Free stories! For free!

I mean, what's not to love?

Open Pen is a literature magazine, distributed via London's independent bookshops for free (did I mention that?) every couple of months.

The most recent edition which looks like this

contains a story written by me.  It's one I had a lot of fun writing, so if you pick up a copy I hope you enjoy it.  Also, I hope you're not a Geography professor.  You'll soon see why.

It can be found, at the time of writing, in these bookshops:  LXV Books, in Bethnal Green; Brick Lane Books;  Broadway Books (on Broadway Market) and Skoob Books* in Bloomsbury, as well as at Departure in Limehouse.  And in more places soon, I'm told.  Completely free.


*If, like I was, you're curious about why Skoob Books are called Skoob Books you might want to have a look at their website.  It doesn't take too long to figure out.

But......wait! There's more!

One Upon a Time is a flash fiction collection of unexpected, one-page fairytales, including one which was written by me.

Or at least, most of one which was written by me.  If you buy the collection  you might notice that my unexpected fairy story has a slightly unexpected ending.  That’s because the last line is missing.  I’m not quite sure whether it was a mistake or an editorial decision, and that's not really relevant now anyway.  I just thought I’d mention it for anyone who has found their way here after buying the book (there's a list of author blogs in the back) and thought the ending sounded a bit odd.

The final line should be: 

“I do have a question.”.  His faced brightened.  “What’s the Chinese for ‘genie’?”

So now you know. 

To be very clear - and this is something I can't emphasise enough - I'm not complaining. The whole project started life as a fun on-line competition, and like most entrants I was thrilled to bits when the organisers announced their plans to publish.  We all gave our work to the collection free of charge, and any profits (which are likely to be minimal) will be going to charity, so I’d feel like a Grinch if I made a fuss. 

In my own copy of the book, a carefuly placed post-it note has solved the problem.  If you buy a copy, tell me and I'll happily send you one too - can't get fairer than that.

Help! My Stories are Escaping!

OK, so this isn't really a cry for help. In fact, it's more of a humblebrag if I'm going to be completely honest.  But I quite like that title, so I'm sticking with it.

The thing is, various exciting things have happened this year which I meant to write about at the time and for various reasons I didn't. Now I'm going to have to write about them all at once which I'm not sure I can do  without it sounding like I'm bragging - at worst, quite a lot, and at best, at least a little bit.  Bear with me.

It started towards the end of last year, when I made a quiet resolution to start doing more with my writing.  I wasn't sure what, exactly, but I knew I had to bite the bullet and start sharing my stories with other people.  I think I've mentioned  before, the Dave Eggers quote I keep pinned above my desk.  He says:

 "No-one can read the thoughts in your head. They can only read the words you put down with great love and care on the page."

 Well, the same can be said for the words you put down with great love and care on the page, and then keep locked away inside your computer. ( Or, which you put down with love and sometimes a bit less care on a blog which you conveniently forget to tell anyone about, I suppose, but let's not go there.)

So in December I submitted a few stories to a few places, and then waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Slowly, things began to happen.

First, the lovely Gabriella, who runs a monthly story telling afternoon called Storytails, emailed to say she liked the story I'd sent her and invited me to take part in her January event.   A few weeks later I found myself sitting on a stage in a pub reading a story to a room full of strangers (and half of it to the friend who I dragged along, but who arrived late and missed the first bit).

If you think that sounds nerve-wracking and terrifying you're absolutely right. It was. I've been a member of the London Writers Cafe, a critique group come support network for writers of all types, for a while now and have read things out there - a chapter of my novel-in-progress and a couple of short stories.  That was terrifying, too, the first time I did it, but it's become easier ever since.  Still, there's a big difference between reading to a group of writers who have specifically gathered to discuss each others' work, and reading to an audience who are simply there to be entertained.  I worried that they wouldn't like the story, or that I'd mess up the reading of it, or that people would get bored and leave half way through or (worse) heckle, or throw things, or laugh at my shoes.

 But you know what?  People were lovely.  They listened, and they smiled, and they laughed at the right bits (and sometimes at bits I didn't think they'd laugh at), and said nice things afterwards.   And then I posted a link to the  podcast, and people I know listened to it and they said nice things too.  It was such a fun experience that I've been back nearly every month since as an audience member, and even did a second reading at the end of March.  I survived that one too.

A few months later I had another email, this time  from Josh at Open Pen, a free bi-monthly(ish) fiction magazine which is distributed via independent bookshops.  He said some really kind things about both of the stories I had sent in and, while neither of them ended up being chosen for publication  it was incredible to think that someone had taken time to read them and offer feedback. It gave me enough faith to keep on trying, and so I made a list of competitions and submission deadlines which I steadily worked through, sometimes writing new pieces and sometimes tweaking existing ones.

Since then, some pretty amazing things have happened.  The flash fiction piece I entered in an  'unexpected fairytales' competition didn't win, but the organisers decided to publish all of the entries.  So yesterday, I placed an order on Amazon for a copy of the book.  An actual book - with words and ink and paper and everything -  which includes a story written by me.  Later this year another book is due to be published which will, again, contain another story written by me.  A full length short story this time, not a flash-fiction piece, and I'm actually being paid for it.  Every time someone buys a copy of the book, a teeny, tiny portion of the money they pay will eventually be paid to me in royalty fees. Just like a real author.  Just thinking about that blows my mind.

So, my stories are finding homes.  It's something I have mixed feelings about. Mostly  I am excited, pleased, thrilled, and bubbling over with  pinch-yourself-to-make-sure-it's-really-true excitement.  But a tiny part of me is terrified.  All of a sudden my ideas are out there in the world, being seen and heard in ways I have very little control over.  My stories will be read by complete strangers whose opinions I will never know.  I won't get to watch their faces as they turn the page, or be on hand to answer any questions they have about the characters.  I can't explain why things turned out the way they did or describe how long I spent debating the ending.  It's a frightening thought.

And at the start of this post, when I said  'I submitted a few stories to a few places'.......well, that makes it sound incredibly easy.  It wasn't.  Each of those stories took hours - spread over weeks, sometimes months - to write. They really were put down on the page exactly as Dave Eggers describes - with great love and care. Not the first time they were put down, necessarily - usually that first attempt was just a muddle of thoughts and words which felt laboured and clumsy, but would 'do for now', and which, when I was lucky, circled vaguely around some sort of meaning.  But the act of  sifting through all of those words and ideas to find the ones which tell a story, and then crafting and refining them until that story has been told in the very best way you can - that requires a lot of love and care.   An awful lot, in fact.

Presenting people with something you've worked that hard on - something you've gone back to time and time and again until you are absolutely sure it's the best you can make it - is difficult.  Because it raises questions:  What if it's still not good enough?  What if they hate it?  What if it makes no sense?  Who am I to think these words are worth sharing?  

And it's not just concerns about technique or ability.  You end up writing about the things you really care about. The experiences I've had, which in turn have shaped the way I see the world, are inextricably linked to the stories I tell.  It's no accident that I've written about unrequited love, or being far away from the people you care about, or - for that matter - having big feet. They're all things I've experienced.  And when I've gently poked fun at a characters' snobbishness, or given an underdog his day, or infused some humanity into a difficult situation, it's because I think it's needed.  Being able to do this - making the world work in exactly the way you think it should, rather than in the way it sometimes does, is one of the great joys of writing.  But it does means that those stories, and the way I've told them, contain pieces of me.  None of them are true, but they all hold a degree of truth - abut me, and the values I hold, and the way I see the world.

So 'submitting  a few stories to a few places' is more than just clicking 'send' on an email.  It's saying to someone 'here's what is fundamentally important to me, told in the very best way I know how, and  because I think what I have to say is valuable and important enough for them to be interested, now I'd like you to help me share it with some complete strangers."   And in some cases,  "Oh, and if you could pay me some money for it, that would be great as well."

It doesn't seem quite so easy now, does it?

And I've mentioned the good things which have happened this year.  What I haven't told you about are the other parts.  The stories which were rejected, or, even worse, completely ignored.  The three months I spent writing almost nothing at all because I got scared, and lost confidence.  The way I seriously questioned whether this whirlwind love-affair with writing I've been having for the last couple of years was just a fling.  I don't want to labour the point - mainly because I would much rather forget all of those things, which were all horrible -  but you get the idea.  Writing isn't easy.  Sharing what you've written isn't easy.  The long waits, the rejections, the worries about what people will think - that's not easy either. But sometimes, just sometimes, things happen which make you realise it's all worth it.

And quite a few of those things have happened lately.  My stories - some of them, at least - are finding homes. It's an amazing, exciting, nerve-wracking and in some ways quite sobering feeling.  On the 'Writing' tab at the top of the page are some links, and I'll keep adding to this list as and when there is more news.

In the meantime, I've got some more writing to do.










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Puts a whole new spin on travelling first class

My 'today in history' widget tells me that on this day in 1920, the US Postal service ruled that children could not be sent by parcel post.  This tickled me for some reason so I tweeted about it, and someone replied who had been similarly tickled, which prompted me to dig a bit further.

As it turns out, the rule isn't as bonkers as it sounds.  For a short period of time in the early twentieth century  parents did, in fact, occasionally attempt to post their children.  Although not by stuffing them them into envelopes, as per the "Flat Stanley"-esque image which I bet is now floating around in your head.

The US Postal service came into being in January 1913, and just over a year later the parents of 4 year old May Pierstorff worked out that rather than pay for a train ticket so May could visit her grandparents, it would be cheaper to post her.  She wore the  stamps (53 cents worth) on her jacket, and travelled in the mail compartment of the train.

A few years later, cousins Josephine McCall and Iris Carter, 7 and 8 years old respectively, were posted to their aunt.  Iris cost 70 cents to post, while Josephine was somewhat lighter and cost 51cents.  The driver of the delivery truck they travelled in was a Mr W.E. Fawcett.  From one of the local newspapers at the time:

"Mr. Fawcett believes that a kid or two at a time to deliver is all right but he is glad the idea does not occur to many parents at present when moving their children and he is dreading the time when he will find children all along the way and persons in parcels at every post office."

"Once Upon a Time" Flash Fiction entry

As Jamie strolled down the beach the waves lapped at his feet, caressing his bare toes like a girlfriend would.  His right arm ached, the raised fleshy edges of his tattoo still pink and raw.  It would heal by next week, the guy said.   

Sticking out of the sand ahead of him was a wooden post.  A handle, Jamie realised as he got closer. He pulled it several times but nothing happened;  he dropped to his knees and began to dig around its base until his fingers brushed cold metal.

He stood up and gave a final pull, freeing the object.  For a moment he held it aloft then dropped his arms again in shock.  Jamie glanced around and tried to look inconspicuous; no easy feat given he’d just been waving a four foot sword around.

A nearby rock caught his attention. He peered suspiciously into his cocktail glass and then checked again. There was no question about it; sitting on the rock was a genie.  A freaking genie.

“Best put that back” said the genie, examining his fingernails.

 “No way” said Jamie, holding the sword tighter. “I know how this works. I’m not stupid you know.”

The genie looked at the new tattoo on Jamie’s arm; a Chinese character which meant “arm”, and sighed.

 “You’re a genie, right? You owe me three wishes.”

 “Technically, yes. But there are conditions.  No wishing for endless supplies of wishes.”

“How about a wishing tree?” 

The genie rolled his eyes. “No wishing trees. No wishing wells, or magic potions.  Those loopholes were closed down years ago.”

“Fine.  For my first wish....”

 “Something else. Once you let go of that sword, you lose your wishes.  You’re stuck with the thing forever.”

“Wait, I get three wishes and I can keep this sword forever?”

“Yes.  You’ll be forced to.  Good luck getting it through customs.”

“Ah” said Jamie.  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Exactly.  Now, if you have no more questions, I’m off.  Once you put the sword back, obviously.”

Jamie sighed.

“OK.”  But I do have one question. What’s the Chinese symbol for ‘genie’?”

Happy birthday, Luka

My niece, who lives in Australia (which can feel a blinking long way away sometimes) turns one next month.  I still haven't met her, but can't wait until I do.  In the mean time I have written her a story.  Happy birthday, Luka.

The Invisible Thing

 Deep in the jungles of South America, where the waterfalls dance and the warm air smells like coconuts a little girl called Sophie lived with her Dad in a tree-house high above the rainforest.  The house was just big enough for the two of them, and it sat on the widest branch of the tallest tree in the whole jungle.  When Sophie looked out of the window at night she felt like she was right among the stars.  By day when she looked out she could see the rest of the jungle below her, stretching out in every direction like a thick, green blanket.

Sophie’s Dad was a scientist.  It was his job to travel around the world and observe rare and endangered animals.  He would quietly watch them in their natural environments and record what he saw. Then he sent his observations to zoos and museums for other scientists to study.

Even though she lived in the jungle Sophie still had to do her school work.  So every morning she stayed in the tree-house and used a computer to keep up with the rest of her class.  There was a special camera set up in her old classroom, which was over a thousand miles away, and she could watch the lessons and answer questions just like everyone else.  In the afternoons, when her class were doing PE and art and other things she couldn’t join in with, she turned the computer off and helped her Dad with his work.

One bright sunny afternoon she finished her homework and climbed down the rope ladder which hung from a hole in the floor of the tree-house.  She climbed down, down, down through the branches until finally her feet hit the jungle floor.   It was much darker down here, because the tree branches above were so thick and tangled together that hardly any light got through.

She finally found her Dad near a tall banana tree she sometimes liked to climb.  He looked even busier than usual, and was arranging and rearranging a pile of equipment laid out on a big flat rock in front of him.

“What are you hoping to catch today?” she asked.

“Something special” her Dad replied. 

“What sort of something special?”

“I’m not sure yet.  I’ll know it when it comes.”

She looked at the pile of equipment next to him.   Sophie’s Dad had to be very careful not to hurt the animals and so he had all sorts of clever ways of catching them safely. He had different equipment for animals of all shapes and sizes: small nets made from the softest silk to catch things which flew and special sticky paper for catching tiny insects and bigger nets made from jungle vines to throw over elephants and cages made of bamboo for whatever animals might fit in them.

Usually Sophie could tell what he was trying to catch from the equipment he used.  But today he had taken out one of everything, and she couldn’t work out what he was trying to catch.  Sophie was an inquisitive sort of person, and when she wanted to know something it was a bit like having an itch which wouldn’t go away. As she plaited some vines together, she kept on thinking.

“What does your special something look like?” she finally asked.

“No one knows” said Sophie’s Dad. “It’s invisible, you see. But I’ll know when it has arrived.”

Sophie’s eyes grew wide.  The word “invisible” had just been on her spelling list at school so she knew what it meant.

 “If you can’t see it, how will you know it’s here?”

 Sophie’s Dad looked up from his clipboard, with a smile in his eyes. 

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there” he said.  “I’ll know when it has come.  You’ll know too.”

Sophie scratched her nose.  “But......how will we know it’s here?” she asked.

“We’ll know” said her Dad, in a voice which told Sophie there was no point in asking any more questions.  “Just wait and see.”

The next day, once Sophie had finished her school work she climbed down the rope ladder, down, down, down through the branches, and when her feet finally reached the jungle floor she went to find her Dad.  He was counting the spots on a thick python which had curled itself around a tree branch.  Once the python had slithered away, waving its tail at Sophie to say goodbye as it went, she asked the question she’d been wondering about all morning.

“Has it come yet?  The invisible thing?” Her shoulders shrunk when her Dad shook his head.

“It will come when it’s ready” he said. I promise.  Just wait and see.”

Three days went by, and still the invisible thing didn’t arrive.  On the fourth morning, Sophie woke up early and decided to pick some fresh bananas for breakfast.  She climbed down the rope ladder, and  instead of climbing all the way to the ground she stopped when she reached the rainforest canopy. Here, the treetops made a bridge, and she leapt from one branch to the next  When she reached the top of the banana tree she picked the two ripest bananas she could find, and put them into her backpack. As she turned around to go back, she noticed something.

She peered through the branches to get a better view.  Below her, sitting on the floor of the rainforest, was a kind of creature she had never seen before. He wasn’t anything special to look at. His fur was a dull, muddy brown colour, and looked a bit like the washing up water did just before Sophie’s dad threw it away.  He didn’t have any stripes, or spots to count.  He wasn’t quite big enough to ride, but he was too big to carry, and he didn't have wings so he couldn’t fly.  In fact, thought Sophie, it didn’t look like he would be able to do much at all.

"Hello" she called. The creature looked up at her with a pair of bright shiny eyes that warmed her like the sunshine did.  Sophie smiled.  She picked another banana, peeled it carefully and threw it down to the creature.  The creature sniffed at it, ate it in one gulp, and then danced around in a circle.  He waved his tail at  Sophie, who laughed and fed him another banana.  This time, after he ate the banana the creature stood on his front paws, as if he were doing a handstand.  Sophie clapped her hands with delight, and picked some more bananas. 

The creature ate four bananas, and did a different trick each time, always waving his tail at the end, and Sophie began to think that the creature was something rather special after all.

When she began to peel a fifth banana the creature gently shook his head, as if to say he’d had enough.  She put the banana into her backpack with the others, and made her way back to the rope ladder.  As she began to climb, the creature waved his tail at her as if to say goodbye.  “I’ll be back soon” Sophie called to him, and then giggled as he did a back flip.

She  climbed back up the ladder to the treehouse, where her Dad was snoring quietly in his hammock.  Just as she was about to wake him up, a flock of parrots flew past the window and did the job for her. 

“Good morning early-bird” he said, as he rubbed his eyes.  “You’re looking very chirpy.  Has the invisible thing arrived?”

Sophie shook her head.  “I don’t think so” she said then added “But I’m still not quite sure how I’d know.” Her Dad laughed.

  “Just because you can’t see something.....”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not there” Sophie finished for him.  “I know.”  She took the bananas out of her backpack.

“I did meet a new creature though” she said, smiling as she remembered.  “He’s very friendly.  And he can do lots of tricks.”

“Hmmm.”  Sophie’s Dad scratched his beard as he ate his banana.  “Perhaps I’ll take a look.  You should come too. It’s still early enough; there’s plenty of time before you need to log on to school.”

They both climbed down the rope-ladder, down down down through the branches and as soon as they appeared through the canopy, the creature, who had been waiting, leapt up into air.   Sophie was glad to see him there and scrambled down the ladder as fast as she could to greet him.

Her Dad joined them a few minutes later.  “Is this the creature you were talking about?” he asked, and Sophie nodded. 

“Isn’t he lovely?” she replied.

Sophie and the creature played together while Sophie’s Dad watched, smiling all the while.  Finally he stopped them.  “Time to go and do your schoolwork” he said to Sophie, whose heart immediately began to sink.  “You two can play together later” he added. “I think I’ll be able to manage without your help for one afternoon.”

“Maybe we could help you look for the invisible thing” Sophie said.

Her Dad smiled.  “Maybe”, her said, as he watched the creature cuddle up to Sophie. “But somehow I think the invisible thing might just be here already.”

Sophie turned to him.  “Really?  It’s here?” her Dad nodded.

“I think so.”

 “Well aren’t you going to put it in a cage? Or cover it with a net?”

Her Dad shook his head.  “Not for now” he said. “Now off you go.  See you this afternoon.”

Sophie gave the creature one last cuddle, and then had a terrible thought.

“What if he’s not here when I come back?”

“I have a feeling he will be” said Sophie’s Dad. “But I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

"What about the invisible thing?" asked Sophie.  “Will that still be here too?”

"Yes, I think it probably will" said Sophie's dad, scratching the creature's head.

Sophie found it hard to concentrate on her school work that morning.  She got all sorts of sums wrong which she normally knew the answers to and her teacher, Miss Nelson, had to ask the same question three times before Sophie heard her.  When it was finally time to turn her computer off she scrambled down the rope ladder and found the creature waiting for her.  They played together all afternoon, running through the trees and laughing together and eating bananas, and Sophie felt as happy as she could ever remember feeling. 

Evening came, and as the sun went down and the air grew cool, the fireflies came out and danced above their heads like tiny shooting stars.  Sophie’s Dad came to find her.

“It’s time to go home” he said, and Sophie gave a sigh.

 “Goodbye” she whispered to the creature, as she buried her face in its fur. “I’ll come and see you again tomorrow.”

Later that night, Sophie sat in the tree-house, surrounded by stars, and thought about the creature.  She wondered how he was, and what he was doing, and whether he was even there any more.  Then she remembered about the invisible thing, and wondered if that was still there too.  She tried to peer down through the trees to see but they lived up so high it was impossible to see anything at all, not even the tree-tops. The only thing below her was a giant sea of darkness, and Sophie sighed. 

“I wish our house wasn’t quite so high” she said as she climbed onto her Dad's lap, where she liked to sit and listen to stories before it was time for bed. 

“I thought you liked it here” he said.  “Living up among the stars.”

“I do” replied Sophie. But I wish the ground wasn’t quite so far away.  I can’t see my creature from up here.  Do you think he’s still there?” 

"Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it’s not there”, Sophie’s Dad said quietly. “Or that they're not thinking about you” he added, almost to himself.

Sophie snuggled deeper into her Dad’s lap, and finally understood.

As she slowly began to fall asleep, curled up in her Dad’s lap and surrounded by stars, the invisible thing curled itself around them both too, and gave them an enormous hug.  Even though she couldn’t see it, Sophie knew it was there.  And down in the jungle far, far below, where he’d be waiting for Sophie the very next day, the creature knew it too.

Dieter Meier

Dieter Meier - half of Yello - has a neat way of explaining why we shouldn't be scared of failure: "I think to stumble and fall is great art."

I don't normally turn to Swiss electronica for guidance when considering the more serious questions of life, but I quite like this quote. And not just because I fall over a lot.  Besides, some people call Yello 'the Godfathers of Techno' and godfathers are pretty wise as a general rule.

Yello, if you don't know the name, are responsible for "Oh Yeah", which most people will have heard at the end of Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  The other guy is Boris Blank, which is almost as funny a name as the Riff Raff cinema in Zurich, where a documentary made about the band premiered in 2005.  He's blind in one eye because of a childhood accident involving empty bullet shells and gunpowder, and taught himself about music by playing a home-made bamboo flute.

Dieter Meier comes from a Swiss banking family, and is normally never seen without his signature cravat. When he's not busy being half of Yello he's busy being a millionaire industrialist with interests in the technology industry, or playing professional poker, or designing silk scarves, or making organic wine on his ranch in Argentina, where he also breeds beef-cattle. He's written a children's book and for a brief period he was a member of the Swiss national golf team.


In 1972, as part of an art project, he installed a plaque in a German railway station.  It read “On March 23 1994, from 3 to 4 pm, Dieter Meier will stand on this plaque.”.   in 1994, he did.