Jeremy Davies

Jeremy Davies is a discriminate writer, indiscriminate scribbler and sometime-poet from Melbourne, Australia. His professional background is in the military and security fields, but he’s trying to forget all about that now, as are they. He and his wife live quietly, when at all possible, with three children (he is writing this bio while having to stop every twelve words to wind up a merry-go-round?) and two cats. If he didn?t have cats, he would have lied and said he did anyway. (Apparently, an author must claim some kind of cat ownership in their bio. It’s the law. Go look it up.) He has had short stories and articles published in print and e-print, and enjoys reading anything from Alexandre Solzhenitsyn to Terry Pratchett. His first novel with DDP, ?Missing, Presumed Undead?, leans more to the latter than the former, but might have at least given Ivan Denisovich a chuckle or two before the end came.

For more information on ?Missing, Presumed Undead?, and all things ?City?, check out: www.casablantasy.bravevhost.com. Oh, and Rhys says to buy the fharkin? book, or else he?ll get all the steak knives in your drawers to?what? No, I?m not writing that. Really.

Titles Available from Jeremy Davies



Above all things, what do the damned desire? Company. And of course, the devil drives a Volvo? But is this the devil or the bintu llha, daughter of god, one of the true creators, or some crazy woman off her face? Without knowing, Adam is drawn to her and falls completely, but does not fail completely. What can the the devil do with the key to heaven?
There is power in the magic of childhood. When Lord Roland returns from the Crusades with his mind broken by war and starvation, it is only young Smudge who can soothe him, adapt to his imagined world, and begin the mending process. But Robert has no intention of allowing his brother-in-law’s mind to repair. Perhaps the only thing that can save Smudge, the only thing that is truly ?real?, is the power represented by a finger of tin.
The gods have retired. A great future has come apart?the Macro-Virus has reduced almost all the technical wonders of the settled worlds to a pre-computer chip level. And, naturally, civil war has erupted. The Older Worlds Republic are desperate to retain their crumbling hold of New Potomac from the upstart Federacy of the Free Worlds, and now people are being used to wield the terrifying weapons that were once attached to remotely controlled droids. Sebastion, a writer of war fiction, is now a war correspondent for the Republic, and marching under the same sapphire sky as the troops: confused, poorly trained, misinformed. How implicit is the writer in all of this? How much does the pen owe the sword?

So this here was Frank and me's first slap of some action - the first chance we had of really getting ourselves fogged up. And it all seemed like one of those open-and-shut deals to me, but not Frank: a missing glass tycoon, a sexy dame with a psycho dog, an ogre, a shady street thug with a stink you could climb up, the Magicrime Analysis Division of the City Watch (yeah, they snuck in...), a couple of Watchstables, one Zagynese Gryphon (maybe worth a whole pig pen full of guilders), and a bunch of other punks that were along for the ride. You'll see. It all turns out sweet enough, I guess. For most of 'em, anyways...

Rhys

Writing short stories is not easy. The reason it isn't easy is because they are short. The writer is still charged with producing living characters who have personalities: good, bad, or milksop. Add to that a dynamic narrative that gives you, the reader, an opportunity to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste what the folks who inhabit those little stories do, and the authors have a demanding job on their hands. Short stories are a great deal more than sitting on an old apple crate and hammering away at the QWERTY.    
Does time exist as a separate dimension? Does it have a unique place with definable limits in space? Does it move independently according to its own purpose? Or does it only move when other things move, completely dependent on prevailing conditions and binding dimensions in its surrounding space-a causal result bound to the whole? Perhaps it’s just a simpleminded construct humans have concocted to explain the inexplicable. Is it vaguely possible that it’s a set of branes slightly out of sync and we may pass from one to the next at will? Maybe it’s a simple kink in dimensions that can be crossed by anyone walking in precisely the right direction. It could be that it’s just a mental state altered simply by a minor amount of imagination applied correctly. Perhaps it is no more than a drug- or mantra-induced change of mental state-something hallucinated-something seen but unseeable. Or is there more to it than we can fathom? In the world of physics, all of this-and much more-is being looked into by serious, conservative scientists as well as those with their mental equipment more loosely adjusted-or even unfastened completely, their brains rolling about like marbles in an empty railroad freight car.
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