Author's Note

THE FOLLOWING SHORT stories are all related in one way or another to novels written by me, or novels yet to be written by me. This short story collection exists for two main reasons. One: sometimes when I have written a book, the characters refuse to fall silent. They come back for more, sometimes demanding a sequel, sometimes just demanding more attention. Perhaps one of the minor characters wants to tell things from their point of view, or maybe they have an alternative ending in mind. And two: I always have new books waiting to be written, knocking on the door demanding to be let in. They get very impatient waiting for their turn, so sometimes the best way to relieve the pressure is to write a short story. It might be a prequel to a novel I intend to write, or it might just be a snapshot of one of the characters I have growling with impatience inside my head. I might also add, that while some of these stories are stories in the more traditional form, you will find some of them are more like snapshots of the characters, little glimpses into their minds and worlds.

If you are interested in what novels and/or future novels these stories are connected to, then there is a list at the end of the book. You can also find out more by subscribing to my blog, and/or following me on social media. You will find these links at the end of the book.

Many thanks,

Chantelle Atkins

Bird People

He’s lying there, up on the wall that divides the houses, legs dangling down to claim the space on either side, arms folded behind his head. You know him, Bill Robinson, and he knows you, because everyone knows everyone around here. Everyone becomes stained with the memory of something they once did or said.

He's up there, in a beer fueled haze that sets him apart from the world and the ground, and the sky. He can feel his back moving away, separating from the wall. Sometimes he is moving forward, away from it, away from everything that holds him down, and he feels the urge to clench his legs around the wall, one on either side, digging his boots in for leverage, anchoring himself in place.

Then sometimes, it is the other way, and he is sinking back into it, his back moulding into the concrete as it softens and yields, welcoming him, tucking him in, warm and cosy. Soon his legs will rise up before him and fold in on top of his body, and he will be entombed. He will be inside the wall.

But now he opens his eyes and stares at the sky, because this is all feeling a bit weird and wobbly, and he might fall off, like he did that one time when he landed on the wrong side, on Mrs Wright’s patio, and her Jack Russel attached itself to the back of his head.

He blinks constantly. The sky has got brighter, bluer, harsher, the sun not directly above him, but down at his crotch, warming it. He lifts his head a little, squinting, and oh yes, there it is, a little ball of fire. Head back down, eyes up, he smiles and giggles, okay, that’s nice, set my balls on fire, that’s how I will die, set on fire by the sun, the sun wants my balls, it’s burning me up. Could that happen? Maybe if he had a magnifying glass or a bottle. But he only has cans, and they are all down on the ground, empty and dead, lying in their own dribble. Two on his side and one on Mrs Wright’s.

Whoops. Something for the Jack Russel to chew on.

I’m Bill Robinson and guess what? I don’t give a shit.

That’s what he will tell her if she comes out to have a go.

He burps, takes satisfaction and laughs out loud. And the sky is still there and wow, isn’t it huge? That’s one of those understatements people use all the time. Everything is, in fact, an understatement, or a cliché, or an overused metaphor, which is why he usually prefers to stay silent and wishes that other people would too. People always ruin things when they speak. They make everything dirty, even when they are trying to be nice, or clever.

The sky is so huge, and vast, it goes on forever. Not like us. We die and crumble and rot. The clouds are like little fluffy sheep. Cotton wool. The sun is like a ball of fire. What a wonderful world this could be...

People didn’t need to talk anymore anyway. It was all redundant. Has already been said a million times before. Speech and communication. Miscommunication most of the time. It was all texting and messaging, skyping and checking your inbox and reacting to emoji’s.

People didn’t talk anymore. People didn’t need to, so why did they even try? Why couldn’t they all just shut up when there was nothing left to say?

His mouth is open and his jaw slack. He can feel bubbles of spit at each corner of his lips. The tang of beer coats his tongue and the roof of his mouth feels dry. He needs another drink. Something else. Something different. A splash of whisky to burn his insides. A gallon of water to refresh his mind.

Why did people talk so much?

They had music. You didn’t need to have conversations or try to use words to convey meaning, when all it would ever do is fail anyway, when all it would ever do was fall short...You could say it with music. Music could say it for you. Words and notes and chords and tingles down your spine. For a moment he closes his eyes tightly and whistles a tune, and wonders if anyone out there is listening and will mistake him for a bird.

What a wonderful world it could be...

But all they ever did was jibber and jabber and sigh and moan and shriek and gossip. He keeps his ear buds in, though one is always falling out. This makes him wonder if one of his ears is bigger than the other.

He opens his eyes and sees a bird fly over. Followed by another. Black ones. Crows, maybe. With that lazy movement, like they have all the time in the world, like they know it all, like they don’t give a shit. Another crow. In no hurry. They were sticking together, weren’t they? Caaw - Caaw. What were they talking about? No one knew did they? A secret language. The crows weren’t saying. And there - that one had something in its beak. A twig. They are making nests. Not so lazy after all. He nods in approval. He thinks birds are better than humans, that's for sure. How did they even know how to make nests? Did they teach each other, or did they just know? He ponders this for a while, trying to determine what things he would have learnt, or known on his own, if no one had ever taught him...

At the end of the garden is a tree. Silver birch, his dad said. Not big enough to climb, not small enough to kill. He peers at it now, detecting movement. More birds. Little, tiny jumping things. They had it all right, didn’t they? Doing their own thing. They were always busy, like that. Scampering and hopping about. What were they doing there? Playing? Working? Mucking about? Did they talk to each other and get into fights? What they did best was ignore human life.

He tries to sit up to watch them better, but this is a mistake. No breakfast. Three cans. The wall sways slowly, as if it is a cradle trying to lull him to sleep. He panics slightly and grips on tight with both hands, leaning forward over his knees. Amused, as well as scared, he risks a look at the tree.

The birds fly off. They never stay long. They didn’t like humans, did they? All these humans down here in the mud, wading in bin bags and plastic. Why would they stay when they could just take off and fly away? When they could just go anywhere they wanted? And they were always going somewhere, weren’t they? Always flying about, here, there, everywhere. Secretive little bastards. Always busy, with a purpose.

Sickness in his belly. An urge to suck in air and push it back out again. A glimpse of real life. He can see the alleys and the garages and the walls and the paneled fencing, and the runner beans and the waiting cats, and the broken glass. And it makes him think about that time at the Lookout with his parents, with the debris of an argument and a picnic lying behind them. How the view had been so beautiful it