by Julian Miles | Jan 19, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sometimes, when I try too hard, the words abandon me. It’s frustrating, sitting at an untidy desk with a mind free of story clutter.
Just think, I would say. Just think like you’ve got a pocket muse who you can call upon. I’d go and make a coffee while thinking about that, trying to make a story about it. Coming back, I set the coffee and biscuits down, then slowly took a seat, but words still didn’t flow.
What would I do, I thought? Well, I’d extend a hand like I was reaching for someone who just came into the room, a dear companion: someone who I wouldn’t be startled to find in my home at three in the morning.
What would I say? Back then, I thought of asking about a fantasy realm. But I hadn’t found the key.
Tonight, though? Fantasy and more. I need…
“Heroes that fly fast. Things that explode. A future with elfin pilots and creeping evil. How do they tuck those pointy ears under their flight helmets?”
That’s the key: ask an impossible question.
The air about me fills with little sparkles, like microscopic fireworks, and a laughing voice comes from my right.
“They don’t wear helmets, silly. Rarified air is nothing to them, and the G-forces involved aren’t a strain for the elder races anyway. They’re the Kestrels of Dhonn Magfal, and they only cede sky to the named dragons.”
I look her way.
“You know, most people would call me mad.”
“Unless they could see us, right here, right now. Then they’d call the police.”
“Why the police?”
“Because your planet doesn’t have the Ministry for the Apprehension of Rogue Mages yet,” she grins, “and I’m very happy about that. MARM are a miserable bunch. No fun at all.”
Wait just a moment.
“You come from a place where they exist?”
“A couple of realms over, actually. But they’re always meddling in realities where they don’t belong.”
I look about my tiny attic bedsit.
“You got opportunities for storytellers back home?”
She leans in close, violet eyes shining.
“You thinking about a change of career?”
With a grin, I lean forward until our noses touch.
“Same career, different reality. Make a change for me to visit you.”
“Seems like it’ll be more than a visit. What about the Kestrels of Dhonn Magfal? They sound like a fun story.”
“Let’s save it as a fallback in case I don’t adapt.”
“Plan B being ‘Reappear as if by magic and hope no-one noticed’?”
“If I’m not screaming to come home after a month, I’m never going to, and an unexpected month away can be glossed over and apologised for.”
Twenty-first century with no family? I’ll be shocked if anyone notices that quick.
She kisses me on the tip of my nose.
“Leave a mysterious note.”
I look at the pad in front of me. What to write?
Going on a trip. Back eventually. Probably.
That’ll do. My last words on this Earth – hopefully. I put the pen down. For once, it doesn’t roll off the pad.
“Let’s go.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Four figures sit on folding chairs scattered about a moonlit clearing.
“Agent Doir. This is your first time, isn’t it?”
He turns his attention to the nearest impossibility: a goose-sized pale skinned humanoid with multiple pairs of gossamer wings folded neatly against its back.
“Please call me Virgil. Yes, this all new to me. Quite honestly, I was surprised to be assigned. Only been on the team for a few weeks.”
They nod.
“Happened to me, too. Apparently it saves wasting training. Those unfit will suffer a mental breakdown almost immediately.”
There’s a deep chuckle from the furthest impossibility: a large biped balanced precariously on one chair with its feet up on another. Whenever it moves, both chairs creak under the weight. Virgil fails to not stare at the single shining horn projecting from the scaled equine forehead.
“Once or twice a year we have to quell some unfortunate. The only ones who seem unshakable are our offworld visitors.”
Which forces Virgil to regard the ultimate impossibility: a smoky-skinned biped with impossibly large black eyes set in a face shaped like an inverted teardrop: an actual Grey!
It nods.
“We know of many intelligences, along with several dominants that have no need for sentience. It gives us a certain familiarity.”
Virgil can’t help but grin at the humorous tone. But the round has raised a question. He looks back to the horned being.
“You do this several times a year?”
The shining horn dips.
“With the main powers of this apparent world, several from adjacent realms, and two nearby planets.”
Virgil takes a couple of steadying breaths. Be embarrassing to faint at the answer to his own question. Composure regained, he starts.
“Pardon me, but I’ve been given only one item to share with you all. Is that normal?”
The winged being nods.
“Those you answer to do not trust us. They provide the minimum necessary whilst feverishly working on methods to conquer or capture us all.”
Virgil looks surprised. After a moment’s thought, he visibly relaxes.
“You know! I did wonder. My briefing emphasised giving the impression of my bosses being overawed and so on.”
The Grey laughs.
“If it makes you feel any better, every human nation we liaise with harbours similar intent, and every one of their representatives who attend these meetings thinks their bosses are varying degrees of-” it turns to the horned being, “what was that delightful definition we heard last month?”
The horned one snorts a laughing reply.
“‘Batshit crazy’.”
The winged being gently claps their hands.
“Enough, now. Virgil hasn’t succumbed, so we should get on. My name is Vanavaeth, by the way.”
The Grey nods.
“Call me Druck.”
The horned one smiles, revealing a lot more pointed teeth than Virgil expected for someone with a horse’s head, albeit scaly.
“I’m Banchan. What’s the item?”
Virgil quotes from memory.
“‘The supersonic incursions over Ireland are nothing to do with any force we correspond with. They’re faster than any aircraft of comparable size currently in operation. The localised lightning strikes that accompany the sightings also remain unexplained’.”
Druck swears luridly. Virgil doesn’t understand a word, but still. He gestures for them to speak.
“They’re Recurarnan. The lightning is a side-effect of operating their engines in an oxygen-rich environment. I thought those pesky Venusians had been a little too quiet lately. Tell your people we’ll handle it.”
Virgil nods.
“You have anything for me?”
Vanavaeth smiles.
“Tell your bosses what Druck said, and that we seemed convinced of your reporting their subservience, etcetera. Should set you up nicely.”
Banchan grins.
“Welcome to the Deepest State.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 5, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s an awful mess.
Jamie chuckles.
I stop myself from snarling at him. Taking an extra breath before replying, I manage to keep my tone curious.
“You find something funny about mass death, Mister Crea?”
He looks at me and nods, acknowledging the anger behind my civil query.
“Inappropriate gut reaction, Chief. It’s just that colour-coded carnage means we can at least map the fallen.”
I look about again. Oh gods, he’s right.
“I’m reluctantly going to have to allow you that. So, humans are the mainly red patches, Gorontodin are mainly blue, Chaszix are purple. You have a lead on the yellow?”
“Mactine war machines. Look like Mactine, act like Mactine, but are completely artificial.”
That’s a new one on me. I simply nod. The Chief, after all, knows everything. Whether me choosing not to comment is down to being ignorant or being taciturn is only for me to know.
Suki steps carefully around the deepest bits.
“What about the green?”
Jamie and I chorus.
“Eddubar.”
The three of us turn to the lurid orange smear that goes up the wall to a sizeable orange-rimmed hole in the ceiling. Looking at the floor below it, I can see a ring of orange splashes. There was a lot of force involved.
I point.
“Any takers?”
Jamie shakes his head.
“Mystery to me.”
Suki shrugs.
“Not a clue, although I’m curious as to whether punching through the ceiling was a dodge or a side-effect of being hit.”
“Bit of both, mainly dodge. That’s the killer leaving.”
I turn to look at the new arrival and speaker: cheap suit, ragged hair, scarred face. She has a dazzling smile, though.
“This is an active crime scene, madam. I presume you have authorisation to be in it?”
She waves her forearm in our direction and a Ministry of Force hologram appears.
“Daneela Chang, officers. I’m here because of what leaves orange ichor when it gets cut.”
Ministry of Force. The civilian interface of the Pherdubus Military.
Jamie grins at her.
“No need to be coy.”
Daneela gives him a glance I can’t get a read on, then shrugs.
“It’s a Pasvit. Judging by the hole it put in the ceiling, whichever of the victims about us got in the last shot managed to blow a hole in the Kangaraptor big enough to make it react instinctively.”
Pasvit make bioengineered assassins, with a range tailored for every sort of murder you could want to inflict.
Daneela points towards the ceiling.
“Anybody checked upstairs yet?”
That’s a good question. We arrived after-action. Where are the patrollers? I look about, then put a summons out. A couple of moments later a junior officer sticks his head through the doorway.
“Looking for Chief Notol?”
I raise a hand.
“Who cleared the upstairs post-incident?”
He checks, then looks worried.
“Not showing anyone on action or scene briefs.”
Daneela produces a slivergun from somewhere, rushes to stand in the ring of orange, then levitates through the hole in the ceiling. I wish we had access to top-end tech. It’d make our lives so much easier.
More importantly: shooting doesn’t start. A few moments later, she floats back down.
“Good news: You’ve got a large kangaroo-lizard corpse lying by the doorway up there. Took a burner through the upper chest, bled out before it could escape.”
Jamie whistles.
“Overexertion from smashing through the ceiling. Had it walked out, it might have made it.”
Daneela looks impressed.
“That would be my assessment. In this case, the instinctive reaction was the wrong one.”
Luckily for us.
by Julian Miles | Dec 22, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Jingle bells my ass. Actually, if I’d had one, the ex-wife probably would have. Covered it’s harness in fairy lights, too. She loved sparkly tat. Guess that’s why she hooked up with the bright-eyed pretty boy I used to be. Then she got pregnant and we both got ugly.
I raise a dirty glass.
“Cheers, Madeline, wherever the fuck you are.”
Finishing that one off, I top up again.
Actually, what we made was two separate lives joined at the kids. They noticed, we didn’t. Kept on living a lie that hurt us all. Changed us, too. I’d like to say I got stronger. What I actually got was meaner and drunker.
Timing. Another one down.
Refill!
Right. Maudlin reflections on Christmas week: repeats, of course. Isn’t that what maudlin is all about? Circling a drain you never quite go down, but can’t pull away from.
Where was I? Oh yes. Kids: Alison, Rebecca, Jason, and Kyle. Would have been more, but we finally realised fucking wasn’t a solution to the problem that outside of sex, we didn’t like each other.
Four new lives. Kyle was the first. Grew into a teenage charmer with no morals. Nothing slowed him down. Not me, not Madeline, not his siblings or even his girl. Who was she? Lilly. That’s her. Gentle. Sweet. Haven’t seen her since his funeral. Pretty sure it was her family that did him for stealing twenty kilos of marching powder, but past is past and she seemed to really care.
Jason. The boy. Gay and changed my mind about all of that. Duncan, his fella, is a bouncer. I haven’t seen either of them since her funeral…
Her. Rebecca. Happily studying for grade seven music while cancer ate her guts. Everybody found out too late. Saddest funeral I’ve ever been to. Nobody was ready. Fucking awful.
Alison. Well, now. Back to yesterday evening. Just let me down this…
And top up.
She’s in hospital. A drunk put here there: me. I spun the motor off a country lane. She was in the back, her fella next to me. When I saw the state of her, I lost it. Put him in the driver’s seat, set it up proper, then got the fuck out of there. Couldn’t get locked up, she’d need me.
Coppers woke me this morning to say she’d been in an accident.
“Why do I try, yet always do so bad?”
Truth?
“Because it’s always about me.”
And that’s usually… Wrong.
“What a fucking time to realise. Too fucking late, again.”
“That’s my cue, if ever I heard one.”
Why is it bright in here?
“Did you know you’ve got wings on your back, miss?”
“That’s because I’m an angel, you sad case.”
“Oh, that’s alright, then. Come to smite me, have you?”
“She doesn’t smite people at this time of year. Tries to lead by example. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m drunk, shiny miss. You’ll have to explain it slow.”
“Think of me as a gift for Alison. She survives. You own up, then get yourself straight. She eventually gets a real father – or as close as you can get.”
Harsh… Truth.
“What if I fail?”
“Smite.”
Oh.
“This is a one-time deal, Mark. Fuck it up and she’ll smite you flat like any other petty, selfish, irredeemable drunkard.”
I hear that.
“Should you be swearing?”
“I speak all tongues. Fuck translates well. Rarely gets misinterpreted.”
True enough.
“Okay. Please save my kid.”
“Shall do. Merry Christmas, Mark.”
I’m sober.
She’s gone.
I get up slowly, then empty glass and bottle into the sink.
“Fuck.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 15, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The figure hunched in the chair leans on the table with trembling arms.
“It was a routine trip. Scanning and observation, back before the dinosaurs. We’ve done several.”
The stocky figure in the hazmat suit sat opposite points at their tablet.
“Not like this, Professor Devis. You bought something back.”
Devis looks up, snorting a laugh.
“We always bring something back: data.”
“Something living.”
“That’s impossible, Captain Malcolm. Causality wouldn’t allow it.”
Malcolm rocks a gloved hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.
“That’s what everybody thought. But the likely cause of what’s happening outside has made some of your colleagues reconsider.”
Devis shakes his head.
“If Professor Garvin or any of his clique support this new theory, it’s nothing but nonsense with fancy presentation and a streaming deal.”
Malcolm chuckles.
“We all know your dim opinion of Chance Garvin, and his of you. What about Professor Quen?”
“She’s rigorous. Has insight. Haven’t studied enough of her work to say more.”
“How about a theory proposed by Quen that builds off your ‘temporal detritus’ notes?”
“Hmmm. They were more a scientific doodle than anything serious.”
“She said it was a moment of subconscious understanding bleeding through.”
Devis looks surprised.
“Since she put it like that… Okay. What’s Garvin’s take?”
“You’re an overpaid fraud who has ‘contaminated the mind of a promising young professor’.”
Devin cracks a smile.
“Now I definitely want to hear it.”
“Thought so. At my request, she gave me a short version for those lacking the necessary scientific background. Will that do?”
“It’s been an intense few days since I returned to find the temporal facility burning. So yes, the simple explanation would be grand.”
Malcolm nods sympathetically as he swipes to find the document.
“She said: ‘While all agreed it was not possible to bring ancient organisms back to the present, analysis of the cause of the current pandemic indicates that consensus may have been incorrect.
“What I propose is that we have always brought microscopic organisms back, but the majority do not survive undergoing what I posit to be an accelerated aging process (the exact nature of which being a subject for future investigation).
“What we have in the Sandringham Z Influenza virus is quite likely an organism that survived by simple reproduction: undergoing possibly three hundred million years of evolution in somewhat of a unique environment.
“It’s an airborne contagion. So unbelievably infectious that it having a chimeric element has been proposed by doctors working in several of the worst-hit cities. Variable onset times and severity of symptoms are also a cause for concern, as no correlation between pre-infection state and physical reaction has been found. The forms of pneumonia and haemorrhagic stroke it can induce are by far the most lethal symptoms, and the leading cause of the 92% mortality rate.’”
Malcolm puts the tablet down and waits while Devis thinks it through.
Eventually, Devis starts talking.
“I think she’s on to something. I also think determining the origin won’t help. That’s for later. Priority has to be developing survival protocols while working on a cure for something we have absolutely no defence against bar luck.”
He places his palms flat on the table.
“She and I should work together, starting from where your other teams are now, and in collaboration with them.”
Reaching out, he highlights the final lines of her summary. Malcolm leans forward to read it.
‘This started as a virus from a time before man. What it has become may well be the end of man.’
Devis taps it.
“That I hope we can prove wrong.”
Malcolm nods in agreement.
