Author

Brenda Joyce Anderson

I've never played Rock--Paper--Scissors, but somehow the story came to me, against a background of family conflict. I wonder how much of this sprang from my childhood on that farm in southwest New South Wales. Honestly, I don't remember much about our relatives.

I'd like to thank the people on Baen's Bar for their support and encouragement over the years. I write in an isolated environment here in Adelaide, and have really appreciated this connection to the writing community.

Music for the End of Days

The End of Days has come. The flyers told us. They rained down on us, a paper blizzard that clogged waterways and oceans. END OF DAYS, or its equivalent in every language on Earth. And on the reverse side: It's happening. By now, of course, nothing techno worked except, clearly,…

The Space-Time Martini of Grandfather Mirabilis

"He can't be gone." Art stared at the four foot high, thirty-legged, polka-dot spider wearing a straw boater. "Grandfather summoned me. He wouldn't just disappear." His grandfather did weird things, but sending fake urgent invitations wasn't one of them. The elongated…

Bleed

I bleed. The "scientific studies" have finished now, and my captors allow visitors to crowd round my cage. They stare. Their shocked, rapt faces and hushed conversations tell me what I already know. This color is new to them, never before seen. The color of my blood. The color…

Rock Paper Scissors

I was two years old when my father disappeared. I cried for a whole week. "Cheer up, Alexander." Aunt Morgause always sounded nasty. "He'll probably come crawling out from under some rock." I spent years checking the rocks and stones in our backyard, but never found my father.…