For a taster of Fiona's work, read on... First, a few snippets from some of Fiona's shortest stories:


Concrete Jungle (Ink Sweat & Tears)
Clutch and thrust of the concrete jungle reminds me of you. Roots clutch at the soil, fingers of men buried alive, gasping their last into the thick brown earth. Stems thrust lightwards like cocks of men at play, criss-crossing, bobbing, stretching towards their life. Leaves clutch the sky, stitched to the heavens, your fingers in my hair...

Fish Out of Water (The Pygmy Giant)
He sighed and wished for the umpteenth time that he hadn’t let Frank talk him into this. Trudy was a nice girl, all right – good-looking with big tits and long legs that looked great in a leather mini-skirt – but he wasn’t sure it was worth all this fuss just to get his leg over. And if she thought he was going to pay for the meal – well, his wallet would melt for sure...

Clones (The New Flesh)
Leave in a dark damp place to rise, like bread dough with added yeast. DNA begins to fizz; fermenting juices bubble and hiss. Slowly the mould fills, goo becomes jelly becomes flesh and muscle and bone...

And here's a selection of extracts from longer works:


The Visitor ('Queer Dimensions', QueeredFiction)
"Sorry, I'm just visiting." Madoc shook his head at the young bloke who was trying to pick him up. He wasn't at the bar for sex, although he was looking for a man - a very specific man, who so far wasn't here. It was odd how things had changed over the last thirty years, he thought, watching a gaggle of excited youngsters spill out of the timesex booths. If he'd gone into a bar and propositioned another man when he was this kid's age he'd have been jailed for sure, possibly even stoned. It happened from time to time round the docks where he used to work - guys caught with their pants round their knees and beaten half to death. Madoc himself had come close a couple of times, but always managed to slip away. Knowing the docks as well as he did meant he always chose an alley with another way out, but not being caught wasn't always enough. The caste gangs had suspected anyway and treated him rough.

"C'mon, four-eyes, haven't you finished that arsing manifest yet?" Mick the supervisor yelled, shoving him so hard he almost lost his balance and fell. "We've got time-travelers waiting to catch their blink and you're the only thing holding 'em up. They can't go without their belongings and they can't take their belongings till you've checked 'em off on the list." Rules were tight on the docks. Time travelers had to have every last scrap of their luggage checked, to make sure they weren't leaving with any more, or less, than they'd had when they'd arrived. Everyone was aware of time-loops and the havoc they could cause.

"Sorry, Mr Oates, I've nearly finished."

"Well make it quick - I've got a timetable to keep. If you spent less time staring at the men's arses and more doing your job you'd have finished by now. I see you ogling again and you'll catch the back of my hand." Mick held his fist up close to Madoc's face. Madoc stared back into the hate-tinged gaze with as much deference as he could. Last time Mick hit him he'd knocked the glasses clean off Madoc's face, and it had cost two weeks' wages to have them fixed. He didn't want to risk that again, so he ducked his head and said...

"You want a refill on that, mate?" It was the barman, pointing to his almost-empty glass.

"What? Oh, sorry, I was miles away. No, thanks, better not. I don't think the man I wanted to meet is coming."

The barman pulled a sympathetic face. "Yeah? Bad luck, mate. Blind date, was it?"

Madoc drained the last of his drink. "No, just someone I hoped would be here." Today, like every other day for the last few months, spent haunting one bar after another in the vain hope that familiar face would suddenly appear. It looked as though today would be no different to the rest.

Just visiting...

His own words echoed in his ears, sparking the memories again. That's what Josh had always said; the words alone could cast him thirty years into his past as though it was yesterday. The words Josh had repeated, over and over again, for the whole of the two months they were together. Words that even now were seared into Madoc's brain.

Any Means Necessary ('Men of Mystery', Haworth Press)
"Sammy? Nah, not Sammy, Mr Hughes. Ancient history, Sammy is - has been since Christmas." The old man rambled on, words muffled round the permanent half-mast cigarette spilling tubes of ash down his grubby mac. Words that included 'Colman' and 'new kid' and 'pretty boy', but Hughes had already stopped listening to the flood.

"You sure, Paddy? It's important."

Important wasn't the word. More like vital, or desperate, or devastating. More like his bloody career on the line, and Mackay's too if the old guy was right. If only they'd checked their facts first, instead of storming in mob-handed. If only they'd played the good guys for a change.

"Course I'm bleedin' sure. Aren't I telling you? You only got to go round the clubs come Friday night - soon see for yerself." He removed the fag-end long enough for a noisy swig from his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Surprised you didn't already know, Mr Hughes. Been common knowledge on the streets for months. Colman never keeps the same boy more than six months. Thought you knew that."

And we should have known, Hughes thought. Should have known, should have checked, should have bloody thought for a change. They'd been tracking Colman for months, convinced he had a finger in virtually every dirty pie in the city, from fraud to racketeering to full-blown organised crime. But the wily bastard was too smart for them, moving on, never leaving a trail, laundering every last tuppence through a maze of offshore accounts convoluted enough to baffle a homing pigeon with GPS. But he did have one weakness, did Colman - he liked boys. Rent-boys, usually, in any shape or size as long as they were clean and pleasing to the eye, and legal, if only just. And young Sammy had been the latest in a long unsavoury line and they'd been so intent on using him to trap his powerful friend that they hadn't stopped to check the facts. He kicked savagely at the leg of Paddy's bar stool, slopping the old man's pint half way to his mouth.

"Oi! What d'you go and do that for? Said I'd help and I'm helping, aren't I?

Rock & a Hard Place ('Radgepacket Vol 2', Byker Books)
It's all old Hinchcliffe's fault that Jed Lemmon turned gay. There I was lounging in bed one Sunday afternoon, hand resting on some blonde babe's left boob, when there was pandemonium downstairs and before I knew it he was banging on the bedroom door. That kind of pissed me off. I mean, I know he's my manager and I gave him the key myself, but even rock stars deserve some privacy - even washed-up old scrotes like me.

I patted Suzie on the rump and sent her home, then scraped my jeans off the bedroom floor and dragged them on. A quick swig from the flask I'd hidden by the bed and I was more-or-less ready to face the old man.

"Wotcha Jed," he said, grinning from ear to ear and jabbing me in the chest. "How's things with you?"

"Oh fine, just fine," I mumbled, trying not to watch as Suzie's Jeep sped off bad-temperedly down the drive. "What can I do for you, Mr H?"

It was the usual - of course it was. He dropped the bonhomie, even as he dropped his rump into an over-padded chair. "Business as well as pleasure, Jed. Records, to be precise. We're not selling enough. Sales are down for the seventh month in a row - nobody's buying your stuff."

I took my time lighting a cigarette. "I'm sorry, Mr H. I've done everything you said. I can't think of anything else." Well, why the hell should I? It's why I pay him a bloody great wad of my earnings every month.

"I know - and I'm proud of you. But don't worry, I've had a brainwave."

My heart sank. Great bloke, old Hinchcliffe, and I couldn't have got where I am without his help. But his brainwaves are notorious. We'd already had the Jed novelty hats and the posters given away with Choco-flakes, and as for Jed Lemmon dressing up as an orange to advertise yoghurt - I'd had nightmares for months.

His jaw developed a horizontal crack that might have been a smile. "It's simple. We tell the world you're gay."