Tristan Stone
Bio
Tristan read Theology at Cambridge university before training to be a teacher. He has published plays, poetry and prose (non-fiction and fiction) and is working on the fourth volume of his YA "Time's Fickle Glass" series.
Stories (19/0)
Entropy
Forever forwards Only go, and Memory To run you backwards.
By Tristan Stoneabout a year ago in Poets
How To Get A Promotion In Time Travel
The bugger about Time Travel is always remembering what you did with your house keys. You can get by without a watch, wallet or phone, but when you’ve come back from 18th Century France, narrowly escaping a minor beheading, and really want a cup of Earl Grey, the last thing you want to do is to have to call the locksmith.
By Tristan Stoneabout a year ago in Fiction
To Choose the Stars
“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say... It’s a good tagline, isn’t it? Especially if you’re making a horror film in the 20th century, let’s say.” Here, Professor Ojo displayed a still of the poster from Ridley Scott’s Alien. Each year she received fewer laughs. So much for cultural capital. She continued:
By Tristan Stone2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Station
I’ve always been able to sleep on trains. The difficulty is making sure you wake up in time. I guess it must be the rhythm of the tracks – a percussive lullaby. That, and the wine I can taste on my lips. Only myself to blame. I’ve obviously missed my stop.
By Tristan Stone2 years ago in Fiction
According To Their Kind
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. At least, that’s what Logon says. He lies, sometimes, of course. I think he does it to impress me. Like the time he told me he had outrun a cheetah – which was clearly absurd because he had never shown any hint of Swiftness being his Grace.
By Tristan Stone2 years ago in Fiction
The Destructors
Navigius is It, which means I have to hide well. If I didn’t know better, I would say my brother has a sixth sense when it came to me. Last year, on my fifteenth birthday, we were playing hide and seek, and I had camouflaged myself with some dead leaves and climbed high up a tree but he found me within minutes. I knew he didn’t cheat because I saw him counting with his head buried in his lap. Perhaps it is nominative determinism. Or something in the stars. (Mother would not approve of me saying that, of course).
By Tristan Stone3 years ago in Fiction
Wednesday Morning, 03.00
Lydia’s breathing is soft – she doesn’t snore like she tells me I do. As I listen and count her breaths, I try to calculate how many nights we have spent together. I think it is nearly four hundred. No, not quite that. I murmur the numbers of days in each month: “Thirty days has September, April, June, and November…” Not-quite four hundred, then. And it will be the last. So I must savour every moment.
By Tristan Stone3 years ago in Fiction
