Monthly Archives: June 2010

New theme and radio silence

June 29, 2010

My thanks again to James for helping me get this website sorted out after the horrible crash of two weeks ago. You’ll see there’s a new theme in place. Rather swanky too, I think. We’ll be working on customising this over the next few weeks, so I hope you like it.

Our travels around Scotland have been fantastic and we’re moving on again today. I’ll probably be out of net coverage for a few days now, so don’t be surprised by an unusual online silence from me until around Monday. Be good!


Writers Of The Future Honourable Mention

June 28, 2010

For the first time ever I entered a story in the Writers Of The Future competition. The thing takes a fair while to turn around, with entries going into a quarterly judging period. Winners of each quarter battle it out at the end of the year.

My first effort just scored me an Honourable Mention for this year’s 2nd Quarter, so I’m pretty happy with that. I wonder if that’ll help me sell the story somewhere else now?


Horror discussed on The Book Show on ABC

June 25, 2010

Earlier this year Kim Westwood, Paul Haines and myself were interviewed for ABC National Radio. Paul and I were discussing horror and whether it is flavoured by Australian culture, while Kim led a discussion on the nature of dystopia in speculative fiction.

You can listen to or download the interview here.

I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet, travelling as I am at the moment, so hopefully we don’t come off sounding like a couple of numpties. Fingers crossed.


Movies on a plane

June 20, 2010

Long haul travel is always good for catching up on missed films. On our recent flight I watched:

Alice In Wonderland – meh. I was fairly underwhelmed by this one. I really hoped I’d enjoy it more.

Sherlock Holmes – strangely, I thought I wouldn’t like this, but I loved it. The black magic Scooby Doo kinda story was cool.

How To Train Your Dragon – very cute, very clever and surprisingly easy on the heavy moralising for a kid’s animation. Great fun.

Shutter Island – excellent, dark thriller with a stand out cast. By this time I was so far into the flight that this one really bent my brain. Highly recommended.

2012 – about all I had the brain power left for. Impressively visual utter dumbness.


Travelling the world while shit hits the fan

June 20, 2010

First off, my heartfelt thanks to my web guru James, who saved this site when the upgrade to 3.0 smashed the theme format. Not only that, he even dropped a post to let you all know what was happening. Thanks Jim!

I’m currently in Edinburgh, having just arrived 34 hours after leaving home. We had decent enough flights and all that. By far the worst part of the journey was the last hour trying negotiate Edinburgh in our hire car to find the hotel. Seriously, Edinburgh – NOT car friendly. Especially with all the roadworks, which I’m convinced they ran out and changed after we passed through in order to make them different on our next attempt.

Anyway, my site crapping itself just when I leave for an overseas trip of 4 weeks is pretty annoying, but that’s life. James has dropped this current theme to keep things in order. I must say, it’s pretty horrible, but perfectly serviceable for now. I’ll rebuild something closer to my old site as time allows, which may not be till the middle/end of July when I get back from Europe.

In the meantime, at least everything is still here and I apologise for any disruption you may have noticed. I’ll obviously be posting a bit less than usual over the next few weeks while I enjoy my holidays, but I’ll post bits and pieces as time allows. Now, I’ve been awake for an unholy length of time, just had a shower and I think it’s time for a sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz


New theme

June 18, 2010

The Word was upgraded to WordPress 3.0 this morning and unfortunately this broke the theme we had been using previously – apologies to anyone who couldn’t access the site earlier. Have put a temporary theme in place for now, will be working on customising this over the next few weeks.

Baggage anthology from Eneit Press

June 17, 2010

Baggage is a new anthology of short stories, published by Eneit Press and edited by Gillian Polack. You may remember Gillian being mentioned on here before – she was kind enough to officiate for me at the book launch of MageSign late last year. This anthology that she’s put together is a pretty awesome concept and I’m really looking forward to reading it. As part of the blog tour promoting it, I’ve got a post here with some of the contributing authors and Gillian herrself talking about the concept of baggage.

That concept is described on the back of the book thusly:

Humankind carries the past as invisible baggage. Thirteen brilliant writers explore this, looking at Australia’s cultural baggage through new and often disturbing eyes.

Sounds pretty cool, huh? The Table of Contents is:

Vision Splendid — K.J. Bishop
Telescope — Jack Dann
Hive of Glass — Kaaron Warren
Kunmanara – Somebody Somebody — Yaritji Green
Manifest Destiny — Janeen Webb
Albert & Victoria/Slow Dreams — Lucy Sussex
Macreadie v The Love Machine — Jennifer Fallon
A Pearling Tale — Maxine McArthur
Acception — Tessa Kum
An Ear for Home — Laura E. Goodin
Home Turf — Deborah Biancotti
Archives, space, shame, love — Monica Carroll
Welcome, farewell — Simon Brown

As my part of the blog tour, I asked three questions of a cross-section of those contributing authors. The cross-section in question being Kaaron Warren, Deborah Biancotti, Laura E. Goodin and the editor herself, Gillian Polack.

The questions were:

1. The anthology is called Baggage and explores the cultural baggage carried by people, from a specifically Australian perspective. When you first saw/concocted this theme, what was your initial reaction? What do you see as Australia’s baggage?

2. Do you think baggage is essential? Would we be better off without cultural baggage?

3. What actual baggage do you always take when you travel? What’s your essential piece of physical baggage?

Their answers are below.

Kaaron Warren:

The anthology is called “Baggage” and explores the cultural baggage carried by people, from a specifically Australian perspective. When you first saw this theme, what was your initial reaction?

I thought, Rats, so I can’t pull that zombie wishing he was a werewolf married to a vampire story out of my to-be-finished pile and submit that.

I was also struck by how many layers of thought it was going to take to get to the heart of the theme. I liked that; it’s the first time I’ve been asked to write a story based on an almost abstract idea rather than something more specific.

What do you see as Australia’s baggage?

Australia’s baggage is like the really good set you get from your friends for a wedding present if a lot of them get together and are pretty generous. The history people bring with them as well as the shared history. Ditto for culture; the things people bring and the things that have been created here.

We have some shameful baggage and plenty of heart-breaking history. I think it’s the details which hurt. I recently saw the Dunera Boys exhibition at the National Library. One item was a case full of notes and stories written on toilet paper because there was no other paper available.

Do you think baggage is essential?

I think it’s inevitable. You can’t live even the quietest life without gathering some. There will have to be hurts, bad memories, loves, losses.

Would we be better off without cultural baggage?

Of course this is impossible, but I think we are better off keeping our cultural baggage. A lot of it can be negative, with slights going back hundreds of years. Memories of murder, rumours of betrayal, who scored the best position on the boat over. These things are remembered and handed on.

But these are the things which give us substance. They are the things which form our decisions and make us different from each other.

What actual baggage do you always take when you travel?

My big brown handbag. Room for a book, some lollies, travel sickness pills, the travel documents, things for the kids to do and read, phone, diary, note pad, many pens, keys…it really is very useful.

What’s your essential piece of physical baggage?

I usually travel with husband and two kids.


Deborah Biancotti:

The anthology is called “Baggage” and explores the cultural baggage carried by people, from a specifically Australian perspective. When you first saw this theme, what was your initial reaction?

I thought it was brilliant. Australia has such a tapestry of histories I couldn’t wait to see what people had come up with, what cultures we’d find in the book. I thought it was the perfect theme for our country!
For me, though, working to the theme proved to be tough. I’ve never really related to Australia. I’ve never understood ‘what it is to be Australian’. I tell people I didn’t feel at home until I *left* Australia in my twenties. (I came back, of course, but coming back was hard.) And so for me the only way to write a story of the Australian experience – my Australian experience – was to write about homelessness.

What do you see as Australia’s baggage?

Well, we don’t have a great track record on human rights. And we’re embarrassingly good at wars. All up, that seems to suck.

Do you think baggage is essential? Would we be better off without cultural baggage?

Maybe it’s a necessary evil. Baggage can make you wise, and wisdom can stop you from being overwhelmed by all your inevitable baggage.

What actual baggae do you always take when you travel? What’s your essential piece of physical baggage?

Nowdays it’s my phone. Boo-yah for inbuilt GPS and that whole data downloading thing! How else can you find the best Mexican in San Francisco while you’re on the run, eh?


Laura E. Goodin:

The anthology is called “Baggage” and explores the cultural baggage carried by people, from a specifically Australian perspective. When you first saw this theme, what was your initial reaction? What do you see as Australia’s baggage?

When I heard about this project, I thought, “Wow. An anthology for people like me!” I’ve been an expatriate for, oh, about 15 years now [Laura is American – Alan], and I’m acutely conscious of my difference, of my non-belonging to the society in which I live. I’ve been forced to confront a lot of my cultural baggage, just in the course of learning to get through the day and do some meaningful and valuable things while I’m here. I’ve been forced to shed the assumption of rightness, that my people’s way is the way that makes sense, and everyone else’s is second-best. Of course, no thinking person consciously decides that his or her culture is, by the very fact of its existence, the one that any rational person would choose if they had the chance. It’s just that until you’ve lived overseas, you’re not compelled to decide otherwise.

Obviously, it’s not just expats who carry baggage, but host-country people as well. I wouldn’t presume to stand here and wag my finger at Australians about their assumptions and cultural preferences, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have them. This obsession with bringing back Hey Hey It’s Saturday, for example – but no! No, that’s just none of my business. You people do what you think is best. No, really. *makes surreptitious “Oh my God” faces* [In our defence, I don’t know ANYONE that thought it was a good idea to bring back that show – Alan]

Do you think baggage is essential? Would we be better off without cultural baggage?

I do think it’s essential, and I find the term “baggage,” with its pejorative overtones, ambiguous at best. Rather, you can consider it “context” or “cognitive framework.” Cultural baggage is how people make sense of what they’re witnessing, thinking, and feeling. Cultures evolve because they meet the needs of a group of people (or some of their needs, anyway). That’s a strength: to have a system of thought that both meets your needs and offers you a way of evaluating what you’re going through. Of course, as my karate teacher told me once, our greatest strengths are our greatest weaknesses, and the same framework that gives us strength to get through the day in a confusing world is the framework that can limit our thinking and make us bigoted, parochial, and paranoid. That’s why being a compassionate, open-hearted traveller is such a wonderful thing to strive for.

What actual baggae do you always take when you travel? What’s your essential piece of physical baggage?

Hm. I always take more warm clothes than I’ll probably need (I have a horror of being cold). I usually take my laptop. I always, always take a notebook, a pen, and a book to read. Perhaps the most unusual thing I never travel without is my radio. It’s an AM/FM/shortwave, which means I can always listen to the cricket (joke). But, in all seriousness, when I’m in another country, or even another city, the way I key into what’s happening and what things are like for the people who live there is to listen to their radio stations. Even if I can’t understand the language, I can hear their music and at least get an inkling of their news. Radios. Radios are cool, and immediate, and random in a way the Internet is not. You take what you get with radio: no picking and choosing, no clicking until you find someone who only reinforces what you thought already. Radio can surprise you. Moreover, the batteries last way longer than a laptop’s.


Gillian Polack (editor):

The anthology is called “Baggage” and explores the cultural baggage carried by people, from a specifically Australian perspective. When you first concocted this theme, what was your initial reaction? What do you see as Australia’s baggage?

I must have seen the theme for the first time, but it feels as if it’s been with me always. Finding a way of expressing it so that other people saw what I saw: that was tricky.

What is Australia’s baggage? See my answer to the next question. It’s shared stuff. Some of that shared stuff is amazing and positive. Some of it is sad. Some of it is quite nasty. We’re not aware of it all – in fact,
we carry most of it around all the time without expressing, explaining or even understanding it.

Do you think baggage is essential? Would we be better off without cultural baggage?

Without cultural baggage we don’t have any tools for communication, for living. How do we know when to wake up in the morning? How to smile at someone we love? How to cut steak? Cook steak? Eat steak? Some cultural baggage is strongly negative, but the vast bulk of it is the stuff we carry with us all the time without even knowing. The shape of your bed; how you get out of bed; what you do when you’re out of bed: cultural baggage.

We have eyes, but it’s our cultural baggage that trains us how to use them. It’s the shared aspects of that cultural baggage that enable us to look at each other and interpret what we see in a way that enables us to live in a shared world.

What actual baggage do you always take when you travel? What’s your essential piece of physical baggage?

I always try to carry a handbag big enough to fit at least one book. If the voyage is going to last more than 3 hours, then my netbook is slipped into my handbag, all powered up, with several books loaded. I also always carry paper and pen – and I always need it, too.


Thanks to everyone above that took the time to talk a bit about their perceptions of this great collection.
Get your copy of Baggage here

(Incidentally, the awesome cover art shown above is by the very talented Andrew McKiernan.)


Patrick Stewart knighted

June 15, 2010

It’s a particularly special day when the Captain of the Starship Enterprise is knighted by the Queen of England. From Levar Burton’s (Geordie LaForge) Twitter page, we get this exclusive picture:


Dark Pages preview #2

June 14, 2010

In the ongoing series of previews from the Dark Pages anthology from Blade Red Press, here’s an excerpt from the second story in the collection:

Heart of Ice
by Martin Livings

Lidja sits astride the deacon’s sodden corpse as he writhes, his erect penis cold and wet inside her. Sweat runs down the young sorceress’ chest, between her small breasts, as she rocks back and forth against the dripping body. Her hair, usually black, sweeps across her eyes in a golden blur. She tilts her head back, smiling, and looks to the corner of the guest room. There, next to the hearth, huddles the deacon’s betrothed, his beloved Gudrún. Her pale blue eyes are wide, and her perfect body is naked beneath the blankets because her nightdress is wrapped around Lidja’s slight body like a chameleon’s skin. The scent of the frightened girl still clings to it. The fire beside Gudrún seems to laugh quietly to itself in crackles and pops, amused by the girl’s terror. This in turn makes Lidja smile.

“Garún,” the corpse moans, bringing Lidja’s attention back to him. His face, though grey and bloated, is still that face she knows so well, the face she has imagined close to hers so many times before. His fetid grave-breath fills her nostrils. She breathes it in, savours it. “Garún,” he says again. He can’t pronounce the name, tongue black, swollen.

“Yes, my love,” Lidja whispers back to him. “Yes, it’s me.” The lie is the smallest of her sins.

He moans and settles back against the stone that lies in the centre of the room. It is the size and shape of a small bed, its surface flat and rough and smeared with the dirt of the field from which it came…


“Einn, tveir, Þrír!” the men of Myrká chanted, and in unison they strained to lift the massive rock. It came away from the muddy field with a sucking noise, and left a large, wet hole like an open wound in the earth and snow where it had lain for centuries, carried there by the passage of long-gone glaciers. It looked like the capstone of a grave, just as she’d envisioned it.

Lidja smiled, satisfied, from atop her gelding as she watched the men toil with it. She was impressed by their strength and dedication. The men, their faces red, chests bare and sweaty despite the winter chill, shuffled over to the cart, and with a single skilful motion deposited the rock over its side. The wooden wheels and axle creaked and cracked and buckled beneath the sheer weight of it, and for a long moment nobody dared speak or move or even breathe. But somehow the rickety cart didn’t collapse, though the wheels sank deep into the ground. The draft horses would make short work of that, however.


“How did you know it would be here?” the priest, Gunnarsson, asked. He stood by her horse, his robes tucked up into his rope belt to keep them clean. His legs looked as if they’d never seen the sun before, white as the snow that still covered most of the ground.

“It spoke to me,” Lidja answered, not looking at Gunnarsson. “Called to me. It’s waited here for me, all these years.”

The two watched in silence as the draft horses were harnessed to the cart. The animals seemed agitated, bothered by the proximity of the stone. Or perhaps it was Lidja’s presence that was upsetting them. It had taken her gelding many years of training to tolerate her, and even now she could feel it twitching between her thighs. Animals could sense her kind. They used to act the same way around…

“…your mother,” Gunnarsson said from beside Lidja, taking her by surprise. She’d been lost in thought.

She turned to the priest. “What?” she snapped.

“Your mother, Freya. I was sorry to hear about her passing.”

“Oh, such a nice way to put it,” Lidja replied bitterly. “I suppose you think she’s with your God now?”

Gunnarsson shook his head, solemn. “No, child,” he said. “Your mother burns in hell as a witch. As will you.”

Lidja laughed. “Ah, Father, at least we can agree on one thing.” She looked back to the stone, sitting there in the back of the cart. “But before I do, I can do something you cannot.”

“And what is that?”

“I can return the deacon to his grave.”

Gunnarsson didn’t respond. He just looked at the cart as well. The horses were secured to it now, and one of the men slapped them across their hindquarters with a whip. They whinnied, even more displeased than before, and dragged the cart across the field. The wheels barely turned, ploughing twin furrows into the soil and snow as it inched forward.

“It is not too late for you, Lidja,” the priest said at last, his voice soft. “God forgives all sins.”
Lidja’s eyes remained upon the stone. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Not all.”


Lidja puts one hand flat against the rock, feels its chill, more cold even than the deacon’s wet, dead body. And getting colder.

The deacon spasms beneath her, inside her. It’s almost time.

Under her breath, she begins her incantation in a language old as the land itself. The stone beneath her hand turns colder still. The deacon seems unaware, lost in his undead ecstasy. He shudders beneath her again, grunts like an angry ape.

A freezing sensation runs through her body, starting in her loins and spreading out, filling her with ice water. She gasps as it threatens to swallow her whole; her mind flickers like a scrap of burning parchment caught in a blizzard. She struggles to remain conscious, to push the cold, empty darkness aside. She leans hard against the rock, continues the spell she memorised from the most potent grimoire that had belonged to her mother, before…


“Lidja!” Her mother’s voice cut through the gale outside, where Lidja was gathering firewood against the night. Something in her mother’s tone sent a twinge of fear through her stomach. She yanked her hatchet free of the lump of wood that she’d been trying to split in two and ran back towards the hut where she’d lived her whole life, just she and her mother, Freya, the most hated and feared woman for many miles. Freya the witch. Freya the demon. Freya the sorceress. And Lidja, daughter of Freya, tarred with the same brush. Her mother’s daughter.

She stepped into the hut and quickly closed the door behind her, to keep the worst of the winter wind outside. She shook herself like a wet dog, snow falling from her hair and shoulders, then looked for her mother. She wasn’t in the main room of the hut; the fireplace in the middle, its rough iron chimney going straight up through the roof, illuminated the scant furniture: a few tables, two straw beds covered in furs. Lidja was alone here.


She crossed the room and pulled aside the deerskin curtain that separated the cooking area from the living space. Her mother stood in front of the rough wooden table that had always been there, her back to Lidja. A handful of small bones were scattered before her. Even from where she stood, Lidja could see the patterns they had formed, knew what it meant. Spirals of deceit, constellations of lies.

Her mother knew.

Freya turned, eyes afire with barely-controlled rage. “Lidja,” she said through clenched teeth, “what is the meaning of this?” She clutched a birch rod in her hands, one that Lidja knew all too well.

Lidja stood there in the entryway, eyes lowered.

“I see your intent, daughter,” her mother continued, anger simmering like a three day stew. “I see the past and the future. You know that.”

Lidja nodded, still silent.

Freya took a step forward. “Did you honestly believe you could hide this from me? From me?” she shrieked.
Still Lidja didn’t respond, kept her head down. She knew her mother’s temper, bore many scars from years of punishment. She knew the sorceress’ strengths. And her weaknesses.

“Hold out your arms, child,” Freya ordered her daughter. She was shaking with rage now, apoplectic. She raised the rod that she held in her hands so tightly that her knuckles were as white as bone.

“No,” Lidja murmured.

“What did you say?” her mother hissed. “What did you say?”

Lidja looked up. “I said no. I’m not a child anymore.” There was a strength in her voice that she didn’t know she possessed. She felt as if she’d left her body and was floating beside it, watching on, detached. She watched herself meet her mother’s gaze without flinching. One hand lowered to her side. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

“We’ll see about that!” The beech rod whipped upwards, above Freya’s head. She bared her teeth, ready to strike.

Her mother was a fine seer, could see the future and the past with a startling clarity. But, like all seers, there was one occurrence that was hidden to her.

Her own demise.

Lidja swung her hatchet without fear or anger, just a stony resolve. Its head sank into the side of Freya’s neck. The beech rod fell to the earthen floor, and Lidja let go of the hatchet’s handle. It stayed there, sticking out at an odd angle. Freya’s lips moved, but no words emerged, just a deep, wet burble. She shuddered, and blood coloured her lips, dripped down her chin like berry juice. She fell to her knees, her confused eyes finding her daughter’s. They held a silent plea for mercy. Too late.

Lidja reached out and grasped the hatchet’s wooden handle again. Pulled it free.

Blood gushed from Freya’s neck like a burst dam, a flood released. She collapsed sideways to the earthen floor with a wet thud. She didn’t move again. Beneath the body, the dirt drank deeply of her.

Lidja stood there for a moment longer, her mother’s blood on her hands, her face, her soul. Then she put down the bloodied hatchet and opened the rear door of the hut. She grasped Freya’s ankles and dragged her body outside, into the snow. It would be her grave, at least until the spring thaw.

She returned inside and closed the door, leaving her mother and her guilt behind. Freya’s casting bones were still on the table, still in the pattern that had betrayed her. She gathered them up, focused her will on them, and tossed them across the table.

When they came to rest, they showed her the rock, so clear that she might have been standing in the field next to it.

Lidja smiled. She had much to do, and not much time. It wouldn’t be long before the people of Myrká sent for her. She had to be ready.


The rock cracks.

Lidja looks past the squirming corpse beneath her, and sees that the stone is no longer stone. It has turned to ice, clear and blue like the glaciers to the north. And across its smooth surface, a delicate spider web of fractures radiates out from beneath her palm, spreading wider and wider until it covers the ice entirely. She looses a triumphant cry, thrilled by the results.

The corpse’s eyes open again, milky-white cataracts clouding them. He looks at Lidja, a troubled expression on his grey, dead face.

In the corner, Gudrún sobs.

The deacon’s head turns towards the sound. “Garún?” he slurs. His eyes return to Lidja. “Garún?”

“Shhh,” Lidja hushes. She leans down and kisses the corpse lightly on the lips. Her tongue darts out, just a little, tasting his cold, dead flesh…


Want to read more? Get the Dark Pages anthology today!


Let’s get Peter Watts to Aussiecon

June 14, 2010

This is a perfect example of what I love about the Australian spec fic community. My good friend and awesome author Cat Sparks has come up with a damn fine plan, and I can only endorse it wholeheartedly. I’ll let Cat’s explanation stand unedited:

Many of you will be familiar with this story already but for anyone who isn’t:

Last year Canadian marine biologist and science fiction writer Dr Peter Watts underwent a terrifying ordeal at the hands of over zealous border crossing guards in Port Huron, USA. While leaving the United States on December 8, 2009, he was subject to an exit search, then beaten, maced and arrested when he tried to find out what was going on.

A full account of the incident and what was to follow is up on

Or hear him interviewed about his experience, podcast at Starship Sofa

Even though all he did was fail to promptly comply with border guards’ instructions, he narrowly escaped a prison sentence and is now officially a convicted felon and therefore no longer able to attend US conventions.

Peter’s short story ‘The Island’ from The New Space Opera 2, edited by Gardner Dozois and our own Jonathan Strahan has been nominated for a Hugo award. What with Worldcon being on Aussie soil in September this year, I thought it would be a good thing if he could fly out here for both the Hugos and Aussiecon itself.

To that end, with Peter’s permission, I’m conducting a raffle to raise money for his airfare and accommodation. First prize is tuckerisation in his next novel State of Grace. Peter says:

“make sure that all entrants realize that their namesakes will most likely come to a really painful and unpleasant end. And they may not be especially cuddly as characters before then…”

The Aussiecon committee has very kindly donated Peter’s membership. The rest is up to us. If you think the guy deserves a break, how about taking part in the raffle or making a donation?

I’ve never met Peter face-to-face but we’ve been email buddies since I sent him a gushing fan letter after reading his first novel Starfish some years back.

He is well known as an excellent value panelist and would be a fantastic asset to the ‘hard science fiction’ end of the con’s literary stream. He has also consented to participating in Dudcon where he will hand out the Ditmars and generally partake of other silliness as required.

To participate in the State of Grace tuckerisation raffle send AUS $10 via Paypal to

Email me privately if you’d prefer to buy a ticket via some other medium: cat at

If you’re not into tuckerisation but would like to sling a few bucks into the pot, that’s awesome too.

Any funds raised surplus to requirements will be donated to a reputable charity of Peter’s choice.

Feel free to re-post this message on your own blog if you consider this to be a worthy project

Thank you!

I’ll certainly be throwing my $10 in. This would be an awesome result for Peter and for Aussiecon, so if you can spare $10 of your own hardearned, please send it Cat’s/Peter’s way.



The website of author Alan Baxter

Alan Baxter, Author

Author of horror, dark fantasy & sci-fi. Kung Fu instructor. Personal Trainer. Motorcyclist. Dog lover. Gamer. Heavy metal fan. Britstralian. Zetetic.

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