The Giant’s Lady

by Rowena Cory Daniells

As we entered the white-walled courtyard, the music stopped and every islander turned. Wyrd, they whispered.

Wyrd, they whispered. My lady stood tall, her pale hair glinting in the hot noonday sun. A full-blood T’En throwback, she

My lady stood tall, her pale hair glinting in the hot noonday sun. A full-blood T’En throwback, she did not try to hide her hair or her six-fingered hands, and her distinctive wine-dark eyes held quiet defiance. As for me, I was not a Wyrd, not even a half-blood, just a freakishly big True-man, and an ugly
one at that.

My lady headed for two seats at the end of a trestle table. By the time we reached it, the table was empty. She sat, turning her long legs to the side. Dropping our travelling bags, I took the opposite seat, where I could watch the courtyard gate.

Blueblood

by Faith Mudge

It is an insult to die at midday.

In the mountain country where I was born, such things take place in the dark of night: the fall of an axe, the knotting of a noose. Here, it is a spectacle. From the narrow window of my tower room, I can see the road that leads away from the castle, down to the sea; it is already lined with people, jostling and squabbling amongst themselves for the best view of my execution.

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by D.K. Mok

read by Graeme Dunlop

First published in Insert Title Here.

Part of our Aurealis Month, celebrating the Australian Aurealis Awards.

Hosted by Margo Lanagan.

What is time?

It’s a question I never asked myself while I was still alive, and now, I suppose time is something that happens to other people. Gainful employment, on the other hand, only happened to me after I’d died.

My colleagues call this place the Wings—we’re the before and the after, enfolding the stage of the world. Here, in my lonely turret on the hill, the sun is always noon overhead. Go seaward, towards the misty waters of Unan, and the sun hovers in eternal dawn. Go worldward, towards the Golden Vale, the realm of Transformation, and the sun dips into the cusp of night. Travelling across the Wings can give the illusion of time passing. Long ago, I found it comforting. Now, it makes me vertiginous.

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Rated PG-13.

D. K. Mok is a fantasy and science fiction author whose novels include Squid’s Grief, Hunt for Valamon and The Other Tree. D. K. has been shortlisted for three Aurealis Awards, a Ditmar, and a Washington Science Fiction Association Small Press Award. D. K. graduated from UNSW with a degree in Psychology, pursuing her interests in both social justice and scientist humour. D. K. lives in Sydney, Australia, and her favourite fossil deposit is the Burgess Shale. Connect on Twitter @dk_mok or find out more at www.dkmok.com.

The Jellyfish Collector

by Michelle E. Goldsmith

“Where do you think they keep their brains?” Eva asks. “They have to have one somewhere, don’t they?”

She stands motionless beside her younger sister, Fiona, the two of them staring past their own reflections and into the tank beyond. On the other side of the glass drift dozens of moon jellyfish, gently pulsating in the water as though dancing to imperceptible music.

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