Autopsy of a Comedian e-launch
Today my second e-collection of short stories with Clan Destine Press launches!
I'm celebrating by holding an online launch and releasing audio snippets of the stories via Facebook and Twitter.
I've gathered them all here for your listening pleasure, just click the titles to listen. And if you'd like to buy the collection, you can get it here:
http://clandestinepress.com.au/ebook/autopsy-comedian
Audio teasers:
A forensic pathologist is confronted with a case that gets under his skin and inside his mind.
A private detective – down on his luck, whose daughter is missing – has an unexpected encounter with the living dead.
They’re the perfect couple with the perfect life, until one day when the mysterious pods start arriving.
For a has been artist, now teacher, one final chance for artistic glory comes at a price.
And as a bonus track, a teaser of the lead story in my first collection, the award-winning:
You can buy that collection here: http://clandestinepress.com.au/ebook/clean-job
Last game of the day
A short story!
This spec fic story of mine appears in the sci-fi and fantasy magazine: Allegory. First few paragraphs here then click the link to read the rest of the story ... Hope you enjoy :)
The last game of the day
The problem wasn’t so much in the game. The problem was in the aftermath of the game. We were always spent and wanted to knock off. But the Playground was usually a mess.
‘Day’s not over yet, people. Clean up duty. Now.’
He was blonde, lean and dressed as a security guard. None of us could tell at that moment who was Halo and who was Human. It was hard enough any time, but straight after a long game, judgement was particularly impaired. Blondie was holding a gun so we gave him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Sunday tomorrow. Family day. This place has got to be spotless for the little kiddies.’
I tried doing a head count, wanting to know how many we’d lost today. But there was a bunch of us and my eyes kept jumping. It was late, already dark and we were all exhausted.
I’d noticed two new Gamers but only picked up one new name. She called herself Didi.
Read full story here (it's free!)
A Clean Job and other stories
Merry end of 2013 and happy 2014!
As a little combined update and teaser about my last few months writing, below is the opening of my 2012 Scarlet Stiletto Award winning story: A Clean Job. It's just been published with Clan Destine Press as part of my first e-collection of short stories.
Enjoy! And look for the links at the end if you'd like to read more.
Happy New Year :)
A Clean Job
Up and at ‘em. High level activity in South Precinct. Up for it?
The message dragged Fitz from a deep sleep. On auto-pilot she punched a return message: There in 20.
She blinked her eyes into full focus. It was 9.48 pm. Not too bad, she thought. She’d had over two hours sleep; proper, restful, undisturbed sleep. If she got that twice a day she was doing well.
Her heart skipped when she saw who the message was from. It was a sure sign she should have calibrated. The customised dose of chemicals, delivered via skin absorption technology, was recommended at least once a day. Calibration levelled emotions, keeping the mind clear and relaxed – the ideal state for optimal function.
Some days Fitz just wanted to keep her edge, rather than smooth out every emotional bump. This often got her in trouble, but her innate skill and position as an elite operative was born from her daring attitude. And even though she knew that it could lead to danger and loss of judgement, Fitz liked the buzz she got when she saw Maxine’s name on her screen.
Fitz zipped up her jacket and pulled on her boots. In the kitchen she splashed water on her face and sculled a cup of cold, black coffee. Then she checked and packed her mobile calibrator and the tranquilizer. Lastly, she slipped Marilyn into the holster at her belt. High level activity usually meant danger.
You can read more about the collection of four crime themed stories here, or download it from the Clan Destine Press website here.
Tipping point
I've been writer in residence for Pop Up Playground since late last year and have a few new stories up on their web page. It's a very cool gig. They organise immersive and interactive games of all kinds. My job is to take part, get inspired and write a story in response.
This one is called Tipping point and is a response to The Whispering Society that was part of White Night Melbourne.
The intro is here and then the link takes you to the rest of the story. Enjoy!
Tipping point
All he did was stop for a coffee.
Tuesday morning, city square. Autumn sunlight bouncing off the little canal they built into the concrete pavers. The smell of promise in the air. Autumn in Melbourne always smells like promise.
His grey suit, nice cut, looking like he forked out a bit for it. Maybe he’s on his way to an interview. He’s nervous. Low self-esteem. The shoes are worn but polished and just a bit too much after-shave scent trailing in his wake. Soapy, with undertones of cigarette smoke. Hands shaking gently as he wraps them around the cardboard cup, flicks the lid off, blows on the coffee.
It’s one of those pretty coffees. The barista has taken care, drawn a delicate swirl in the crema, shaped like a love heart. If the guy had looked closely it might have been warning enough. But only if he’d recognised the symbol. And why would he? He was a regular guy, with ordinary hopes and petty fears, feeling a bit flat on a Tuesday morning, wanting the buzz of a caffeine lift.
He wasn’t one of us.
If he’d heard anything he would have put it down to city noise, the girls chattering like gulls on the other side of the street. Did he hear anything? Or just feel a twinge in his chest, put it down to the coffee and wonder why he couldn’t shake the growing sense of anger inside him for the rest of the day. Would he have been conscious of the change? When his girlfriend or boyfriend or kids or whoever later that night asked him what was wrong, why he was acting strange, would he have seen himself through their eyes and got a creeping terror inside? Or would it have been too late by then, he was all but gone, subsumed by the Return, catapulting towards some act of destruction beyond his control.
‘Don’t stop there!’ I should have yelled out to the guy. ‘Keep moving! You’re in the middle of a Fabric Hole and your body is about to be snatched!’
Every time I see one I think that. But what can I do? Follow every person around like a frigging guard dog? Not possible. There are too many people, too many holes and too many souls seeking the Return. We were never allowed to interfere. Now the Society’s all but dead I guess I could. Some have, still do. But how the hell would I choose who to save and who to let go?