Michael Wombat

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About Michael Wombat
A Yorkshireman living in the rural green hills of Lancashire, Michael Wombat is a man of huge beard. He has a penchant for good single-malts, inept football teams, big daft dogs and the diary of Mr. Samuel Pepys. Abducted by pirates at the age of twelve he quickly rose to captain the feared privateer ‘The Mrs. Nesbitt’ and terrorised the Skull Coast throughout his early twenties. Narrowly escaping the Revenue men by dressing as a burlesque dancer, he went on to work successively and successfully as a burlesque dancer, a forester, a busker, and a magic carpet salesman. The fact that he was once one of that forgotten company, the bus conductors, will immediately tell you that he is as old as the hills in which he lives. Nowadays he spends his time writing, telling tall tales in his bio, and pretending to take good photographs. You can have a good laugh at his blog or his photographs, but most of all please go and mock him mercilessly on Twitter or Facebook. Michael Wombat has published over one book. Other authors are available.
“Michael Wombat brought us to near tears by his short stories. He is a natural story teller.” – Diana Jackson, author of The Riduna Series.
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Author Updates
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Blog postMy boy @coturnixsolis alerted me to the existence of Long-term nuclear waste warning messages, which are intended to deter human intrusion at nuclear waste repositories in the far future, possibly to even as far as 10,000 years. My first thought, of course, was what if the citizens of future earth found one of these sites – would they understand? You can find out more here.
As soon as she reached the village, the girl scampered to seek out the Eldest. He sat by his cave, on a ro6 days ago Read more -
Blog postA poem prompted by this picture posted for Miranda’s #MidWeekFlash. The deserted crossroads made me think of loneliness, and we’re never more alone than when we die. My creative head’s been thinking mostly in poetry lately. It’ll probably ease off once my new poetry book, A Winkle in Estuary Mud, is finally published. The photograph is fully attributed on Miranda’s site. Good.
At least
the rain stopped.
There is no sound
save the wind that scours
these1 week ago Read more -
Blog postHere’s a brief timey-wimey short story for you, originally published for my patrons and subsequently in my book Florilegium: a collection of stories inspired by unusual and beautiful words. It was inspired by my friend Jane saying to me one evening “Time is squidgy”.
“Seven of clubs,” Jane said.
Sheilagh turned over the next card. It was the seven of clubs. How was her friend doing this? She watched carefully, trying to spot the trick.
“Two of diamonds,” Jane said. She3 weeks ago Read more -
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Blog postA quick poem for you. I’m not sure yet whether it’s too twee for its own good.
Her voice spirals skyward on monarch wings,
slow ballads purred in bumblebee hum,
thin line of ants a steady snare drum.
All life makes its music when Nature sings.
.
Sweet golden arias when the wind blows.
Forenoon aubades of sun-slathered daisies.
Dusk serenades from streamburble hazes.
A hawthorn threnody for lost hedgerows.
.
<1 month ago Read more -
Blog post“Old woman!” shouted Kapitan Nikitin. “Clear the way! Move your cart! Move your donkey!”
The tattered bundle of rags, barely human in shape, ceased belabouring the cartwheel with her large wooden mallet. She stood, all faded floral fabrics, sparse grey hair tied up with a tattered scrap of cloth, rheumy eyes squinting at our armoured car from between countless wrinkles. Her toothless mouth spat on the dusty ground.
“And who might you be?” the crone gurned. The donkey in its tr1 month ago Read more -
Blog postYou are four hundred million years old.
You live on every continent,
with neither roots nor towering trunks.
You tasted the air before the first feather,
before shrews stirred the leaf litter,
before even ferns uncurled their fingers.
When my mind hisses like a kettle,
2 months ago Read more -
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Blog post‘Sometimes it pays to be Tricky’
You all know by now of my admiration for Miranda Kate. Her books always draw me right in, but with Dead Lake she has surpassed herself, creating a flirtatious & funny, clever & confident, cheeky, sexy protagonist who nonetheless has moments of simmering self-doubt. It was impossible not to fall in love with Tricky.
From Monday Feb 14th Dead Lake is on sale for 7 full days – up to and including the 20th of February – for only 99p/99c. If3 months ago Read more -
Blog postAlright, Mam? I brought you some carnations. I know they’re your favourites. Pink this time, look. I see you’ve got a new neighbour: Joep de Boer, born … ooh, same age as you. Died, well, two weeks ago. De Boer. What is that, Dutch? He’s got a lot of flowers, hasn’t he? Clearly, he was a well-loved man. Let’s hope that also means he was nice. I mean, obviously, yes, you’re dead, but something in me wants you to have good company under the ground there. Ha! I can still hear you nag me, you kno5 months ago Read more
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Blog postFind you and catch you a raven black.
Stifle its breath and end its life.
Grip full well your black-hafted knife,
the still-hot heart from the corpse to hack.
As it nestles in your bloodied palm
slice the heart’s meat with small cuts three
the raven’s spirit to set free.
Speak ‘Occulta corvus’, make your charm.
A black bean place inside the first wound,
the second cut a bean of red.
the third, a bean as white as b5 months ago Read more -
Blog postFor Remembrance Day, a short story from my Christmas anthology ‘Red Christmas’.
My Own Edith,
I don’t know how properly to start this letter. The circumstances are different from any under which I ever wrote before. I won’t post it for now but will keep it in my pocket. I write these words on Boxing Day. I never imagined, when this damned war began, that I would still be separated from my sweetheart at Christmas. I miss your voice, your smiling eyes.
We go over the top6 months ago Read more -
Blog postA tree porcupine asleep at Blackpool Zoo.
To buy a print of this image, please visit the “Buy Prints” page and order “Tree Porcupine”
8 years ago Read more -
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Blog postA traffic cop in Niagara.
To buy a print of this image, please visit the “Buy Prints” page and order “Traffic Cop”
8 years ago Read more -
Blog postTo buy a print of this image, please visit the “Buy Prints” page and order “South Dakota”
8 years ago Read more -
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Blog postA cloud formation seen flying out of Minneapolis.
To buy a print of this image, please visit the “Buy Prints” page and order “Clouds over Minnesota”
8 years ago Read more -
Blog postDuckling at Chester Zoo
To buy a print of this image, please visit the “Buy Prints” page and order “Parenthood”
8 years ago Read more
Titles By Michael Wombat
1. (archaic) a lavishly illustrated book of flowers.
2. a collection or anthology of stories.
Chypre, honeyfur, vellichor - just three of eighteen unusual and beautiful words, some old, some new, but all of which inspired the stories in this book from award-winning author Michael Wombat. The tales are as varied and delightful as the words themselves: chronicles of love sit next to tales of brutality. Time-shifters nestle up to hungry dogs. A private eye wakes up with a donkey’s head in place of his own. You will discover a new delight at every twist and (page) turn.
Also includes a list of over thirty more of the author’s favourite words, with definitions, that did not (yet) give birth to an adventure.
Out of the moonlight they sped in their thousands, swift as death, razor wings glittering in the pale glow of the Wolf Moon. In the frost-shrouded city below, the final toll of the curfew bell faded. Latecomers hurried inside, the hems of their capes whisked through narrowing gaps as doors were slammed, shutters bolted and chimneys blocked.
"A splendid yarn that perfectly captures the tone and flavour of the sci-fi serials of the fifties, and serves it with a sassily modern heroine and a steam punk twist."
Contributing Authors: Michael Wombat, Lisa Shambrook, Boyd Miles, Marissa Ames, Bryan Taylor, Beth Avery, Matt Jameson, Eric Martell, Michael Walker, Stephen Coltrane, and Alex Brightsmith.
“Canada?” said Jensen.
“Well now, I can’t take you that far.” The driver rejoined the highway. “I’m heading for Devil’s Lake, but I can drop you in Petersburg?”
“Thanks,” Rollie said. “That’s great, truly. My name’s Rollie, and this is Johnny.”
“What takes you boys all the way to Canadee?”
“The war,” said Jensen.
“We ain’t got no war, have we?”
“And planes,” Rollie said. “We’re going to fly in the war in Europe.”
“Does Europe matter?”
“Nothing matters more than to fight evil.”
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In 1940, on the day that Winston Churchill gave his ‘We shall fight on the beaches’ speech in the House of Commons, Rollie Ernest Buckolz and his friend John Jensen stuck up their thumbs by the side of a dusty South Dakota road, and got the first of a series of lifts that would take them five hundred and sixty miles north into Canada. Their intention was to join the Royal Canadian Air Force and fight for the Allies in Europe. Thrilled by the thought of air service, and enthused by the idea of fighting against Nazi Germany, they were prepared to risk losing their US citizenship to fight in a war that America had not yet joined. This is the story of one man, and of a hundred and thirty thousand men who followed the same path to war – the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan in Canada.
Ghabrie thrashed: kicking, biting, struggling against strong arms that restrained her. "Nahria, I'll come for you!" The butt of a rifle thumped the side of her head as her words still echoed across the barren landscape. Ghabrie slipped into an oblivion brought by the hands of her liberators.
Fourteen authors take you on an unprecedented post-apocalyptic journey.
"I have lots of lists. There are the ones that everyone knows, of course: the Naughty List and the Nice List. Then there’s a Grumpy List, a Wide-eyed Believers List, and even, if you can believe it, a Horny For Santa List."
A collection of off-kilter short stories with a Christmas theme from award-winning storyteller Michael Wombat.
This book contains a veritable poetpourri (sic) of variegated verses: storied ballads, rhymes to paint a scene, love poetry, poems of the supernatural, verses both funny and quirky, poems of nostalgia and memory, emotional outbursts and dreams both good and bad. There are haiku, tanka and villanelles. There's even a saga about a crisp factory. Dip in anytime and find a poem to match your mood.
“I am looking for a painless death, Uncle Wolf,” he said, eyes downcast, looking at the sandy ground.
“Ain’t no such thing, sweet boy,” said Wolf, his voice deeper than summer thunder.
Seven short Michael Wombat tales of whispers and delight that you can slip into your pocket.
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