Aurealis #140

By Michael Pryor (Editor)

Aurealis #140 brings you the touching future nostalgia of ‘Stories My Mum Told Me’ by Erin A Sayers, the tension filled ‘Door Thirteen’ by Caylee Tierney and the off-world otherness of ‘The Last Memory’ by Azure Arther. In our absorbing non-fiction, Daniel Thompson looks at planetology, Lachlan Walter explores SF film and Chris Foster has a sparkling interview with comedian/writer Stephen Hall. Don’t forget our extensive and insightful Reviews section and our stunning internal art from Peter Allert, Lynette Watters and Matt Bissett-Johnson. Aurealis, it’s quality through and through.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chimaera Publications
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922471055

Book preview

AUREALIS #140

Edited by Michael Pryor

Published by Chimaera Publications at Smashwords

Copyright of this compilation Chimaera Publications 2021

Copyright on each story remains with the contributor

EPUB version ISBN 978-1-922471-05-5

ISSN 2200-307X (electronic)

CHIMAERA PUBLICATIONS

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors, editors and artists.

Hard copy back issues of Aurealis can be obtained from the Aurealis website: www.aurealis.com.au

Contents

From the Cloud—Michael Pryor

Stories My Mum Told Me—Erin A Sayers

Door Thirteen—Caylee Tierney

The Last Memory—Azure Arther

How We Should Really Define Planets—Daniel Thompson

Science Fiction Films and the Disappearance of Satire—Lachlan Walter

Stealing Answers from Stephen Hall—Chris Foster

Reviews

Next Issue

Submissions to Aurealis

Credits

From the Cloud

Michael Pryor

As the great and much missed Terry Pratchett pointed out: ‘The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.’

True. So true that we at Aurealis feel it useful to extrapolate this cogent advice as an aid for all writers. To wit:

• The second draft is you telling the story to trusted readers.

• The third draft is you telling the story to your cat/dog.

• The fourth draft is you telling the story to random strangers on the street.

• The fifth draft is you telling the story on a nationally televised chat show.

• The sixth draft is you telling the story to the general assembly of the UN.

• The seventh draft is you telling the story to a shadowy transnational cabal.

• The eighth draft is you telling the story to yourself again, but under a blanket, in a hushed, quavering voice.

• The ninth draft is the story achieving self-awareness and telling itself.

• The tenth draft is the story rebelling against its master, destroying you and itself in an orgy of violence witnessed by villagers with flaming torches and pitchforks.

No need to thank us! Helping writers is part of our job.

All the best from the cloud!

Michael Pryor

Editor: Michael Pryor

Michael Pryor has published more than 35 novels and 50 plus short stories. He has been shortlisted for the Aurealis Award nine times, and eight of his books have been CBCA Notable books. His website is www.michaelpryor.com.au.

Associate Editor: Scott Vandervalk

Scott Vandervalk has been a freelance editor for over eight years, with projects ranging across the globe, from educational textbooks to novels, short stories, roleplaying games and boardgames, amongst other types of text. Scott has previously worked in science and education support, both of which have led to editing projects related to those fields. When not editing, Scott can also be found dabbling in gardening, cooking, writing or designing and playing games. Scott currently serves as president of the Bendigo Writers’ Council. Website: scottvandervalk.com.

Back to Contents

Stories My Mum Told Me

Erin A Sayers

Archival notes authorised: Australian National Library, dated 12 November 2046

I don’t remember the rain. Sometimes late at night I’d lie in my bed and scrunch up my face really tight and imagine the sounds of millions of tiny people tap dancing on the tin roof. I keep thinking I could remember the sound of rain as a kid; but now my imagination’s faded, just like the colour of the landscape surrounding our farm.

Mum used to talk about the torrents of water that fell down from the sky in the old days. It didn’t matter how far from the coast you lived, endless clouds filled with oceans pelted down on the heads of the rich and poor alike, all bound to the cycles of the weather.

After a few drinks she always liked to talk of when, hundreds of years ago, the middle of our country used to swell with summer rains and blossom with life, transforming into a majestic lake that stretched further than the eye could fly. I was sure it was the alcohol, muddling her mind. No-one alive had ever seen that much water. And magic was just the stuff of children’s playtime.

One time at my grandmother’s flat in the city, I’d been winning at hide and seek. My perfect spot was in her back room, nestled under her beach gear and old clothing. Then I found them. Everything had collapsed in on me as I yanked them free, more obsessed with my prize than any game. Gran had come running along with Mum and Dad, panic pulling their faces into strange knots.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ I begged, jumping up and down.

Dad’s expression sank. ‘What were you thinking?’

Mum’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to tug Gran back, suddenly scared, but Gran shook her off.

‘My dear one.’ Gran knelt down, her legs groaning just like the old staircase down the hall. ‘Long before you were here, your grandfather and I used to strap those to our feet.’ She fondly stroked my prize. ‘And zoom down rivers of frozen water.’

Bright curiosity beamed from my eyes. ‘But how did you get enough water to freeze it?’

Gran grinned. ‘It fell from the sky, already frozen.’

I was convinced she’d been lying. Not even water fell from the sky, let alone frozen water.

Later that night I’d heard Mum and Dad shouting in the kitchen. We never went back to Gran’s house after that.

Every time I asked about the frozen rain, Dad had walked away, muttering about fixing the bots in the back field. The more I asked, the less he replied. One day he went out to fix the old bots and never came back.

I’d gotten bigger, talked less about Gran and the sticks I found in her back room. I’d learnt to fix the bots myself, learnt how they used the water from deep underground to make our crops grow. Even then, they didn’t grow to be green. Everything that came from our earth was faded, lacking some essence of life.

Mum started staying in the house, using her uplink to obsess over the ongoing rubbish from Canberra. They said the water from underneath would last forever, that desalination tech would save the farmers. That given enough time, as long as you voted for them, they could make everything better.

That was when Mum began talking about the rain. And you could always find a beer gripped in her fingers. She’d talk about the sound of each drop, the smell as it smothered the land. She’d mumble in her sleep about how many umbrellas she had to keep in her bag, just to keep herself dry when the torrents fell.

Even the day when the bots stopped pulling water from the ground, Mum had talked about the rain. That was the day I finally understood why Dad had left. No story of water could make up for the hole the Drought left in the hearts of those who had to cling to the dust.

* * *

Archival notes authorised: Australian National Library, dated 27 April 2069

I’d never seen the country, not for real. Vid feeds of what life was like out in the wastelands always played on the educational channels, but even the 3D rendering of red dust wasn’t the same as feeling it in your fingers. A lifetime of staring out to the sea, I’d grown an obsession with the land, the long distance between the east and west coast, dust and wind and long hot days.

It was my mother and all her lost tales of growing up working the soil that started the whole thing, my obsession. We’d lost things in stages as the climate changed: first the snow, then winter, then the rain and finally the very land that used to feed countless countries. We’d studied all this in my primary school classes. It was hard to