Kieron Dowling

Born in Dover, England, raised by military parents in the UK, Germany, Hong
Kong, Singapore and Zambia. I started out as a tea and tobacco farmer and somehow morphed into a software specialist. These days, I live my fortunate life according to the practices described in one of my books The Extraordinary Power of Vibration. I write adventure stories drawn from my own life experiences in Africa and Australia and divide my time between Italy and Western Australia.
My main interest is helping others realise their own dreams (whatever they may be). And, I have a compulsion to turn my down-to-earth sci-fi into something visual like a mini-series for all to experience. Its inspiration hit me at Kakadu National Park (famed in Crocodile Dundee) in the nineties. The following may clue you in to the way I see things...

I didn’t go to Kakadu looking for a story.

I went because something in me — a silence, maybe a hunger or a sadness — told me I needed to walk on land that remembered more than I did. I didn’t expect to find a guide, let alone a moment that would follow me for decades and shape a novel about cosmic contact, mischief, and memory.
But the outback doesn’t give you what you expect. It gives you what you need, if you’re quiet enough to listen.
I was traveling light, not much of a plan. The days were long and golden; the nights, starlit and ancient. At one point, in a more remote corner of the park, I met a middle-aged, sharp-eyed ranger. We got to talking about rock art — some of it believed to be tens of thousands of years old. About Dreaming stories, sacred places, and the strange feeling that time out here was folded, not linear.
And then he said something I’ll never forget.
“Not everything alien is from the stars.”
It wasn’t a throwaway line. He said it slowly, like it had weight. Like it had taken him years to believe it.
That sentence became a seed.
I started imagining: what if someone witnessed something truly unexplainable — not in a spaceship, but in a sacred place, long ago?
What if the land itself remembered? What if the spirit world and the so-called alien world weren’t two realms, but one? And what if the price of knowing was sacrifice?
Years later, Cactus, Loop and The Moon emerged. A novel about two teenagers, a sealed cave, a man seeking his lost parents, a
spiritual trickster, and a cosmic contact that pulls everyone — scientists, elders, outcasts — into a shared mystery.
But it started there, in the quiet between sentences, in the red dust, with a ranger who looked at the moon like it wasn’t far away at all.
Some people write science fiction with lasers and warships. I write it with memory and wonder. With things half-glimpsed at the edge of a campfire. With questions that don’t need answers, only more honest stories.
This is one of them.