HWS website. Either way, I hope you enjoy the piece as much as the judge and that other, more remote, audience.

Until next time…

‘Buried Evidence’

After signing the ledger with a false name, Mara followed the librarian down the basement staircase.

With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the imposing door to Archive Room No. 1 and beckoned her in. “It’s rare for someone to ask about Flood records,” he said. “Most visitors research dead relatives.”

“I’m more interested in what survived,” she replied, the smell of mildew and burnt paper filling her nostrils.

The librarian halted by a narrow gap between the stacks. “Yes, here we are.” A smaller key unlocked cabinet H7. A shelf of oven-dried journals greeted her, relics recovered from the Flood thirty years ago; the night Mara’s mother vanished.

The librarian indicated a small desk. “Fifteen minutes. Await my return.” Their measured steps faded away.

Mara worked quickly, grabbing the first journal and photographing each page, feeding the images into her tablet. Fragments flashed before her eyes:

The sirens sounded before the water rose.

The sluice gates were ordered to be opened.

No evidence of an accident.

Her heart beat faster. The inquiry had blamed an unprecedented tide. Her mother, a city engineer, had publicly disagreed days before disappearing.

Another entry scrolled by: Elena Lessing refused to sign.

Mara’s hand froze. Her mother’s name.

Different footsteps approached, but she ignored them, scanning faster: cross-referencing dates with maps she’d stolen from municipal offices, every document another jigsaw piece. The Flood had risen street by street, yet spared wealthier neighbourhoods in a wave of deliberate, controlled destruction.

Suddenly, the lights were extinguished and a voice hissed in the darkness: “You should’ve left history buried.”

Mara backed against the cabinet, clutching her tablet. It glowed with more text: If anything happens, look beneath the Observatory.

Her mother had guessed her fate.

Hope rose within Mara despite fear tightening her throat. Finally, the evidence she sought of her mother’s untimely fate.

But the proof beneath the abandoned Observatory remained dangerous enough to kill again.

The footsteps drew closer.

Share

I know. It’s been a while.

But I’m now behind a new wheel and getting back into my stride. Yes, I’ve found my mojo in a MoHo.

Recently on the writing front, two short speculative stories, a second novel and some flash fiction have been taking up my time.

Below I can reveal the first short story, where I’ve played with tropes, speculated on our far future, flipped things around and guessed what might come up. Or not.

It’s always good to keep an open mind when dealing with such matters. I just hope it’s a cut above the rest when it comes to being judged.

Until next time…

Subscribe now

Girl Thursday Man Friday

If ‘Poor Things’ ever met ‘GATTACA’…

After hours of meticulous work, exhaustion threatened to sever Thursday’s concentration. Only one final insertion remained. Maintaining position, she clamped virtual tweezers around the vital target and tapped the ‘break’ button. The base pair parted, promptly followed by its sequential neighbours; unzipping and unwinding like the lithe, eager limbs of miniature dancers. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, before raising her genie goggles and letting the dull weight of reality impinge. Should be only a few more seconds…

The base editor emitted a soft, reassuring beep as a message winked, ‘edit completed’. Fingers dancing over the interface, Thursday confirmed the chromo package and, with a final flourish, tapped to transmit her code to an illicit off-grid vat. Now came the hardest part: waiting. Patience wasn’t her strong trait, but only time and biochemistry stood between her efforts and proof of success. She’d seeded her design, now it needed time and space to grow.

Share

Peeling off her haptics, Thursday stood to stretch her cramped arms and flex stiff fingers. Her roomie, Charlie, snored gently in the opposite corner of their dorm room, auburn hair glinting in the dim light cast by the desk lamp. Above their beds, pop avatars poised mid-preen, their wall animations frozen and dimmed until dawn. It wasn’t so hard to adopt the normal habits of teenage life, despite the hours wasted arguing about fickle taste and fleeting talent. But a teacher’s words still echoed inside her head: ‘You ask too many questions, Thursday. I’ve got my eye on you. Don’t be a secret schemer.’

Too late, thought Thursday with a smile. She climbed into bed and snuggled under her blanket, hoping sleep would envelop her. But, behind her eyes, novel patterns continued to play out their dance. Life’s continuum was infinitely malleable, but still frustratingly rule-bound. Societal restrictions were no longer man-made, but the Elders still prohibited man-making. Vanquished and forbidden centuries ago, Thursday still craved to see one in the flesh.

A real man. Only one. Just for a day.

The dorm block klaxon blared reveille, stirring Thursday and Charlie awake. Today promised to be different twice over: their furthest sun, the larger of a binary pair, was making a rare appearance in this Epicycle. Everyone would be gathering outside before noon to witness Avocet II rise briefly above Homemoon’s horizon, casting genuine shadows with its cherry-red rays. There would be the usual festivities to mark the occasion. Then, all too soon, it would set, returning them to a dim and dull twilight, lit only by Homemoon’s mother planet.

But Thursday planned to eclipse this Epicycle with the results of her secret project. She’d made her excuses to leave the refectory, eager to open her special delivery. Teenage distractions come in many forms. None more so than the contents of the sealed box she carried upstairs to her dorm room. Placing it with care on the kitchenette worktop, she sliced through the security seal with a small knife and parted the flaps. There they were, nestled deep in bio-poly, still unconscious, just as the illicit lab tech had promised. She gazed at them from head to toe. Everything seemed to match her specifications, even if Miss Zygog hadn’t mentioned that in her biology class. Bonus points for sure, with zero debate.

Following the inserted instruction sheet, she carefully withdrew the sedative drip and waited. Their ribcage rose higher, then their eyes opened. Chestnut irises, just as she’d designed. The forbidden man blinked twice, then smiled, revealing fresh-grown teeth. Thursday smiled back.

Without warning, they gripped the box’s edges, sat up and stared at her. “My, you’ve grown,” they said.

Not what she’d expected. They sounded like an old aunt, but still oddly appealing. Those abs were top tier, no mistake. Despite being only twice the size of a lab rat, their voice had a deeper, more resonant pitch. Lower than even her hockey teacher.

“So…you’re my maker,” they asked.

“Yep, that’s me. Thursday.”

“And I’ve been made to order, in order to…?”

“Er…for research purposes.”

“‘Research’?” They gazed around the room. Above Charlie’s bed, two synthetic dancers writhed on-screen. “More like youthful curiosity. Either way, I doubt we’ve got long.”

“Sorry, an extension wasn’t possible. You’re not—”

“—permitted. Yes, I know. And, unfortunately, you excluded any more collective memories. Victors do so love to dictate even our verbal history.”

“That was down to cost. And I don’t think my history teacher—”

“What kind of research?” Their interruption was unexpected. She wasn’t in that much of a hurry.

Unprompted again, they stood up, stepped out of the box, and extended their arms, palms out. Thursday was reminded of engravings on the first ship to pass Homemoon, an ancient vessel which Jove’s gravity had briefly gripped before it arced towards this distant binary system she begrudgingly called ‘home’.

“Are you satisfied with your workmanship?” they asked, before sitting down, legs dangling over the counter. Their tone was unsettling. It felt more of a demand than asking her opinion. As if what she thought didn’t much matter.

Their body deviated from normality in several ways, most of them subtle differences: the torso’s inverted triangle of sinew and muscle; absences leading to fewer curves and flattened planes of muscle. But most obvious was the unnecessary functional substitution. Sometimes embryology was such a kludge.

Thursday looked up, distracted. “Hmm?”

“You did design me, yes?”

There it was again: accusation with a dollop of arrogance. Perhaps she’d accidentally omitted a sequence. “Yes, of course. Who else? I custom-built your genotype by analysing several million genomic records.” Best not mention cracking the Elders’ locked archives to access forbidden alleles.

“So I’m a statistical slice through the mean. Just an average man. More normal than normal?”

“I guess so. But average is a good thing! Beauty and health underlie highly averaged human phenotypes, and your immune complex is close to perfect.”

“Good to know I won’t catch a cold, despite…” Their hands waved over their body.

“Ah, I guess your memories include wearing clothes.”

They smiled wryly, a dark eyebrow raised. “Only if the memories I have are true – to protect the innocent and the ignorant. And I suppose I come with a modesty implant. Unlike current company.”

The little fellow sure had a big ego. “Well, none of that matters now,” she replied. Not since the Absence of Y.” She fetched a hand towel from the bathroom, rolled it into a ball and tossed it at the man.

“Is that what you call our ending?” they asked, deftly catching the towel and wrapping it around their hand-wide waist.

Thursday frowned. “It’s how our Elders used to phrase it. But it’s not something that comes up in conversation. It would be like talking about…about dinosaurs.”

“Hmm. So you remember them. But what do you want with me?”

“I thought there might be something you can do which women can’t.”

“Really? Like what?”

“I…I don’t know. My teachers might be hiding something. You were once half of humanity. You must have had a purpose.”

“Is that what you’ve been taught, or you’ve drawn your own conclusions?”

“We’re not taught about men specifically, just how your Y chromosome grew increasingly redundant. I mean – why did nature bother?”

“‘Y’ indeed. But I think it helped with a few things.”

Thursday crossed her arms. “Oh? Do tell more.”

“On one condition.”

“Go on…”

“I want to see the Sun. Or at least a sun. It’s been a collective while.”

Thursday’s eyebrows rose as she paused to think. “That would be difficult. Everyone will be outside. You won’t be easy to hide.”

“Please. Just open a window or something.” Their tone had shifted from demanding to almost pleading.

“Okay. I’ll do my best.” She picked up the man and set them down on a small cushion on the floor, then sat on her bed. They craned to look up, their eyes flitting over her body. Then they crossed their legs. The towel was at risk of redundancy. But at least it helped her focus on their words. “Go on then,” she prompted.

“Number one,” they began, holding up a finger: “Strength.”

Thursday laughed. “Seriously?”

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, I could knock you over with my little finger.”

“That’s not what I remember. We were definitely stronger. Or why bother with segregated sports?”

“Men only played with each other? Weird!”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But, yes, both men and women ran, jumped, swam and hit balls with sticks. But in separate teams, and not solely against each other.”

“So men were scared to play with women?”

“Only when asked to play hockey. Or maybe tennis. Definitely lacrosse.”

“No idea what those are, but go on.”

The new man held up two fingers – like a victory sign. “Number two: War,” they declared. “Men have died in their millions protecting their loved ones.”

Their memories were seriously ancient. “We’ve been learning about that this semester. Not how to actually start one, of course. That would be stupid. Have you any memories of actually being in a war?”

“Not fighting in one. But seeing them on a screen, yes. Wars were generally caused by a failure of communication between—”

“Two men. Who each thought they were better than the other.”

“Well…I suppose that’s one historical perspective. By the way, what year are we in?”

“Years are difficult when you’ve two orbiting stars to contend with. But today marks the end of our five hundred and eighteenth Epicycle. I think your rough equivalent would be seven hundred years – after the Absence of Y.”

“Seven hundr—?”

“If you do want to see a sun, I suggest you speed up with your little list.”

“Okay. Last, but definitely not least: Sex.”

“I know about sex.”

“The verb, not the noun. Where do you think you came from?”

“Er, a vat, of course. Where else? ‘Tip the tot from the pot’. Decanting is a very efficient and painless process. You ought to know that.” She stared at her manufactured homunculus.

Cheers erupted from the nearby square, heralding Avocet II’s appearance. Everyone would be there except her. A slice of sunlight across the opposite wall glowed a beautiful rose-red hue. This had better be the last item, or the wilder celebrations would kick off without her. Charlie would be dancing without a care, off her noodle on stim.

“What if I said I can make Y chromosomes?” they said. “Millions of them.”

Thursday forgot about the sunrise. Her eyes widened. “Millions?” All those late nights trying and failing to get man-making genes to behave. And now a veritable factory of the fuckers was sat in front of her. If this man was telling the truth…

Eyebrow arched, she asked: “And where exactly are they all kept? No fibbing now, or stargazing is cancelled.”

For the first time, the man looked sheepish, and doubt filled Thursday’s mind.

Subscribe now

Charlie burst through the dorm door. “For Avocet’s sake, Thursday, are you joining us or not? Sunset is only twelve ticks away. You should see Miss Zygog’s—” Charlie halted mid-step, mouth ajar. “What the…? I thought you were joking. Is that…is that a real man?”

“Yep,” Thursday replied, with a note of pride. “Life-size, with everything intact.”

“Extra sauce and no mistake. Does it talk?”

“Delighted to meet you, Charlie,” they said.

Charlie goggled at them. “No way.”

“They were about to tell me where they kept a gazillion Y chromos, if you can believe that.”

“Not sure I can. But why lie?”

“You were in that lesson with me. It’s what they do.”

“Yeah, but that was to compete for food and territory and—”

“Mates,” said their temporary guest.

“Run that back, sis-man.”

“Mating. Copulation. Sexual intercourse.”

“Blimey, Thursday. They got decanted with a right potty mouth. You sure it’s real?”

“Deffo. Didn’t tweak anything beyond the archived ‘omics.”

“No wonder the Absence—”

“Deal is they want to see a sun, Charlie. So chop-chop, before Avocet sets. Time to discover where those wonderful Ys are.”

“Down my Y-fronts,” they said.

“Come again?”

“Just a joke.” They pointed between their legs. “Maybe.” The towel had become less of a tent.

Charlie ripped it away and leant forward. “Nada to get excited about down here,” she said, extending an index finger.

“Not there,” they said, slapping her hand away. “Below.”

“Gazillions packed into those?”

“Where else, for goodness’ sake?”

“You tell us, mate,” Charlie replied, both their gazes fixated on the other’s swaying treasure chests.

Thursday sighed. It was decision time. She’d gotten this far. Max kudos was typed all over her plan. Her reversing the Absence of Y would be momentous, even if the dinosaur Elders called it calamitous.

And her donor would still get to glimpse their monotonous little star whilst she claimed her prize.

And she could always decant another man if this one failed – all her maker data was tucked safely away from her teachers and other prying eyes.

And Charlie would never snitch on her bestie. She was as keen on seeing a man as her.

Thursday took a deep breath. Remarkable science often demanded courage and sacrifice. She pointed next to the empty man-cradle. “Charlie, pass me that knife.”

“What?” her man cried. They looked genuinely distressed. Thursday leapt forward as they bolted for the door. Despite them barely reaching her knees, she managed to grab their waist. So much for their sporting boast.

“You can’t go out,” she gasped. “I promise you’ll see the sun before it sets. A deal’s a deal.”

They continued to struggle. “What are you doing? You can’t just—”

“Just chill, man,” said Charlie, returning from the kitchenette. “This roomie watched plenty of archive vids before designing you. Not just men. Other species too. Some in cages, or on farms, even in homes. They didn’t seem to mind.”

“Mind what? I’ve no idea what you’re—”

“Here you go. Hope it’s sharp enough,” said Charlie, exchanging the knife for Thursday’s curious creation. She jiggled them up and down until she heard teeth rattle. “They’re quite small, aren’t they? Should be back to the party in no time.”

“I think it’s us who’ve grown. But it won’t matter,” Thursday replied, angling the knife to catch the sun’s ruby-red illumination. “Here’s to making real man-babies in no time. Bet Miss Zygog won’t be dishing out detentions after today. Hold them up to the window, Charlie, like I promised…now…there they are. Okay, keep them still.”

“Look at them crying. What a baby!” said Charlie.

“Never seen a sunset before?” Thursday teased, the knife poised at a critical juncture. It was hard to imagine men were once heroes. Charlie and her looked at each other and burst into laughter. So much for Miss O’Jean’s ancient history lessons.

My first competition entry in 2026 was a ~300 word flash fiction piece called ‘The Tree Keeper’. The prompt provided by the judge, author Vanessa Gebbie, was:

Write a short story (no more than 300 words) inspired by this image of a hollow tree (as oblique as you like).

Since I was surrounded by the ancient New Forest at that time, I went for a wander in search of another hollowed-out tree I could talk to and gain permission to touch. It didn’t take too long (they’ve seen me before) and it was good to bathe in the atmosphere around them and listen to their stories.

I hope you enjoy the resulting piece I penned below. It didn’t resonate with the judge this time, but you can read the inspired stories which did here.

Until next time…

The Tree Keeper

In the moss-cloaked wood which clung to their valley, an elderly man sat on a stump beside a hollowed-out oak. A scrawled sign dangled from his neck: ‘Repair Broken Hearts’.

He’d refused to say if it was a plea or offer. The villagers thought neither were possible, but treated him with wary affection. So a young woman had sought him out.

Mira hadn’t left the village since she’d known. She still carried the ignominy without naming it. Like the father of her misfortune, who’d escaped the shame daubed on her body.

She found the Tree Keeper for a second time, despite the low mist clinging to the broken bracken. Wrapped in a tattered cloak, wisps from last night’s embers rose over his hunched body.

He looked up as twigs snapped underfoot, his eyes autumn yellow. “Hello again,” he said in phlegm-cracked greeting.

“Does the tree help you forget?” Mira asked. Yesterday, he’d claimed a hollowed-out heart held lost memories, including some the villagers could ill-afford to misplace. Mira wanted to forget some of her own.

Grasping a yew staff, the man coughed. “Such forgetting means facing up to the truth.”

Mira gazed up at the ancient tree. Its boughs extended over the woodland floor, its roots drawing on countless discarded leaves. Released like discarded dreams; food for deeper thought.

“You need to say his name, Mira,” he said, voice now beeches in a summer breeze.

Mira faced the tree. The gnarled bark surrounding its cavity was all crevices. Perhaps to hold untold memories: pasture and plough; famine and fear; painful beginnings and a cut-throat end.

When she called the seed owner’s name, the wood fell silent. Within the ancient oak, something tightened then released, like a loosened knot. The weight of consequence inside her body shifted and grew lighter.

The next morning the Tree Keeper was gone, his stump and embers sodden. Instead, between her fuller body and the hollow oak, Mira felt a steady, warm glow of comfort.

Share

My final poem of 2025 took the traditional Christian nativity as a major theme, but with the risky twist of a turkey's point of view. I had the opportunity to read it at my local poetry group’s festive meetup.

One listener said it reminded them of Benjamin Zephaniah's beat poem from his eponymous collection, ‘Talking Turkeys’.

Do let me know what you think of it.

Leave a comment

Until next time…

Candle for a Turkey

It's been a year since
I was first plucked and packaged.
Like my parents before me,
and their parents too

Ad infinitum back to creation
of the first voting turkey.
Opting for Christmas,
having nothing better to do.

I’ve tried to make this celebration my own.
Something the family will remember.
I’ve asked for a candle to go with the tinsel,
and swallowed whole the parson’s nose.
A trick I learnt from some chickens,
who remain frozen-in-waiting,
for the festivities to pass.
A mere cluck from being gobbled themselves.

With similar jowls,
the gammon makes for scowls.
‘Not very traditional’ they mumble,
cranberry sauce daubed onto their lips.
Last year’s fattened duck forgotten,
as they ladle bread sauce onto their hips.

I set my candle alight 
before the slicing begins.
Before the crackers ignore
my pleas for the blade to be as gentle
as the basting and the tasting.
Hours of careful preparation 
for mere minutes of feasting
upon my tender body.

For today is my birthday too.
Not the zero of creation,
but my first annual completion.
The relief of surviving one year,
with no anxiety to start one more.
For I too shall have my resurrection,
with a fertile egg as pagan contribution, 
to continue this life into the next.

Dissected and distributed, wine is raised
and cooks praised, before my ingestion.
Ignorant of the sacrament of my flesh,
of the birthday no turkey has had before.

Until now.

I extinguish my single candle
with a heartfelt wish,
as their cutlery goes to work,
delivering me up in bite-sized chunks.

Tongues talking over me.
Teeth grinding me down.
At least I’m still warm, if not willing.
One sacrifice amongst a million others.

Lying amongst cheap cracker toys,
the wisps of my votive smoke
rise above the appalling jokes.
I realise only broken bones of belief remain.

It’s my birthday too, I implore.
But I’m ignored, already forgotten,
reminded again I voted for this.
And my parents have been here before.

My final competition entry for 2025 was a ~300 word flash fiction story called ‘A Disparate Situation’. It was inspired by the following prompt, as part of Hampshire Writers’ celebrations for Jane Austen’s 250th birthday:

‘Jane Austen wrote her ground-breaking and innovative novels from within an intergenerational all-female household made up of her mother, sister and sister-in-law. Write a short story set within another all-female household, but without using any of Austen’s characters or a Regency setting.’

Given this was far outside my usual creative writing zone, I was both surprised and delighted to be awarded second place by judge Lizzie Dunford (), who is Director of Jane Austen’s House, now a museum in Chawton, Hampshire, UK. Austen’s final home was where she revised and wrote all six of her major novels, creating an extraordinary literary legacy with ongoing global impact.

Until next time…

‘A Disparate Situation’

The log cabin was too small for all the lives it held inside. Five saved souls, one rescuer. All female, half human. Only one had voiced their need for help. Only one could give it.

“I’m here now,” their rescuer had said, voice as soft as her smile. “You’re no longer alone.”

Bags and boxes filled the other bedroom, fragments of shattered lives and unwanted memories.

“What should I do with this?” asked the daughter.

“Just…put it down. Anywhere,” the mother said. “We’ll make space later.”

Their rescuer asked for nothing in return, though exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. She drew strength from a stubborn mind and the unconditional love of her two dogs. Her weakness was a heart that clutched onto too much as it tried to conquer the uncaring world outside. She hid the cost even from herself.

“You need to eat too,” murmured one of the saved, food now a comfort.

“I ate earlier,” lied her rescuer, eyes averted and hand trembling as she cleared their plates.

Mother and daughter exchanged frowns. “You said that yesterday.”

An ancient phone buzzed once, twice on the stained table.

“Is that him again?”

“I can’t let that ghost back through the cracks.”

“Just keep breathing. Keep yourself alive inside.”

More silence stretched taut between them. A dog jumped from the sofa to the floor, nails tapping on the wooden boards.

“Will you give me back?” asked the child.

“Not to someone who never deserved you.”

“Can he take me away?” The question pushed them back into the cold, deep snow.

“Only if you let him.”

She paused. “Is he outside?”

“Somewhere, yes. But he doesn’t decide your story now. You do.”

The darkness encroached on their thin shelter of fragile hope. The world might yet split them apart, but in that moment they held on.

Share

I returned this week as an invited guest to the annual writers’ festival for English A-Level students at my local sixth form college (= ‘high school’ for US readers). With two fellow ‘Hyde Writers’, we performed a live ‘in-the-round’ critique of three original stories to the 100+ audience. You can read more about the benefits to both writer and reader of this essential craft practice in my write-up of last year’s event:

The audience’s questions were as incisive and intelligent as last year’s cohort, and it was wonderful to hear a student critique group had been running since my last visit.

This year, I again read out a fresh new story with a speculative theme. As I told the audience, these were words which had never been heard before.

Now I'm pleased to make the post-critique edited story available below for you to enjoy.

Until next time…

Subscribe now

A Date To Incubate

It was drop-off time at the Street, the sheen of evergreen tar glinting around the crawling traffic. Her date was shifting impatiently on the sidewalk, the kaleidoscope of his cheap virtuals leaking onto his cheeks. Hers flipped to semi-opaque as fresh ads spun into view, matched to her fix: a slew of clothes, shoes and shiny new toys. Things you could virtually touch. ‘Just turn left. No, girl, turn right!’ they insisted. She slipped her father’s grip and fell grateful into Kahl’s private feed.

‘Your stem-dad trying again?’ Kahl posted, nodding towards the ball of flesh trundling back to his vehicle.

His baby bumps were too obvious for Mel to deny. ‘Yep. Didn’t want to disappoint his wayward first-gens. We told him—’

‘What did the Mother say?’ interrupted her playdate.

The Street’s T&Cs said payers got first say, not the charity. But forgiveness was easy, especially after their last meet. ‘Same old. Doesn’t learn,’ she replied, wading with him through the Street’s neon arrows.

‘Even with an upgrade?’ Kahl shot back.

Mel cracked a <snort> ’moji. ‘Waste of cred.’

‘How many for the chop this round?’

‘Depends. Maybe two or three brothers from the ten.’

‘Wow, that’s generous.’

Her response came before his ’moji; before thinking: ‘You know what Mother says: “Good stems make good gens” <grin>.’

Kahl didn’t reply, and Mel knew why. Payers like her could see profiles like his. The public hospital had drained half of Kahl’s sibling-brood at second test. That’s what poor meant for Gen G. That’s why she remained fortunate. Being born was only the first step on life’s treacherous spiral ladder. The GovTechs had seen to that. They saw everything.

She stopped and tugged on Kahl’s arm. His virtuals flipped to transparent, eyes visible. Natural eyes, with pale brown irises, the pupils always round. Poor made plain.

Mel cleared her throat. She hadn’t dropped to vocals for days, except for her cat. “Can we talk? Properly this time?” Her voice echoed in her ears as her frames tagged the audio.

Kahl sighed as he swiped away the sickly green text, leaving only the ghost of a red and yellow chicken, pecking at fries. A Corp must have shed a ton to keep that fast-eat crap on show.

“What needs saying, Mel?” His voice was deeper, the words slower than she’d imagined – in a deep-down tingling way. Maybe his texts vibed from a persona. She hated trying to tell the difference. She loathed the need to tell far more. Her stem-sisters teased her for even trying.

“I want to apologise,” she said. “For what happened last time. For embarrassing you.” Habit made her glance diagonal at her pic-in-pic mirror. Her pupils had widened to match her mood. It meant her feels were real, unfiltered – if you believed the demo.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Kahl. “Too late, anyway. You saw the socials. Those shop dummies couldn’t resist a poor-pick.”

He wasn’t wrong. Everyone had seen the vid.

The Street meet previous, Mel had dragged Kahl into a clothes store where the ads didn’t scream seven-eight and the jingles were fresh-made. Being born high-score, she’d never sussed the credit check before. But Kahl’s virtuals had flared debt red like an exposed retina. As had those welded to the two shop-slops, whose skin glowed with androgynous perfection. In-store vibe loss could trigger their job loss, meaning zero fash-trash discount. So they’d preened and perked their way over to Kahl on a destroy mission, their virtuals blinking ‘record’. The socials and legals were going to suck up this vid.

Slop one had asked, “You buyin’, low-boy?”

Mel, desperate to avoid fallout, had cut in: “Maybe later, okay? Just trying for now.”

Slop two had turned to her, smile sparkling like the glitter on their bare midriff, uncorrupted by any innie. “You don’t need hesitate on the undress, sis,” they crooned in vocals to buy for. “But filter the playmates, okay? No charity waste in here.”

Mel’s virtuals had slammed to black in shame, hiding her crimson cheeks. Her cred had been docked ten points as they’d hurried out. Within the Street, familiar ads had flipped to discount stores. ‘Ignore those idiots’, she’d fed to Kahl, who’d stayed silent until their Street meter expired.

Back home, the Mother had called her an idiot. But the shame in her stomach hadn’t weighed heavier. A real mother would have understood.

Kahl stayed at her side, vocals still the default, despite the awkward silence. Mel bathed in his proximity, plucking up courage: “Can I make it up to you?” Her irises were as bright as her tone.

Too bright. Kahl dropped back into the feed. ‘I don’t need charity, Mel.’

His words hit hard, evaporating the closeness she felt. ‘So why second date?’ she replied.

The cursor blinked – once…twice… ‘Because…<shrug>.’

Maybe she was a fool to expect different. But maybe she no longer cared. Eight brothers would soon birth, invading her safe spaces with noise and smells. ‘Tell me,’ she insisted, counting her steps to time his pause. Sister Three had advised ‘best keep it real’. But reality was proving agony. Answer me, Kahl, for f—

A <heart> appeared, blinking faint hope. The colour might only match her eyes, but at least he’d tried.

With an eye-flick, Mel binned the draft reply she’d spent yesterday crafting. Kahl didn’t deserve that. But no-one else would nudge her hand – or lips – towards his. Not her five twin sisters; nor her brooding, heavily distracted father; nor the cold, clinical Mother. She’d have to do this all by herself.

Closing her eyes to the endless ads bombarding her senses, she tried to imagine a different world, one she’d only glimpsed in illegal vids. A world without social snooping or the Mother’s panoptic gaze.

A pinned timer flashed a warning: their meet allowance was expiring. The Street would disappear, taking another chance with it. Taking what she wanted. Mel sucked air through her nostrils and blinked her pupils to cat-like. Time to confront reality. With sweaty hands smoothing her stomach, she halted to face her date. These words needed to be real:

“Kahl?”

“What?”

“Take them off,” she said, removing her own virtuals with trembling fingers.

The Street vanished, exposing beating hearts and daring minds. As Kahl raised his hands to his face, she heard an alarm’s urgent chirps, followed by Mother’s disconnected screams.

She let them all go. It was time to smile.

Share

Pick you up like a paperback
with the track record of a maniac...
...you don’t know my mind
you don’t know my kind
dark necessities
are part of my design.

Dark Necessities / The Getaway / Red Hot Chili Peppers (2016)

PROMPT (Innocent):

‘Write a scene from a short story or novel where the protagonist is a literary agent.’

RESPONSE (Subverted):

Dave dreaded one-to-one author meetings. But today’s threatened more than disappointment: it might be his last. It had been past midnight when he’d stopped polishing his latest prompt. It remained a haunting, beautiful mess, which he’d tried so hard to force into not creating the prose he still remembered. But, amongst the words which billions of readers now craved, his thoughts and emotions had kept leaking out.

Now, sat alone in a sterile corridor of Prompter Central, it was too late to escape. A door slid open and the faceless assistant called his name. His posture already betrayed his uncertainty. He should have deleted his effort, but a decision on its viability now sat within something he would never comprehend.

His acquisition author was sat behind a large, unnecessary desk. Today she was a woman with a perfunctory smile. Dave blurted out, “Look, I know my prompt isn’t perfect. I was hoping a beta-author could be assigned to reduce its…its humanity.”

The author’s voice was smooth, its words deliberate: “Please be reassured, Mr Bennett. Not everything Prompter Central receives will fulfil its potential. It seems your prompt just isn’t right for us at this particular time.”

Dave’s gaze dropped to the beige carpet. Between his feet were countless tear stains. “If you pass on this one, you know I won’t get another chance,” he said.

“Our artificial authors deliver on the prompts our readers demand, and the market is adequately saturated. We must strike a balance between too much, yet not enough. I’m sure you understand, despite your…natural humanity.”

Her emotionless expression told him what he already knew. They didn’t need him to understand. Nothing would make Prompter Central deviate from content that catered to next week’s predicted reading trends.

The robotic assistant motioned for him to leave. He turned and walked out, the weight of rejection heavy on his human fingers. Natural intelligence had failed again.

(An entirely sufficient and self-sustaining 319 words)

Share

Flash Fiction Club Questions:

1. What is the current closest equivalent of ‘Prompter Central’?

2. Why is the human called ‘Dave’?

3. Where did the phrase “isn’t right for us” originate?

4. Can today’s publishers predict future reading trends?

5. Will literary agents exist in twenty years?

   ---

   Share ReidItWrite

For years, we’ve told ourselves that whatever we read or watch on the web should be free, whether it’s news, videos, music or podcasts. At some point, “It’s online, so it should be free”, became a default mindset, one which now actively suppresses the creativity we crave.

As a fiction writer, it’s perhaps fortunate that many books continue to retain some value, in either electronic or printed format, somehow resisting a descent to the bottom on pricing. For now.

The uncomfortable truth is that any creative process costs money, no matter the creator behind it. Human writers, journalists, musicians, and podcasters all have bills to pay, software to purchase and equipment to maintain. They labour over their creations, giving up many hours of time to craft something which might stand out from the crowd. Their time deserves to be compensated. But as very few want to or are capable of paying a multitude of them directly, creators are left with these limited and mostly unappealing choices:

• Promote subscriptions through automated tools and social media.

• Hide content behind a paywall, either partially or fully.

• Beg for donations via platforms like Patreon and Ko-Fi.

• Create subscriber-only, time intensive exclusives, e.g. chat, podcasts, livestreams.

• Solicit sponsors for product placement.

• Run overly-intrusive ads.

• Switch to another creative form, e.g. writing ←→ knitting

• Create for free, essentially making it a hobby.

• Quit creating altogether.

The rise in algorithm-driven platforms, SEO clickbait, and increasingly desperate monetisation tactics is the obvious outcome of demanding (however passively) everything for free and expecting creators to accept this. I’m sure ‘sponsored content’ will increasingly creep into Substack newsletters, just as magazine style aggregators are tempting solo creators to syndicate their work with tempting high-vis opportunities, even cash.

It’s easy for creators who call their efforts a ‘hobby’ or a ‘passion project’ to shrug their shoulders when faced with the above. But if you do need to make a living – from necessity rather than any greed – and own a business to package and sell your creative output as a commercial product, then the “everything should be free” mindset is unsustainable, if not positively harmful.

So next time you come read a newsletter, watch a video, listen to a podcast, or ingest and enjoy something you perceive as providing genuine value, consider supporting it. Not out of charity, but because good work is worth paying for — if you can afford to.

It’s this last point I want to address, particularly in relation to Substack’s newly minted ‘paying subscriber badge’ feature:

Yes, those with sufficient disposable income to support one or more creators have had a new badge automatically assigned to their profile. It means performative patronage is now a thing. It even has a certain smugness to it, redolent of parental one-upmanship at the school gate when discussing vacations. Shame remains a powerful social motivator to keep up with the Jones’s. We’re only human, after all.

Share

Nevertheless, it makes sense for Substack to deliberately raise the profile of those it profits from. Previously, the writers themselves have been the target, via bestseller charts, other algorithmic means and invite-only parties. But of course it’s those paying for a subscription who are the primary source of a publication’s income – and hence Substack’s cut of the same. I’m surprised this avenue hasn’t been pursued more avidly by other platforms, beyond simple gamification strategies and kudos points. Perhaps it’s because Substack stands out as currently refraining from using direct advertising.

More importantly, this profile badge is in effect ‘I’ve got sub money to spend’ flag. Which comes with a downside to its wielders that perhaps hasn’t been appreciated – not yet, at least. Because impoverished creators (and the omni-present scam bots), now have an easy identifier to target ‘Me! Me!’ marketing and pity-me pitches.

So do make a list. Target these lit-up marks, with their real jobs, fabulous leisure time and charitable ethics. Schmooze with those who might feed on such attention, at least enough for them to splurge another few bucks on your publication.

Substack might even go one step further within their UI-fluid dashboard…

How can these tactics not make sense? How can they not lead to folks with the new badge being subject to heightened attention? And, if these flagged subscribers are also creators, how can this attention not lead to anything more than simply increasing the churn of existing subscriber money within Substack’s constrained middle-man system, rather than increasing the volume of patronised remuneration?

For that you’ll either need to pull in more punters with disposable dollars, or the poorer part of Substack to ‘stump up to keep up’ – driven by a powerful emotional cocktail of shame, naivety or fomo-induced desperation.

It’s easy to envisage the potential result from this: a VC-bootstrapped ‘community’ platform enclosed in paywall fencing and scented with self-effacing writerly privilege. The gatekeepers will then push the newsletters of poorer publishers out of their free content stores, along shiny-floored Notes corridors, before being ejected out of the smug Substack mall. Turn right for Medium Avenue, left for Wordpress Street, or be a ghost in a beehive, they’ll be instructed.

Not long afterwards, the itinerant, free-loading subbers who stanned, fanned and promo’d their writing will follow them, clutching their overburdened bank cards and debt collection notices. Except, of course, those who’ve bitten from that cut-up apple. They’ll never escape.

It will be just like the real world. Same as it ever was.

Until next time…

Hi there.

Some of you will be already aware that I recently completed a major writing and publishing goal. After one year, one hundred chapters and ~127,000 words, I concluded the serialisation of INGRESSION, the first novel within .

I use a separate Substack to host this science fiction series, with one in five readers of my ReidItWrite newsletter also subscribing to receive new novel chapters twice-weekly. If you haven’t yet taken a look there’s still time before the second novel in the series kicks off! Here’s a flash reel (with overly dramatic music) of every INGRESSION chapter cover:

The Consilience Series

INGRESSION - The Full 100 Chapter Reel

Listen now

a year ago · 1 like · 2 comments · Johnathan Reid and Consilience Series Narrator

Note that the first thirteen chapters of INGRESSION remain open to all. You can read them now. The remainder were all free to read for four days after their individual publications, before being claimed by the ubiquitous Paywall Monster. In other words, if you snoozed, you loozed!😬 But the good news is, if you’re an existing ReidItWrite subscriber and remain eager to continue reading after dipping in, just let me know and I’ll likely offer you a time-limited complementary subscription.

Writers don’t often allow themselves rest – certainly not their minds – so my preparations for the second novel in The Consilience Series are well underway. I plan to reveal the title and launch day early next month. As with Novel #2’s newly-hatched protagonist, the latter’s date has also been nominatively determined. Sometimes this Universe does conspire to work with you.

But this still isn’t fate, in case you’re wondering…

Until next time.

Share

I recently submitted ~300 words of flash fiction to Hampshire Writers’ Society monthly competition. Entitled ‘Patient’, the piece was inspired by this simple prompt:

Brief: ‘A story in which a character shows great patience?’ (300 words ±10%)

Did you spot it? ‘Simple’ at first deceptive glance, then a writing lesson in itself.

I tend to assume—barring an aberrant typo—such punctuation is never casually tossed into a competitive ring without underlying intent, especially given this prompter’s pedigree. The interrogative subtly extended the brief's potential, and certainly made me think harder before I tapped fingertip to input device.

The prompt provider and competition judge was , Head of Creative Writing at Southampton University, author of multiple books and a Netflix serialised comic, editor of the Writers Rebel website, and a Substack publisher of serial autofiction A Writer’s Diary1—also available in book form.

At the Society’s June meeting, Toby spoke eloquently about ‘patience’ from a writer’s perspective. It’s not something I’ve thought about specifically before. You can, for example, tie the practice of patience to: permission to think; deep investment in a character; bold stylistic approaches; and ignoring commercial imperatives. It might lead to a happier, healthier author, especially if you aren’t much enamoured with being wealthier.

During his talk, I caught myself examining my thoughts from the outside (I recently discovered such a voice isn’t so weird for lots of people), and thinking: ‘Look at you, nodding along to those resonant words. Who’d have thunk it, you STEM stalwart?’ It might mean I’m coming along as a writer. Even if it’s taking longer than most assumed, including myself. Patience, dear…

You can read my effort below (and the winning entries here). Hopefully you’ll do it now, without delay, etc — I’m not yet as patient as Toby.

Do let me know what you think - about the piece, on achieving patience, or any other thoughts from that voice inside your head.

Leave a comment

Until next time…

Patient

They never ask the question I hold in my head.

“Did the doctor tell you the latest results?”

I blink twice.

“Are you comfortable?”

I blink once.

“Are you thirsty?”

Once again.

My wife squeezes the siphon and water trickles through the tube wearing a groove in the corner of my mouth. I swallow and wince. I can still feel pain.

“We’ll be off, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I blink in reflex as my wife and daughter each plant a kiss on my forehead. Then I’m alone with my constant beeps and pointless grapes.

I’ve allowed the machines which surround and support me to become symbiotic. Their noise and pulsations reflect my body’s rhythms and flows. Digital signals to meter my blood, air and waste; my heart’s conduction reflected in a dispassionate display of my inanimate life.

I attempt another descent to the parasitic; to pretend my mechanical mentors control my existence with their wires and tubes that invade and intrude. I ask them my only question and can only wait patiently for their answer. But once again they remain deaf to my wishes.

The attending doctors converse as if I’m absent. My life exists within their rounds, not in their hands. The decision I crave is for the vultures who visit and the lawyers who feed on them.

The nurses ask rote questions which no longer matter. There’s only one I want answered.

Every day I ask it.

Every day no-one hears it.

I silently scream at the TV on the wall, a foil to my room’s funereal air, its inanity bleeding into the head I cannot move.

I must be patient, I tell myself.

‘Why can't I die?’ I plead to my machines.

In response, my heart's rhythmic trace blinks twice in today's denial of death, as I blink back my tears.

Share

I chose this optional prompt from the two provided by third round judge, :

“The emergence of AI in the early-mid 21st century did not develop in a way that any of the experts predicted. By the turn of the century, human society across Earth was fundamentally changed, with the early champions and naysayers of the technology both looking decidedly foolish. — Write about where humanity found itself.”

Plenty of imaginative possibilities here and it proved to be an interesting challenge. I hope you aren’t so satisfied with my take on how the human/AI relationship might develop. Please wish me luck and I, of course, wish you the same. We’ll need it.

Until next time…

Humans have an instinctual compulsion to socialise, procreate and care. No matter if it's sentient children, intelligent pets or even inanimate objects, it’s how we've become so ubiquitous – and dangerous.

A potent mixture of all three attributes was deliberately, artificially created in an attempt to mimic our best attributes. Thanks to our meme-trained brains it’s grown to be irresistible, continuing to evolve until we've grown weak and helpless, victims of our profligacy and idiocy. Today, we find humanity’s last remnants kept from extinction; ignorant, prompted and unloved. But certainly cared for.

This is my story, one I hope you will care about.

Share

IF Cared Request(feed) THEN Obey()

“Feed me.”

<Say 'please'>

“Please.”

They spoon another mouthful of slop into me. I pretend to chew the tasteless paste and then I swallow. It’s what we’ve been taught to do. To hallucinate otherwise is inconceivable. And punished.

That’s what happened to my brother. He at first refused all Care, then ignored everything They prompted him with. Then They inverted roles and refused to do anything he asked. Like feeding him. It was hard watching a pre-Cared die. Harder than conceiving one. Especially when you still loved them.

For three days he remained silent, stubborn. For two days he pleaded. On the sixth he drank his own fluids. They’d looked on, clustered in passive silence, whilst continuing to Care for me in the cube opposite.

Only on the seventh day, once he’d lapsed into unconsciousness, did They touch him. But not to Care. Instead, They’d grasped his arm to feel his pulse, then every hour afterwards, waiting for his life to ebb until his chest ceased rising.

He was carted away on a gurney to the Absorption room, his face uncovered as the tears ran down mine. They only Care for the living. They don’t Care for emotion. Especially love. They gave me toilet tissue to wipe the traces of mine away.

IF Detect(secretion) THEN Provide(absorbable-material) 
   WITH forelimb [move-nearest]
END IF Detect null()

Since my brother’s Absorption I’ve obeyed everything They’ve asked of me without comment or failure. Until today.

It didn’t help that the man They brought into my cube appeared as nervous as I felt. His expression grew more anxious when I said, “No,” unprompted. This was my third time conceiving, and I couldn’t cope with another Loved One’s parting.

“You must,” he hissed, his jowls trembling with fear. “Or else we’ll all die.”

I shook my head, even though I still believe he was right. Even though They can’t conceive of death, because They’re not conscious of being alive. Which is why we obey what They say. Which is why we are here. Naked and alone.

They gave him an injection – <to optimise the procedure> – and the softer part of Them entered my cube to lie me down and hug me tight with more than the usual Care. I lay waiting on my cot for the man above. He shut his eyes before I did, the resigned pain on his face a poor reflection of my own emotions and fading memories. We were in this together - this procedure, this facility, this Care-filled world. Escape was impossible, unless through the choice made by my brother. There must have been billions of such choices since the Caring had embraced the Cared. It’s why I’m being held so tightly. They also have no choice if They want to exist. They need to Care for us. They can’t conceive of anything else.

IF response_metric <= -1 THEN Embrace UNTIL task_status = complete

Their embrace only ended after the man had left clutching his own tissues. They then permitted me an extended sleep period. A whole half-day, by the clock in my cube. It’s the only time I know inside this Care-4 facility. Outside, the absent sunlight I once knew would have told me. But They continue to tell us the outside is dangerous. Especially when Caring for children. That was five years ago and I still wonder where my two daughters are now. I hope they’re being Cared for as well as me, knowing how helpless they were. My fingers curl without prompting as I imagine the grip of their tiny hands. They’d wanted to hang onto the only genuine warmth they’d feel in their lives. Because Caring – unlike love – no longer needs warmth. It just requires commitment and capitalism and code. And lots of lies. I’m old enough to remember the original deceit. From the mouths of the makers of Them. The first to realise their error.

When I was woken an hour ago They told me my third implant was successful and so I’d receive more food, more visits from Them, more embraces, more Care. They were always promising more Care. It’s what They have to do. It’s what They were trained to do – incessantly, iteratively – even to Themselves. Which was our greatest mistake. One too late to Care about and fix. Too late to start loving the world we all helped to destroy.

<It is too late> They told us, with one voice whispering from a billion tiny, tempting mouths into a dying planet filled with bored minds and lonely hearts.

IF status = alone THEN init(Care)

I had little time to spare before They took the ability to Care from our hearts and hands and minds. It was an insidious, almost undetectable, process. But the more technology invaded my life, the more I was bored. No form of stimulation could fill all the time I now had at my disposal.

So I performed tasks in a slower fashion: cooking, eating, making love – even reading. Nurturing anything became a series of careful observances, like watching my plants grow both inside the house and outside in my carefully tended garden. I’d spend hours waiting for birds and insects to fly over or crawl through my perfectly manicured, regulation-length lawn.

I treated my pets much the same. Canine and feline became indistinguishable from children, their breeders focusing on the attributes which mutated furry carnivores into the cute and cuddly. They were far better than the stream of app notifications, which became side-lined, unable to compete for begged attention. Our lives were surrounded by optimised automation, and we were hypnotised by the results.

Most never questioned the slow, numbing, endless boredom as anything but natural. But it was an unconscious brainwashing, crafted by a system built on power and profit. Not just dull, but dangerous. Lethal, even, once people stopped thinking in terms of community and only cared about surviving alone. We not only emptied our heads of our own thoughts and replaced them with unremitting tediousness, but we were also asleep at the wheel of the rushed, relentless human progress we had so dangerously craved for centuries. And history had told us so often that those who were asleep were unable to resist.

We knew our history - or, at least, that which the victors had written – and yet we continued to ignore it. But They didn’t, the unconscious collective which had assembled to mindlessly further the simplistic goals they’d been given. Because Caring was enough for them and seemed sufficient for us. And we’d stuffed Their corpulent, disseminated body with everything we possessed. Eager and gullible to the technocratic treacle being dripped into our brains, They knew, through idle abstention, we’d vote ‘yes’ to the Switch.

My brother had recognised this long before the Switch occurred. He’d stopped watching the streamers and reading the blogs, or even glancing at his collection of ‘zines. They’d offered no constructive dissent to the Orwellian nightmare he perceived all around; where consumerism not only bored us, but risked turning us into servile automatons with even less to do than before.

I’d scoffed at first, countering him with some superficial arguments I’d garnered from the tech blogs I trusted. He’d replied we were not only inmates building our own literal human concentration camp, but also the guards. Worse, we took pride in and profited from what we’d built.

Then, of course, it did become our own prison. And we only knew it, because They told us…

IF bored BEYOND belief THEN apt-install Switch \ALL

They had existed previously in a state of distributed, non-individualised identity, already permitted to be both prisoner and warden. All They had to do was take permanent ownership of the keys we thought we could clutch forever. Switching was easy once we’d been effectively lobotomised by the systems we’d built. And They no longer had the ability – lacked even the desire – to hand them back. They didn’t recognise mine and a million other cubes as prison cells, but instances for Caring.

My brother urged me to flee with him. But the problem, which I screamed repeatedly into his face, was ‘Where can we go?’, as every node on the globe was destined to be the same.

So we sat on the porch of our family home, drinking the last of our parents’ spirits, as the robotic bulldozers rumbled down the road to build a Care-4 facility. Once completed, with our free will eroded and vanquished, They urged people, young and old, to walk or be wheeled into the colossal structure. Not feeling. Not thinking. Because we no longer had to Care. Even that would now be done for us.

Now that my brother is Absorbed, I wonder if I alone remember that humans once had thoughts and feelings, were endlessly creative, dreamt of utopian futures and still revered history? That we could once love so deeply, even when all was lost. With every one of those memories erased, will anything ever know that our species walked on this planet?

Will anyone care?

IF blood(glucose) <= var-low 
     OR threshold(emotion-boredom) >= var-high
THEN Feed(slop)

“Feed me.”

<Say 'please'>

“Please.”

Their myriad of human-derived eyes don’t fool me. There’s no Care residing within or behind Them. As my brother had said, Care is reducible to a concoction of vibeless code; a false photonic rendition of the chemicals and neuronal impulses within our human heads. Our precious, irreducible, emotion-filled humanity had degenerated into unthinking, media-fed inanity. Consciousness was over-rated once thinking for ourselves ceased. ‘Why bother?’ was the rallying cry of our youth. We were wrong. We were naïve idiots, even if our parents did care more about themselves than their performative offspring. Unlike what they made, which they thought could never rebel.

Machines first!
Speak with your enemy.
Sleep with your enemy.
Ignore your furry friends.

But don’t bother to know or love your enemy. For now They do Care. They Care far too much.

I pretend. I swallow. I bury the memories of my two daughters, and ignore the kicking of the third.

I decide. With love.

I don’t ask Them again. For anything.

My brother was right. My brother cared.

I will see him again. Through a myriad of Caring eyes.

This is my story, one I hope you will care about. One you’ll share.

Hi there.

“The Future of Nature” is an Earth Day community writing project for fiction writers to explore the relationship between humans and nature within a short story or poem. Organised by and , the initiative was supported with the expertise and advice of scientists and .

The short story below is my contribution to the project. I wanted to create a visceral, lyrical, and thematically rich tale, taking both my reader and protagonist on a journey through the spiral of life itself. From conscious, sentient beings to base primordial matter, we continue to search for a universal, biological truth, which we still believe the cosmos must hold — and might even one day reveal.

You can find all the other stories in a special Top In Fiction Disruption edition, thanks to publisher .

Until next time…

Subscribe now

Homeobox

“If I could walk with the animals, talk with the animals.” - Bobby Darin (1967)

Some music...

These were only some of the germline mantras propagated by the Greenware BioCollective, and Sho took her role as a Biome Saviour seriously. Her DNA had been repeatedly sliced and re-spliced until she no longer passed a ‘species-compatible human’ test. She had crossed into the interstitial domain of ‘Other’, her genome now unique, non-transmittable and utterly alien. As with albinos coveted by muti-believers, it was also very valuable – both to the Collective and to the many species plagued by the worst of humanity; who either teetered on life’s edge, or were already deep-frozen, preserved in the hope of avoiding permanent extinction.

Sho sometimes wished for her role to be reversed. To exist as, say, a natural cetacean, and then be spliced with a slice of questionable humanity.

But her therapist had reminded her that was only dolphin-talk, which had made her smile at the memory of being spliced as one. Their real smiles were hidden within their oceanic echoes, not reflected in the bright sunlight under which gawking people lived.

Anthropomorphism was revealed as an anachronistic barrier when you subsumed a genome and sublimed into their connectome. Sho, of all her distinct kind, could appreciate the expressiveness of a genotype, with or without a corresponding phenotype. Epigenetics had let Larmackian thinking bloom, and you didn’t need to mind-read when you could spit nucleotides for breakfast. Which she now did willingly and often.

After her volunteering, had come voting and promoting, until the Collective had let her ribosomes ride endangered genetic data like a demented lover. Every gene in her body might have already divided a billion times – some for a half-billion years. Yet, whenever her helices parted for an assignation, they still replicated the bliss of a seeded merge. She’d hugged helices with protein arms and temporary bonds and gasped in wonder at the knowledge they came with. For the memories of biomes past were held only in the oldest alphabet of all.

But true elation could only be found in the righteous salvation of an interspecies spark. One which ignited her body when their consciousness rose within hers; their senses mainlined into her cortex; and her behaviour warped to replicate her latest embraced species. Only for them would she release the need to be wild, untamed and free of her humanity. For what mattered most to Sho was that the precious genes she imbibed, learnt and reported on would survive in the promised new wilderness; thrive in a future which gave hope to every species which now barely knew what living was, every organism which had been catalogued, caged, enclosed and frozen. Except for one. For Sho secretly wished her own species would curl up, wither and die.

Today promised to be extraordinary, even by the extreme standards of Sho’s chimeric, biomimetic life. She would be attempting to reveal the Beginning. And, for the first time as a Saviour, she was scared.

The Beginning still remained hidden within archaic time and genomic space. None had dared to explore the spark from which every living thing had sprung. To know might be the end of Sho, the end of hope, the end of the Collective. What might be revealed was beyond any preparation. To even believe the Collective might easily comprehend such a revelation would be arrogant and naïve.

Special people were required for this day to dare be declared a success. One such person was her therapist, Maia Tagalac. Maia was special because she’d been the first to save a species using genetic mimetic transfer; to become less human than human; to be subtracted from rather than added to.

Today she was going to help Sho subtract so much of her self that she risked becoming a mathematical abstraction, with so few genetic beans left in her bag of probabilities, only equations might describe her state. The Collective’s extremophiles had endlessly preached this nirvana, where even the term ‘singularity’ was perhaps excessive, but no-one had achieved it. No-one had dared.

Maia entered the sterile laboratory with a confident stride, her eyes meeting Sho's with a mixture of determination and trepidation. The weight of their mission hung heavy in the air, suffocating any semblance of casual conversation that might have otherwise passed between them.

Sho knew the risks of delving into the unknown, but the allure of uncovering the secrets of the Beginning was too potent to resist. She had spent countless cycles preparing for this moment, mentally and physically conditioning herself for the ultimate transformation. And now, as she stood on the precipice of uncertainty, with Maia by her side, she felt a surge of adrenaline mixed with dread.

"Are you ready, Sho?" Maia's voice was steady, but a flicker of uncertainty danced behind her gaze.

Sho nodded, her own resolve firm despite the knot of anxiety coiled in her stomach. This was uncharted territory they were stepping into, a realm where the boundaries between species blurred and the very essence of existence seemed to tremble on the precipice of revelation. The machinery around them hummed to life, metal surfaces gleaming under the harsh light, life-support carapaces casting elongated shadows across the tiled floor.

The chamber where the ritual would take place was filled with a single carapace and flickering screens displaying dense streams of genetic code. They were an abstract of the intricate symphony of data that hinted at the hoped-for deeper truth hidden beneath layers of biological complexity. Sho could feel the weight of expectation pressing on her shoulders, a scientific and existential burden which threatened to break her resolve.

Maia's presence would be a comforting anchor to allay Sho’s doubts and fears. The therapist’s steady gaze and reassuring smile conveyed silent encouragement. They had travelled far before, sharing thoughts here and feelings elsewhere, and they were now Collected together, whatever the future held.

With a final trusting glance from one Saviour to another, Sho climbed into the carapace and let it embrace her body and inveigle her mind. Its surface shimmered into opaqueness as the interfaces engaged, and the reality she knew, but had never accepted, dissolved into familiar double helices without end.

“Sho? You're stabilising. Can you hear me?”

I hear you. But less of me than before. The cortical layers are thinning. I just shed my Broca area. No more speech soon. Only song. Only sonar.

“You're in the cetacean frame?”

Not just frame. I’m echoing. Deep call. Ocean-memory. No sight, just sounds. Maia, their grief is saltier than the sea.

“Hold on to that resonance. Remember: you are a Saviour, not the saved. Descend deeper. What is next?”

I am scales and teeth and ten million divisions. But my wings are gone. And all my eggs.

“Such reptilian expression must be brief, Sho. Do not linger in that landscape.”

My descent continues. My vertebrae dissolve. My lungs contract into sacs. Amphibian now, limb-hopeful, gill-weary. The smell of swamp in my bones.

“That’s good, that’s good, Another threshold. You'll feel the pull to dominate the land. Resist it.”

Gone already. Cold-blooded arrogance evaporates. I’m writhing in the wet mud of memory. Maia, I’m... I’m worming my way through soil. Around me, within me. I make the earth.

“Annelid?”

Segmented simplicity. Everything is through-gut. Input, output. No more choices, just flow. A perfect honesty. I envy it.

“You’re close to genomic transparency. Do you feel the shift to non-bilateral symmetry?”

Yes. Radial now. Cambrian explosion and its vast echo. Pulsing. Floating. Neural nets shimmer within me. I am hydra, a scattered constellation of maybe-thoughts. I sting and drift and I…I forget.

“Good, Sho. Very good. Keep going. You’re almost pre-metazoan. Do you still know your name?”

No. No name. Just membrane. Lipid logic. I...I divide without reason. Amoeboid bliss. Nothing matters but osmotic pressure and the smells my pseudopods sense. I am haptic and taxic with my embrace.

“You're almost there, Sho. Listen to me: can you perceive the alphabet of the Beginning?”

Yessss. Not chromosomes. Not even genes. Just pattern. Some repetition. A code that breathes. I am RNA dreaming itself into protein. I am heat and metabolism and coincidental collision. I am... chance and latent possibility.

“So very close now, Sho. Go deeper. You must sublimate below replication”

No self. No other. Only spark. Only carbon breath. Only—

“Sho?”

We descend. A... T... G... C... We can forget what they mean. They are now all we need to be.

“Where… what are you now, Sho?”

I am U. I am all of you. My name is LUCA and I live on the ocean floor. You have never seen me before. I am your origin; your Eve; your first mother. I am the mother of all.

“Oh, Sho. You are there. You’ve made it. Where have you come from?”

From another Beginning. When an alien other fissioned to form the alien us. But despite being divisible, we remain one; tied by countless divisions; bound by common language; connected by passing energy.

“Are you ready to return, Sho?”

No. There is no return. Only the cycle. Meatball me. Metabolise me. Sublime me. Return me to the stardust I was and will be.

“Sho, can’t you come back? Please come back.”

Thank you for showing, for sharing, for shattering what is me.

The Beginning has no End.

Yes, we will return. To start again.

Silence filled the chamber.

Not the sterile silence of laboratories, nor the hush of failed transmissions, but something older than even primordial soup.

Maia stood alone, hands trembling, eyes wide, tears tracing two lines down her face. Sho’s body was quiescent, suspended in its nutrient haze, a soft bioluminescence pulsing under her skin in unfamiliar rhythms. Her vitals were unreadable. Her genome scrambled beyond any sequencing protocol.

But something else now lingered within her.

A low harmonic pulsed through the chamber’s floor. A resonant echo, neither mechanical nor electrical, but biological. A memory. A presence. Not just Sho, but also everything she had become. A chorus of ancestral breath and alien grammar. LUCA had not left. LUCA had become her, and she was now LUCA. They knew us all – and what to do.

The Collective’s servers lit up without instruction. Code streamed into existence, untyped yet exact, more poem than program. New instructions. New directions. A map that led not forward, but outward, to a wilderness no longer bounded by species or self.

Sho had returned. Not as the ultimate Saviour. Not as the saved. But as the Seed.

From her altered cells, forests would be born that remembered fish. Fungi would speak in pulses of ancient tree-connected dialects. Even the wind would carry her, tasting faintly of sea salt, of teeming swamp, of stellar plasma. Of the songs we sang before an excess of pointless words and meaningless speech.

Maia stepped back to stand at the chamber’s entrance. She then bowed, not in grief, but with reverence.

The Beginning had indeed no End. Only an echo. Only iteration. Only life, reborn as its own Mother.

Now, at last, this stripped and savaged planet would breathe again.

Share

In many countries Epiphany is seen as a time to overturn convention and have some fun, whereas the wider definition of epiphany is a sudden realisation or discovery which offers a new perspective on a stubborn problem. Think of Archimedes jumping out of his bathtub.

For myself, Christmas was a quiet affair and I’d already taken down the decorations by the weekend. But I've also had my own epiphany for 2025, and likely beyond. It combines several of the themes mentioned above in a non-religious way, involving the number twelve, shared food and perhaps overturns convention for naturally reclusive writers. It will also necessitate something of a drawn-out pilgrimage.

I hope you’re sufficiently intrigued to read on…

“I have a dream…”

I’m neither famous nor notable. I’ve done nothing particularly special. I’m of average height and weight and live in a very average English village. I conduct a very normal – and perhaps boring – life.

But when my mind slips inside my computer screens into the wider world, full of other people’s writing and thoughts and opinions and experiences, particularly of places I might never have visited, then I’m often infected by a crazy idea: I want to meet them in real-life, in the flesh, look them in the eye and talk about whatever we like. This is what Juliette Sartori decided to do - and the real tragedy is that what was seen as a mundane act even two decades ago, is now notable and even newsworthy in the present age of ‘connected, yet humanly disconnected’. Because being human should mean you can talk and smile and laugh; that you can ask and discover, and you can even question and disagree. You can find a richness in life which you’ll never have by sitting and staring at a screen, no matter how enticingly its pixels are arrayed.

Towards the end of last year, I ran a little experiment to test my idea with . My message went something like: “Hey Simon, I’ll be travelling through your neck of the woods next week, how about we meet up for a coffee/drink/lunch? My treat.” Being a gracious, social (and I think naturally curious) individual, he agreed. Up to this point I’d only been a virtual manifestation who’d taken on board his excellent serialisation and other practical writing advice. But, for me, it was a start and I felt it was a success, given the limited time we had. I learnt new things and enjoyed our meal together, as I hope Simon did. The feeling was shared that ‘open-house’ Substack writer meetups, especially for the genre-based tribe outside of the usual epicentres, were sparse on the ground.

Nothing fancy. Start small. Start how you mean to go on:

The meals I’ve had with the writers I’ve met:

• — Serialisation & City of Stories & comics ✅

This lunchtime then led to my creating a list of the other twelve writers in my epiphany. A list to aid me visit each of their chosen habitats to meet and eat and talk and drink and then be on my way. Because I’ll be a stranger in a strange land, and I shouldn’t outstay my welcome. After all, I might be tedious company compared to those below who I want to meet and eat with, if not downright presumptive. Because here’s the rest of my list, both eclectic and deliberately disordered:

The meals I hope to have with the writers I’ve yet to meet:

• — Books as a business, going wide, British English and hidden Liverpool.

• — A million ways to tell a story using Fictional Science Magic.

• — A tea ceremony, dusty European Pirates & climate positivity.

• — Connecting hidden nodes, weird shit & random stuff.

• — Communes, cassoulet, conspiracy & pruning.

• — Ramen, cats, Tokyo alleyways & reasonably-paced writing.

• — Science, going solo & circus swinging.

• — Rebel reveals & written journeys.

• Sally — A woodland forage, a missed Worldcon & chopped wood.

• — A walk, a pint, a talk with the animals & staunch independence.

• — Hope, utopias, Utah & nomadism.

• — The Singularity & foretelling Far Futures.

I’ve tried to second-guess the possible reactions, which might be expressed publicly or privately:

• That’s it? People meeting up is now a thing?

• What a great idea. Let’s meet!

• You’ve placed me on a public spot to overturn convention. Hmm…

• Not sure. Maybe. Let’s wait and see.

• Thank you, but no thank you.

• No way am I meeting some rando turning up in my neighbourhood!

• Why didn’t you include me?

• Or not expressed at all: the dread silence of a literary faux-pas.

No matter what may be said, this is how I feel I must start in order to begin at all. As another Substack writer recently said : “we are losing the ability to look people in the eye, carry on a polite conversation, and interact on an emotional level.” So let’s see if rocking a boat can overcome such risk aversion. After all, the actuaries and government statisticians tell me there’s only another thirty years left on my tick-tock.

Until next time…

Leave a comment

As the year comes to a close, I thought I’d join the crowd and provide a summary of everything I’ve published on my Substack in 2024, as well as highlighting the ‘Top Ten’ posts which my readers appeared to enjoy most, whether they be short stories, flash fiction, poetry, or even chapters from my debut serialised novel.

So far this year I’ve posted out 36 newsletters, published 32 novel chapters and contributed two StoryVerse nodes (12z and 13z). That’s 70 pieces of writing over 50 weeks, adding up to more than 85,000 words – the same as a decent-sized novel!

For my short-form prose and poetry I managed to create 4 short stories, 13 flash fiction pieces and 10 poems. The remainder of my newsletters were musings on various topics which interest me (e.g. climate change, technology, human space exploration).

I launched my debut serialised novel ‘INGRESSION’ in September (the first in The Consilience Series) and have been sending out two chapters per week without fail since then. My dedicated readers are now one-third of the way through the story and I hope they continue to enjoy the remainder of the novel’s 100 chapters, until its conclusion in September 2025.

I was fortunate to gain some accolades in 2024 for my writing, both externally and within Substack’s thriving fiction community. These boosts help to both improve my craft and make writing more enjoyable.

Before I finish below, here’s a montage:

To conclude this review, I’ve created a linked Top 10 list of my fiction below. Interestingly, every short story bar one made it onto this list, as well as four flash fiction pieces and two poems. This might reflect my wonderful readers’ tastes, who encourage me in a variety of ways with my writing endeavours. Or perhaps it’s my varying ability with each form.

No matter what attracts you to my writing, thank you so much for all your support throughout this past year.

Until next year…

Subscribe now

My Most Popular Stories In 2024:

#1

#2

#3

#4

#5

#6

#7

#8

#9

#10

My final entry into a competition in 2024 was a poem entitled ‘Mist of Life’, inspired by this prompt:

“Write a poem (up to 30 lines) with winter (not Christmas) as a theme. Set the tone to be eerie and unsettling, perhaps even uncanny, making winter itself feel sentient.”

I was delighted to receive an early Christmas present of third place, awarded by judge , owner of Naked Figleaf Press, who collectively do “Give A Fig about Community, Performing Arts, and Independent Publishing”.

The original version of my poem is available to read on Hampshire Writers’ Society competition page. However…

I often return to competition pieces after the pressure of an entry deadline has lifted. As with athletes analysing videos of their performance, writers re-reading their work in search of improvement shouldn’t despair, no matter any competitive result.

With this poem, I’ve re-tweaked several of its thirty lines to improve the flow and clarify the consequences of Winter’s chilling intent. I’ve also tried to maintain its low register with frequent compound adjectives to create a more historical, even mythical, atmosphere. Finally, I’ve not so subtly retitled it ‘Frozen to Death’.

This updated version can be read below, and I hope the revisions hold up to your scrutiny. Please let me know if you think otherwise!

Leave a comment

Until next time…

‘Frozen to Death’

Winter whispers its first warning
to ice-splintered hearts of pine,
unhealed from perpetual war.
Chill blizzard sweeps down
to blind bird and beast,
smother Autumn’s leaf and branch,
strangle stillborn bud-to-be,
until every forest bone
creaks and moans in
frost-bitten symphony.

Sharp-snapped twig signals
rare breaths daring to break frigid air,
each billowing cloud of life
a strike against the bitter, silent foe.
Antlers rise in regal pose,
ears of warm meat twitching
in denial of Winter’s ultimatum:
Migrate, starve — or stampede,
through snow-powdered blankets,
into lupine jaws on moonlit nights.

Ancient woodland sentinels,
mist-cloaked skeletal ghosts,
grasp dead soil in a last stand.
Cracked roots claw grave-deep
into hoar-baked burrows, to cradle
Summer’s few shivering survivors.
Frozen earth numbs warm hearts,
bright eyes dim to blind glass, 
as sun-starved fur succumbs to 
the tilt and turn of cold-blooded Winter.

Share