Kieran.Stories

Category: Writing

  • On new flash fiction: Melting in the Mother

    On new flash fiction: Melting in the Mother

    I was in the corridor when it happened, looking at the BBC News app. An image of a crater, then Joe Biden. I went back into the room. The chair in the corner, near the French windows. Outside: trees. It was true, he was gone. I took his hand, which was somehow already cold. Mum took control of next steps.

     

    I tried to see Mum more often. I got the bus to Bank Lane, then walked to the house. The estuary stretched out endlessly.

    Inside, the house felt dim. I put the kettle on, found the Sweetex.

    I turned on the lamp in the living room. Mum asked about my driving lessons. I said my instructor was called Beck, short for Rebecca. She mulled this over. She had offered me a Toffee Crisp. I was opening the wrapper, balancing my tea on the sofa.

    Do yourself and Claire discuss names? You’re of an age now.

    We had been around the houses on children. It was familiar territory. But her tone was different this time. You’re of an age now. In other words, it’s later than you think. I’ve always liked Elizabeth, Mum said.

     

    On the top deck, I saw my dad at one of the stops. We were passing Lidl. The bus carried on without him. He was reading one of his books. I couldn’t see which one. I had taken his favourite Graham Greenes to the hospice. He had asked for them, even if he couldn’t read them. When I saw him on the bus, he was wearing his Antony Gormley glasses. On the news app, more rubble, stones melting about the root.

     

    Beck was parked in her usual spot. She asked how my week had been. I started talking about my dad. I held the steering wheel at ten to two. Beck listened to what I said but didn’t offer anything else. I’m sorry about your dad, that’s difficult. Gently, she reminded me to change into third. I wondered why I hadn’t cancelled the lesson.

     

    The package was delivered on Saturday. Claire had been to the shops. To the couple in flat four, she said. It was left outside. The package had an unusual centre of gravity. Should I open it? I asked. Claire got the scissors from the kitchen. There was a note inside: a piece of A5 folded once. Inside, there was a bag of what looked like blood. I held the bag. It was wet, as if the liquid had seeped through to the outside. Slick, tricky. What the fuck? Claire said. I put the bag back in the box. The note was signed Elizabeth, regretfully.

     

    The estuary was going, going – gone. I stood in Mum’s kitchen, the heat pressing against my cheeks. I opened the cupboard above the sink. The tub of Sweetex was melting and pooling. It gave off something carcinogenic. Between the flames, Mum stood, anaemic, breathing slowly through her mouth.

     

    At Christmas, we let everyone know. A pregnant pause.

    You stop being the picture, you become the picture frame, Mum said. Do you know what you want?

    Claire said we’d be happy with anything, as long as it’s human.

    I balanced my tea on the sofa. The sweetener had given me a headache. In that moment, I wanted to be out of the room.

    Wetland near our flat.

    Thanks for reading – hope you enjoyed. This is a story I’ve had for over a year now. It’s been turned down by a couple of places, and I decided that I just wanted to share it. So, there you go. Appreciate you all, and hope you’re having a good week.

  • On not letting it lie wastefully

    On not letting it lie wastefully

    ‘Featuring the reanimated corpse of Martin Amis.’ – Ray Newman

    I have a new story out this week titled ‘Why Do You Let Me Lie Here Wastefully’. Thank you to Eunoia Review for publishing it. Ian does an amazing job of curating the site. I recommend spending some time exploring all its ginnels. And thanks to Ray Newman for sharing this story on Bluesky.

    I wanted to write about the ideas behind the story and what I was trying to say. Bear with!

    I wasn’t in a great place at the time. I wasn’t enjoying work, and I was reading a lot about antinatalism – don’t ask. In an earlier draft, there was more about the narrator’s job. In the published story there is just a brief reference to dropping shifts at TKMaxx. There was never anything about antinatalism. Maybe it contributed to the mood.

    I remember walking to the kettle in the corner of the office, thinking about what would happen in the story, and what if I just took a really big swing? What if I told myself no one had to read this one.

    A bike is stolen. But the bike is secondary – goes without saying.

    I wanted to say something about coincidence but also doubles. Identikit bikes stolen by identikit people. Something about seeing a version of yourself on a phone screen.

    I only felt comfortable sharing this story when I had an ending. This one needed to be good, because I was asking a lot of the reader. I hope I got there.

    Martin Amis died in 2023, not long ago at all, and although this is not a real Martin Amis, I wanted the character to feel true, because that’s the point of writing anything. I am aware that to some it might be too squeamish an idea, but as with my story about Lord Longford, I wanted to use a public figure to communicate something about loneliness. I also think this story was my way of getting out my nerves around London. That feel of London push and pull – all it represents to someone in love with reading and writing.

    Quick question: is it the tube, or the Tube? Answers on a postcard. There is a link to the story at the top of this page, if you fancy a look. Thanks for reading.

  • On two new stories and London Pleasures

    On two new stories and London Pleasures

    When I started this blog, I was finishing one job and starting another. Things have been busy. I’ve had to find a new writing routine. I think I’m getting there now. Something that has helped is thinking about writing as a hobby. Since the age of eighteen I’ve seen ‘becoming a writer’ (So the shit in the shuttered château / Who does his five hundred words) as the ultimate. I still take writing stories seriously, but I’m getting better at finding a balance. It’s a nicer headspace to be in.

    On a related note, this week I finished Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell. The Royal Horticultural Society describes the aspidistra as ‘[the] must have houseplant’. ‘No home should be without at least one.’ Finishing Aspidistra was like applying a salve. It seemed to sum up all my anxiety from the last ten years, if that doesn’t sound too grandiose. I recognised Gordon Comstock and his unpublished opus London Pleasures immediately. I cringed throughout all his terrible decisions. Sometimes you read books at just the right time. It’s one of the magical things about reading.

    Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936) by George Orwell.

    In April last year, I started work on two stories about Lord Longford and Martin Amis. ‘Longford’ was featured on Free Flash Fiction in June. The first draft of this story was about five thousand words. In its final form, it’s about five hundred. Don’t bore us, get to the chorus, and all that. I think it’s better for it. I struggled for a long time with the ending. But then I knew it had to end at the bus station. For whatever reason. I emailed Nicholas Royle. I asked if he had any photos of the bus station. I love his photography. Particularly the way he captures people unawares. Nicholas was kind enough to take several photos of Preston bus station. He’s what you might call a good egg. Ian at Free Flash Fiction picked one to accompany the story. It was a fun process.

    Photo of Preston bus station by Nicholas Royle.

    The other story is titled ‘Why Do You Let Me Lie Here Wastefully’, which is one of the strangest stories I’ve ever finished. It should be out sometime in September. I wasn’t sure about sending it out for publication for a long time, because the subject matter could be seen as a little gauche, or even offensive. What I was trying to work through in this story was my reaction to being in London. I’ve only ever visited, and I’ve never been in London for more than a couple of nights. I just find it interesting how whenever I’m there, my hackles are up. I get all defensive. Then I immediately feel that I should give up my life on the Fylde Coast to live in a hole in Brixton. There’s the voice of Gordon Comstock again. Be careful what you aim for. I have a great life. We have a nice flat. We don’t have an aspidistra, but there are strings of fairy lights; maybe that’s the Gen Z equivalent.

  • On new flash fiction: Thrillington

    On new flash fiction: Thrillington

    ‘Bobby Kennedy had eleven kids, you know? Big Irish family.’

    Paul had been rehearsing.

    ‘George left today,’ he said. ‘Just got up and left. It’s a drag.’ 

    Paul lit up and inhaled.

    ‘Anything to show me?’ 

    Percy rose from his seat and went to the baby grand. Steinmayer in gold leaf paint. He played the churchy number.

    ‘What does it mean?’

    This was something Paul said when Percy played him something new. 

    ‘Ma,’ Percy said.

    ‘The old kidder. Any words yet?’ 

    It took Percy an hour to fill one page of his notebook. He could only write with a giant pencil Paul brought back from Blackpool. Paul would want to write his own words. He had something to prove.

     

    Percy met Richard Hewson by chance in the Chandos. When Richard said he was a conductor, Percy realised what he’d been missing. ‘That long, winding road.’ Richard laughed. He drank his Taddy’s.

     

    Richard called the flat. The phone was an apocalyptic black. Percy stared at it, in the same way Paul stared into space. Richard told him it was done. The space was booked.

     

    Percy heard the door slam shut.

    ‘Thrills.’ Paul fell into a chair. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do. You should come to Scotland.’ 

    The last time Percy had been to Scotland, they had posed for the photo which became the cover of the Ram LP. Percy was not consulted. 

    Paul went to the window seat, where Percy sat. He put his arm out, held it for a moment in the air, and then put it around Percy’s left horn. Percy felt the living bone scream out as Paul broke it. He snapped off a piece. Percy watched him leave. In that long coat, he had a look of Jack the Ripper.

    It is still light out. Percy leaves. The grass is happy, when the sun roasts the foxgloves in the hedge.

    Promotional poster for the Thrillington album.
  • On orders of magnitude

    On orders of magnitude

    I have a new story out this week titled Orders of Magnitude. Thanks to Literally Stories for publishing it.

    I have slowed down a bit on the short story writing and submitting front in April, mainly due to starting a new job at the beginning of May. It’s all change here! It’s also my birthday in a couple of weeks, and that generally means I start to go a bit stir-crazy, thinking about time.

    I wanted to write a little below about the new story.

    Sunrise at Lytham Green

    The title ‘Orders of Magnitude’ was inspired by an interview with Alan Moore on the first story in his 2022 collection, Illuminations. Annoyingly, I can’t find the interview. I know it was a podcast and I am pretty sure the interviewer was Robin Ince. There are actually a few different podcasts in which Ince interviews Moore, but I haven’t been able to find that exact conversation. Anyway, in the interview, Moore talks about time at the start of the universe, and how he wanted to compress time in this first story. For the record, Illuminations is still on my list to read, so I can’t speak too much about it. But listening to Moore talk about this made me think about the use of time in short stories. I wanted to write something that covered about twenty years, with the same two or three characters.

    I had written a story that was three-hundred-ish words about two sisters in a kitchen. One sister admits to the other that she has been poisoning her husband and soon-to-be father of her child. That kitchen scene is the opening of this longer story. I’m quite pleased with how it turned out, although there’s something about the ending that niggles me. There is a proper, more satisfying ending out there, in the ether, but I missed it. You have to end a story at some point.