Stephen Wyatt
Bio
Part time Pro-Punter, Part time Wharfie.
Stories (8)
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Echo and Narcissus (and Chione)
Chione saw her crouched behind a boulder, voicelessly sobbing and knew her sororal duty. Talking to Echo was a trying task ever since Hera had cursed her as punishment for aiding Zeus in his philandering. Once so loquacious, Echo could now only repeat part of what had just been said to her. It was slow going but if you phrased your questions correctly you could usually get her gist. In the end, Echo was a fellow Nymph and an attempt had to be made.
By Stephen Wyatt4 years ago in Fiction
The Greene Light
As truly apparel may proclaimeth the man, the rough hewn trousers and raw linen shirt pronounced this bumpkin a rube, as he bumbled his way down Borough High Street into Southwark. Wide eyed he stumbled past the bear-baiting pit, the outer fence plastered with bill posters for Kit Marlowe’s new play. Past the harlots, only halfheartedly trying to muster custom at this early hour; saving their energies for the rakes that would descend on this part of town after the sun set. It was at this point I noticed the pouch tied to his belt. I’d been a voluntary constable (voluntary in the sense that I wasn’t getting paid, I don’t recall offering myself up for the job) for eight months now but while my eye had become sharp I knew that by now every ne’er-do-well south of London will have all ready seen it. Likely some husbandman or minor yeoman come to do business in the city. I knew the odds of that pouch still being in his possession by the time he made it to the London bridge were poor to nil. Given the tarts had let him pass, the only real interest in whether the prize would go to the Figgers picking his purse or the Coney-catchers convincing him to hand it over freely.
By Stephen Wyatt4 years ago in Fiction
Pass The Parcel
Don sat at his kitchen table. The fluorescent lighting did nothing to soften the menacing look on his menacing face. ‘The equation is simple. You owe me a great deal of money. You take the parcel, follow the instructions and deliver it. Then you don’t owe me any money.’
By Stephen Wyatt4 years ago in Fiction
No Pickle in Polunsky
If you really must get yourself on death row, I’d strongly suggest doing it somewhere other than Texas. The Allan B. Polunsky Unit has been described as looking like a community college. Now I never went to college, community or otherwise, but I’d be looking for a refund if it was anything like this place. It’s a concrete box named after a real estate attorney who’d managed to wangle his way into the chairmanship of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. A man who’d proven himself far less squeamish about capital punishment than Charles Terrell – for whom the unit had previously been named.
By Stephen Wyatt4 years ago in Fiction
The Raising
Heave! Heave! Muscle and sinew strained as the ropes tightened and the final section of the new barn was borne aloft. A collective sigh of relief was uttered as the lead carpenters hammered in their pegs and the weight was released from the overburdened shoulders of those lifting below. It had been a morning of hard, unrelenting labour and the workmen were looking forward to the bean-feast that had been prepared for them by their womenfolk. The rope bearers meandered across to a laden table; slowly to allow the carpenters a chance to catch up. It took all of my self restraint to match their pace. I was ravenous from the morning’s exertions but also keen to rejoin Rachael, my reason for being here.
By Stephen Wyatt5 years ago in Fiction
Cryptofomo
She pressed her heart into my hand. It was all that was left of value. The bellhops were buying but no-one seemed to be selling. Everyone recognised the bubble forming but Cryptofomo had not only taken hold but was spreading at what should have been an alarming rate. Of course there were naysayers, but every time the market made their predicted correction it would just as quickly bounce back with interest. People may not have understood exactly what it was they were buying, but they certainly understood that they couldn’t get enough of it. Demand for cryptocurrency continued to outstrip supply. Cash would soon be confetti.
By Stephen Wyatt5 years ago in Futurism
My Susquehanna Girl
Like many a fancy it began in a bar and involved a young lady. I’d been working my way back up the Susquehanna river after a brief sojourn in Chesapeake Bay; mesmerised watching the Watermen plying the bay, a relaxation uninterrupted by the Bass I’d been alleging to catch. Having drowned a few worms in the river I’d decided to fish a couple out of a tequila bottle at the local bar, somewhere in the vicinity of Darlington. I parked myself and ordered my first drinks. Noting the bartender wasn’t the chatty type, I sat my beer to the left and tequila to the right and decided to engage in another category of fishing. I was brought up knowing that the Lord had given me one mouth and two ears to be used in that proportion. I skolled the spirit, swigged the beer and let the sounds of my surroundings wash over me.
By Stephen Wyatt5 years ago in Humans
