Aurealis #137


The first issue of Aurealis for the year. It contains compelling new fiction, the best artwork ever and all the non fiction you could possibly want!

Category: Tag:

Welcome to Aurealis for 2021.
The temptation at this time is to ruminate on what a dreadful year 2020 was and express the hope that 2021 will be much better. There seems to be a lot of reasons to feel that 2021 will indeed be an improvement on the previous year, what with vaccines for Covid-19 being rushed out and major changes on the world political stage, but as I write many places in the world are still in lockdown and being subjected to very substantial challenges.
On a lighter note, I am pleased to inform our readers that I have had the opportunity to look over much of the material that we will be presenting to the world in Aurealis over the next few months and I can confidently say that there is a lot to look forward to in the near future. And I should point out that the quality of the stories is matched by the quality of the artwork that will be accompanying them.
We don’t really make enough of a fuss about the art that graces our pages. Oh, we point out that it is good, and that we are pleased to provide a platform for so many artists to showcase their work, but when you actually go back and look at just the images, rather than just glancing at them as you read the story, you get an idea of the talent in our pool of artists. I have always liked much of the art that accompanies science fiction. I love a good spaceship as much as the next person. Even have a CD by Andy Partridge (XTC) that he recorded as a soundtrack to the science fiction artwork of Richard M Powers (It is called ‘Powers’ and is very hard to get). I often joke with my fellow editors that, of the three of us, I have the best taste when it comes to choosing cover art. I say ‘joke’ but I really mean it. I chose the cover art for this issue. In simpler times you would have just flipped a few pages back to have a look at it, but by all means swipe that screen to look at it now. I can wait.
Good isn’t it?
Of course, back in the days when Aurealis was a print magazine, the cover had to attract a person from some distance and ‘sell’ the contents of the magazine. We probably don’t sell too many issues just based on the cover art, but if we had to, I am sure this issue’s cover would do well. And that’s not even mentioning the interior art. We have discovered many fine artists and featured their art as accompaniment to the stories. We make it a point to include the websites of our artists so that our readers can delve a bit more deeply into their work. If you like the look of a particular image in Aurealis, have a look at more of the artist’s work. Quite often they have art for sale, and often at very reasonable rates.
Enjoy the fiction, admire the art and think about the articles.
Have a good read.

All the best from the cloud!

Stephen Higgins

From For Sale by Michael Gardner

About Michael Gardner

1. Michael Gardner is a writer of fantasy and horror, who masquerades as an economist by day. He lives in Canberra with his patient wife, and two wonderful kids. His work has appeared in Writers of the Future Volume 36, Aurealis, and Metaphorosis Magazine. He is also a two-time finalist for the Aurealis Awards.

You can find out more about Michael and his work at

I followed, but found my eyes drawn to the next display. It housed dead insects pinned to boards. None of them looked right. What I first took to be a large moth, on closer inspection, had too many legs. There was a scorpion with two tails. And then a number of large ants riddled with bumps, and tumours. I shuddered, moved on.
The next case contained bones–small skeletons of birds and animal skulls, along with a variety of miscellaneous fragments, some tiny, some large, all old and yellowed. There was something wrong with them. As I stared, they played tricks with my eyes, seemed to vibrate under my gaze, which was a crazy thought I instantly tried to dismiss, but couldn’t quite get rid of. They were shivering, I thought. Like they were cold. I felt that cold in my guts. It made me feel sick.
“See anything you like?” Sticks said, watching me carefully.
I cleared my throat.
“What are they?”
He grinned around his smoke, the red light making him look deranged.
“My personal collection,” he said. “They’re each very special. See this one?” he said moving closer and pointing at a small fragment. “That came from a woman. She was about forty, and she’d been beaten as a kid. She had so much hate for her father. So much hate.”

From Pistris by Bethany Doherty

About Bethany Doherty

Raised in the tall-grassed paddocks of Victoria, Beth passed her time chasing wild rabbits with sticky arrows and reading fantasy novels well into the wee hours of the morning. She went on to study a writing course in Melbourne which landed her a job as an editor in Brisbane.

I dreamt of the beach. The early morning tug of the water against the cold, damp sand. The whippets of wind urging me closer. This time, instead of clams, we found a mermaid. She’d likely been washed up at high-tide, high-moon, which wasn’t that high in the bay. I’d like to say we heard her pretty call, and helped her back into the water, where she dashed back under the surface to her own home.
But she was dead.

From The Redemption of Declan Callahan by Steve DuBois

About Steve DuBois

Steve DuBois is a secondary school teacher from Kansas City in the USA. His stories have appeared in publications such as Andromeda Spaceways, Compelling Science Fiction, and Deep Magic, and have been shortlisted for the James White and Baen Fantasy Adventure Awards. His author site is

The video board displays our career highlights. Mine go on longer than most. And when it’s time to pay me tribute, it’s Callahan, bloody Callahan, who steps to the mic. ‘Nicky was special,’ he says. ‘And it wasn’t just what you could see about him—the speed, the skill on the ball, the relentless work rate—that made him great. It was in his soul. The press and the commentators called him “The Little Devil”—but he was our angel.’ He swallows and looks up, all glimmer-eyed. In the crowd, women gasp—this beautiful, heartbroken boy has lost his mentor and his best friend; please, won’t somebody give him a cuddle? I’d puke my guts out if I still had them.