In which I offer a little fable what I wrote

After managing to blog in both ranty and writerly forms last week I’m feeling a tiny bit light on inspiration today. So in the absence of anything to shout about here is a tiny little flash fiction fable what I wrote. It’s called ‘The Children of the Forest.’


The trees of the forest grow tall and strong, and the children of the forest play low in the hollow beneath the branches of the oldest trees. They are safe in the hollow, safe in the forest, where the world beyond cannot get in.

The elders of the forest are afraid of the world beyond. There is a story, whispered from mother to baby, from father to son. ‘Beyond the last tree,’ they say, ‘a dragon lives. And the dragon breathes only fire and loves only gold and eats only children who don’t listen to stories and who run and skip and play beyond the hollow, beyond the forest, beyond the very last tree.’

One day a small girl grew tired of the hollow, and yearned for adventure elsewhere. She was a clever little girl who had heard stories of the dragon and the fire and the world beyond, and knew that they were only stories. Stories couldn’t hurt her. Dragons weren’t real, so she ran and skipped and cartwheeled her way to the edge of the forest. At the very last tree she paused. She would be the first of her kind to leave the forest, and one day she would return with new stories to tell the children she had left behind. She took that last step into the unknown her head full of dreams and her heart overflowing with hope.

And the dragon ate her.

The End.


I do of course write whole big book-length things as well. You can find details of those here.

In which I share a very little story what I wrote

I don’t usually blog stories or poems, but just for variety (and because it’s far too silly to try to actually sell) here is a little storyette what I wrote. It’s called “Bored”.

The sky hangs dark and menacing above the horizon. Rain beats mercilessly onto the cold barren land. A light shines from a single dwelling-place, defiant against winter’s icy hand.

Inside two men survey their labours, waiting for the coming of the hour.

The older man speaks. “Come forward, young apprentice, and behold.”

“Behold what?”

“Do it properly. We agreed.”

A sigh. “Behold what, oh glorious and worthy master?”

“Behold the power in this land writ large.” He holds aloft a manuscript covered in mystic runes. “Above us,” he declaims, “only the Great Ones. Below us, the minion classes quake in their fear.”

The young one takes the manuscript and reads in wonder. “Then it is finished?”

“It is.”


“Why are maintenance-”

A sharp look from the wiser older man quashes his tongue. He tries again. “Why are those who tend…” he shrugs, ”…those who tend this mighty ground on which we stand shown green?”

“Because, my youthful friend, green is the colour of hope. Green is the colour of life. Green is the colour that was prophesied.”

The younger man pauses. “Can we stop doing this now, Dave?”

The older man scratches his armpit and gazes out across the Rotherside and Armley Business Development Centre carpark. “’Spose.”

His colleague puts down the manuscript and spins on his seat. “It’s good that you finished the Org Chart.”

A sigh. “It’s ok. You wanna do corridor chair races?”

The young one nods. “Why are Maintenance in green?”

Another sigh. “I quite like green.”