Hello! I’m Mark Taylor, a fiction writer based in Manchester in the UK. My stories ‘Dan and the Dead Boy’ and ‘The Double’ have appeared in The Fiction Desk. My story ‘All Seasons Sweet’ is available soon in Broken Ground, the first anthology from Uncertain Stories.
I write a tiny story every day. I’m also interested in the ways literature and technology influence each other.
On this site you’ll find info about my stories, any thoughts I cobble together about the books I read, and very occasional other thoughts.
You can email me at hello@markiswrit.ing – put “bees” somewhere in the subject line so I’ll know it’s not spam. I like bees, and people rarely try to sell them to me.
You can also subscribe to this site’s RSS feed or follow me on your federated social network of choice.
Recent posts
A year of tiny stories, and a new experiment
(tl;dr: my daily stories are now at www.scattering.ink, along with a weekly newsletter version that includes longer fiction)
A year ago, I started writing a tiny story (92 words, on average) every day. I thought this would be a good way to practice having ideas and acting on them while holding them lightly. But mostly I thought it would be fun. And it was!
I also decided to post them all online. I have always been a nervous sharer of my work in all sorts of ways, so I thought a bit of regular practice putting stories out there would do me good, too. A few people have said nice things about them, which is delightful. But I’ve also found it much easier not to worry whether people say or think nice things about them, or the other things I write. It’s become easier not to think of my stories as my babies, and instead to think of them as seeds. I scatter them to the wind, and a few might find the kind of earth they need to take root. That’s enough.
All Seasons Sweet (in Uncertain Stories)
In a world of synthesized plenty, Leo searches for a peach that will . Available in Broken Ground from Uncertain Stories.
Peaches came in a hundred engineered varieties, each insipidly perfect.
Read Lots Of Books At Once
Bookshops and Bookshelves
Does it happen this way for you? In a bookshop or a library, your eyes and fingers dance over the spines like you are blackberrying, and you are quickly laden with rich fruit. At home, surrounded by all these books you picked, it is as though they have already grown fur. There is nothing to read.
Daily stories
Thank you for reading! My daily stories are now at www.scattering.ink, along with weekly longer pieces. And now you can get them by email!
He never could finish things. It was a fear in him, a childish sort of one that made him believe he could shut his eyes and it wouldn’t be there. Coming to an end meant this is all I can do. Coming to an end meant I think this is good enough. Coming to an end meant here is a part of me. One day he knew he would come to an end, a true end, forever, and it would do him good to get acquainted with the feeling. But that was a fear he couldn’t see even with his eyes open. So he never did finish things: when he saw the end coming, he just
There was a labyrinth on the playing fields, worn into the grass like a desire path, looping around and around. It had come gradually but felt sudden, for once you noticed it, you could not ignore it. We all walked its full length when we passed, even the late schoolchildren muddying their polished shoes by shortcutting. It made us feel much better. It was meditative, mindful, except that none of us knew why we did it.
It was a quick, deep cut, and I knew I would have to be fast to deal with it before the pain came and made me dizzy. There was blood on the window and my forearm and my shirt and I didn’t know where else; there might be blood on the new curtains, and then there would be trouble. I pressed my sliced thumb to my palm to slow the bleeding, and pressed my tongue to my teeth so I wouldn’t yelp when it started to hurt. I needed to be fast, but all I could think of was how stupid it was not to wear gloves.
I brought a bagful of shoelaced conkers to the office to get things started. Soon people started bringing their own; the finance team had a lead on a tree that grew them so small and compact they were like lead shot. I heard their manager boasting you could hardly drill through them, and then the message went round in private Teams chats, you’re not meant to use a drill, it makes them weak, you’ve got to push a hot skewer through. Bandaged fingers gestured to PowerPoint slides. Shattered shells littered the smoking area. The boss kept threatening to put a stop to it, but it wouldn’t happen. Not unless someone broke her thirty-niner.