The Day Chivalry Died

By Eugen Bacon

sfgenreSOYA WAS SITTING and minding her own business at New Harrods and its floating gardens, cushioned in its seats like billows of cloud, when a wild-eyed Englishman with runaway hair and pointing a screwdriver threw himself at her. 

She knew at once that chivalry was dead. 

‘Doctor Who,’ he said with excitement. ‘And you’re not from around here.’

‘Who?’

‘That’s right. And this—’ he nodded at the squealing device. ‘It’s my sonic screwdriver. You’ve just set it off.’

He pressed the handle and the darned thing stopped squealing. ‘New in this part of the world?’

‘Not so much.’ 

‘What brings you to New London?’

Soya smiled. ‘I hear the city has some fine male specimen.’

He pushed his face even closer to hers, his smile bigger. ‘You’re looking at one.’

‘They just need to do you up a bit.’ 

He stared at her for a long time. ‘Do what?’

‘Your face. Your hair.’ 

He laughed. ‘Never. I like how I come.’

‘A New Londoner.’ She considered his owl face. ‘Are you available?’

‘Technically, I’m not from here,’ he said. ‘But I’m always available. Would you like to see my Tardis?’

‘Your tar what?’

He grabbed her arm. ‘Come,’ before she could protest. He guided the pillow float to the exit, gave the waiter in a coat with tails a generous tip, and bounced Soya out into the street where he pointed at a blue phone box. 

It was bigger in the inside than it was in the outside. And it was full of controls. She moved to touch a handle.

‘Don’t!’ his bark startled her. ‘I wouldn’t touch that. Unless you want to find yourself in Galsec Seven, Peladon or the Eye of Orion. But you’re welcome to this.’ He slapped a wall and a fully furnished king bed fell from it. ‘Would you like a shag?’

‘What?!’

‘Emma’s seeking audience with the queen—’

‘Who is Emma and what’s she got to do with whether or not I want a sh—seriously!’

‘Emma’s my travel companion, and we need to convince the queen to part with her crown, only for a moment, to appease the ghost of wishes otherwise the Apocalypse monks of Andurax will obliterate the entire universe.’ 

That’s how it all started. And some consummation did happen, very eventfully, because the doctor knew exactly how to give a woman pleasure. 

The ‘companion’ Emma arrived without warning, a twinkling coronet in her hand. Dark-skinned Emma with her blood lips and high cheekbones, stunning as a beautiful planet on her own, breathtaking with the coronet and a stern face. 

‘That’s not a crown,’ said Doctor Who. 

‘This is all you get,’ she said to the doctor, never mind he was naked arsed with a woman beneath him. ‘It would be very nice if you could thank me for trying.’

Soya appeared the only one uncomfortable in the situation. 

‘We have a universe to save,’ said Doctor Who and pushed her out of the Tardis as she was putting on her boots. 

Emma was already fiddling with the controls the doctor had forbidden Soya from touching, and the Tardis was beginning to wheeze and hump.  

***

His visits to New London were frequent, and always from some wild expedition with his exotic companion who seemed to neither like nor dislike Soya. Emma just wanted to get the job done, whichever job, and somehow Soya always felt in the way of it. 

For the strangest reason, Doctor Who never visited Soya’s apartment in St James’s Park. He preferred to leave the Tardis across the street and bring her into it for some quick intimacy, during which time his companion managed to make herself scarce. 

The doctor never asked questions of Soya, showed no curiosity of where she’d come from. Soya couldn’t understand her own determined liking of Doctor Who. With this Englishman who insisted he was a time lord—the last of them—she was boiling the Thames. He was guarded roof to cellar. Miles of chasing, she was nowhere near his heart. He gave in fistfuls and segments, never in bucket loads. If she drew near, he loped, skittered and dived into the furthest planet. Took him entire days to soar back to New London with his wheezing Tardis. 

And he was a perfectionist; she suspected that he questioned if she was enough. That he was never looking for ‘the one’. What was it with men, and their ‘companions’? But right now, Doctor Who was a good problem to have, unlike some fruit loops she’d dated in the past. Her romance history across the universe, and centuries, was smeared with breaks, swirls, clatters and cracks. Occasionally there were gallops—his or hers. She’d hoped to find love in New London. But Doctor Who was a blackhole: strong enough to bend light, warped in his distorted space and time. 

He would garble like a mad scientist about some demon’s run, or celestial toymakers, or dominators and the great intelligence, but when it came to matters of spicing up a romance, he was almost passionless. Uncrackable his calm, even when she sent him a hologram of herself in lingerie from her apartment in St James’s Park. The indifference in this New Londoner who insisted he wasn’t from this planet still stunned. 

But his kiss, when he gave it, was poetic, an abundance of butterflies and honey. It dappled her soul with peach, ginger and lime. Think colours: corals. His caress was both virgin and capable, and she gasped and strained in his arms. It wasn’t just sex. There was a kind of enchantment that swathed her in its glow the moment he laid a finger, tongue or toe on her skin. He didn’t like feral talk and lost his erection the one time she showed him an exotic plug. With him it wasn’t sex; it was a dance. An elegant dance.  

During intimacy, he was present. His touch—lip, tongue, finger or toe—conducted an orchestra inside her body. It was that presence that made up for gaps in his self-created absences. How he guarded his independence! Sometimes Soya felt he treated his companion better than he did her. He’d drop everything and sprint to Emma without a blink if she beckoned. As for Soya, she had to milk time.  

Within days of agreeing to be ‘exclusive’ he announced an impromptu trip—it could take months or years, he explained. He was going to The Edge of Destruction with his Emma. Soya’s jaw dropped. Before she could stammer, ‘What about us?’ his words tumbled out. ‘Let’s take a break,’ he said. ‘Until I’m back. I’m not sure I’ll be wanting to continue.’ 

He had chosen to dine her in the Tardis, his companion Emma fiddling with some controls and pretending not to listen… Soya couldn’t make a scene. 

‘Break?’ she said it like a word whose meaning she didn’t recognise. 

Doctor Who moved slightly away, as if Soya’s emotiveness overwhelmed him. But her look must have shaken out the explanation. He discharged a careful speech about time lords and their inability to commit to one person. 

‘You want a b-break? Like seeing other p-people?’

‘That’s not a factor. I’m going to save the world. I won’t have time for other women.’

 ‘A break.’ Air in her head. There was nothing optional about his proposal. ‘We won’t even talk?’

‘I’m happy to communicate. Let’s hologram.’

***

Later, much later, she remembered a dog just outside the Tardis: the beast yowled when her heels clipped its tail. A low-flying spacer: it soared above her head as she stumbled to near suicide from eyes blinded with tears. She remembered the air, filled with a stench of dead corals. She didn’t remember how she got back home to St James’s Park.  

A break until he got back? 

Would have been nice if he’d shared his time-lordish fear of commitment before he slapped down the bed and nudged her to their first intimacy. She pondered whether to snip the head off whatever it was they had. She wrestled with the thought a couple of days. Finally sent him a hologram: 

You’ve managed to hurl a grenade at a fine working relationship. Your kind, you will never run out of grenades.  

It unharnessed a response: What do you mean ‘your kind’? 

She replied: Chronic relationship killers. 

He replied: Shall we talk? 

She met him outside the Tardis. She towered him in her heels. But one kiss straight from a wild bees’ honeycomb, and her sophistication collapsed. She forgot everything, forgave massacre. 

***

Alas, back in her apartment, bewilderment returned. But his new holo, and all it said was, hey, lifted her to rhapsody. She was in love, she realised, madly, madly. 

Just before dawn her holo came alive and it was Doctor Who. ‘It’s me,’ he said, as if she couldn’t tell. What she could certainly tell were the sounds of Emma operating controls, the Tardis honking like a mule and ready to transverse into space. 

She waited for the inevitable breakup, then it dawned, seconds into the holo: he only wanted to connect. 

‘I think,’ she said hesitantly, ‘we have a good synergy together. How about we see how we go?’

‘I agree,’ he said. 

Good. No more rubbish of breaks.

***

She got a bit morose as days passed, and she put it down to January blues. She missed the bark of his laugher, the peer in his mad-scientist gaze. His owl face and ridiculous hair. Sensual lips that delivered the sweetest kiss full of honey and butterflies. 

Her spirits lifted when she woke up to a holographic avatar, and there was her doctor smiling at her in cool English charm. 

She was content to impartial holos two or three days after her own earnest holos. He sent her a recreation of his battle with the Daleks, how he destroyed the brain of the city of Exxilon, the Daleks with it. Then there was a canoe rafting holo in a white river wash, the image bright with Doctor Who’s jungle smile and Emma’s raw glee as she fell into him in some remote planet. 

Soya’s holo said: Promise you’ll take me on an adventure? When are you back? x

Silence. 

Three days, 11 hours, 42 seconds. 

Silence. 

By the fourth day, her bile was spilling. 

She sent another holo: Need that much thinking? x

It whisked out a response: We’ve been in battle! Ranskoor Av Kolos. The Ux need me, but I am a time lord. I’m not a god for them. And I’m not a god for you either!  

It appeared she had stirred Mr Passionless, pulled his anger out alive. 

She sat on his response a whole day. Awoke to his second holo at dawn: Sometimes your messages make me uneasy. 

Exhilaration, he was sharing his feelings. 

Now she responded: I guess, every now and then, I just need reassurance. x

He sat on it a whole day. And then his holo arrived. It was 3am her time, he had woken her up to tell her this. All she saw was a bunch of dancing images. He was someplace remote, and the lip sync was off. But his message that arrived seconds after his lips moved walloped home: Reassurance is something I cannot give. I agreed to stay in communication. 

Soya fell back a moment. She had clung to a hope that the situation was only passing. That they would construct their relationship when he came back to New London. His words confirmed there were no bones to salvage: the vacillation was a forever thing. 

Inside, she erupted. Her anger surged from her stomach to her throat. She wanted to unleash a scream that spiralled upwards and outwards. What man was this? 

Outside, to him, not a word. 

She installed a firewall to his holograms. The action communicated her entire feelings, or a darn good approximation of them. After the swirl of him, this crack was hers, of her doing. Actually it was a gorge, and it was fatal. She was happy to own it. She was done with men who threw her bones. Plummeted any such man to where he could never destroy her. 

She went to an upside-down aquatic centre just off Waterloo Road and in walking distance to the war museum. She dived up into the water and swam like a whale was blowing the pool. Lap after lap, she mentally reconstructed his holos. Communication? Communication! She hated those words. Had he even communicated? Detached holos every third day, that was his idea of communication? What about the butterflies, the honey, the waltz? How he put a melt in her skin? What was that if it meant zilch? 

She walked home under a brooding moon. Not that she missed Doctor Who. Right now, she couldn’t bear to think of his face. Quite simply her obsession—is that what it was?—had dissipated. His dazzle faded.

***

An avatar slipped up on her screen, and she latched onto it: Zed. He was a South Londoner. Months back she and Zed had gone on a couple of dates. They’d met on some hologram dating site. He spoke so badly, how was he even English? But he was. Born and bred in Croydon. Even though the Home Office and its bureaucracy had long since moved to virtual, and now provided robotic automation at its best, it left behind the old Croydon. The u-bend suburb was still quite beat yet compact, a shabby sort packed with rough patches and dodgy crowds. It was wholly starved of New London's theatre and fine dining culture. 

But Zed’s holo profile said he liked fine dining, cafés, local pubs and art exhibitions. He travelled big, just never interstellar. Great circle of friends, a bit surprising for the self-deprecating sort he turned out to be. Perhaps bitter about women—he’d talked about a couple of bad experiences. Slogged the evening. Nothing came of those dates with him.

She holo’ed him now anyway. Catch up for a drink? 

His holo was instant (unlike someone she knew): Nawmally I would say yes. You ‘ave an advantage over me… Know what I mean?

Her holo: N-no. 

His holo: How’ve yew been? Yes, a drink. OK?

Monday night he picked her up in his spacer. Brushed her lips lightly with his. He was as she remembered, tall, goodlooking-ish, ash crop head. He took her to Michelin House, afloat like a giant eagle above Canary Wharf. 

He remembered everything about her, things she had told him those many months ago: how she swam daily, her passion for Rory King’s Liberate Your Imagination, her favourite holo show: The Mentalist. 

Unlike those first two dates when he was remote, listened with polite silence to her small talk—no wonder they never eventuated to anything—in this one Zed was different. He was reborn: opening doors, fingering her waist, taking her hand across the table to such extent she needed talent to manoeuvre cutlery, slice her steak, sip her wine. 

‘Dated other people?’ she asked.

‘This woman, nuff said, yeah? Dog was ‘er kid, it lived indoors. Slept in ‘er bed. You turned ter give a cuddle, dog’s brearf in yaaahr face. I set up a romantic getaway, got a luxury bouquet what came along wiv chocolates: presen’ed da voucher. But da dog. She said. Can’t go wivaaaht da dog. Eight months ov da dog was mawer van enough, innit. And you?’

She started to tell him about Doctor Who, then shook her head. ‘Nothing unforgettable.’ 

He laughed lightly at her jokes, asked questions about her likes, dislikes... The gold in his pupils magnetised her. 

‘What do you like in a woman?’ she asked. 

‘Lingerie. Heels. Lips. OK?’

‘A bit shallow. But honest, I give you that.’

A few things set off a siren or two, like he’d been wed twice. She didn’t know that.  ‘What happened?’ she asked. 

‘Three fngs. I’ll tell yew in ‘er words.’ The way he said it, she didn’t want to be on the other end of that curled lip. ‘Blimey! One she said I was controlling, planned all ‘olidays. She never arranged anyfng, didn’ know ‘ow. And sure, I put me foot down when I ‘ad a problem wiv a ‘oliday in Hawaii five times in a row. Nuff said, yeah?’

‘Two?’

‘She said I was not thankful. Seriously laughable. Nuff said, yeah.’ The curled lip. 

‘What was the third thing?’

‘This one I agree wiv. She said I was critical. If yew ask me opinion, I’ll give it. If yew say, Honey, is me ass all big in dis dress, and it is, sorted mate, I’ll say it’s all big. Why ask if yew don’ wan’ da truth?’

‘And the second wife?’

‘Dat was number two. De first, we married young. When I said I’m movin’ out, she didn’ protest. Know what I mean?’

But the gold in his eyes... And the restaurant: the lighting, the music, the smells, the choice of wine: she was heady. 

He spoke lightly in the spacer. Touched her thigh when he shifted gears. A lemon moon in the horizon, the promise of a proper relationship... Her riotous heart. She did not hesitate to ask him in for coffee at St James’s Park. He didn’t refuse. She swooned in his arms the instant her front door opened, melted as he whispered, ‘Now it begins,’ against her lips. Moaned as his mouth swallowed hers. 

He left quietly. 

No hologram the following day or the next. Nothing thanked her for a fabulous evening. 

Finally, she broke her resolve, holo’ed: Lingerie, heels and lips. You got all three. x

His response was instant: Runnin’ late. Cheers. OK?

Knocked her breath out a full minute. 

When her lungs recovered, she weighed if Zed’s was a gallop.  Then she questioned if she was the problem. But how could she be? She was independent, not clingy or that knee-jerking. She’d endured dung. The godparent of dung. 

She wanted to reach a pillow and cry. 

Doctor Who and his Emma were changing history in missions to the unknown. Visiting ghost monuments and rescuing women who fell to Earth—just not this woman. Here she was in New London, her heart cracking. 

Just then a hologram trembled in her room. 

It was Zed. 

Doubt, he said. I always get it. Tend ter over fnk. How’ve yew been? OK?

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About the Author

Eugen M. Bacon

eugenbaconEugen Bacon has sold many stories and articles, together with anthologies. Her stories have won, been shortlisted and commended in international awards, including the Bridport Prize, L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and Copyright Agency Prize. Literary speculative novel — Meerkat Press (2019). Creative nonfiction book — Macmillan (2019)

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Issue 250 Print Edition

AntipodeanSF Issue 250 is now ready via print on demand.

Please visit <https://lulu.com> and order now!

All profits donated to Australian Science Fiction Foundation fan funds.

Ebook version also now at Smashwords

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AntiSF & The ASFF

AntipodeanSF supports the ASFF

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Please visit the ASFF website and consider joining for up-to-date info about Australian SF cons, awards, competitions, and to receive the Foundation's newsletter, Instrumentality, and more.

<https://asff.org.au>

The AntipodeanSF Radio Show

AntiSF's Production Crew

nuke conflux 2017 200Ion Newcombe is the editor and publisher of AntipodeanSF, Australia’s longest running online speculative fiction magazine, regularly issued since January 1998, and conceived back around November 2007. He has been a zealous reader and occasional writer of SF since his childhood in the 1960s, and even sold a few stories here and there back in the '90s.

“Nuke”, who it turns out loves editing more than writing, lives in the New South Wales North Coast holiday destination of Nambucca Heads, where he is self-employed in IT training, computer support, desktop publishing, editing, writing, and website implementation. He is also the resident tech-head, skeptic, and board member of community radio station 2NVR, where he produces a number of shows including The AntipodeanSF Radio Show.

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mark web 200Mark Webb's midlife crisis came in the form of attempting to write speculative fiction at a very slow pace. His wife maintains this is a good outcome considering the more expensive and cliched alternatives. Evidence of Mark's attempts to procrastinate in his writing, including general musings and reviews of books he has been reading, can be found at www.markwebb.name.

One of Mark’s very best forms of writing procrastination is to produce the eBook series for AntipodeanSF, which he has been doing since issue 175.

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In The Next Issue...

Coming In Issue 256

Evolution
by Botond Teklesz

Hairy Story
By Tim Train

COLN
By Derek Smith

Dear Humans, Your Rent is Due
By Martin Lochman

Dear Santa
By S.A. McKenzie

Fortune Telling for Beginners
By Col Hellmuth

Kindling for the Fire
By JD Campbell

Mallcity 14 Child's Play
By Shaun A Saunders

Origins Unknown
By Jacob Edwards

Out of Africa
By Ishmael A Soledad

Space Station Interlude
By Terry Persun

The Dream Report
By Chris Kelso

The Truth Bomb
By JT Velikovsky

The Contributors

terry persun 200Terry Persun’s poems and stories have appeared in many magazines including Wisconsin Review, Kansas Quarterly, Riverrun, Rattle, Hiram Poetry Review, Bluestem, NEBO, Cirque, Eclipse, Bacopa, and many others.

His poems have appeared in six, chapbooks and five collections.

He was recently included in the 2019 Rhysling Anthology for sicnce fiction and fantasy poetry. He is also a novelist and has recently won first place in the Book Excellence Awards for science fiction.

Terry speaks at writers’ conferences and universities across the country. <www.TerryPersun.com>.

Colin Howe has been a fan of Science Fiction since the middle of last century, and is especially interested in time travel.

He has had many articles, and a book, published, all in the non fiction category.

This is his first published (intentionally) fictional story (notwithstanding some of the reports he has written for his job).

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Ryan Priest is an American writer who lives in Denver.

He's a former screenwriter and now makes his living developing software. For more of his writing please see <www.RyanPriest.net>.

andrew dunn 200Andrew settled in the state of Maryland on the eastern coast of the United States after living in southern California for many years.

Andrew’s goal with each story he writes is to produce something readers will enjoy without relying on the typical, the predictable, or the cliché. That said, Andrew likes to put people, places, and things into his stories that often aren’t found in fiction.

When Andrew isn’t writing chances are he’s at work, out for a jog, playing blues guitar or reggae bass, exploring abandoned things, or quite possibly spending quality time with the pets. Andrew hopes you enjoy his work, and he will continue to work to give you stories that entertain.

grace chan 200Grace Chan is a Melbourne-based speculative fiction writer and doctor. Her family immigrated from Malaysia to Australia before her first birthday. She completed a medical degree in 2012 and is currently working and training in psychiatry. In her downtime, she enjoys coffee, space operas, and thinking about where we come from and where we’re all going.

Her writing can be found in Going Down Swinging, Verge: Uncanny and Clarkesworld (forthcoming). Her novella, The Ship of Theseus, was shortlisted for Viva la Novella VII. You can find her at gracechanwrites.com.

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Timothy Yang lived and worked in Sydney and Melbourne as a doctor for ten years.

He previously won the Singapore National Arts Council award for short fiction, and his work has previously appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.

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karen andrews 200Karen Andrews is an award-winning writer, author, editor, poet and publisher. Her work has appeared in journals and publications throughout the country.

She has blogged at <www.karenandrews.com.au> since 2006 and is one of the most established and popular parenting/personal bloggers in the country.

She is a two-time finalist in the Best Australian Blog Awards. Her latest book is the Trust the Process: 101 Tips on Writing and Creativity. She can be found at <@KarenAndrewsAU>.

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mconlyMichael Connolly lives in Bowraville NSW, Australia. He has worked as an art teacher, music teacher, printer and illustrator among other things (such as chicken de-beaker), and has a keen interest in science-fiction and the natural sciences. He has illustrated for the magazine Tabula Rasa, which specialises in the horror genre, and is a regular contributor to AntipodeanSF.

consig

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eugenbaconEugen Bacon has sold many stories and articles, together with anthologies. Her stories have won, been shortlisted and commended in international awards, including the Bridport Prize, L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and Copyright Agency Prize. Literary speculative novel — Meerkat Press (2019). Creative nonfiction book — Macmillan (2019)

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botond t 200I am a chap who speaks four languages to the perfection.

As to the background, in the communist era in Romania we did not have laptops or cell phones. Those who had done some reading made it later to college. Those who did not still enrich the large mass of oblivion.

I tend to spend my time with translating literature, mainly sci-fi. Why sci-fi?

You see, I believe in God, but how they sell a white Jesus in an African church is beyond me. I am in a constant search for someone no human would ever understand. Call it God, call it UFO, what you will.

The stars will still be twinkling.aus25grn

Zeb writes:

Last week, on a whim I submitted some of my own musings to ‘Nuke’, and when I checked back today — my time in my ‘verse, which is plus six years comparative to you — I saw that he had published some of them! I wasn’t even sure the contrived email and attachment would get through, let alone end up published on your internet of things. (BTW — We have nothing quite like your ‘net, but we’ve gone far further into the solar system than you have. Figure that!) Now that I know a connection is possible, I thought I’d tell you a little more about myself and where I’m from. So, from the beginning…

Hi. My name is Zebuline Carter — that’s Zeb for my friends or Zeb-you-leen if you want to get formal — and I’m a forty-two year old former astronaut now working as an administrator at Farside, on Luna. Farside is a research base, where innerscopes are just starting to peel back layers of our sheath of the local multiverse. Because our work is so sensitive to em influences, Farside is situated within a one hundred klom diameter exclusion zone.

In my late teens I earned a double major in aerospace and business but passed over grad school for civilian astronaut training. As a kid I collected coupons from cereal boxes until I had enough for my first telescope, and built scale models of all the commercial shuttles and orbiters. Growing up, I’d always felt slightly out of place, like I was meant to to be somewhere else and part of me already was — until, that is, I had my first trip into low orbit aboard a high-riding intercont-cruiser, or ICC. That was a high-school graduation present from my Uncle Jim, and during the fifteen minutes of freefall I found that other part of myself, grabbed it tight, and never let go since.

Did I also mention I’m 180 cents tall with bobbed chestnut hair? Or that because of heart damage from a bad landing, I’m also marooned in low gravity? But heh, there are now six bases around Luna, supporting a permanent population of around twelve thousand Lunans, and a transient population of several thousand tourists and stopovers returning form the outer system, so it never gets boring and I don’t get lonely. And living in low G means I won’t age or sag as fast, either.

Until next time —

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Shane is an ageing scientist, cricket fanatic and long term indie writer. He lives in Australia at the foot of the Blue Mountains with one phone obsessed teenager. He has completed many short works, several novella's and one novel. Shane also now publishes via his own independent publishing label —Poupichou Press via Smashwords.

His other works can be found here;

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/drgriffo13>

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david-scholesDavid has written over 200 speculative fiction short stories. Some of these are included in his eight collections of short stories (all on Amazon).

He has also published two science fiction novellas and been published on a range of speculative fiction sites. Including: Antipodean SF, Beam Me Up Pod Cast, Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, the WiFiles and the former Golden Visions magazine.

He will soon publish a new collection of science fiction short stories “Contingency Nine and Other Science Fiction Stories”.

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AntipodeanSF December 2019

ISSUE 255

Speculative Fiction
Downside-Up
ISSN 1442-0686

Online Since Feb 1998

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Download AntiSF E-Book

Epub version:

Kindle version:

Poetry by Terry Persun

By Terry Persun

sfgenresuit up
climb in
set course
check systems
wait…wait

great pressure
difficult breathing
shake, rattle
another push
speed adjust

check systems
call ground
go weightless
recheck course
wait…wait

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About the Author

Terry Persun

terry persun 200Terry Persun’s poems and stories have appeared in many magazines including Wisconsin Review, Kansas Quarterly, Riverrun, Rattle, Hiram Poetry Review, Bluestem, NEBO, Cirque, Eclipse, Bacopa, and many others.

His poems have appeared in six, chapbooks and five collections.

He was recently included in the 2019 Rhysling Anthology for sicnce fiction and fantasy poetry. He is also a novelist and has recently won first place in the Book Excellence Awards for science fiction.

Terry speaks at writers’ conferences and universities across the country. <www.TerryPersun.com>.

AntiSF's Narration Team

garry dean narratorGarry Dean lives on the Mid Coast of New South Wales Australia, and has been a fan of SF for most of his natural life. Being vision impaired, he makes good use of voice recognition and text to speech in order to write. Many of his stories have appeared in AntipodeanSF over the years, and his love of all things audio led him to join the narration team in 2017.

You can read examples of Garry's fiction on his website <https://garrydean.wordpress.com>

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mark english 100Mark is an astrophysicist and space scientist who worked on the Cassini/Huygens mission to Saturn. Following this he worked in computer consultancy, engineering, and high energy research (with a stint at the JET Fusion Torus).

All this science hasn't damped his love of fantasy and science fiction. It has, however, ruined his enjoyment of rainbows, colourful flames on romantic log fires, and rings around the moon. He has previously been published in Stupefying Stories Showcase, Everyday Fiction, Escape Pod, Perihelion and also on AntipodeanSF where he is part of the narration team.

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marg essex 200Margaret lives the good life on a small piece of rural New South Wales Australia, with an amazing man, a couple of pets, and several rambunctious wombats.

She feels so lucky to be a part of the AntiSF team.

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timonthy gwyn 100Timothy Gwyn is a professional pilot in Canada, where he flies to remote communities. During a lull in his flying career, he was a radio announcer for three years, and he is also an author.

In addition to short stories at AntipodeanSF and NewMyths.com, his SF novel is available internationally in print and ebook formats. "Avians" draws on his love of alternative aviation to tell the tale of a girl who runs away from home to join a cadre of glider pilots on a world without metal or fossil fuels.

On Twitter, he is @timothygwyn, and his blogs are at <timothygwyn.com>.

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lauriebell 2 200Laurie Bell lives in Melbourne, Australia. She was that girl you found with her nose always buried in a book. She has been writing ever since she was a little girl and first picked up a pen. From books to short stories, radio plays to snippets of ideas and reading them aloud to anyone who will listen.

She is the author of The Butterfly Stone (YA/ Fantasy — available now) and White Fire (Sci Fi — available now)

You can read more of her work on her blog Look for her on Facebook <www.facebook.com/WriterLaurieBell/> or Twitter: <@LaurienotLori>

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david whitaker 200David Whitaker is originally from the UK though has travelled around a bit and now resides in India. He has a degree in Journalism, however decided that as he’s always preferred making things up it should ultimately become a resource rather than a profession.

His stories, covering everything from sci-fi to philosophy, have been published across the globe and links to each can be found at <wordsbydavid.com>

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carolyn eccles 100

Carolyn's work spans devising, performance, theatre-in-education and a collaborative visual art practice.

She tours children's works to schools nationally with School Performance Tours, is a member of the Bathurst physical theatre ensemble Lingua Franca and one half of darkroom — a visual arts practice with videographer Sean O'Keeffe.

(Photo by Jeremy Belinfante) 

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pixie willo 100Pixie is a voice actor, cabaret performer & slam poet From the Blue Mountains in NSW.

She enjoys writing short fiction, plays for radio and stage as well as her own brand of weird poetry.

She hosts the 'Off-Beet Poetry Slam' held bi-monthly in Katoomba,

And is a theatre reviewer for 2SER FM in Sydney.

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SF News

SF News

AntiSF contributor Stephen Pool has news of the release of the first issue of his comic book "Taurs" co-created with artist Whitney Buckley, at Amazon, and he also has a new horror anthology "Terror Bites" out with three other writer friends, available also at Amazon.

 

Upcoming Cons

Swancon 45 - National Convention 2020. Swancon is Australia's longest-running science-fiction, fantasy, and speculative fiction convention, and is the premiere event in Perth for fans of all forms of speculative media.More information: <https://swancon.com.au/>

WorldCon 78 2020 ConZealand, 29/07/2020 - 02/08/2020 Wellington, New Zealand Worldcon 78 in 2020 is to be held in Wellington, New Zealand, on 29 July – 02 August 2020. Antipodeans, mark it in your calendar now — and the rest of the world, well, it’s time for you mark it in your calendars too: to visit the other side in 2020. Facilities for the event include: TSB Arena and Shed 6, the Michael Fowler Centre and the Intercontinental Hotel. More information is on offer at the official website of ConZealand: <https://conzealand.nz/about-conzealand/>. AntipodeanSF's editor, Nuke, will be at ConZealand!

For more up-to-date Aussie SF info join the ASFF: <asff.org.au>.

The AntipodeanSF Radio Show

AntiSF Radio Show

antipod-show-50The AntipodeanSF Radio Show delivers audio from the pages of this magazine.

The weekly program features the stories from recently published issues, usually narrated by the authors themselves.

Listen to the latest episode now:

The AntipodeanSF Radio Show is also broadcast on community radio, 2NVR, 105.9FM every Saturday evening at 8:30pm.

You can find every broadcast episode online here: http://antisf.libsyn.com 

SF Quote

Niven's Law: There is no cause so right that one cannot find a fool following it.

Larry Niven

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