Posts tagged Story
Who's Who 19: About the Author

He’d watched too many versions of the same myth. He could spot the seams between the ad breaks now. The recognisable traits. The revolving carousel of non-threatening villains. The shiny fights. The interweaving soap operas. The cameos just for the true geeks, there to invest a marketing exercise with a little purchased history, borrowed as credit for credibility.

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Who's Who 15: Weathervane

I should be able to hear that old wind chime I picked up at the antique fair. The night this storm hit, I was worried I’d lost it. I couldn’t hear it. I figured the wind had wrecked it. Next morning, it was fine. Every single morning, it’s been fine. No pots blown over either. The bins where I left them too. Every fence panel intact. How is that possible? Listen to it out there. That wind sounds like it should be tearing off roof tiles with its teeth.

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Who's Who 10: A Matter of Scale

The scientists gathered that morning, as they always did. They parked their cars in their allotted spaces, after each battling their way through their own daily commute of roadworks, train delays or wrestling offspring into school uniforms. They made themselves a drink upon arrival. A few even had time to prepare a little breakfast. Nothing fancy. A slice of toast here. A bowl of porridge there. The occasional croissant or fad fruit sliced into yogurt.

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Who's Who 7: Keepsake

He wasn’t paying attention. He’d just flicked the TV on as he’d sat down. A bit of noise to fill up the empty room. Christmas certainly wasn’t doing the job. It was stillborn this year. He’d tried his best to put the tree up, but the branches weren’t spread as nicely as they normal and the lights were a mess. It didn’t help that he had no idea where anything else went, so he’d left all the other decorations in their tired, old cardboard box. Although it wasn’t the fault of the season that the house seemed hollow. It’d felt this way since she’d died.

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Who's Who 5: Bearing Gifts

They always met here. When things needed discussing. When plans needed drawing up away from the prying eyes of their family. He arrived first. The eldest. He would order the first round and carry it carefully over to their table. Not that there was a sign on the table that sat beside the door to the little courtyard where people could smoke. It was simply written into the foundations of the place. This was Their Table.

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