Aurealis #148

By Stephen Higgins (Editor)

Aurealis #148 is the latest issue of the premier speculative fiction magazine. It has everything from fantastic fiction to provocative articles, news, reviews and stunning artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chimaera Publications
• Release date: Mar 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922471147

Book preview

AUREALIS #148

Edited by Stephen Higgins

Published by Chimaera Publications at Smashwords

Copyright of this compilation Chimaera Publications 2022

Copyright on each story remains with the contributor

EPUB version ISBN 978-1-922471-14-7

ISSN 2200-307X (electronic)

CHIMAERA PUBLICATIONS

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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

Contents

From the Cloud—Stephen Higgins

Mirrorsong—Leon D Furze

Enough Builders—Jennie Del Mastro

Channeling Ernest—Ian Pohl

Plant Life in Speculative Fiction Claire Fitzpatrick

The World of Out of Silence by Erle Cox—Gillian Polack

Foundation vs Dune: A Reader’s Perspective—Terry Wood

Dangerous Visions: An Interview with Andrew Nette—Michael Pryor

Reviews

Next Issue

Submissions to Aurealis

Credits

From the Cloud

Stephen Higgins

The Sense of Wonder

Many years ago, I read that it was the sense of wonder engendered by science fiction and fantasy that actually appealed to young readers and got them interested on a long-term basis. As the young reader progressed from juvenile adventures through to more adult fare, the sense of wonder was gradually amped up. However, as the young reader is having their sense of wonder engaged, the elements that induce the sense of wonder have to get bigger and better. Think of a series of Doctor Who. Each successive season of ‘New Who’ has had to dig deeper to give the viewer their ‘fix.’ And each successive ‘fix’ requires a stronger fix subsequently. So, by the time a reader has reached middle age (or older) they require pretty comprehensive wonders to appease them. In Doctor Who they tend to increase the Dalek ratio to get viewers ‘high’. Occasionally they can find some element that actually plugs into the sense of wonder in an original manner (I’m thinking of the ‘Blink’ episode here) but then, having exposed the ravening fan to the Weeping Angels once, they had to ramp up the Angel elements to keep the fans happy. This of course is going to lead to a Dalek/Weeping Angel episode if it hasn’t already.

I am in the happy position of reading lots of stories from a variety of writers and so I get my fix fairly regularly. It is a genuine thrill when, as editors, we come across a genuinely new voice, with a genuinely new idea. Sense of Wonder sated.

But I do worry sometimes that, like some addled drug addict, I am going to reach a point where it is impossible for me to get that hit of SF wonderment that is going to satisfy me. I know as we age, we tend to become a bit blasé about things. This, coupled with the fact that I have been reading speculative fiction for ages, means it takes a lot to really move me. The reassuring thing here is that the writers who are providing me with my ‘hit’ of wonder are in the same boat as me. They have read and seen just about every element that can be thrown at an audience member and it is up to them to come up with that new angle that will interest readers. So far so good in this area. My plea is for writers to keep going that extra mile to impress a reader. I don’t want to end up as a pathetic reader trying to get a fix from other genres simply because speculative fiction has run out of ideas.

All the best from the cloud!

Stephen Higgins

Editor: Stephen Higgins

Stephen has been interested in science fiction for ages and has written a few stories for Aurealis in the past. Lately he has been creating a lot of music. His latest album is ‘Architectural Fragments’. You can hear his music on Spotify, iTunes, Bandcamp and Soundcloud and all of the other usual places you get your music. You can find out more at www.stephenhigginsmusic.com.

Associate Editor: Terry Wood

Terry Wood is a political consultant, writer and editor from Brisbane, and has been an Associate Editor and Non-fiction Coordinator for Aurealis since 2015. He has also been involved with Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. He can be found at terrywood.com.au.

Back to Contents

Mirrorsong

Leon D Furze

That dream again. Waking, a thick clammy sweat coating my chest and back like oil. Gasping for air. Clawing at the sheets. The smell of smoke in my nostrils. But it is just a dream, isn’t it? This time.

I rub sleep from my eyes with the back of my hand and feel dampness. Crying in my sleep then. Good job there’s no-one around to hear me. No-one. I tell myself today’s the day, but then I tell myself that every morning. I tell myself there are too many ghosts here, that it’s time to pack up and move on, to head towards the city where there’s a chance… A chance of what, though?

A chance of getting shot or beaten or raped or worse. A chance that I’d get fifty kilometres out of here on foot before some injury—some dog bite or infected cut or a fucking blister—put me on my back in the dirt. I sit up in the bed and pull the thin sheet around me. The sheet smells of damp and the metallic, earthy scent of bore water. I shiver despite the heat of the morning. Maybe tomorrow then. Tomorrow I’ll leave.

* * *

The pump’s been on the fritz, as my nan would have said. It’s her house I’m in now, since mine’s in no state for anyone to live in. Problem started a few weeks ago, juddering and cutting out, especially days like this when it’s already creeping up to forty and it’s not even mid-day. I swear at the sound of it clanging and huffing and grab the wrench that lives on the kitchen counter. The fucking thing will need pulling to bits, flushing, priming and I can’t really be arsed, but if I don’t there’ll be no water and no water in this heat means I die. Simple really.

‘Real simple,’ I say out loud. Been a long time since I worried about talking to myself. Long time since I worried about anything except keeping the damned pump going, and checking the genny, and whether or not today would be the day I’d finally get up the guts to leave.

I whack the pump with the flat side of the wrench just for fun and the metal sound echoes around the barren yard like a gunshot. That doesn’t really do it for me, so I give the bastard thing a kick for good measure, then set to work unscrewing the hose and pulling its guts out. I’ve already worked up a sweat just stepping out the back door but at least it’s the working-in-the-heat kind of sweat and not that bitter, stinking fear-sweat that comes out of me while I sleep.

When I’m done with the job, I fix everything back up good and tight, give it another kick just to make sure and wait until I can hear water running through the pipes before I head inside. When I pour out a glass the water is warm and brown and shifty looking, but I gulp it down anyway, the taste like red earth and iron, like blood.

* * *

I reckon I’ve lost about twenty kilos since the boys last caught a wild pig and we had real meat in the house. The last time they went they said they’d hunt down some of those wild pigs that we could hear at night.

I told them they weren’t pigs we could hear screaming in the blue gums.

They came back empty handed, and they never went out again. Never had a chance. That was a month ago if I’ve been keeping track of the days right. I’m down to the last half a dozen tins of Spam—Spam! Whoever thought fucking Spam was a good idea needs shooting—and when those tins run out, and the tinned corn, peas and baby carrots mix, then I’m going to have to make a dash into town whether I want to or not.

Today feels like the hottest one yet. Looking at the calendar it’s February the 14th. I look at myself in the smeared glass of the kitchen window and think it’s not fucking likely I’ll be getting any Valentine’s cards this year.

Red hair, Mum’s hair, but all knotted and stuck to my neck with sweat. She’d never let me get away with that. Got to brush every day with those curls or you’ll end up all in knots. Look at me now, Mum. Look at me.

Someone look at me.

Anyone.

* * *

I must have dozed off because I wake up on the faded couch in the lounge with a half-tin of Spam leaking its jelly down my left thigh. The smell of it—sweet and salty with undertones of dog food—makes me suddenly heave and I run to the bathroom to chuck. That’s the second time I’ve been sick this week. There’s something wrong with me. It’s not just the night sweats. I’ve had them since the… since what happened.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and the smear of grease from my mouth