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New Fiction Display - July 2007

Chapter Two
'Strange'
Tomas’ intuition was right: at the base of the escarpment in a small cave about the size of two dog-kennels, a blue heeler with a black patch over his right eye stood cold and shivering


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Jim Allen Oval occupied a rise of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Rimmed by houses along its western-side, Scarborough beach along the east, with the Illawarra escarpment rearing-up like a giant 500mtr high rock-wave behind—there is no better place to play football.
Tomas stood at the southern end of the oval gazing up at the escarpment. For some reason wondering whether Bluey was up there? 'He's never gone up there before,' he reminded himself. 'Well, not that I know of'. That’s when one of Tomas' team mates ran up behind him.
"Come on Tomo, what are you looking at?" Toby Rodgers blurted then doubled over puffing and panting. Toby was one of the front-rowers, his stature is what they call in the team: 'big and beefy'. This boy couldn't run that fast or that far, but close to the line with the ball in his hands, he’s unstoppable



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Chapter One
'Dog Gone'
Tomas Banks used to think his boisterous cattle dog, Bluey, was relatively normal. He did all the things an ordinary dog would do, like chase the neighbour's cat round the clothes line until the podgy feline had enough and would spin about to deliver a nasty swipe of claws to Bluey's snout. He'd bring disgusting, smelly things into the yard and chew and roll until Tomas' dad, John, had shovelled the mess up and hauled Bluey to the hose for thorough washing. And don’t forget the foul smell that caused such a ruckus in the lounge room some nights. Yes, he was just like any other dog


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The next instalment is by Wollongong author P. Sydney Wall, from his novel ‘Intervention Plan’ Part 1: A Boy, his Dog, and an Alien Series. The story follows the adventures of Bluey the Blue Heeler dog, and his young master Tomas. Bluey is abducted by an alien race called the Daxians and endowed with special powers of mind control, telekinesis and telepathy. The animals are part of a team of twelve, specially chosen by the Daxians in an effort to save the planet from environmental disaster at the hands of a series of super-cell storms, brought on by global warming. Things get even more dangerous when the Borgz—evil shape-shifters pursuing their own malevolent designs on Earth—detect the Daxian intervention and direct one of their warrior operatives to eliminate Bluey and destroy his town.
What begins is an out-of-this-world adventure, as the Daxians dispatch one of their finest, Lord Xen, to investigate a distress signal activated when Bluey encounters the Borgz. A battle of wits begins as alien takes on alien: Xen trying to save Bluey, Tomas, and the mission. The Borgz stopping at nothing short of annihilation.
The unlikely trio make good their escape in Xen’s starship, however are pursued by the Borgz starcruiser, forcing them to transport via a black hole to an uncharted part of the universe. Here begins Part 2


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The Premier leant forward and levelled Jones a wry look. “What are you saying, spontaneous combustion…Or what, this joker has some sort of divine power?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort, mate. Like I said, unreliable.”
Stanton stared at his Commissioner for a long moment. “Ok then, keep on it, we need to catch this guy, the media is having a field day. Now…to even more disturbing events: when are we going to get these mongrels blowing up the place. Have you had any leads


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Stanton abruptly ceased his tapping, as muffled voices were heard in the outer office: the high-pitched tone of his new secretary, the vivacious, young redhead Elana Miles, followed by Sam Jones’ gruff drawl. Not long after, the Commissioner’s portly bulk burst through his door. “About time, mate,” the Premier barked, tossing the pencil onto the desk.
“Sorry John,” offered Jones, immediately plonking down in the chair opposite and swiping a meaty palm at the dots of sweat lining his brow. He was an unusual-looking man, cat-like green eyes peered suspiciously from a round, fleshy face, oily black hair worn plastered-down over an elongated skull.
“Well, any word?” Stanton asked, leaning forward and folding his arms on the desk. He was referring to the latest murder that had the media in-frenzy. Not that he cared much about the victim—another street gang no-hoper. No, this was bad press, and of the sort that disturbed constituents: some crazy preacher had allegedly thrown petrol over a member of a gang called The Lebs then set him alight. Media were saying was that if police couldn’t apprehend a hapless preacher, what hope is there of controlling the gang violence that has the State under a blanket of fear


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