And a Magickal New Year

Chaos

Another challenger was setting up the balls, trying to impress me by spinning them into place and using the triangle to make them jump. This guy had his own cue, which he’d taken from one of those carry-boxes and was now screwing together, and was even wearing a leather glove on one hand. I turned away in disgust.

“You any idea how dangerous these boys can be? You must have, if you’re scared to go yourself.”

This didn’t shake his smile. I was starting to think it was some kind of birth defect.

“Only to outsiders. They’ve got nothing against you, son. In fact, I think you were probably born for this job. Destiny, like.”

I was already starting to plan my next tattoo. Maybe a leather jacket as well. I didn’t see how a quick recce mission would help the parents any. I mean, they already knew that she was in there. So it wasn’t as if I would be betraying any great secret by having a quick look and reporting back.

And if some of the information got a bit twisted along the way, well, who was to know? This had the potential to turn into another small victory for the forces of chaos, spreading confusion among the blind slaves of law and order. Nothing earth-shattering, but every little bit helped.

Hey, even the unemployed can have a mission in life.

“Let me think about it for a couple of minutes.”

He smiled, puffed on his cigarette, and ordered another two beers.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

And throughout the festive season, you’ll also find my books at Chameleon Village in Hartebeespoort, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, running from the 14th of December to the 12th of January. They’ll be sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Wishing everyone a Twisted Xmas

Rat trap

“What makes you think she would want anyone to know where she is?”

“That’s not the point, son. Her parents are worried about her. She dropped out of college and ran off to be with this lot. She’s screwing up her life.”

This was a subject close to my heart, and I had another drink.

“Her life. We’re not all meant to join the rat race.”

“Oh, I just love teenage angst. I wanted to change the world too, in my younger days. Believe me, it doesn’t always turn out the way you planned.”

“Life’s not a rehearsal. If she wants to get out there and live while she still can, who are you to interfere?”

“I’m the guy buying the beers.” And he pushed another one towards me. “I’m the guy prepared to pay a grand for the information I’m looking for.”

Being terminally unemployed, and living from day to day on the streets of Johannesburg, this was a tempting offer. What I would actually do with the money, I had no idea. But first things first.

“So, assuming I’m interested, where do we go from here?”

“I’ll get you a picture. I just need to know if she’s there, if she seems happy or if she’s there against her will, is she healthy, that kind of thing. Just a quick in and out.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

And throughout the festive season, you’ll also find my books at Chameleon Village in Hartebeespoort, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, running from the 14th of December to the 12th of January. They’ll be sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.

Or grab a festive copy of Dancing in Valhalla, or Tales from the Crying Room, both free today on Amazon.

Catch Burning Roses free on the Smashwords End of Year Sale.

If you narrowly miss the free period for whatever reason – or if Amazon cancels the free day because it’s decided to promote these books itself – give me a shout and I’ll tell you where to download a (temporarily) free copy.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Helter skelter

Mr PI lit a cigarette, still smiling. I was starting to think he was on something. Surely someone in his line of business had no right to be this happy.

“Funny, son, funny. No, I’ve got a pretty good idea where she is, but I can’t get in there to see how she is. It’s like a private club. Halfway to Pretoria. A select group of individuals, many of them very much like yourself. They’d see me coming a mile off. But you, on the other hand…”

I knew the crowd he was talking about. A farm out near Midrand had been bought by some rich kid who’d inherited the family fortune. He’d turned it over to a bunch of lads. Bikers, survivalists, ex-military types, who’d got involved in some kind of commune effort, and claimed to be setting up a type of church for those living on the fringes of society. Falling squarely into that category myself, I’d been invited out there a couple of times, but had just never got around to actually going.

Not that I had any intention of joining their loony tunes commune (and some of these guys were seriously loony tunes), but I knew some of the girls who’d moved out there. And there didn’t seem to be much talent in Mike’s. Visions of Charlie Manson sitting around a campfire, singing Helter Skelter while his family drove off into the night, swam before my eyes.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

And throughout the festive season, you’ll also find my books at Chameleon Village in Hartebeespoort, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, running from the 14th of December to the 12th of January. They’ll be sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Eskom-proof entertainment

Load-shedding getting you down? Too wet to play outside?

Read a paperback!

Day-time – no accessories needed!

Night-time – just a candle! And a match!

Eskom-proof yourself at Curiosity in Pretoria, or The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie. Or – for a limited time – at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley in Hartebeespoort.

Best of luck during the Dark Ages.

Cheers.

 

Stay out of jail

“You a cop?” After our previous run-in, I wasn’t in the mood to help the boys in blue. Then again, I can’t remember a single moment when I was in such a mood. I’d had various encounters over the years, from being searched on the street, to having my bedroom ransacked by the occult crimes division, to being told (on numerous occasions) to turn down my music. And waking up to find police cars parked across the street, waiting for me to turn the music up again.

Then there was the famous birthday party in a friend’s flat, where I was passed out on the floor, headbutting the carpet in time to the new Metallica album, and the neighbours downstairs decided to complain about the noise. The police who’d responded to that call couldn’t understand why I had carpet burns on my forehead, or why no-one was trying to stop me.

“Private investigator. Client’s hired me to look into the whereabouts of his daughter.”

I played two shots, carefully this time, and managed to clear the table. As the black sank into a corner pocket, my opponent shrugged and moved towards the bar, digging in his pockets for change.

“Typical. Some bird goes missing, and I get the blame.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

And throughout the festive season, you’ll also find my books in Shop A at Chameleon Village, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, running from the 14th of December to the 12th of January. They’ll be sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Video killed the radio star

Join me at the Joburg Record Fair today in Parkhurst.

Twisted tales of music, magick, mayhem and murder, set in 1980s Johannesburg, are on sale. Novels and short stories.

Relive South Africa’s first mosh pits with Ragnarok, Toxiksox, Agro Grannies, Urban Assault, and other great South African bands, in decadent tales of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick.

http://www.amazon.com/author/burning

https://web.facebook.com/events/762428587504188/

A hard rain

The Good Life Festival in Pretoria on Saturday has been postponed to next year, due to current weather conditions.

You can still catch me at the Jo’burg Record Fair on Sunday.

Burning Roses, Dancing in Valhalla, and Tales from the Crying Room will all be on sale.

As will the new collection, Flambe, A Silk Tie Murder, and The Rooibos Baby. It contains a couple of my short stories, as well as a bunch of stuff from other South African authors. Available on Amazon in digital and paperback formats. I’ll have a couple with me on Sunday if anyone’s interested.

And Richard Edwards will be joining me with his Puzzle Train series, including Puzzle Island, hot off the press. Get those young adults reading this Xmas.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Weekend warriors

Remember to catch me this weekend at The Good Life Festival in Pretoria on Saturday, or the Jo’burg Record Fair on Sunday.

Burning Roses, Dancing in Valhalla, and Tales from the Crying Room will all be on sale.

Check out this new collection of short stories on Amazon. Flambe, A Silk Tie Murder, and The Rooibos Baby. It contains a couple of my short stories, as well as a bunch of stuff from other South African authors. Available in digital and paperback formats.

And if that isn’t enough – here’s a recent interview that Shane Lambert was kind enough to post on his blog.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Behind the eight ball

Another greasy-looking oxygen thief slapped a coin on the table and adjusted his belt. He winked at someone who could have been his mother. If he’d ever had one.

I smiled my friendly smile, the one that said I wouldn’t kill him, not today, and reached for another beer.

There was a new face propping up the bar next to my ever-growing collection of empty mugs. An older face, lined with memories, and crowned with a shock of white hair. Intense grey eyes seemed to absorb me, the pool table, my opponent, the entire bar, before nodding absently, as if it all met with his approval.

“Afternoon,” he smiled.

I gazed at him over the rim of the glass, wondering where I’d seen him before. Probably in the same place, different day. Johannesburg could be a really small world sometimes.

“You figured that out all by yourself, did you?”

He smiled again as I turned back to the table. Loverboy had broken, and I sank a couple of balls just for the hell of it. When I reached for another sip, Smiley was still there.

“You looking to make some spare cash?”

“Put a coin down,” I told him. “We’ll see what happens.”

Another smile. “I’m not talking about playing pool.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

Or you can get a signed copy from me over the weekend. On Saturday the 7th I’ll be at the Good Life Festival in Pretoria, with my mates from Curiosity.

And if I survive that, Sunday the 8th will see me selling books at the Jo’burg Record Fair.

Check out Graham Downs’ monthly newsletter, which features – amongst other goodies – an article on yours truly.

Till next time.

Cheers.

#2 Top free book – World Literature

It’s not too late to grab your free copy of Tales from the Crying Room – currently the # 2 best seller on Amazon’s World Literature Short Stories Top 100 Free list.

Free till the US time zones catch up with the rest of the world and Friday ends. Grab it quick.

Cheers.

 

 

Tales from the Crying Room

In anticipation of Black Friday – Tales from the Crying room is free to download from Amazon today and tomorrow. Free every other day on Kindle Unlimited. Also available in paperback.

Three full short stories

Family Obligations – A female private investigator meets the family from hell. Chaos ensues when a demon tries to enforce his traditional contractual rights over his offspring.
But we’re not in Alabama, now, are we?

Mark’s Mistake – The devil came down to Mark’s house, she was looking for a soul to steal. Can Mark outsmart the devil? Many have tried. And failed. But Mark has special abilities.
Pssst… Mark… She gave them to you. Remember?
Oops.

Olaf’s Quest – A Viking warrior bites off more than he can chew when he underestimates three local girls in a winter wasteland.

One radio play

Fiddlesticks – Corporate politics, office relationships, lies, deceit, dognapping, and bodies buried in the backyard.

And 20 snippets of Flash

At weekly meetings, aspiring writers are often expected to write something at the drop of a hat. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes the exercise spawns a semi-decent idea, that can be tweaked and prodded into pretending it’s a real story.

These aren’t those.

These are the ones left bleeding on the floor of the operating theatre. They are not full stories. Just bits of scenes. Paragraphs. Flash fiction. Snippets.

Most writers leave these tucked away in private notebooks. That’s probably where they belong. But on the off-chance anyone wants to peek inside the mind of an aspiring writer to see how ideas develop – and often die – here’s your chance to read 20 ad hoc short shorts that might at least raise a smile.

Now available on Amazon in eBook and paperback format.

Previously published – digital format only – as five separate eBooks.

Check out Graham Downs’ monthly newsletter, which features  – amongst other goodies – an article on yours truly.

Till next time.

Cheers.

#1 Top free book – Horror Comedy

It’s not too late to grab your free copy of Dancing in Valhalla – currently the # 1 best seller on Amazon UK’s Horror Comedy charts.

Also available from Amazon.com. Free till the end of today.

Cheers.

 

 

Mike’s Tavern

Down in the snug of Mike’s Tavern, the world was a much rosier place. Darker and dingier, certainly, but nevertheless rosier. With half a dozen pints inside me, and a couple lined up on the bar, I was ready to face the world once more.

“Who’s it going to be then, eh?”

Ian had wandered off with Scottish Jimmy after the first few rounds, probably to get his gear ready for the gig – although it hadn’t been too clear from the grunt and nod with which he’d departed – so I’d decided to see what could be accomplished on Mike’s pool tables. There were several challengers, and they weren’t all bad, but they were up against someone who wasn’t just playing for entertainment. This was how I kept body and soul together most days, playing pool for drinks, the odd bar snack, and even the occasional cash reward. Playing for money was tricky, though. Your average punter didn’t mind losing a beer. That’s what it was all about, having a couple of laughs, buying a round, trying again. But when money was on the line, it was a different story. Some guys took it personally.

Still, it was better than mugging old ladies at ATMs, or begging for change on street corners. And still safer than selling drugs.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

One of my other books – Dancing in Valhalla – is free on Amazon, today and tomorrow. Go grab yourself a copy.

And I’ve just released Tales from the Crying Room on Amazon. Previously available only in a local paperback. Now free on Kindle Unlimited, and available worldwide in paperback.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Short Sharp Stories

Fresh from the printers. “Flambe, A Silk Tie Murder, And The Rooibos Baby“. Short stories from South African authors, most of them set in and around South Africa.

So far available only in paperback. eBook/Kindle version coming soon.

Contact me if you’d like a copy – burningrosesnovel@gmail.com

Or you can get them directly from Rae, who coordinated & edited the book – raewrite01@gmail.com

Follow the Sharp Pencils creative writing group, where these various authors hone their skills, at www.Facebook.com/sharppencilsjohannesburg

Authors

JOHN WEST

Jovial John

has won awards and even small amounts of money for his scribblings over the years. One of his stories was recently longlisted in the top 200 entries out of 5 000 submitted to the international Commonwealth Short Story Prize.
He now divides his time managing client finances, writing novels and short stories, and growing old disgracefully. John’s published work can be found at www.amazon.com/author/burning, and you can follow his weekly blogs at https://web.facebook.com/BurningRosesNovel/

PETER BARKER

Precise Peter

is a sort of retired accountant from the Travel Industry. He has had a passion for writing since he was a child. He has one published novel in the romance genre, and is working on others when not contributing to anthologies. He is married to Audrey and they have seven grandchildren. Peter’s published work can be found at mybook.to/AmzCupid

RAE NASH

Writer Rae

writer, dreamer, editor who writes whenever she finds a bit of paper and a pencil. Much of her writing has been educational text. Her Reflection will be ready for publication soon. She coordinates the Sharp Pencils Creative Writers. This book is one of its achievements.

BRUCE McKENZIE

Bachelor Bruce

a maths and science master, storyteller, Winner of SA Writers College Short Story Award, continues to enchant with his unique contrivances.

ANDISIWE HESHULA

Adventurous Andi

was born in Queenstown and went to school there. She took her life in her hands as she hopped on a train to start a life in Jozi, the City of Gold they call it, to find why they also call it the City that never sleeps. She has done so successfully, and works in corporate banking. Writing has been her passion since she was a little girl, and when she is not insanely working or having fun in the Jozi hotspots she journals her incredible experiences of the City.

ROB BRADFIELD

Right-away Rob

is a pensioner who wanted a good hobby for his retirement.

He loves the English Language and was once the editor for a small workplace publication. Impressed with the idea of writing, he wrote letters to Newspapers and submitted a regular column for Homeless News, although he is not homeless. He is a regular member of the Sharp Pencils and has gained much knowledge there.

ERICA PENFOLD

Effervescent Erica

researcher by trade, creative writer and poet by experience. Erica lives, works and breathes language in Johannesburg, South Africa. During union hours, she writes about public healthcare and access to medicine. Outside of her 9-5, she writes poetry, is working on her first novel and belongs to the Sharp Pencils Creative Writers. Her poetry has featured in New Contrast in print and PoetryPotion online. smarturl.it/poetrypotion

JULINDA SCHROEDER

Judicious Julinda

a career journalist and a novice writer, who is slowly finding her voice in narrating the story of her life and that of her family. After more than three decades of churning out ‘industrial-style’ editorial copy, she has now decided to try her hand at creative fiction writing. Although she grew up in the middle-class suburbs of Pietermaritzburg in what was then Natal, her roots lie in the desperate poverty that was in part the result of the Second Anglo-Boer War.

GRETCHEN HALEY

Gaddish Gretchen

wears many hats, often the red ones, and you can bet there’s always a story brimming. Her novels are diverse, like her taste in music. Her characters are spicy, like her food. She loves to entertain and she’s always watching.

Gretchen’s novel, Tubby, has been accepted for publication by Penguin Random House.

COLETTE AIKMAN

Crispy Colette

passionate greenie who has a great interest in all things natural and eco. A novice writer and avid reader of authors and genres. She belongs to the Sharp Pencils Creative Writers group and writes poetry and her version of Haikus, which for her evoke the experience and feel of a moment.

JASON WERBELOFF

Juggernaut Jason

is a bestselling sci-fi novelist with a PhD in philosophy. Likes chocolates, Labradors, and zombies (not necessarily in that order). He’s the author of the sci-fi thriller series, ‘Defragmenting Daniel’, two novels, Hedon’ and ‘The Solace Pill’, and the short story anthology, ‘Obsidian Worlds’. His books will make your brain hurt. And you’ll come back for more: author.to/Werbeloff

TOM CONSIDINE

Tardy Tom

Tom is a high flier. He writes plays about murderous Ducks in the Baskervilles, smuggling pork chops by camel, and the saga of husband Basil who murders his wife Rosemary. In his spare time, he hangs out in Dubai posing as an Indian looking for a deal. He has sold plays to unsuspecting Brits.

Hillbrow

We locked the doors behind us and pocketed the key. Mick had ways of finding his way back inside. And if he couldn’t, well… we probably wouldn’t be there when he tried. On the way out, I picked up some mail from the other tenants’ boxes. Nothing interesting. Mostly bills, with a few heartfelt family letters mixed in for good measure. And there was a free sample of some new aftershave, but that ended up in the nearest bin along with the rest of the junk.

This part of Hillbrow had seen better days. Once it had been a trendy part of Johannesburg, with the arty crowd flocking to the high-rise buildings to create their own insulated communities. Now it was the centre of the city’s nightlife, with club-goers, students and wannabe rock-stars fighting for the pick of the area’s flatlands. In the mid-eighties, Hillbrow was the place to be. Kids from the suburbs would borrow a car, pile into the back seat and drive into the Brow for a Saturday night that would make their friends jealous for weeks. The place had nightclubs, strip clubs, hookers, pool halls, bars, gyms, amusement arcades… and the most colourful collection of street life in the city. Both by night and by day.

I’d met a guy begging for money at Highpoint one morning, and we’d started talking. Seems this guy had a house in Observatory, with a pool, and a new car. All of which he was funding through standing at the top of these stairs and harassing pedestrians going about their daily business. Who needed a steady job?

Certainly not me.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Club Image

Image was one of the sleazier clubs in town, nestling in the heart of the downtown industrial area. It wasn’t the kind of place your mother warned you about, but only because she had no idea that such places actually existed outside of Dante’s third circle. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, shortly after dawn, the underground club would belch forth a stream of punks, skins and headbangers, who would blink wonderingly at the sunrise, shake their heads to clear the last of the alcohol from their brains, then stagger off to lay low until it was time to start all over again.

I had been there last night, but honestly couldn’t remember a thing after bumping into the two big lads on the roof. This might have been somehow related to the bottle of tequila they’d been passing around, although even that was hazy. Could have been vodka. Or petrol.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Or you can find all my books at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

And at The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie. They also have a few hundred old books from my library going for as little as R10 each. And several other self-published books by various South African authors. Go stock up for the holiday season.

Remember to keep an eye out for one of my stories in the upcoming “25 Gates of Hell” anthology. And in The Great Void Books anthology “Black Veins”.

And you’ll find another couple of stories in the soon-to-be-published South African anthology “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby.”

Till next time.

Cheers.

Toxic Sox

Once the room had stopped spinning, I pushed myself to a sitting position and looked around. The couch against the door had left behind a trail of beer cans and pizza boxes, and what looked to be a pair of socks dipped in blue paint. The only other furniture in the room was a compact hi-fi, sitting next to a pile of records that had seen better days. A couple of blankets wrestled in a corner, and the remains of a beer bottle lay shattered against the wall not two feet from where I had been laying. A collection of barbells intimidated me from next to the double doors.

“What did I miss?”

A new figure had appeared in another doorway, clutching precariously at the doorframe. It seemed I was not alone in my confusion.

“Fucked if I know. Looks like Mick’s left us in charge.”

Ian staggered back out of the doorway, returning in a minute or so with a Black Label grasped lovingly in each hand. He tossed one in my direction as he opened the other, and I caught it gratefully, holding the soothing metal against my pounding temples for a moment before pulling the tab.

“There’s a couple of ambulances outside”, came Ian’s voice from the balcony on the other side of the double doors. “Who did he kill?”

Using the wall as leverage, I joined him on the balcony, gulping down a good mouthful of medicine on the way. There was an ugly black smudge on my left wrist, and what looked like some kind of purple mutant spider squashed on my right.

“Last thing I remember is meeting you two at the Toxic Sox gig in Image last night. After that, anything’s possible.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Or you can find all my books at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

And at The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie. They also have a few hundred old books from my library going for as little as R10 each. And several other self-published books by various South African authors. Go stock up for the holiday season.

Catch me at the Writers 2000 writing event in Modderfontein from 9am on the 9th of November. And who knows where I’ll be after that? Certainly not me.

Remember to keep an eye out for one of my stories in the upcoming “25 Gates of Hell” anthology. And in The Great Void Books anthology “Black Veins”.

And you’ll find another couple of stories in the soon-to-be-published South African anthology “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby.”

Till next time.

Cheers.

Happy Halloween

Don’t forget the Halloween alternative market this weekend at Tings Tattoos in Johannesburg.

110 Susman Avenue, Blairgowrie. From 10am on Saturday.

Prizes for the best dressed. Alternative artwork. Jewellery. Apparel. And – obviously – books.

Halloween

“Bastards!”

I rubbed the back of an arm across my eyes. But they didn’t seem to work as well as they should. When I tried to crack them open, a murderous gang of light rays launched a vicious assault, forcing me to roll over and press my face against what felt like a carpet. This felt better.

But now the other senses were pissed off at me for disturbing their rest. Sirens blared. Vulcan’s trolls went to work in my head. And the sounds of frantic activity played on in the background.

“Not today, you bastards!”

This last was accompanied by the melodious grind of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor, and banging against what could only be a wooden door. At which point the sirens came to a sudden stop, car doors slammed open and shut, and I forced an eye open.

“Oi! Hippy! Lock up when you leave!”

This came from a hulking form dressed in dungarees and an Adolf Hitler World Tour shirt. The sleeves had been ripped off the shirt to expose arms wrapped in barbed wire, swastikas and chains. One end of this monster was grounded in a massive pair of Doc Martens. The other end had been shaved to a dark stubble. The beast was standing in front of a pair of double glass doors, pointing some kind of baton at me. Not in any condition to argue, I raised a thumb, at which sign the thing turned, vaulted over a railing and dropped from sight.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Or you can find all my books at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

Or at The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie. They also have a few hundred second-hand books going for as little as R10 each. And several other self-published books by various South African authors. Go stock up for the holiday season.

Catch me at The Pins and Needles Halloween Market, 110 Susman Avenue, Blairgowrie from 10am to 7pm on the 2nd of November. Get signed copies of scary books based in and around Johannesburg.

Keep an eye out for one of my stories in the upcoming “25 Gates of Hell” anthology. And in The Great Void Books anthology “Black Veins”. And you’ll find another couple of stories in the soon-to-be-published South African anthology “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby.”

Till next time.

Cheers.

Johannesburg Book Fair

Don’t forget the Book Fair this weekend at The Real Mackay in Johannesburg.

7 Mackay Avenue, Blairgowrie. From 10am on Saturday – NOT 9am – running till Sunday afternoon. With a break on Saturday night, for the obligatory sex, drugs and rock n roll.

Catch South African authors selling South African books, some of them not available in stores or even online.

https://northeasterntribune.co.za/244342/authors-host-book-fair/

The Real Mackay

Imagine a world where dreams can come true. The best of all possible worlds, where everything always works out the way it’s supposed to. Where you can do anything you want to do. Or be anything you want to be.

A world where all you have to do is live life to the full, and experience the splendour of the universe around you. Where you can learn from even your worst mistakes, for in this world, there is no real death. Merely a brief period of rest, before the next round of experience and wonder.

A world inhabited by gods and fabulous creatures, full of adventure and sensation. Sights, sounds, colours and textures created for no other reason than to stimulate your senses.

Virtual reality, you ask? Some new computer gaming system? No, this world is far more mysterious. More magickal. And yet just as fragile and insubstantial as the gossamer dreams of a newborn child.

It was in such a world that I found myself one bright and sunny morning during the eighties.

*

“Bastards!”

This was followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. I found myself in darkness.

The usual questions came to mind. What the hell was happening? And where the hell was I?

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Or you can find them at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

Catch me with other local authors at The Real Mackay Book Fair in Blairgowrie on the 26th & 27th of October. Think there are at least 14 of us attending, with another 2 or 3 showing interest and possibly climbing on board. Get signed copies of local books written by local authors and (often) based in and around Johannesburg.

Keep an eye out for one of my stories in the upcoming “25 Gates of Hell” anthology. And in The Great Void Books anthology “Black Veins”. And you’ll find another couple of stories in the South African anthology “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby.”

Till next time.

Cheers.

Olaf’s Quest

The wind shrieked around his body, trying to find a way to penetrate the furs and chainmail shielding him from its elemental fury. Olaf pulled his furs higher around his face and struggled on, putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to think of how he had been doing exactly that for hours on end, with no result. He was a warrior, so, of course, he had no fear of death. But this wasn’t the way it was supposed to end, blasted and frozen in the middle of a blizzard.

Ever since he was a young boy, Olaf had dreamed of the day he would leave this life. It would be a magnificent battle, and his great battle-axe would cut its way into legend, felling men like kindling, until the enemy reinforcements arrived and he was brought down, still fighting, by sheer weight of numbers. Songs would be sung about his heroic deeds. Women would weep and tear their clothes.

But it was no use. He would die here, in the middle of an ice-field, and his passing would go unnoticed.

The thought weighed heavy on his mind and he resolved that he would still go out fighting. Lowering his head against the invisible blades that assailed him, he staggered a few more feet.

His legs refused to obey. He sank to his knees and the snow rose to his waist, a deadly blanket beckoning to him. With a silent prayer to the gods of his youth, Olaf fell forward into a white grave.

*

Even death provided no rest. Something was hitting him in the ribs. Hard. Again, and again. Olaf moaned and the beating stopped. It was replaced by hands that took hold of his furs and lifted him from the warm snow.

Someone was talking to him. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was definitely a voice. Perhaps it was a Valkyrie, taking him to join the other lost souls in the underworld. He tried to hear what it was saying.

“…die here. You’re blocking the door.”

It didn’t sound like any ritual he had ever heard. He tried to turn his head. Maybe if he saw the angel’s lips…

A swift kick caught him in the stomach. The angel was making sure he was dead. That was alright. Olaf closed his eyes.

“Move, you maggot. A corpse is bad for business. Crawl somewhere else to die.”

Extract from Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only version of the stories contained in Anthology of Snippets, plus a few other short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

Books available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Or you can find them at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

Catch me with other local authors at The Real Mackay Book Fair in Blairgowrie on the 26th & 27th of October. It should be a blast.

Keep an eye out for one of my stories in the upcoming “25 Gates of Hell” anthology. And another couple of stories in the South African anthology “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby.”

Till next time.

Cheers.

Curiosity book signing

Reminder to join me this Saturday at The Vintage Festival in Pretoria, featuring Martin Rocka, South Africa’s King of Psychobilly (who just happens to make a guest appearance in Burning Roses).

Get a copy of Burning Roses signed by me at Curiosity, and maybe even (if we can track him down) signed by Rocka himself.

Cheers.

Devil woman

The rooftop was bathed in a golden glow. As I looked around, trying to find where it was coming from, I saw that the film crew were conspicuous by their absence. Unless that was them standing against the low walls around the rooftop, wearing dark red robes.

I turned my attention to the space directly in front of me, and the rest of the scenery faded into insignificance. It was her. From the farm. From Wits. The one I’d been looking for my whole life. No, hang on, that wasn’t right. It had only been a few days. Focus, dammit. I’d found her, and my life would never be the same again. Wait. No. Get it right. I’d found her, and now I could collect the rest of my destiny. Of my money. Damn. The art of stringing sentences together seemed to have deserted me.

But what did that matter? There she was. I finally saw where the golden glow originated. It was her. She was the source of the light, emanating directly from her golden skin. With no clothing to get in its way.

My knees felt weak. The bottle slipped from my fingers and bounced on the concrete. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need it.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Or you can find them at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria. Join me there on the 12th of October for The Vintage Festival, featuring Martin Rocka, South Africa’s King of Psychobilly (who happens to make a guest appearance in Burning Roses). Get a copy signed by me and (if we can track him down) Martin.

Also available from the East Rand Children’s Haven, Merchandise Charity Shop, 5 Muriel Brand Street, Weltevreden 118-IR, Brakpan (alongside the soon-to-be-famous Richard Edwards’ The Puzzle Train).

Till next time.

Cheers.

Family Obligations

Flaming torches illuminated twelve of them, holding hands, dancing around a solid black altar. A dozen naked men with exotic patterns painted on their bodies, chanting in a foreign language I didn’t even want to recognize. The guttural sound of those syllables sent shivers up my spine.

On the altar, also in her birthday suit, was a beautiful young woman. Not in the same league as Natalia, but beautiful just the same. Her arms were crossed over her stomach and tied to the altar. Her legs were tied too. By the look of her, though, the ropes were unnecessary. She was out of it.

The chanting stopped. It hit me like a slap in the face. The men dropped to their knees, still holding hands. One of them detached himself from the others and crawled to the altar. His companions closed the circle behind him.

Extract from Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only version of the stories contained in Anthology of Snippets, plus a few other short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

Books available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Or you can find them at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria. Join me there on the 12th of October for The Vintage Festival, featuring Martin Rocka, South Africa’s King of Psychobilly (who happens to make a guest appearance in Burning Roses). Get a copy signed by me and (if we can track him down) Martin.

Also available from the East Rand Children’s Haven, Merchandise Charity Shop, 5 Muriel Brand Street, Weltevreden 118-IR, Brakpan (alongside the soon-to-be-famous Richard Edwards’ The Puzzle Train).

Till next time.

Cheers.

A beautiful mess

Morag had had a handful of jobs since leaving her adopted parents’ home at the tender age of sixteen with only bruises, bad memories and the clothes on her back. Waitress, barmaid, photographic model, and her latest attempt – exotic dancer. None of them seemed to last very long.

She was a beautiful mess, bright enough, and passionate enough, to make a success of any career she chose. But it was that same passion that brought most of those career paths to a spectacular end. Her huge overflowing cosmic passion, the same passion that made her a blazing comet, burning everything around her. She struggled with the mundane, the small day to day things everyone else took for granted. She knew she was destined for greatness, and that she just needed to find the right path, to get that initial break, then she’d be on her way. Blame it on astrology. Blame it on her parents, who she never mentioned. Blame the music, the drugs, the people around her. If every man and every woman is a star, constantly changing with each new event affecting him or her consciously or subconsciously, then Morag was a supernova.

Extract from Dancing in Valhalla. 13 twisted tales of music, magick, mayhem & murder. Some set in sunny South Africa where, for many, these are part of everyday life.

Available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Or you can find my books at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Mark’s Mistake

Mark sprinkled more orange powder onto the flame. It caused a blinding flash of green light, but that was all. Except for a faint whiff of strawberries.

Mark shrugged, licked his finger and turned the page. The book on the floor had belonged to his father, who had recently disappeared. He hadn’t run away, or been kidnapped. He had, quite literally, disappeared. One minute he was in the kitchen, pouring a mug of instant hazelnut latte. The next minute, he wasn’t.

“Just one last verse.” Mark dropped blue powder onto the flame.

He’d been exploring his father’s study when he found the book. It looked out of place amongst the formal paperbacks and encyclopedias. Flipping through the pages revealed that it contained spells and incantations.

As the red light faded, Mark uttered the last word on the page and fell forward, prostrating himself and wrinkling his nose at the scent of frying bacon. He waited. And waited. Then waited some more.

Several minutes passed before he opened his eyes. Nothing.

“Hell!” He stood up and closed the book, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

“That can be arranged.”

Mark spun around and took a step backwards.

“Sorry I’m late, but you called at a rather inconvenient time. Rush hour. You know how it is.” The speaker was a tiny woman in a black suit and tie. 12 inches from shaved head and pointy horns to polished leather boots. Her face mirrored the pure white of her shirt. A miniature briefcase lay open on a pocket-sized table.

Extract from Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only version of the stories contained in Anthology of Snippets, plus a few other short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

Books available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Or you can find them at Curiosity, the new retail shop open from Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late, at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria.

I just finished proofreading an anthology of South African short stories – “Flambé, Silk Tie Murder, and the Rooibos Baby”. It should be published during the next few weeks, and is well worth a read if you’re interested in local authors, some of them previously unpublished. I’ll keep you updated on where to find this one, and let you know when it hits Amazon and other online retailers.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Not morning people

Electricity and water. My favourite cocktail.

Especially at 2am. In the morning.

“Hey, ZZ Top. You still up, then?”

The neighbours. Great. Icing on the muffin.

I took another bite as I watched them close the door soundlessly behind them. The one with the stubble – not the baby-faced goatee – was in charge of this operation. He took it seriously, looking around to catch spying eyes before easing it closed one millimeter at a time.

I offered my plate to Goatee. He took a long look. A longing look. But he shook his head, shivered and pulled the strings on his black hoodie tighter around his face.

“I don’t know what that is, man.”

Which was fair enough. After the muffins got stuck in the toaster, I’d had to use a knife to get them out. They’d lost some of their basic muffinness during the process. The chocolate peanut butter had hidden the rest of their identity.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Never stick a steel knife into a toaster. But hey, I’m a grown up. I know what I’m doing.

“Do you know what happened to the electricity?” asked Goatee. He’d told me his name earlier, but that was before I’d popped across to the Electric Ballroom and discovered Camden Pale Ale. Several hours had passed since this epic discovery, and, to be brutally honest, I hadn’t really been listening to him at the time. I did remember him saying they were from Clapham.

I shrugged.

He nodded immediately. “Hey, no problem, dude. It’s just that, you know, it’s only our two flats in the entire street that are out. And I don’t think we did anything to ours.”

Crack-heads. How would they know what they’d done? Did they even know where they were?

And here was Stubble, fresh from his door-closing adventure. He took a vial from an inside pocket of his black leather jacket and unscrewed the cap. He took out his tiny spoon. The first snort went up his left nostril with a shake of the head. Amateur line dancers. He dug out another spoonful and raised it halfway to his nose before he realized his dreadful faux pas.

“You want some ice, dude?”

I looked steadily into his dilated pupils. Took another bite of my chocolate muffin.

He didn’t move. Except for his eyes. The pupils grew even wider, then shrank back to their normal size. He flicked them to the left, then to the right. Then they went down. Then left again. But never up.

I took a long drink from the bottle of Guinness I’d brought out to wash down the muffins. Extra strong Guinness. It was going down smoothly. But it was awakening my darker side.

By this time, Goatee was actually vibrating. I could sense him holding himself back, desperate for a snort himself but trying as hard as was humanly possible to let me have the next hit.

“You remember I told you that I’m a cop?”

Goatee’s head started to shake, almost imperceptibly. A side effect of his previous vibration. His flat-mate’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of movement and special effects, a camera lens gone wild. Quietly, he tried to slide the tiny spoon back into the vial.

Had I told them that I was a cop? Their memories were even sketchier than mine. But crack-heads didn’t tend to argue with large tattooed persons.

There was no sound at 2am on our quiet back street in Camden Town. The clubs and bars had closed. The eternally hungry tube had swallowed the last of the tourists. And the natives obviously had better things to do on a night where dark clouds threatened to sweep the streets clean.

The three of us, a frozen tableau on the street outside our holiday flats, were the only sign of life. And even we were silent.

When I could stand it no longer, I laughed.

“Really? You fell for that?”

They exchanged a furtive glance. Still panicked. Still on edge.

“Really? Do I look like a cop?”

Goatee took a breath. His hand shot out, reaching for his comforter, then jerked back again. Unsure of himself. Was this a trap? Should he run?

I waved my bottle at the vial and smiled.

Stubble took another quick hit before passing the vial to his flat-mate. Goatee took his time, his eyes never leaving me as he abused both nostrils, one after the other.

I smiled again.

It didn’t help.

They looked at one another before agreeing that it was late and they really needed to get some sleep. They were polite enough. They said their goodbyes. Goatee even popped his head out again after closing his door and pointed behind me at the door to my own flat.

“Sir, there’s water coming out from under your door.”

I waved my bottle at him. It was only slightly threatening, but he disappeared anyway.

What was wrong with these people? Why did he think I was sitting out here on the street at 2am? In the morning? Eating chocolate muffins with crack-heads?

Extract from Anthology of Snippets, 20 short shorts that were a lot of fun to write. I hope they’re as much fun to read.

Available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Also included in Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only (so far) version of these snippets, a few actual short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

We might – or might not – be holding our next book fair at Ferndale on Republic –14th of September, from 9am to 2pm. Still waiting for final confirmation from the landlord. Watch this space for updates. Check out some of the authors who might be in attendance.

If you can’t make the book fair, you can pick up copies of my books at Curiosity in Pretoria, at the entrance to the Railways Cafe. Wednesday to Sunday, from 11am till late.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Apocalypse Later

She rode into town on an iron horse, the red glow of the dying sun a bloody backdrop to her arrival. The old-timers who lived on the porch of the Last Chance Saloon shook their heads, drained their drinks or spat in the dust, each according to their mood. Some of them pulled their raggedy blankets tight around their raggedy shoulders and huddled down into their raggedy selves. It was only when she turned her back to reverse the bike that they dared to share a furtive glance.

“We don’t need your type around here.”

She turned her shaved head, sunglasses blazing fire until she lowered them and fixed the old ones with a cold black stare that froze them in their wooden chairs.

“Old man, you’ve never seen my type.”

The bravest among them spat once more into the dust.

“We’ve seen it all, missy. You know where you are?”

She dismounted, stretching her small leather-clad frame before adjusting the twin holsters hanging from her waist. She smiled at the bravest among them.

“This is where old fools come to die.”

Extract from a little something I’m working on. I’ll let you guys know when it’s ready for publication.

In the meantime, you can catch the rest of my work on Amazon.

Don’t forget to check out the new Curiosity shop at the Railways Cafe in Pretoria, where you’ll find my books and a whole lot more from various vendors.

Delicious biltong from R10 a pack. Medical cannabis products. Handmade jewellery. Gin accessories. Traditional Gluhwein spices. Mothers apothecary. Handmade crystal fairies. Handcrafted soaps. One-of-a-kind sneakers.

Open Wednesday to Sunday, 11am till late. Curiosity website – maybe even an online shop – coming soon.

Till next time.

Cheers.

300 words of dialogue

“Three hundred words of dialogue?” she asked.

“That’s right,” I told her.

“By the end of the day?”

“Yip.”

“How are you going to do that? You haven’t been home since you saw the email yesterday.”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It must be possible, surely.”

“But three hundred words… how long would that take you to write?”

“Not too long, I hope.”

“But to come up with a topic. Some characters. At least two of them, I would think, unless you’re going to be talking to yourself?”

“I don’t talk to myself.”

“Really? Ok, let’s go with that. You don’t have time for that discussion.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“But seriously. What are you going to write about? This is an international competition. It better be good. Do you have any ideas?”

“I’ll think of something. If you would just be quiet and let me think for a minute.”

“Oh. I see. So now I’m the problem?”

“What?”

“You’ve got writers block, and now you’re trying to blame it on me?”

“Did I say that?”

“You were thinking it. I saw it in your eyes.”

“All you saw in my eyes was my love and admiration for you, dear. Now shut up and let me think for a while.”

Silence.

“Did you just tell me to shut up?”

Sigh.

“In as sweet a way as possible, dear.”

“Have you thought of anything yet?”

“No, but there’s still time.”

“How will you know how many words you’ve written, anyway?”

“I just will.”

“That Android tablet won’t tell you how many words you’ve written. It isn’t like your laptop. I told you that you should have brought the laptop instead.”

“Yes, dear. You certainly did. More than once, in fact.”

Silence.

But not for long.

“So have you thought of anything yet?”

Extract from Anthology of Snippets, 20 short shorts that were a lot of fun to write. I hope they’re as much fun to read.

Available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Also included in Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only (so far) version of these snippets, a few actual short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

Till next time.

Cheers.

Book Fair – Johannesburg – free story preview

Simple Simon and the Firepool

Once upon a time, in a beautiful land far far away, Simple Simon met a pieman going to the parliamentary buildings.

Said Simple Simon to the pieman, “I’ll need seven hundred and sixty-nine, eight hundred and seven hundred – listen properly – seven hundred and sixty-nine thousand, eight hundred and twenty, and seventy, pies to feed my wives and extended family.”

“But aren’t we supposed to be cutting back on government spending?” asked the jolly pieman, who had cut his road-trip short to attend to Simple Simon’s needs.

“You’re fired,” said Simple Simon.

He felt no sympathy for the pieman, or his family. Simple Simon had accumulated a huge pile of gold by stealing the hopes and dreams of millions. Whenever he walked past a group of hungry homeless children in the streets, he smiled. Because he knew that he had destroyed their future. It made him happy.

The buses were on strike again, and the trains he had bought were too big for the tracks. His wives had taken possession of more cars than the land could afford. All his over-priced submarines were in dry-dock for repairs. And he was not allowed to buy himself another jet (at least not openly). So Simple Simon didn’t mind walking. It was a short trip from his fairytale homestead, and the path was paved with the bones of dead miners and farmers and mental patients. This also made him happy.

He would normally have taken his goats with him on such an outing. But he had recently traded them for some magic beans. These beans had sprouted overnight, growing into a huge firepool in his yard. From the land beyond the firepool had come a family of ogres who demanded that Simple Simon hand over his country to them in return for lordship over all the sheep in the land. And more gold.

Some of the sheep who lived in the beautiful land had been less than happy with this arrangement, but the vast majority of them had just gone along quietly. Simple Simon found that sheep were much easier to control than goats. They did whatever Simple Simon said.

Especially when he generously provided them with the illusion of freedom. He allowed the sheep to believe that they had some say over what happened in the beautiful land. He waved documents at them, documents that had been drafted by wise men a long time ago, before the ogres and the big bad wolf had darkened the land. These documents assured the sheep that they had rights, and that they were indeed free. Unfortunately, the wise men had written the documents in an ancient tongue, no longer spoken in the beautiful land. So the old documents were often misinterpreted and misunderstood. Simple Simon considered himself exempt from these ancient rules. They only applied to the sheep.

He found that it helped to dance with the sheep at every opportunity, and sing songs with them. This made them believe that he was one of them, and that he wasn’t just dressed in sheep’s clothing. It also distracted them from the annoying public meetings and question sessions they held from time to time. These meetings always made Simple Simon laugh. He laughed so much that his glasses kept falling off his nose. He liked to use his middle finger to push them back up. He felt that this sent an appropriate message to the sheep.

One of his old friends had been caught stealing from the sheep. He had been sentenced to an endless session of playing golf and fighting with news reporters. The message had been clear – steal from the sheep, and your skills would be recognized and rewarded. There would be a lot of bleating, but nothing bad would actually happen. Nobody would ever have to repay their ill-gotten gains.

So Simple Simon had done his best. He hadn’t stopped at theft. He had his way with every young sheep that caught his eye. But he always showered afterwards. So he didn’t understand how anyone could possibly take offence.

And yet, he did hear distant mutterings of unhappiness. Luckily, there were enough dancing sheep around him at all times to keep these problems at bay. To be safe, he always kept his famous spear with him wherever he went. This weapon was so famous, it had even been immortalized in works of art. But Simple Simon and his favourite sheep were not happy about this. He preferred to keep his spear hidden, a secret weapon to be shared with those who were closest to him.

Besides, those who muttered against him had stolen everything themselves originally. Simple Simon wasn’t sure how he knew this, how it worked or exactly what it meant. But he knew it to be an indisputable fact. Whenever they raised their voices in protest, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were denounced as foreign invaders, and every attempt they made to put the beautiful land’s economy back together again was blocked.

This made Simple Simon happiest of all. He laughed as he trampled his land’s currency into the dust, dancing a jig and raising his voice in song. It was a good day for spending the money that should have been allocated to education and housing and basic services and social grants.

He decided to buy himself a shiny new jet after all.

That was an extract from Dancing in Valhalla. 13 twisted tales of music, magick, mayhem & murder. Some torn from newspaper headlines in sunny South Africa where, for many, these are part of everyday life. Available on Amazon and in paperback (see below).

If you’re anywhere near Johannesburg, don’t miss the Book Fair at Cosmic Comics, 254 Beyers Naude Drive, Blackheath, near Cresta. From 9:30am on the 24th of August – just before National Book Week – you can get your hands on signed copies of any of my books – including Dancing in Valhalla – and a whole lot more from other talented authors selling & signing their own self-published books.

While many of these authors’ works are available on Amazon, some of these exclusive books are not yet available in stores, online, or anywhere else except directly from the author.

Free entrance.

Book prices starting as low as R50. And grab some free preview booklets for upcoming releases (if the printers & couriers can get them here on time).

Check out some of the other authors here.

For those of you who follow my weekly posts – I’ll be giving away a free copy of Burning Roses to the first person at the fair who asks me for one after 10:30am.

And a free copy of Tales from the Crying Room, to the first person who asks for one after 1pm.

Other authors exhibiting at the fair are excluded from this offer. Other terms & conditions may apply, depending how I feel on the day.

Till next time.

Cheers.

 

She hates me

The Beast sat with his back against the wall. I walked over to stand beside him.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

He laughed. “I’m not quite fully recovered from that binding spell, and a point-blank bullet packs a hell of a punch.” He rubbed his chest. “Knocked the wind out of me.”

“Why did you get in the way, then? Should have let me have my wind knocked out instead. I’m getting used to being shot today.”

Another laugh. “Really?” I looked at him. He shook his head. “Always remember that you only gained a little part of my power. That bullet would have gone right through you.”

My mouth went dry. Time for a drink. Or three.

Speaking of threesomes, an untidy pile of cloaked bodies lay near the door. I could see Mike’s ponytail sticking out from under them.

“Are they…?” I started.

“No, we’re fucking not,” came the response, as the ponytail moved and its owner’s face made an appearance. “But, honestly, I think we need to start again. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. If you’ll just give me a few minutes to explain the bigger picture…”

Stevie stretched his leg and tapped the top of Mike’s head. “No point,” he replied. “I appreciate where you’re coming from. I understand your point of view. Jesus squeeze us, I even sympathize with what you’re trying to do. But I can’t be a part of it. I can’t let you do it without me, either. Not your way.”

Michael sighed. “It really is the only way. You’ll come to see that, in time.”

Morag stepped over and went down on one knee beside the heap of bodies. She smiled. I shivered. “Too much talk.” Then her blade was dancing across Mike’s throat and he was gurgling as he was reduced to just another pool of blood spreading across the linoleum floor.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

If you’re anywhere near Johannesburg, don’t miss the Book Fair at Cosmic Comics, 254 Beyers Naude Drive, Blackheath. From 9:30am on the 24th of August – just before National Book Week – you can get your hands on signed copies of any of my books – including Burning Roses – and a whole lot more from other talented authors.

Free entrance.

Click here for free previews of some of the books that will be available. Book prices as low as R50.

Or check out some of the other authors here.

For those of you who follow my weekly posts – I’ll be giving away a free copy of Burning Roses to the first person at the fair who asks me for one after 10:30am.

And a free copy of Tales from the Crying Room, to the first person who asks for one after 1pm.

Other authors exhibiting at the fair are excluded from this offer. Other terms & conditions may apply, depending how I feel on the day.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Welcome to my parlour

Said the spider to the fly.

She didn’t look like a spider. She had fewer legs, for one thing. Nicer too. And she stood upright. She even wore clothes.

I was hoping to change those last 2 properties.

Or at least I had been. Until the moment when she opened the door and ushered me into her small apartment. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

There was a fly in the ointment.

Several flies, actually, lined up on the couch and a handful of plastic chairs scattered around the room.

“Hi,” said my brother. “Surprise,” waved my sister.

I pulled my shirt back over my head.

“Happy birthday,” chirped an old friend from university.

I turned to look longingly at the spider. The unwrapped condom fell from my teeth.

“Not anymore,” I muttered.

Extract from Anthology of Snippets, 20 short shorts that were a lot of fun to write. I hope they’re as much fun to read.

Available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Also included in Tales From The Crying Room, a paperback-only combination of these 20 snippets, 3 new short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).

If you’re anywhere near Johannesburg, don’t miss the Book Fair at Cosmic Comics, 254 Beyers Naude Drive, Blackheath. From 9:30am on the 24th of August – just before National Book Week – you can get your hands on any of my books and a whole lot more from other talented authors. Free entrance.

Click here for free previews of some of the books that will be available.

Book prices as low as R50.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Stranger in a strange land

“By coming here and going through this with you, we’ve saved quite a few lives in the immediate future. And hopefully, everyone’s souls further down the line. So don’t start whining like a bitch because you had to go through a temporary death thing, and because you lost your main squeeze. Harden the fuck up. Try to grok the bigger picture for once.”

I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t step back far enough to get that kind of perspective. Not yet.

What I did manage to see, was a common thread of purpose running through the past few days, linking one event to the next.

I drained my beer, exchanged it for the new one that was already sliding across the bar, and turned to my drinking companion, trying to look for answers without having to ask the question. But I needed verbal confirmation.

“So did you know that all of this was going to happen?”

The smile came through in his voice when he replied. “Most of it. The broad strokes. That plate took me by surprise. And I have to admit, I didn’t see Morag being kidnapped at the end there. Although it couldn’t have worked out cleaner any other way.”

“Did I ever have any say over any of it? Just the tiniest bit of control over my own life?”

His arm slid around my shoulders. “Of course you did. It was you who volunteered for this, before you were born. If you hadn’t set things in motion back then, somebody else would have stepped up and made it happen. You can’t escape your destiny, once you’ve willed what that destiny is going to be.”

My head was starting to spin. I didn’t think it was the alcohol. In fact, since my resurrection, I hadn’t felt any effects of the drinks we’d been tossing back. I remembered reading somewhere that blue-eyed people had a higher tolerance for alcohol. Probably the northern blood. But this wasn’t normal. I hoped it wasn’t going to be permanent. Maybe we should have stayed in the Subway, where I could put this to a real test.

Scottish Jimmy slid onto the bar stool next to me. “You two again? Joined at the hip, are ye?”

Stevie smiled, not moving his arm. I was too numb to care.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Also now available in paperback in Pretoria, at the Railways Cafe, and from the East Rand Children’s Haven, Merchandise Charity Shop, 5 Muriel Brand Street, Weltevreden 118-IR, Brakpan (alongside my English mate’s The Puzzle Train).

Till next time.

Cheers.