Writing

02 November 2020: Harrie and the Moon Dogs

A story for Harrie from Alison and Simon

It was a cold, clear Tuesday night. Harrie ate her dinner so quickly she was done by the time Maggie and Rachel were still munching on their third forkful.

‘I don’t think we gave her enough,’ Rachel said.

‘Do you want more dinner, Harrie?’ Maggie asked.

Harrie shook her head, but wasn’t looking at either of her mothers. She was staring out the window behind them. The sun was down and only a pink light softened the horizon. Just above, where the pink became violet, she could just make out the twinkle of Venus, the evening star and the first light to appear in the night sky. It was one of her favourite things to look at with her telescope – but tonight she had other plans.

‘Are you sure you don’t want more food?’ Rachel asked, looking over her shoulder to see what Harrie was gazing at. ‘Remember, it’s a full moon tonight and it will be so bright it will be hard to see anything else.’

Harrie nodded. ‘I know. That’s why I want go out. I want to look at the moon.’

Creative Commons (photographer unknown)

‘That’s a good idea,’ Maggie said. ‘You haven’t looked at it through your telescope for some time; you’ve been too busy with Jupiter and Mars and Orion’s Belt – ’

‘Twenty-two nights ago,’ Harrie said, her voice very definite. ‘And point-two.’

‘Point two?’ Maggie asked.

‘Twenty-two-point-two nights ago.’ Harrie’s face scrunched up in thought. ‘Can you have a point-two night?’

Her mothers shrugged at the same time. ‘I guess,’ Maggie said. ‘You sound very sure of yourself, though.’

‘Uh-huh. The last time I looked at the moon through my telescope was when it was in its last quarter, and that was twenty-two-point-two nights ago.’ Harrie took a deep breath: that sentence was long even for her.

‘When does it come up?’ Rachel asked.

Harrie pointed to the side of the house opposite the window. ‘It should already be up. But the best time to see it will be … ’ Her voice trailed off and her face scrunched up in thought again. She moved her dinner plate out of the way, stretched out her arms and placed her straight hands on top of one another, palms inward. ‘That’s twenty degrees and the moon moves half-a-degree every hour and the moon is about here and the best time to see it is when it’s here … ’ She wiggled fingers to show exactly where the moon was each time she mentioned it.

‘So the best time to see it is when it reached the little finger on your right hand,’ Rachel observed, smiling slightly.

Harrie nodded, taking another deep breath.

‘You are very clever,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly.

Harrie sighed. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, as if it was a burden.

‘So, just to make sure I understood what you’re saying,’ Rachel said, ‘the best time to see the moon is about half-an-hour from now?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s about your bed time.’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm,’ both mothers said at the same time.

‘But it has been twenty-two-point-two nights since I saw the moon with my telescope,’ Harrie pointed out reasonably.

Maggie and Rachel looked at one another. ‘True,’ Maggie said.

‘And in the life of five-year old, twenty-two nights is quite a long time,’ Rachel added.

‘Not to forget the point-two,’ Maggie pointed out.

‘Absolutely.’

The mothers fell silent as they considered whether or not to let Harrie stay up past her bedtime.

‘We could ask Banjo what he thinks,’ Harrie suggested. ‘Banjo?’

A young black-and-tan kelpie bounced into the room with more haste than dignity as his back paws skidded out from underneath him and he ended up sliding on his bum for the last two metres. He came to a stop right next to Harrie and gazed up at her adoringly, as if the whole tangled, embarrassing entrance had been planned.

‘One day he’ll grow into those large paws of his,’ Rachel whispered to Maggie. ‘Hopefully.’

‘Banjo, I have an important question for you,’ Harrie said, solemnly meeting the dog’s gaze.

Banjo barked once. Everyone in the family knew that meant ‘yes’, except when it meant ‘no’.

‘Do you think I should stay up late so I can see the full moon in my telescope?’

Again, Banjo barked just once, and Harrie turned back to her mothers. ‘See?’

‘Well, no arguing with that,’ Rachel said.

Maggie let out a small sigh. ‘All right, but just this once. You are not to take this as permission for you to stay up every time you want to go out and look at the night sky.’

‘Maybe once every twenty-two days?’ Harrie suggested.

‘Don’t push it, kiddo,’ Maggie said. ‘Now go and get some warm clothes on. The last thing we need is for you to freeze out there.’

Harrie grinned at her mothers as she left the table, then hurried to her room, eagerly followed by a scurrying Banjo who this time somehow managed stay upright on all four paws.

#

Although winter was officially over and spring had sprung, Harrie’s home town was high up in the mountains and it got cold there when the sun was down. But it did make for spectacular nights, when the stars and the planets danced across the black velvety sky.

Harrie loved looking up at them even when she didn’t have a telescope, but now that she could see them up close the night sky seemed twice as special. And the most special thing in the whole universe to see with a telescope was the Moon.

The first time she had looked through the eyepiece and the Moon suddenly swung into view it seemed to jump right out at her and she forgot to breathe for a long time, and when she finally did breathe out it came in a great big gush.

The Sea of Tranquility
(Creative commons: photographer unknown)

Harrie never got tired of looking at it. She knew all the big craters now – like Copernicus and Kepler – and all the big seas – like the Sea of Nectar and the Sea of Islands. But most especially she knew the Sea of Tranquility, because that is where the first humans who walked on the moon landed their spaceship, called the Lunar Module.

The night was getting colder and colder. But Harrie didn’t feel it. Even Banjo was getting cold, and tried snuggling up against her legs, almost tipping her over. But Harrie didn’t care. Her mothers were softly calling to her to come back inside. But Harrie didn’t hear them. Staring through her telescope at that great white globe with all its craters and seas and mountains was more important than being warm or going to bed.

One day I’ll go there, she thought. One day I’ll go the Sea of Tranquility and touch the dark soil and then look up and see Earth, and with my telescope I’ll find home and wave at my mothers and Banjo and everyone else I know.

Maggie tapped her gently on the shoulder. ‘It’s time, Harrie. We’ve let you stay up for a long while. Come inside now. Your cheeks are as hard and cold as ice.’

Slowly she drew back from the telescope. When she looked up into the sky again the Moon was still there but much smaller.

‘Still pretty,’ she said, ‘no matter how big it is.’

Maggie and Rachel stared up at the Moon as well. Even Banjo, who was wondering what everyone was staring at that seemed so interesting. There wasn’t a rabbit to be seen anywhere.

‘Look!’ Harrie said, pointing at the soft nebula of light that surrounded the Moon. On either side of it was a little light. ‘Are they planets or stars?’

Moon Dogs (Creative Commons:
photographer unknown)

Maggie laughed. ‘I’ve heard of them but never seen them before.’

Rachel and Harrie looked at her expectantly. ‘What are they?’ Harrie asked.

‘They’re called Moon Dogs. It’s so cold up there that the light from the Moon is being caught by ice crystals. They almost look like miniature moons, don’t they?’

Harrie sighed, a deep and immensely satisfying sound. She patted Banjo on the head and started back the house, the moonlight shining in her hair and on his fur.

She stopped for a second, looked back up at the sky, and said, ‘Look Banjo, Moon Dogs.’

Banjo barked once, meaning, ‘Yes, what else would they call them?’

07 November 2017: Dreaming in the Dark anthology wins World Fantasy Award

For the second time, one of Jack Dann’s Dreaming anthologies has won a World Fantasy Award.

dreaming-in-the-dark-hardcover-edited-by-jack-dann-4112-p[ekm]298x420[ekm]

Dreaming in the Dark, ed Jack Dann, PS Publishing

Last night, Dreaming in the Dark, edited by Jack and published by PS Publishing, won the 2017 World Fantasy Award for Best Anthology.

In 1999, the first in the series, Dreaming Down-Under, edited by Jack and his partner Janeen Webb, won the same award.

I was fortunate enough to have stories included in both.

That the anthologies should receive such an honour says a great deal about Jack’s dedication to Australian writers of speculative fiction. We all owe him a great debt.

Congratulations, Jack!

14 May 2017: New story out in Review of Australian Fiction

Very pleased to announce a story written with the amazing Anna Tambour, titled ‘Joy’, has appeared in the Review of Australian Fiction.RAF

What’s more, it appears in the same issue as ‘Water Cools Not Love’, a story by another wonderful writer, Laura Goodin.

The issue can be found here.

 

 

06 May 2017: New story out in Dreaming in the Dark anthology

dreaming-in-the-dark-hardcover-edited-by-jack-dann-4112-p[ekm]298x420[ekm]

Dreaming in the Dark, ed Jack Dann, PS Publishing

My story ‘Moonshine’ has appeared in the new anthology edited by Jack Dann – Dreaming in the Dark – put out by PS Publishing.

The story was inspired by the my grandfather’s time as a bootlegger during the Prohibition in the United States.

The following is from the story’s afterword.

‘My grandfather, Chuck Chamberlain died in 1975. Massive stroke, fell into a coma and never woke. My mother and I drove up to his flat in Stockton, a northern suburb of Newcastle, and started sorting through his possessions.

‘For a man who who was born in the 19th century, lived on three continents and fought in at least one great war, he hadn’t accumulated a lot of stuff. One of the first things we discovered was an old sea chest; inside the chest, among some old clothes, was a chair leg. I picked it up, curious why my grandfather had stored it away, and noticed a cork in one end. I pulled out the cork and a collection of false ID papers and photographs and records dropped out. My mum and I checked the false ID with the photos; it was definitely her father, but under a false name – Orville C. Parr.

‘It took my mum a few years to figure out most of the story – she never got all of it – and it turns out he’d been a bootlegger during prohibition, running grog across the Canada-US border, probably driving trucks into Detroit. He got word the long arm of the law was about to tap him on the shoulder, so he joined the American army under the name of Parr and got posted to the Philippines. When his enlistment was up, he sailed to Australia.

‘I remember him as a cigar-smoking man of few words. He was born and bred in England, spoke with an American accent, and lived more than half his life in Australia. I never really knew him. Nor, as it turns out, did my mum.’

I’d like to thank Jack for taking the story and PS Publishing for backing the anthology. ‘Moonshine’ was written over many years, and it was wonderful to find such a great home for it in the company of so many amazing stories by so many amazing writers.

Dreaming in the Dark can be purchased directly from PS Publishing.

14 September 2015: Taking ‘the strangers case’

Thomas More

Sir Thomas More. Hans Holbein the Younger, c.1527.

Tragically, when it comes to human behaviour there is little new under the sun. Despite all the evidence that immigration and the settling of refugees is good for a country’s soul, not to mention its economy, many people give in to bigotry and fear and make victims of those who are already desperate and vulnerable.

In 1517, young male apprentices rioted against foreigners living in London. Ultimately, large numbers of the rioters were arrested, and though most were pardoned a handful were executed.

The riot started on the evening of 30 April and carried over to the early hours of the next day. The event has since been known as Evil May Day or Ill May Day.

One of those who attempted to forestall any violence was Thomas More, who confronted the rioters and urged them to return to their homes.

Two playwrights, Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle, celebrated this act of courage in their play Sir Thomas More, written sometime in the early 1590s.

The play was revised by several writers, and it is now generally accepted that one of those was William Shakespeare.

Shakespeare rewrote Moore’s speech to the rioters when he implores them to take ‘the strangers case’, to imagine what it must be like to be a refugee facing at best a lack of compassion and at worst outright hostility.

“What country, by the nature of your error,
Should give you harbor? go you to France or Flanders,
To any German province, to Spain or Portugal,
Nay, any where that not adheres to England,—
Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased
To find a nation of such barbarous temper,
That, breaking out in hideous violence,
Would not afford you an abode on earth,
Whet their detested knives against your throats,
Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God
Owed not nor made not you, nor that the claimants
Were not all appropriate to your comforts,
But chartered unto them, what would you think
To be thus used? this is the strangers case;
And this your mountanish inhumanity.”

In 2015 there are many people – and some countries – who do indeed take on ‘the strangers case’, and open their hearts and homes to those fleeing terror and persecution.

But not all of us, and almost none of us all of  the time.

[The extract is taken from the text put up at Project Gutenberg.]

02 April 2015: The Art of Effective Dreaming

AOEDSample-500x524Last night I had the privilege of launching the new book of friend and colleague Gillian Polack, The Art of Effective Dreaming. This is what I said:

It is April Fool’s Day, and this is no coincidence. As Gillian Polack’s new book so perfectly illustrates – as fairy tales are wont to do – “We shall not grow wise before we learn that much that we have done was very foolish.”[1]

Fiction and reality share one thing in common: each is only half-true. In The Art of Effective Dreaming, Gillian shows that for those who love and lose, for those who love in vain, for those who love in expectation, the sharpest truth is the half-truth, and therein dwells the realm of the fairy tale.

Carved from both our conscious world and our dream world, the fairy tale is where courtship is better than sex, where life sometimes refuses death, and where hope shines stronger than despair. As the book’s protagonist Fay says, “I’m not a big one for reality.” Fay by name and fey by nature, then.

These are some of the things Gillian’s new book teaches us about fairy tales:

  • in a fairy tale people grow old in wisdom rather than years;
  • in a fairy tale it is magic, not rain, that renews;
  • in a fairy tale there are always answers, but the answers you need and not the answers you expect;
  • in a fairy tale beauty is not beauty;
  • in a fairy tale ogres live in houses not under bridges;
  • in a fairy tale homes are gardens and gardens are homes;
  • in a fairy tale being right is never enough;
  • in a fairy tale it’s impossible to keep your balance;
  • in a fairy tale love is always a burden;
  • in a fairy tale love is always a curse;
  • in a fairy tale love is always salvation.

Gillian knows that the fairy tale is first and foremost a folktale, and that the natural accompaniments for folktales are folksongs, folk-dancing and riddles. These are the stories and the songs, the dances and the mysteries, our forebears shared with each other when the weather closed in, the wind and the wolves howled outside the door, and summer was just a memory. They echo in that part of our brain that still sends a shiver down our spine when dark clouds bank on the horizon and the edge of the forest seems a tad too close for comfort.

Gillian also knows that in fairy tales almost everything cradles a surprise. A gentle landscape hides low-hanging branches and foot-snagging rocks. Bridges don’t always cross rivers. The rugged coast hides kelpies as well as selkies. Castles can be traps as well as sanctuaries. Friends are not always friends. Your worst enemy is sometimes yourself.

But, Gillian being Gillian, The Art of Effective Dreaming is so much more than a fairy tale. It is a novel, and like an old river, it is a novel long and deep, and the deeper we delve the darker it gets. While evil gets its due – if not its comeuppance – good also suffers. Indeed, good suffers disproportionately, but who are we to spite the one true connection to our own world?

In this book there is a genuine conversation between author and reader. If this was a play, the protagonist would be constantly breaking the fourth wall. Fay wants to take us by the hand and bring us into her dreaming universe, and as we merge ourselves with her character the border surrounding our own reality starts to blur. The colours of faery bleed into our world, making it brighter, sharper and more perilous.

And that, of course, is what all good story-telling should be about, whether it’s mimetic fiction or science fiction, swashbuckler or fairy tale: the created world must be as vivid and true as the real world.

I unhesitatingly recommend this book to all those who enjoy their stories long and deep. It has followed a sometimes torturous route from concept to publication, and I congratulate Satalyte for having the courage and foresight to publish it against all curses and contrariness. I take great pleasure in announcing that Gillian Polack’s The Art of Effective Dreaming has left the slipway and now is well and truly launched.

[1] Freidrich August van Hayek

16 March 2015: Terry Pratchett

Pratchett on shelf

A section of the family’s ‘Pratchett’ shelf.

Terry Pratchett died last Thursday, 12 March, at the age of 66. I heard the news without surprise but a great deal of sadness. He had been ill for some time.

I’ve been reading his Discworld books ever since 1986 when I stumbled across the second in the series, The Light Fantastic. I was hooked the moment Death, answering a summons by several senior wizards, appeared with a scythe in one hand and with small cubes of cheese and pineapple on a stick in the other.

“I was at a party,” he explained.

Pratchett’s humour, often ironic, frequently hilarious, never cruel, underpinned a fully realised but surreal fantasy universe populated with wizards, giant turtles, vampire soldiers, world-weary assassins, wise witches, evil elves and, of course, Death.

It is sad to think there will be no more Discworld novels. It is even sadder to think the world is now without Terry Pratchett.

03 November 2014: Wowed by Wells

WotWIt was 1968 and I was eleven or twelve years old when I bought my first book with my own money. This is a pic of the cover of the very edition I bought. Not only do I still own it, it’s in pretty good nick for a book that’s 47 years old (this edition was published by Penguin in 1967). I love the cover; it reminds me of the pseudo-Edwardian craze that briefly inhabited British art at the end of the 60s, reflected in everything from men’s fashion to the design of the Wild Woodbine cigarette pack.

I knew of H.G. Wells, but had never read any of his work. I also knew about The War of the Worlds, mainly because I’d seen and loved the 1953 George Pal film on television the year before (tragically, in b&w). I was reading every science fiction book I could lay my hands on, and I was curious to see how it would read. I think it cost me all of 60 cents.

I was sucked in from the moment I read the first paragraph: “No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own … intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic … ”

Thanks to Spielberg’s 2015 version, whenever I read those words now I hear Morgan Freeman’s baritone in my ears. To be fair, before Freeman it was Richard Burton’s voice I heard in my head, thanks to Jeff Wayne’s 1978 concept album. But whatever voice delivers the words, it is the writing – the phrasing, especially – that makes it ring.

The first section of the book, dealing with the invasion and its immediate aftermath, is still something I reread every year or so. And to this day I have not read or seen anything that imparts the same level of dread at the first appearance of a malevolent alien than the glistening, bear-sized mass that slithers from the Martian cylinder on Horsell Common. The only experience that comes close is the first glimpse of the creature in the Ridley Scott’s Alien, but that monster is clean-limbed and somehow thoroughly modern and mechanical, whereas Wells’ Martians are obscenely chthonic and organic.

The story’s influence on science fiction is probably immeasurable. Every alien invasion story owes something to Wells’ original.

For a long time I’d wanted to write something set in the same universe, or at least the same milieu. I’ve always admired Brian Aldiss’s homage “The Saliva Tree”, actually written to celebrate the centenary of Wells’ birth in 1866, and hankered to do something similar. In the end, my story “The Empire” unmistakably used The War of the Worlds as its spine, even if it mixes in rather a lot from the period, including music hall and Gilbert & Sullivan.

The film I would like to see almost more than any other, would be a version of The War of the Words that places the story in the period Wells himself placed it. Surely such a film would be the perfect vanguard for an effective steampunk invasion of the big screen?