Sons of York

By Ade Grant

Collection of two short stories:

FROTHBOT (Science-Fiction / Politics)

For eight years the government has remained paralysed, unable to cope with spiralling inflation and disintegrating public services. With society on the brink of collapse, a journalist gets the opportunity to interrogate a politician at the centre of it all. He works for the PaPA Department, the mysterious system locked off from public scrutiny, and is the one person she hopes can reveal the truth.

SONS OF YORK (Historical-Fiction / Horror)

13 June 1483. Richard Duke of Gloucester plots within the Tower of London. Will he seize the crown from his nephew, a boy under lock and key? Or will he crown the child and sacrifice his own claim forever? His closest ally is on the edge of betrayal, his court is filled with deceit, and every choice seems riddled with blood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ade Grant
• Release date: Jul 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311452092

Ade Grant

Ade Grant was born in Croydon and has never fully recovered.Raised by wild beasts and nourished by the leavings at squat parties, Ade was finally rescued by Doctor Hayes and smuggled to a rehabilitation facility for ex-Croydonites in a secret Brighton location. Slowly, over the course of several years, Ade was taught the basics of human interaction.Ade Grant now writes fiction, poetry and politics, and can be found outside pharmacies in London, rooting through bins.

Book preview

SONS OF YORK

ADE GRANT

Copyright Ade Grant 2014

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All work contained within is fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Artwork, used with permission, by Tom Charles

Also by Ade Grant

NOVELS

The Mariner

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

Seeker

Sick Prick

POETRY

Zigglyumph and Other Poems

Table of Contents

FROTHBOT

SONS OF YORK

About The Author

Interview With The Author

About The Illustrator

About The Mariner

FROTHBOT

In Jocelyn’s opinion, the barista eyed his assortment of maple-glazed muffins, cheese-baked focaccia and toasted pecan cookies a little too ravenously for comfort. A healthy desire for one’s own produce was all well and good, a reassuring stamp of approval in fact, but openly drooling over them spoke a little too much about the financial state of the business itself. The way his eyes swivelled above gaunt cheek-bones hinted to a diet denied of the goods he sold. She willed him to take one, to hell with balancing the books, the business would fold soon anyway.

If he’d been contemplating such reckless indulgence, the plans evaporated as she stepped inside, London fumes following her like hornets, only to be repulsed by the pleasant aroma of coffee-beans and (relatively) fresh-baked bread. The barista tried to look nonchalant at the prospect of her custom, though his right cheek began to twitch. He favoured his left foot in a jubilant little hop as he approached, an enthusiastic spring that landed like a faux-pas.

‘Wha’da can I’ya ge’dya?’ he asked in a rather phoney Italian accent that only added to their mutual discomfit. Already the camera in her contact lens had scanned his face and retrieved a bountiful array of information from his online profiles. The filtered information appeared in her sight: Thomas O’Brian; thirty-two years old; two brothers, one sister; previous residences in Wandsworth, Sheffield and now Newington Green (flat-share); higher education: none; favourite band: The Kinks; number of friends listed: two hundred and thirty-one, number of active friends: thirteen. Jocelyn glanced top-right to select photos and then bottom-right for the holiday sub-category. Immediately her vision was filled with various opaque thumbnails of holiday destinations, all along the English coast.

No Italian connection to speak of.

‘I’m just meeting someone,’ she said and nodded inside.

The coffee-house was designed to cater for the dwindling take-away market, though beyond the long counter it did indeed have a few small tables, all empty except for the man she was there to meet. The barista bowed and motioned her inside with an outstretched arm, another misjudged gesture in an unbroken line of cringe-worthy pleasantries. Jocelyn didn’t blame his desperation; things were tight all over.

Her arrival didn’t elicit much of a response from the man at the back of the cafe who continued to lean back in his chair, staring into space. There had been a time when gazing off, slack-jawed with juddering pupils, would have been perceived as a sign of some psychic disturbance. Not anymore. Now it was all quite common.

He jumped at the sound of her chair scraped along tiles. ‘Jocelyn Peters?’

‘As requested,’ she said and waited for him to finish whatever data-stream he was currently plugged into. Finally he made a definite dual-blink, eyes closing