Here’s a reading of my short-short story “Authorised Domain,” commissioned as part of a package on “the future of the living room.”

The judge said I have to write this note and so I am, but I want to put it right at the top that I don’t think it’s fair.

It begins with Mum and Dad having rows all the time. At first, they tried to hide it from me, but come on, the flat’s not that big. When they put on their mean, angry voices, well, I’m not thick. Then they didn’t even bother to hide it. Mum’d get at Dad about something, it didn’t matter what — taking out the rubbish or leaving his shoes in the hall or money (money was always good for an hour’s moaning). Or Dad would storm into the house and not say a single word to anyone, just sit himself in front of the telly and enter a vegetative state that lasted until everyone had gone to bed. Mum’d make dinner for us two, and I’d go to my room and watch the stuff I’d saved up from the week, my shows, you know, the stuff everyone at school were talking about. Footie, of course, and Celeb Kendo. Had to, yeah? Before it expired, I mean.

It was better when they split, and even better when they divorced. Kids aren’t supposed to be happy about their parents’ divorce, so call me a bastard, but my parents’d tell you I was right. Some people aren’t meant to live together, I guess. Dad had me at the weekends, Mum had me during the weeks. Both of them were much nicer to live with, too. Plus, Divorce Dad was much cooler about things like going to the footy or Alton Towers, and then he’d buy me a takeaway and leave me at home while he went down to the pub.

Mastering by John Taylor Williams: wryneckstudio@gmail.com

John Taylor Williams is a full-time self-employed audio engineer, producer, composer, and sound designer. In his free time, he makes beer, jewelry, odd musical instruments and furniture. He likes to meditate, to read and to cook.

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My steampunk YA short story, “Clockwork Fagin” (about the children who are mangled by the machinery of the industrial-information revolution, who murder the orphanage’s cruel master and replace him with a taxidermied automaton that they use to fool the nuns who oversee the place), has been turned into a podcast by the good folks at Escape Pod, with musical accompaniment by Clockwork Quarter. It’s a great reading, and the anthology the story appears in, Steampunk!, has just hit stands.

Monty Goldfarb walked into St Agatha’s like he owned the place, a superior look on the half of his face that was still intact, a spring in his step despite his steel left leg. And it wasn’t long before he *did* own the place, taken it over by simple murder and cunning artifice. It wasn’t long before he was my best friend and my master, too, and the master of all St Agatha’s, and didn’t he preside over a *golden* era in the history of that miserable place?

I’ve lived in St Agatha’s for six years, since I was 11 years old, when a reciprocating gear in the Muddy York Hall of Computing took off my right arm at the elbow. My Da had sent me off to Muddy York when Ma died of the consumption. He’d sold me into service of the Computers and I’d thrived in the big city, hadn’t cried, not even once, not even when Master Saunders beat me for playing kick-the-can with the other boys when I was meant to be polishing the brass. I didn’t cry when I lost my arm, nor when the barber-surgeon clamped me off and burned my stump with his medicinal tar.

I’ve seen every kind of boy and girl come to St Aggie’s — swaggering, scared, tough, meek. The burned ones are often the hardest to read, inscrutable beneath their scars. Old Grinder don’t care, though, not one bit. Angry or scared, burned and hobbling or swaggering and full of beans, the first thing he does when new meat turns up on his doorstep is tenderize it a little. That means a good long session with the belt — and Grinder doesn’t care where the strap lands, whole skin or fresh scars, it’s all the same to him — and then a night or two down the hole, where there’s no light and no warmth and nothing for company except for the big hairy Muddy York rats who’ll come and nibble at whatever’s left of you if you manage to fall asleep. It’s the blood, see, it draws them out.

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