I have a story in the next Fiction Desk anthology, out April 28 and available for pre-order now. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt divided, or who can no longer go to their preferred café www.thefictiondesk.com/anthologies/new-ghost-stories-iv.php
Manchester-based and decreasingly ginger writer, bee enthusiast, father and nincompoop.
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My son distinguishes the animated and live-action Blippis as ‘without blood’ and ‘with blood’. I think we should extend this convention to Disney remakes.
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We are all made of stardust, but some of us are looking at the gutter.
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My son has declared that I’m a baddie and therefore it’s OK to hammer me. I’d tell him off but I know this is just what he has to do to win over Stevenage Woman.
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Another lovely Stories of our Lives this month, this time looking at kitchens. My piece may be a little grumpier than usual… storiesofourlivesnow.org/2023/03/28/kitchens/
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In my lunchbreak today I need to deliver a typewriter and get a bow rehaired and it feels like I really ought to complete these tasks by hansom cab.
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Due to a minor writing error, my son has just made his mum a card that says ‘Harpy Mother’s Day’
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Wrote a short piece ostensibly about the entirety of human experience but actually about one particular anxiety markstaylor.uk/fiction/2023/03/a-quick-look-back
A Quick Look Back
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The body remembers in a hundred broken ways. Even those pictures in our heads we call memories are not unitary things: you build them afresh each time from your mess of neural pathways, wearing some grooves deeper and smoothing over others. Those memories may not agree with each other; may not agree with themselves; may not agree with the scars on your skin or the way the smell of spilled beer makes you feel or the tightness in your chest when a phone rings. Like everything we do on Earth, remembering is about who we are and not who we are. But the spirit remembers singly and truly. In truth it does not remember at all: it simply is, across time, all of us at every moment. When our bodies stop being, our spirits continue, and all that our bodies experienced is laid out for them like a map. There…
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There can be few greater delights than your son bursting into the room and saying ‘Daddy! Daddy! Can you be Fezzik?’