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Battery Pack is Neon's new micro-anthology of tiny short stories. In fact, these six tales are so short that the whole thing clocks in at less than five hundred words. In those five hundred words, however, you'll find vivid tales of ghosts, lost lifeboats, memories and dreams. Battery Pack is free, and you can even print out and fold your own copy! Visit www.neonmagazine.co.uk for more information.This volume features the work of David Hartley, Henry Northmore, Sarah Butler, Tamasine Reilley, Jenny Mackenzie, and Tracy Fells.
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VOLUME ONE
Battery Pack
Fruits De MerHenry Northmore
The ocean liner pulled upalongside the drifting lifeboat,and the first mate scuttled downthe ladder to hook the smallvessel and secure it to the ship.He pulled back the tarp, gaggingat the stench then noticedmovement at the back of the boat.Unbelievable: a woman and childamongst the bones. “Lookmummy,” croaked the toddler,rushing forward, “more food.”
@HENRYNORTHMORE
Birthday PresentTamasine Reilly
Shiny, blue, the birthday presentsits on the table. Squealing, thechild rushes forward. “Be carefulSebastian,” warns his mother,barely containing her laughter.With little restraint he tearsthrough wrapping paper, flakes ofcobalt littering the floor. Inside, akitten is mewing. Sebastian’ssmile shrinks. For a fouryearoldhe has an exceptional aim. Thekitten slithers down the windowleaving a yellowish smear. “Iwanted a puppy,” says the boy.
Mop BoyfriendJenny Mackenzie
Lucy got carjacked. Terrifying.They jumped in wearing hoodies.Later, she read about “passengerdummies”, and dragged a shopmannequin from her wardrobe,unscrewed a mop and plonked iton his head. Very Roger Daltry.“Quick spin, babes?” she smiled.She grappled him downstairs andinto her new car. That night sheput him in her bed. Was thatweird? “Night, sweetheart,” shesaid. “Night, honey,” hewhispered.
EARLYBIRDWINENEWS.COM/SHORTSTORIES
PickaxeDavid Hartley
I pause for breath outside myown nostril. Last night I dreamtyou died and the dream clings tomy brain like a limpet: my wetcheeks, the embarrassment of mygrief. I can’t concentrate, I need itgone. So I heave the pickaxe frommy shoulder and ready the rope.I’m heading in.
DAVIDHARTLEYWRITER.BLOGSPOT.CO.UK
MissingSarah Butler
He left a note: gone to buycigarettes. And I believed him.Why wouldn’t I? He’d beensmoking thirty years. We’d hadour first together, on the fieldbehind school. He puked. Ididn’t. I gave up ten years back.He stuck with it. He probably stillis – smoking, I mean. Heprobably still is – alive, I mean.When I picture him, he’s both, thesmoke curling up so I can’t quitesee his face.
SARAHBUTLER.ORG.UK
Tears Of EveTracy Fells
The whitehaired gentleman heldthe vial in trembling fingers.Mesmerised, he rocked the liquid,commanding his own miniaturesea. “My granddaughter was bornafter the drought began,” he said.“And you say this was collectedon the last day it rained?” Ericnodded, his smile subdued. “She’sonly known synthetic water. Ihave cash – name your price.”Eric was already texting home:Let’s celebrate tonight, Evie. Howabout fried onions? Lots and lots ofonions.
TRACYFELLS.BLOGSPOT.COM
