R.M. Graves Author

Stories

My stories tend toward the strange, no matter where I start, literary, historical or speculative.

I'm fascinated by the intersection of the monstrous with the romantic. And with mice that attack cats.

Here's a selection of my published short fiction. I'm working on three loosely connected novels: Pin, The House of Lost Things, and Hagstone. See my instagram for progress and research on those.

Letters Written to the Dearest Deceased Frances Blood, Lackington's

Fanny, it is I, Mary.

I know we vowed to never indulge the aristocracy. However, I must work my sister’s keep as Father invests poorly in the ill-fated fancies found at the bottom of bottles. I relish not living off, or for, a man, either, and if it is imperative to take a coin from Mankind I promise you, it shall be for the betterment of Womankind.

INTERVIEW

My Lady Malady Mad Lady, Bourbon Penn

First off, I lost all my hair. I mean all of it, even my eyebrows and nostril hair. And when I say lost, I mean it disappeared.

Now, I’d been a hairy bloke, and Pamela, the missus, she was pretty worried, so I kept quiet about the rest. How my fingernails had started growing the wrong way up my fingers, and new ones were popping up all over my arms; like little shields.

A Long, Dark Moment, Typehouse Literary Magazine

Day 359

As I write this, Jenny is with me at the window. I grip her hand and her fingers fidget for release. I sit tight to her, skin pressed along our sides. We watch a mad wind tease our rusting old motorcycle with memories of speed.

I have screwed all the windows shut and choked every vent with duct-tape, to keep out the chill. Now our breath trickles down the glass. Our reflection looks like one fat person.

More Crackle Than Music, Stupefying Stories

I thought I saw a Harpie, sparkling in the night rain. The puddles in the middle of the road were gritty against my cheek and all four coats sodden. I didn’t mind, I was dreaming, and I had a bottle in me. The air traffic combed electromagnets through my beard and hair, rubbing my brain.

Rockwork, Escape Pod

Dog sat at the back of the stage in the cavernous dark. The crowd chanted "Rock... work... Rock... work..." but she kept them waiting.

Her drumsticks were already slick in her palms as she snapped rubber bands around them. She shuffled in her seat, checked contacts, toggled switches. She brushed trembling fingers across the snare's skin. The kit twitched around her, jittery too.

It hated gigs.

Bullman and the Wiredling Mutha, Interzone

Bullman eat no meat. Bullman eat green fur and weed from broken carpark’s mudstone. Bullman not like fight. Smash gangs bad. Make hurt and blood and insides out. Make Bullman weep. Bullman not like meat.

Battle day morn and Camden Town bone-cold. Sex-Murda-Gang make fires early. Sun half up but sky make frown with silver Wiredling cloud. McDonna come with milk. Bullman happy see McDonna but not dumb. Milk be pink this morn.

Decanting George, Goldfish Grimm's Spicy Fiction Sushi

“Ha.”

That’s how it laughs, the little freak they call my grandson. With his ball-head and painted on mouth and eyelids that blink only upward.

The whole brood has descended on my flat. I have no idea why they’re here. My eightieth was months ago. Half of them are dressed in funeral blacks, the other half in fancy dress, or something. Thirty of the little darlings. Fiddling, prying.

INTERVIEW

Albie's War, The Queen's Head Literary Zine

Trebla has a swollen head and his body is naked and weak with thin shoulders and a potbelly. His eyes are glass dots in a putty face with another dot for the mouth.

I made Trebla, I made him with Granpa. Granpa is a genius and my best friend.

Freebot, Wtiters of the Future Prizewinner

Danny charged down the high street toward the hospital, dodging freebots all hell-bent on being useful. He could still make this, he could still get to Sally in time.

“Danny Clarke, a Dad? Congratulations!” A chromed, headless horse skittered toward him and dropped to its knees. Danny stumbled to a halt, thumping his thighs in frustration, his chest fit to burst.

Simulation, Flash Fiction Online

Daytime, must be. Birds singing outside. Too warm here, under the covers in my clothes and shoes. All the air’s gone but I won’t move because my Mum and Dad are watching from the ceiling. Floating there, blubbing. Picture perfect they are too, younger than me. Eyes wide and wet as babes’. I can’t bear to look. Still hear them though.

Dad says, “So, last one. He’s what, Fifty-five now, yes?”

One For Sorrow, Two For Joy Circa Journal of Historical Fiction

My Bill, he never holds my hand. So I don’t know why the old fool’s got me so tight now. After the show, walking up Oxford Street -- or what Hitler’s left of it -- he won’t let me go. Was it something happened in France that’s made him so clingy? The War’s been over a good few weeks now. I’m worried he’s heard something, from my mum, maybe. About my situation. There’s something angry in that grip.

Ever Before Me, Every Day Fiction

“Wash me throughly from my wickedness...”

Megan’s pure, plaintive soprano rang out from the chancel. David pressed his cheek to their baby’s head, his eyes tight shut. Her solo didn’t falter. He dared to breathe and looked up, blinking. His wife was… amazing?

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