Posts

Posted on

New Story: The Physics of a Gunshot

Good as the magazine is, there’s nothing attractive about the title “Trollbreath.” I mean, I’ve never knowingly met a troll. But I’m imagining their breath would be challenging.

So, maybe it’s fitting that the first story of mine they’ve picked up (out now in Issue 7) is suitably nasty. It’s called “The Physics of a Gunshot.”

As editor Jennifer Reynolds puts it, the story is a dark one, which “takes us through time in the final agonizing moment of immortality.” A final moment in which the deperate main character – who has lived a long life but at a terrible cost – tries to end it before he is forced to pass on the curse to someone else.

There are a bunch of really strong stories in the magazine, and I’m pleased to be included in such good company. You can get a copy here.

To whet your appetitie, here’s a taster:

The Physics of a Gunshot

By Chris Barnham

When Anya wakes up, I’m beside the bed. Her eyes go wide when she sees the gun.

A Smith and Wesson M&P Shield: steel barrel, polymer grip, twenty ounce. Best-selling self-defense pistol on the market. That’s the US market; it’s harder to get hold of in Italy. But here it is.

In my hand.

Where I mustn’t think about it.

“What are you doing?” Anya says.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“Is that loaded?”

“Ignore it. Talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” I say. “Childhood pets. Your parents. How we met.”

***

I was staying in Siracusa, Sicily. I’d been restless – pacing streets once trod by Archimedes and Cicero, searching passing faces as if looking for something lost. At the Roman amphitheatre, Anya stood at a railing, consulting a guidebook, wearing a dress the colour of peach flesh. Without conscious thought, I stood three yards upwind. Hair prickled the back of my neck, saliva flooded my mouth. She dropped the book and put a hand to her forehead, eyes blinking, nostrils flared.

Emerald does this pheromone thing, and it’s like they’re drugged. In the early years I accepted it – took advantage of it – kidded myself it was my natural magnetism for women. Sometimes it was harmless. We had a fling and went our separate ways. Other times…well, I didn’t like what Emerald made me do.

When I met Anya, this hadn’t happened in a decade. It was a bad sign.

“No good?” I nodded at the guidebook.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Some gruesome stuff about the tank in the centre of the amphitheatre collecting blood from the games.”

“Things were brutal back then.” 

“Are you staying in town?” Her eyes drifted, unfocused, but her hand was on my arm.

“Actually, I am.”

***

Anya’s still in bed, I’m in a chair. My face is filmed with sweat and I shake with the effort of keeping my attention on her and away from the gun in my hand.   

The gun’s hollow points have a cavity in the nose, to cause expansion on impact, meaning more trauma to whatever the bullet hits. There’s a trade-off: more air resistance, a small loss of accuracy and increased susceptibility to wind drift.

This will not be a problem if it’s fired an inch from my head.

***

I pitied Anya. I knew how it felt – that overwhelming surge of interest and desire, the sucking mental vacuum as thoughts fled. It happened to me when I met Eliza Batho…..

To read more, of this and other super stories, check out Trollbreath Magazine.

Posted on

The Length of Coastal Miles – Pembrokeshire Coast Path, Part One

“If you are in a bad mood go for a walk. If you are still in a bad mood, go for another walk.” – Hippocrates

I’m with Hippocrates on this. Whenever life gets oppressive nothing works as well as lacing up the boots and getting out of London for a day of solitary walking.

Occasionally, I’m lucky enough to carve out the time to do something more substantial. You can read my account of walking the 630-mile South West Coast Path here. (I can’t claim it’s as redemptive and life affirming as Raynor Winn’s The Salt Path – much in the news recently – but it has the same scenery and weather, and more pubs. And is all true.)

Having walked the coast of south western England, I was stuck for an encore. I toyed with inland trails, notably the Wessex Ridgeway, but that was tame after the glory of the Cornish and Devonian seascapes. So I returned to the coast, and with two old friends I recently hiked the first half of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, in Wales.

I don’t intend to blog about it day by day, but here are a few lessons learned:

1. Coastal Miles Are Longer Than Inland Miles

I should know this by now. A 12-mile hike in the Surrey Hills is a different proposition to the same distance on the switchback terrain of a hilly path that winds in and out, following the eccentric line of our rugged coast. I learned this lesson repeatedly in Cornwall, but I keep forgetting it.

Day One in Wales was an example. We set out from Cardigan and had walked two miles before we even picked up the Path at St Dogmaels. After that, it was 17 miles of what the guide described as “challenging” walking – lung-bursting climbs, followed by knee-straining scrambles back down to sea level. Rinse and repeat. On the hottest day of the year so far.

We were able to cool off with a lunchtime swim at Ceibwr Bay, one of many attractive, deserted beaches. But the day got hotter and hotter, and the walking got tougher and tougher. I had packed four bottles of water. By mid-afternoon I had finished them all.

The views were fabulous, but I would happily have stopped after 13 or 14 miles, instead of trudging on, slowly shrivelling in the sun.

At last, we reached the cafe at Newport Sands. My order consisted of a cold can of water, a diet Coke, and an ice cream. All at once. And it wasn’t enough. Half an hour later, we reached our destination at the Castle Inn, where I had a pint of icy lime and soda and copious beer. And still i was thirsty.

2. Short Cuts Are Acceptable

I walked with two of my oldest and best friends. This in itself made the trip a pleasure, but there are drawbacks. Some people are a little more, um, fundamentalist about walking a trail. I knew the first day was going to be hard. There was scope for cutting it shorter at the start by taking a bus or cutting across the first headland. I was keen to do both but was overruled. After that, there was no option but to trudge every mile of the coastline.

The rigours of the first day meant we were all tired and sore next day. It was an easier trek, with a cooler start, but even so, the day became increasingly hot and the coastline was tediously wiggly, with not so much climbing as day one, but more than enough. One of our party had started with a knee problem, and this became progressively worse through day two. By the time we plodded into Fishguard, he was finding it hard to walk, and indeed on subsequent days he took buses to meet us along the Path.

This was obviously Not Good. But there was one silver lining – the impact of overdoing it on the first day meant that those of us still walking became increasingly cavalier about the route. On day three, confronted with a 20-mile trek, we junked any ambition of walking round Strumble Head and instead cut across the headland, saving at least five miles and allowing us the added bonus of a mid-morning stop at a splendid cafe at the Melin Tregwynt mill.

After that, we had an easy stroll down a wooded lane to the sea at Aber Mawr, where coastal walking resumed, with the familiar routine of steep ascents and descents. For which we had more in the tank than if we’d pedantically sweated round the coast.

3. Remember Rest Days

The third lesson flows from the first two. If you’re overly ambitious in your planning, you’ll soon tire of the walk, whatever the beauty of the scenery. We did five consecutive days of walking, partly because we had to cram the trip into our schedules. It was notable that each day we walked a shorter distance, culminating in a bus trip on day five that shaved off the first six or seven miles.

We reached Broad Haven by lunchtime, way too early to check into our hostel. But by this point, we were sufficiently leg-weary that any shortening felt like a good thing and the stunning beauty of Whitesands Bay was easy to take for granted.

Note to self: in future, programme in a rest day – or at least a very easy day – every third or fourth. Enjoy the walk rather than becoming fixated on simply completing it. You may never come this way again.

Posted on

Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

My story, “Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere,” was published eighteen months ago in top Scottish SF magazine Shoreline of Infinity.

It’s always lovely to have a story picked up and given a second life, so I’m pleased that it’s being republished in the latest anthology from Water Dragon Publishing, the Dragon Gems Spring 2025 Anthology.

EIEAAEIN (longest title I’ve ever written!) is about a world transformed by instant travel, but at a subtle but devastating cost to some.

The anthology is well worth your time, with an exciting variety of tales. You can get it from Water Dragon, or the usual suspects like Amazon.

Meanwhile, here’s a taster for my story…

Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

Inside the house, male voices belt out the fortieth rendition of “Blessing grant, oh God of nations, on the isles of Fiji”, sung by the bunch of rugby players who ported in with Alex from Malibu. These guys are built like wardrobes, and they’ve drunk western LA county dry. Kelly’s in the garden, working on her fifth large Chardonnay of the afternoon, watching the sun sink into the hills, casting shadows on the river.

When the phone rings, it takes her several seconds to place the sound. She finds the receiver wedged between two cushions of the chesterfield.

“Kelly? It’s Byron.”

“Byron! How are you? Haven’t seen you in…”

Well, how long is it? They kept in touch after college and there was a year when they were an item, but that must be a decade ago. Kelly’s hazy about it now, but didn’t they part on bad terms? Byron called her a sellout for working in PR; she said he was a loser for thinking there was any money in whatever neuroscience dead-end he was mad about that week. 

“Kelly, we need to talk. There’s something…”

“Shores of GOLDEN SAND! And sunshine, happiness, and song! Stand UNITED! We of Fiji. Fame and glory ever!” A conga line of Fijian rugby players sashays down the staircase. Alex is at the front, a bottle of rum in one hand, wearing a pair of shorts as a hat. “Kelly!” he yells. “Come to Fiji. The sun’s coming up.” Kelly shakes her head and points at the phone.

“…important we talk,” Byron says. “People need to -.”

“ONWARD march TOGETHER!” The rugby singers boom louder as they reach the Port room, but the volume shrinks as they go through. “GOD…. Bless…Fiji.”

“I need your help.” Byron’s voice cracks. “I don’t know who to call.”

The house falls silent as the last reveler transmits to Fiji. Kelly hates a quiet house; it swells with empty space for her thoughts to fill.

“Come over, Byron. But be quick. I’ve got a date in Fiji.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t use the -.” Kelly clicks off the phone and drops it on the couch.

She waits a whole half hour and Byron doesn’t show. She checks the Port settings maybe a hundred times. Kelly hates hanging around, especially when the floating party’s ported to the other side of the world. It’s dark outside and a Fijian sunrise sounds attractive. She picks up the phone and presses ringback. The call shunts to voicemail and she hangs up.

She changes into swimsuit and sandals. In the Port room she half-expects Byron to flicker in behind the glass door before she can leave, but the cubicle’s dark. She steps inside. The cubicle lights come on and ripple in lilac, and a puff of air on her face makes her blink. When she reopens her eyes, she’s in a different room and she’s got that tingling buzz of her senses dialed up a notch, like a first glass of wine. People say porting stimulates endorphins; it sure works for Kelly. She opens the door and smells the sea. This house has wooden floors, smudged with sand and damp footprints. Outside, a verandah gives onto a beach. As always after a Port, Kelly’s mildly horny and fuzzy, briefly unsure where she is or why she’s here. Down at the shore, people dance around a driftwood fire. A fat sun heaves itself into a salmon sky. Kelly runs to join the party….

Posted on

Go Your Own Way – Out Now

No better way to start the new year than to make my debut in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, a magazine that gave birth to so many of the SF stories that inspired me when I was a kid.

“Go Your Own Way” is the fourth in my “Way” series. You can read about earlier instalments (and read one of them) here, in the sadly now defunct Intergalactic Medicine Show. You can also find a free podcast of the very first Way story – “Once There Was a Way” – here on the Starship Sofa site.

The new story concerns a young man called Ferdinand, who stumbles on a mechanism for travelling between different versions of reality, between worlds that are subtly or dramatically different from our own, depending on how far you go along a mysterious path called the Way. Eventually tired of wandering, he settles down. But his life is turned upside down when he encounters another version of himself, and is forced to confront the question of which of them deserves to choose the life they both want.

If you want to read the whole thing you’ll need to buy Analog (and you should!). You can do that here. In the meantime here’s a taster:

“A glowing path of light angles toward me and into the trees behind. A luminous boardwalk of mist hovers a few inches above the ground.

I know where it leads: step on that path and I can go anywhere, across countless universes and infinite variations of this world and all it contains. I thought I would never walk the Way again, but here I am. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m not coming back.

I didn’t say goodbye to Shona. But that’s okay: she won’t even know I’m gone.

###

Picture me two months earlier, after a day at the beach. I’m back at the car when a familiar voice behind me twists my gut in a tight fist.

“Any chance of a ride?”

He’s five yards away; tired and weatherworn, skinnier than I’ve become since I settled. His smile is familiar – equal parts ‘aw shucks’ shyness and the grin of someone who knows a joke you don’t. It’s me: like a twin brother, but I have no siblings.

“Are you on the Way?” I ask.

“Aren’t we all?”

I’m not sure who’s included in that ‘we’; very few people can travel the Way. He must mean the different versions of me, scattered across endless dimensions. That fits – I once walked the path between worlds, and it’s obvious this alternate version of me can too.

“Why are you here?” 

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“It’s a little overwhelming.”

“I just arrived,” he says. “You know what it’s like; feel I’ve been through a spin cycle. I could do with some food. And some tips on how to get along here.”

A surge of relief – he’s new here, so not the version of me I feared he was – is quickly succeeded by unease: Is he planning to stay?

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect to stick around,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking. Which makes sense: who else would know my mind better?

“Weird, isn’t it?” He’s watching me, reading my thoughts on my face.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you drive us somewhere we can get a drink?” 

We get in the car and I start the engine. “Know any good pubs near here?”

He shrugs. “It’s your universe.”

It’s not, of course, but I don’t say anything….”

Posted on

“Go Your Own Way” – forthcoming in Analog

New story klaxon!!!!

My story, Go Your Own Way, is due to be published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, in the January/February 2025 issue.

Analog (originally called Astounding*) has been going since 1930, and has published many of the greats – Heinlein, Asimov, Zelazny, George Martin, and a long list beyond them. I’ve had a lot of stories rejected by Analog, and I’m delighted at last to have snuck under the wire.

The new story is the fourth in my “Way” series. You can read about earlier instalments (and read one of them) here, in the sadly now defunct Intergalactic Medicine Show.

It concerns a young man called Ferdinand, who stumbles on a mechanism for travelling between different versions of reality, between worlds that are subtly or dramatically different from our own, depending on how far you go along a mysterious path called the Way. Eventually tired of wandering, he settles down. But his life is turned upside down when he encounters another version of himself, who proves troublesome in many ways.

More when it’s available.

(*Incidentally, if you’re interested in the story of the so-called Golden Age of SF, check out a marvellous book Astounding, by Alec Nevala-Lee. Highly recommended.)

Posted on

New Story: Fundamental Things Apply

It’s always a pleasure to make a sale to a magazine I’ve not published in before. So, I’m delighted that my story ‘Fundamental Things Apply’ is now out in the February/March issue of Utopia SF magazine.

Utopia is available digitally, and you can find it here.

‘Fundamental Things Apply’ features time travel, terminal illness, the recursive and uncontrollable power of grief and – as the title suggests – the movie ‘Casablanca.’

Here’s a taster:

Fundamental Things Apply

Like the rest of the team, Davey Justice had kept his distance after Sarah’s funeral. I heard laughter from rooms I wasn’t in, but a thick silence dropped over the Lab when I was there. Until now.

“Sorry to bother you with this, Rick.” We’d been working at our laptops for the past hour, and he took advantage of a natural break when I got up to get coffee. “The funders visit? The committee are hassling me to sort it.”

“Now’s not a great time.”

“Of course,” Davey said. “I’ve stalled them, but…”

“Not yet.”

“They’ll need a presentation soon, don’t you think?”

“Not yet.”

When I sat again at my screen Davey’s eyes burned the back of my head. The rest of the team didn’t yet know about the full success of the Projector. They knew we were close, but I’d kept the final tests to myself. I couldn’t keep the secret forever, but it was hard to think ahead.

***

I held Sarah’s hand as she died. “I can’t go on without you,” I said.

“You must.” I think that’s what she said, but she could barely speak by now: her words were dry leaves rustling, her hand was parchment stretched over a bundle of sticks.

Her illness struck in what should have been our moment of triumph. One day, we’re looking at the test results that proved our time projector would work. Next day, some very different test results. The doctor projected Sarah’s X-Rays onto the white wall of her office. There was a shadow on the right lung and an archipelago of dark spots on her throat. I stared for a long time, as if I could read a message in the pattern of marks beneath Sarah’s flesh.

When she died, my life stretched ahead like Arctic tundra. I had my work, but without Sarah it meant nothing. I knew how grief worked: it would take time to move forward; I had to work through the emotions. But I couldn’t get past denial, couldn’t shake the feeling that things would be better if I just had the chance to say something more to her. A little more time at her side, to prepare myself to lose her. I guess the idea of using the Projector was always in the back of my mind.

Our Project was based in a Georgian mansion, set in Berkshire parkland, curtained by trees and a high brick wall. As Director, I had unrestricted access and the gate guard nodded me in without remark when I swiped into the Lab in the early hours of the morning.

The Projector worked far beyond our hopes, but it was still experimental. The dogs and rabbits we sent back were unharmed, although I didn’t know whether there were effects on them that I couldn’t yet detect. So using it was risky, but what did I care? The worst possible thing had already happened to me. I switched it on and adjusted the settings. I would do only thirty minutes, and I knew exactly the minutes to choose.

I jumped back seven weeks, a few days before Sarah’s death. The noon sun glared from the concrete sidewalk as I waited across the road from the hospital. I remembered this day, how hot it had been when I briefly left Sarah’s side to get a sandwich.

And there I was now. My seven-week younger self emerged from the hospital, glanced both ways and shuffled into a side street that contained coffee shops and a deli. When I was out of sight, I crossed the road and entered the hospital. One of Sarah’s nurses saw me as I entered her ward. A flicker of a frown crossed her brow, no doubt because she had just seen me leave. But she didn’t speak, and hurried on to her next task.

Sarah had been moved to a private room when it became clear that she was going, and there was no time to transfer her to a hospice. I slipped in and closed the door. It was 12.10. I sat beside the bed and took Sarah’s hand. She gave no sign that she was aware of my presence. The only sounds were the soft ping of her monitors, and the irregular sigh of her breathing. My memory was still too fresh of her breath stuttering and finally ceasing, as if the planets had frozen in the sky. Three days from now.

“If you can hear me,” I whispered. “I’ll be here as long as I can.” There was the faintest pressure on my fingers, as she squeezed my hand with what strength remained to her….

I’d love to know what you think, of this or any other story. Just leave me a comment.