Owen

I am a habitual scribbler from Birkby with a BA and MA in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam University.

I began writing when I was 10 years old: foodie poems, beat ’em up videogame concepts and a lengthy fantasy yarn titled The 13th Dimension. Sadly this was also my first lost work due to a Rugrats-related computer file save mix-up.

Since then I have crossed the speculative fiction spectrum to science fiction where I have settled; fictionalising thought experiments about the effects of whimsy on time travel, the social science of upgraded household technology and aliens that really aren’t comprehensible.

These days I champion the short story and novella which I hold up to be the neatest forms of prose expression. I am at the same time a shameless pun pundit who regularly deconstructs bad jokes to see exactly what makes them so awful.

I have been published in a few collections including Liberty Tales: Stories and Poems Inspired by the Magna Carta (Arachne Press, 2016) and The Dinesh Allirajah Prize for Short Fiction 2020: AI Stories (Comma Press, 2020). My current dream is for my writing to occupy more than ten pages of a book.

I joined HAC in September 2015 as a shy young writer who was looking for a fresh pair of eyes for his humble body of work. As of 2020 I am a daft mainstay and gabbling social butterfly. I am disciplined in both my writing and my everyday nonsense.




Writing by Owen

BUTTONS LIKE FLOWERS by Owen

Everywhere I go these days, buttons open. Not in the sexual sense, not unless you see blossom as an erotic metaphor.             No. When I set out on the street day and night I see buttons like flowers. At first there was a rational explanation for this: a craft stall with a pink woolly cardigan… Continue Reading →

IT GETS HARD TO STAND by Owen

I pursued my assailant into the steelworks. The constant chime of hammer on anvil clogged my brain. They had offered me earplugs back at base but I foolishly didn’t take them, believing the breathing exercises alone would see me through this. I just needed to breathe and recite the mission objective. That day my mantra… Continue Reading →

MAKING TRACKS WITH T-REX by Owen

Google has gone down again so here I am, your scaly friend to pace across this boundless plain left to right without refrain. On tiny legs, I clear a jump over every cactus stump and then with one triumphant roar bring about a new high score. At least until I crash down hard on digi-spikes… Continue Reading →

PAYBACK’S A BITCH by Owen

Rausse just wanted the runt of the litter. As a rule, he took his cut from all activity within his neighbourhood, no matter how small. Besides he had always wanted a Dalmatian.             Still Ms Mavis Kilcoyne refused.             “Inkwell’s my dog,” she told Rausse, right in front of his boys. “So these are my… Continue Reading →

THE SAILOR’S HAT by Owen

They watched the yacht go further out, the happy couple steering the wheel together.             He was wearing a novelty sailor’s hat, the would-be skipper in spite of his burgundy rugby jersey and stylishly torn jeans. As he laughed, round cheeks reddening, he doffed the hat and placed it on her blonde hair bun. She… Continue Reading →

THE SHUFFLE OF AN ANGEL’S FEET by Owen

The Angel of Death whispers most into resolute ears. That mangy-winged skeleton casts off his blackened robes from time to time but only ever to hard-bitten fools at chilly precipices. He knows that the guns in their holsters are loaded. He knows that their aching hearts beat arrhythmically with righteousness. These are men and women… Continue Reading →

THI DORTY BOTTLES by Owen

Another late night at Ye Old Cross Inn,the innkeeper’s wife turfed out the crowdwhile he took stock of the ale left withinand rattled the necks of bottles of stout. Together they watched their patrons staggerup the slope from Alnwick’s Narrowgate,following the lamps with glints thin as daggersto cold doorsteps where angry wives wait. And as… Continue Reading →

UNDEAD OR NOT UNDEAD (ZOMLET’S FAMED SOLILOQUY)

Undead, or not undead, that is the question: Whether ’tis folklore in the skull to suffer Hamstrings, bone marrow and contagious torsion, Or to lose arms against a bleed of muscles And decomposing rend them. To un-die—to speak, No more; and by an eek to say we end The heartbeat and the defibrillator shocks That… Continue Reading →

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