Geoff Parkes

Crime Fiction Novelist
and Rugby Writer

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Born and raised in rural New Zealand, I now call Melbourne home. I'd always considered school to be little more than a place to eat lunch and play sport, but recalling those rare moments of focus in the classroom, I remain indebted to an English teacher who encouraged me to write and write often.

Now, in a working life which has encompassed the full gamut, from the shearing shed to an abattoir floor, in small business, to executive management at a global Fortune 500 company, and being at the ground floor of an exciting dental tech start-up, I am fortunate enough to be able to pursue a writing career.

That this comprises two discrete audiences is perhaps unusual, but whatever the trigger for you visiting this site, please feel free to explore the 'other side' of my writing; whichever one that may be. I am extremely appreciative of all those who helped me become established as a rugby writer, and likewise for everyone who continues to support my fiction writing. But most of all I want to thank my readers: time is valuable and the fact that you have chosen to give some of yours over to my writing is humbly and warmly acknowledged.

" It was beer for the rousies too. Perhaps the bourbon would come out later; truth serum as Carl described it. For her size, Crystal could put the beer away. She’d grown up in a drinking household, telling stories of her and her brothers and sisters, not even at high school yet, finishing off the leftovers after the adults had flaked out, the strains of popular local artist Prince Tui Teka fading into the night sky. Aping their parents and their friends, stumbling around acting drunk. Until they actually were."

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" No matter the conviviality among the players, the vibrant positivity that permeated the atmosphere a week ago has been drained from the building. Conversations are fewer. Softer. Less animated. Already, the office is looking sparse in places, untidy in others: a classic case of a tenant in the midst of sorting through their shit, packing and moving on. The Weary Dunlop Shield sits on a bench in the kitchen, alongside a tray full of plastic tomato and bar-b-que sauce bottles. The sauce will be divided amongst staff; nobody is quite sure what to do with the shield."

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