Summit underground, like.

Well, as I appear to have pissed off one reader far enough to ensure they never want to read my books again* by ranting about BT, I suppose I should mend some fences. That way the bastarding sheep from the field out back won't get into my back garden and eat my sodding plants again. The things are like big, smelly, woolly Houdinis, in various shades of dung-flecked grey. Only they break into things, not out of them.

a finite number of typewriters

Ok, so let's forget about the stinky sheep and get to the point here. Remember ages ago I waffled on about a short story I'd managed to con a science fiction magazine into buying? Well, you can now download the whole Subterranean Magazine (Cliché Edition) in PDF form and read it at your leisure. You know, if you haven't got anything better to do, and want to be regaled by tales of William Shakespeares and Pope Rickards IV, for free and stuff.

Oh, and it also contains much better stories than mine, by proper writers and stuff.

Did I mention it was free?

* And yes, I'm sorry to see them go, but it's their choice. I've abandoned authors / musicians / film stars when they've pissed me off too.

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