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It became a life dominated by femmes fatales, bourbon and sleepless nights.  In a time of wonders I was a cliché.  At least I didn’t smoke anymore.

Eight years after a ‘benign apocalypse’ when three quarters of the world’s population vanished, those remaining have found themselves dealing with a universe that is perpetually in flux: structures alter, destinations become nebulous, many people shapeshift, and creatures of myth are abundant, they could even be your neighbours.

The God of New York is the first of seven novellas exploring x-dimensional theory in an accessible, enjoyable way.

Cover Image by

Pramada Wells and Leonie Meissner

I could sense the god now, observing me.  About to make its move.  It was everything.  It was in everything.  It was even in that old big pharma ad directly in front of me, above the necking couple, of a melancholy mime artiste:  ‘Do you feel the world hates you?  Maybe it does.  No matter.  Try…’   I could have sworn the mime winked at me.  It was probably fatigue and imagination.  Not that that would lessen its significance or truth.

From Chapter Four