My new short story has been posted on Terror House Magazine:

 

“Bastards!” The man’s exclamation rang out through the bush, fading until the only sound was the cicadas droning in the heat. His vegetable patch was completely turned over, the chook-wire fence pushed down and flattened.

The man looked like a retired bikie, but in fact he was a retired biologist who had let his greying beard grow wild. He stood bare from the waist up in the blinding sunlight, a surgery scar livid on the brown skin of his chest. He stared at his ruined tomatoes.

“What did it, Julius?” asked Alina. “You told me there are no bears here. Was it wild pigs?” His much younger wife put an arm around him sympathetically. She spoke with a strong Russian accent.

“Could be. Maybe roos; kangaroos. Or wombats; they can get through anything. Something bloody hungry, whatever it was. We should keep an eye on what happens out here at night.”

Alina shook her elven head. “Never mind. We live in the forest, what do we expect? Just build a stronger fence.”

***

Julius built a stronger fence, but he also did something else. He Read More

This is bizarre.  I first published this story back in February 2018.  I totally forgot about it, then re-read it yesterday.  Prescient even down to the countries.  Wooooo!

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Stewart went to a good, private high school in Brisbane so he got into a prestigious university where he studied for a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Philosophy and Sociology.

In Philosophy, he became convinced by the ethical framework of utilitarianism – that is, one ought to act so as to achieve the greatest good for the greatest number. Sure, one can always imagine convoluted scenarios where it could lead to barbarous outcomes, but for real life it seemed like the fairest and most logical approach to secular ethics.

Stewart read books and articles by Peter Singer, who points out that the three hundred dollars you spend going to the opera could instead be used to save several lives if donated to a Third World charity. Should we really spend more on ourselves than is necessary for frugal comfort when our discretionary funds could achieve so much good elsewhere?

Stewart, thoroughly persuaded, chose the path of the secret, secular monk. He got a high-paying job in the corporate sector after studying real things after Arts. He ordered inexpensive, tailored suits from Vietnam and hired a fancy car so that he would look the part, but instead of saving for a deposit on a house or blowing his money on drugs and whores, he donated every extra dollar he had to Read More

. . . of a certain age.  This was my losing entry in an Australian, 500-word story writing contest.  It was burning a hole in my hard drive so here it is.

Mullet

Five months ago, I was the last one left with a mullet.  The last in my social circle.  The last in Melbourne.  Maybe, the last in the world.

People assume a bloke with a mullet must be a bogan, but nothing else about me matched the image.  I drove a Kia, not a Commodore.  I wore a suit, not a Megadeth t-shirt.  And I’m a web developer.

I first sported a mullet in the eighties, and I was Mr. Cool from Grade Two to Grade Six.  But then things changed. Read More