Dive into an excerpt from The Intervention, a captivating blend of paranormal mystery, science fiction, and psychological horror by Stephanie A. Morosan. Inspired by a vivid dream years ago—one that the author felt compelled to bring to life beyond her imagination—this novel weaves together fragments of real conversations, personal experiences, and everyday moments into a richly layered narrative. Like a ‘blind’ puzzle, these pieces come together to create a mysterious world straddling dream and reality. Baloche’s story explores themes of loss, consciousness, and the fluid boundaries between imagination and life, all while maintaining a balance that keeps the novel accessible and engaging. Praised for its labyrinthine structure and literary depth, The Intervention invites readers to immerse themselves in a haunting, dreamlike journey reminiscent of works by Italo Calvino, Murakami, and Edgar Allan Poe. Green waves lift and touch the side of a long-tail boat. The gentle tap, the gentle slap of the seawater, the smell of salt air. The sounds: water against the small white boat, the occasional cry of a gull, the light backwash of ocean wind. It was all so familiar to Hannah, as the boat moved on. Gently on. It was peace and it was a tranquil blue and green that she seemed to awake from and slip back into. Her warm skin, the peace, a sapphire horizon that they were moving toward. Yes, in that moment it was all hers because she was not attached to it, had let go of it. A stone’s throw away, she saw them – the gulls cawing on the surface of the still yet stirring ocean. Like a living, breathing painting. A painting that moves. The boat was not travelling fast at all; it was not floating, nor drifting. It was being guided. Or being led by someone, something. All her senses began to register that things were good, were okay. She was shifting still, slipping in and out of realms: the paradise at sea and somewhere else. Where am I … going? Home? Where have I just come from? Shifting in and out of paradise, losing it, yet managing to hold on – a moment in paradise … the dream, and then the sense that she was right with herself and her place in the world. All of it was right. And all of it was good. Yes, that was the feeling – like she was going home. “: away went Alice like the wind,” That was how it was in the dream; that was how it always was. She was moving somewhere, but not with any guilt or anxiety. If Hannah could only remember how she came to be lying in these white sheets on this bed, perhaps she wouldn’t need to dream. But she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. Maybe that was why she was swaying in the dream – suspended in the waters. She didn’t know the answers, she couldn’t remember her story; she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe that’s the key, to quit trying. Hannah was anchored to a bed – around her, no green ocean – just a white clinical-looking room. A hospital, of sorts. The smell of something clean permeated the room, but it wasn’t natural like the sea air. It wasn’t natural at all, and neither was the woman sat opposite her. She was performing a role she didn’t much care for, she had a smile that was ‘nice.’ She was in white, of course, she had wisps of curly hair that were escaping from a bun. Hannah had decided a lot about her from where she sat – just a few feet away, which was not enough distance as far as Hannah was concerned. She wanted to be far, far away from everything that was this. She wanted to be back in the boat. If I could smell her, she’d stink like a fruit cake. The woman balanced a clipboard on her knees and was quiet as she waited; she wore a long skirt and beige tights that were as thick as trousers. It was the kind of quiet that hovered. Hannah’s eyes had come into focus when the woman smiled. The woman scribbled something on her clipboard and cleared her throat. ‘Hi there. My name is Sheila and I am your nurse.’ ‘Sheila’ put out her hand. As if through instinct Hannah knew how to respond, except she was unable. She willed her hand to reach out in greeting but somehow her body would not do what her mind wanted of her. What? This is weird … Hannah was unable to direct her body. ‘Wh-oooh? Me-eeh?’ she asked the nurse. ‘I know how difficult this must be for you. You’ve just woken up. You’ve woken up for the first time since your coma – two years ago.’ Why was I put into a coma? Have you been sat there the whole time? Have you been sat there watching me like a pervert? Only a muffled roar came out of her mouth. Sheila jotted down a few more notes on her clipboard. A fucking clipboard? The patient? A lost cause. That’s what you’re writing. I know I’m not. I’m not! Hannah imagined her to be writing all kinds of terrible things, but it was probably more like a doodle because, in reality, none of this was real. It was The Truman Show, or that other movie they made. Hmm, reality. What is reality? Hold up, if I am mentally disabled, how do I remember the movies? ‘We’ll be getting you familiar with the world again, Hannah, one step at a time. Just don’t feel as though you need to know everything or do everything all at once. Your body will have to go through a process of relearning all of the basic things. ‘Re-education’? Brilliant! We’ve heard this before … ‘You’ve been kept alive with food and water through tubes for the last two years and that will continue for now. At the beginning, we’ll
The Inbetweeners meets Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, D.R. Fenner and Jacqueline Haigh’s debut comedy crime is based on true events and the Dutch crime duo Johannes Mieremet and Sam Klepper. An accountant at a successful London bank and his two best mates throw themselves into an Amsterdam adventure – but their antics disrupt the lives of the city’s two most notorious gangsters; Spic and Span are named after the ruthlessly efficient means taken to dispose of their victims. ‘Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth, it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.’ Sweat beaded on Ando’s forehead then meandered down his cheeks in rivulets. The cold muzzle of the gun pushed against his left temple so hard it hurt. Holding the weapon was a neatly suited, clean-shaven Dutchman with greased-back, dark brown hair. His shark-like eyes glistened. Meanwhile, his accomplice, a heavy-set guy with a pugnacious face, stood across the room grinning. Spic and Span never sent henchmen to do their dirty work. They viewed this as their vocation – it wasn’t just about making money. It was a matter of reputation. ‘Well now,’ the gunman said, waving his pistol calmly. ‘That’s interesting because my good friend Mr Beretta here says you’ll do exactly as you’re told.’ Span stretched up to his full height of six foot three. Ando looked across the room, to where his friend, Dickie stared in horror at the second gangster, who was even taller, and roughly the same distance across the shoulders. An archetypal hatchet man, he looked the type you could run over with a tank, and he’d get up and smile at you. Dickie was squirming, hunched in his chair in a way which accentuated his double chin. Ando knew that expression only too well. Dickie was doing the face he always did when trying not to soil his pants, which he would no doubt blame on his gastric issues if they got out of here alive. Dickie’s wide-eyed countenance caught the attention of Spic, whose forehead creased into a frown. ‘You like me, pretty boy?’ He sneered. ‘Should I bend you over and make you my bitch?’ ‘Err… no,’ quivered Dickie. ‘Then stop eyeing me up.’ Dickie lowered his eyes and fixed them on the gangster’s shiny, wing-tip shoes. Ando glanced over at his other friend, Hoppa, hovering further to his right. Strangely, despite the fraught situation, Hoppa looked relaxed, almost a smirking. How does he do that? Ando thought. No wonder he’s so good at poker. Over the years, Ando had heard about the colourful characters that Hoppa knew, so it was unlikely to be the first time he’d seen someone threatened with a gun. But even so… Unfortunately, the gangster holding the gun to Ando’s head was not so impressed by Hoppa’s laid-back manner. ‘Is something funny, clever boy?’ ‘No, no, nothing.’ Hoppa kept a straight face. ‘You think I’m comical?’ Span yelled. ‘You think I’m a fucking clown?’ ‘No,’ Hoppa persisted. God, he’s good, Ando thought. But, of course, it was a red rag to the Dutch bull. ‘You think you English can fuck with me?’ Span turned and away from Ando, spraying saliva in Hoppa’s direction as he spoke. ‘No.’ ‘Smile again, and I shoot your dick off. Got it?’ Span aimed his handgun at Hoppa’s groin, then twisted his neck, making it crack. His eyes became even more sadistic. Spic was terrifying, but Span took it to another level. He liked to get in people’s heads, to hear them scream. The things Spic had watched his comrade do would make most grown men weep. ‘Please, guys,’ Ando pleaded. ‘We’re not trying to fuck with you. This was all a stupid mistake.’ Span turned back towards Ando, removed a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the end of his gun. Ando’s imagination kicked into overdrive. He pictured the bullet exploding through his skull and exiting behind his right ear, scattering shards of bone into the cerebral cortex, back toward the basal ganglia, and down into the thalamus as his brains blew out all over the wall. Over-analysis even at a time like this. He thought. As the tip of the pistol pressed back on his sweaty forehead, a strange sensation flooded over him. Time slowed. The commotion around him faded away. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a last glimpse of his two best mates as they looked on in horror. ‘You know,’ Span said, ‘some religions think dying is like being born. I like that. An ending, a new beginning, who knows?’ ‘I’m not religious!’ Ando blurted. His voice was shrill. He didn’t know where the words had come from. It was as if they just erupted from his mouth. ‘That’s OK,’ Span said, smiling softly. ‘Just pick a God and pray.’ Behind his closed eyes, Ando heard the sound of the weapon being cocked and waited for his moment. Would it hurt? Would he feel it? He never thought that his time on Earth would end like this, in a soulless hotel room in Amsterdam… This is an edited extract from Double Dutch set for publication with the RiverRun imprint of Foreshore in summer 2025. D.R. FENNER is a novelist who lives with his wife and three young children on the northern beaches in Sydney. JACQUELINE HAIGH is a scriptwriter, story consultant and performer. She has over twenty years of experience as a writer and stand-up comic and has written books and scripts for film, TV, stage and radio. Feature graphic by Eliezer Muller on Unsplash
A sharp satire of the teaching industry, Josie Lee Star’s literary gem, The Dale chronicles the petty grievances, romantic entanglements, triumphs, and sorrows of a group of teachers at a fictional secondary school as they brace for an impending Ofsted inspection and the arrival of the inhuman Mrs. Khokhar, tasked with ensuring The Dale maintains its ‘outstanding’ status. Simon Peterson was a little man, impeccably dressed; he had aged well and was aware of the fact. He had spawned four males, all taller than himself, and his wife had died without fuss, before divorce was necessary. With his relatively large income and powerful job, he had never struggled for a bedfellow. His home was now empty, which meant even more freedom. He was grateful to himself; he had made it all happen; he was the only one to thank. His current “extra-curricular interest“, Suzy, was at the front of the assembled staff, and had been prepped to speak at an appointed time. She wasn’t a great actress, and others had started to suspect her allegiances. It didn’t really matter, as it was all sewn up anyway. But she did trouble him. Suzy was mixed race; they were always mixed race. His type was as predictable as his morning routine. She was petite, perfectly manicured, and with exceptional legs. Suzy didn’t dress like a teacher, and for that he was glad. Her clothing was stylish, and he enjoyed that about her, though it didn’t win her many female supporters. What caused him concern were her maternal comments, which suggested an expectation that he didn’t share. Despite the shortfall in Suzy’s qualifications, Simon had offered her the role of Head of Department. Knowing that she was on the other side of thirty had pleased him. She was still firm, but probably not wanting children, he’d concluded, especially if she’d waited this long and was still unmarried. If he had known the consequences of her as Head of Department, he may have thought more deeply. However, at the time, her semi- see-through mini dress, tightly cut bob and stiletto heels had featured in a fantasy that he had every intention of making reality. The auditorium was a fairly new addition to The Dale; it was one of the rooms that was maintained and locked daily. Even so, Simon could detect the shadow of neglect. Graffiti was visible in the corner of the light booth. He could see that an attempt had been made to clean it, but it wasn’t enough, and the word ‘Fucked’ could be detected under a layer of black paint. Many of the seats were missing their plastic coverings and a film of grey dust lay on the pale blue carpets. Even so, Simon knew, from visiting other schools, that this room eclipsed the average secondary school hall. As with many of his innovations, other Heads had expressed outright jealousy on entering. When it was in the design phase, Simon had contributed to the plans, including the stage, with its wide-lipped base, which tended to give the vertically challenged speaker more depth and height. The technical team had been prepped about the lighting, which he also utilised to enhance his stature. Nodding to Gary from ICT, the lights came on. His face was now illuminated, and his body was ever so subtly shaded. He had been told that his eyes sparkled with this tint. Scanning his audience, he felt deeply satisfied. There was just the right mixture of fear and excitement, as he paced the stage. He took the time to single out a few prized acolytes, and gave them a wink or a wave. Then, Mr Kear entered, with a clipboard. Simon’s acting second-in-command displayed those special characteristics that Simon lacked. On first appearance, Kear was amiable, with his silver hair, youthful skin, and piercing blue eyes. He was a happily married man of 25 years, a fact that was reassuring, and vitally necessary when it came to the inevitable management of staff expectations. For Mr Kear to succeed, it meant that his demeanour needed to be less aggressive than that of Simon Peterson, OBE, and Head of The Dale. Clearing his voice, and smiling through his thick white teeth, the Head took the pulpit, and waited for silence. It came quickly, and the expectation in the room was like waiting for confession, “Yes, hello, hello, for those of you that don’t know me…” He paused for the expected laughter. “I am Mr Peterson, Head of The Dale, a job I am so proud of, in a school I can only say, you are lucky to, I will say that again, and really hear me, that you are lucky to work at. Yes, you are right, that deserves a clap.” Simon paused, and noted that his senior staff, led by Kear, standing at the front of the stage, were clapping. The rest of the congregation joined in. “Great. Yes, so great. This is one of the most successful schools in London, not only are we oversubscribed in terms of students, but teachers too, yes! We are literally turning teachers away. Have you heard about the retention problems in the UK? Of course, you have. Well, not here, my friends, not here. On a Monday morning, my secretary will have no less than 50 CVs of some of the best teachers on her desk, and they all want to work here. So, I say it again, you’re the lucky ones.” He let this information sink in, and saw how Suzy clapped her hands loudly, and looked on at him with adoration. “So, before we get into the nuts and bolts of this remarkable day, I want to stress that The Dale is the foremost provider of Inset provision in the UK. I know, yes, it deserves another hand, but we must crack on. Some housekeeping now. We’ll have a lunch break at 1pm, no other breaks today, I’m sure you can appreciate just how much we have to get
