“Who are you?” she asked

He looked at her. Dumbfounded. Nobody had ever asked him that before.

“I’m a writer.” He shrugged, almost apologetically.

Her piercing blue eyes drilled straight through him. He tried to stare back, willing himself to maintain eye contact, not to look away. But it was a battle he was destined to lose.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” She was merciless. “That tells me what you are, not who you are.”

He shrugged again. “Does anyone ever really know who they are?”

She snorted. “Don’t give me that old chestnut. It’s not good enough. I demand to know who you are.”

He looked around, taking in the tiled walls, the gleaming porcelain and the baskets filled with soap and potpourri. He shrugged again.

“Ok,” she growled from behind the shower curtain. “Then at least tell me what you’re doing in my bathroom.”

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 (didn’t win).

Dancing in Valhalla is free again on Amazon, but only today. Or catch the end of the Smashwords Summer/Winter sale, where all my books – and a whole lot more – are free till the end of the month.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Where is my mind?

Moving on from the GB, we stopped for a drink in Hathaways, under the Shakespeare Inn. Rosie had a beer ready and waiting by the time I made it from the door to the bar. She was a big girl. Not exactly pretty. But when it came to serving drinks, she stole the show. Stevie asked for a McEwans, but had to settle for a local draught.

He thanked me for my sacrifice.

“Another one,” I replied. “This was worse than dying. At least that could be fixed.”

“Future generations will sing your name.”

“Fuck future generations.”

“Look, I’m sorry for what you had to go through.” He took a drink. Reconsidered. “Actually, no, I’m not. Because it was necessary. In the greater scheme of things. And you needed it. Was time for a wake-up call. You were starting to stagnate. Something had to rip you out of your comfort zone, get you moving towards the next part of your life, before you became another statistic and burned out on the streets.”

“Christ, couldn’t you have just pretended to mug me behind a Korner Mart, and stolen my drivers license?”

“Do you have a drivers license?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about 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.

Catch me at Cosmic Comics on Sunday the 28th to get signed copies of my 4 published books (including the newly-printed Tales From The Crying Room – paperback available ONLY in South Africa).

Anyone in Durban this week who wants a paperback copy of any of my books – send me a FB message and I’ll see what I can do.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Andrew was late

And he was worried. Normally, he wouldn’t be. Worried, that is. Or late.

But this time, he wasn’t the only one who was late. Mary had told him the previous day that she was late. In a different way. So now he was rushing to the doctor’s rooms, his mind spinning with visions of prams and wedding rings and mortgage payments and school fees. And that’s why he didn’t see the red traffic light. Nor did he see the taxi that had never intended to stop at the intersection to his right.

Now Andrew was late. In a different way.

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.

About to be launched in a paperback bundle with Fiddlesticks & a handful of other short stories, available exclusively in South Africa. This should coincide with the opening of a new shop in Pretoria, selling all kinds of Curiosities… including my various books… watch this space for updates.

Till next time.

Cheers.

Going underground

The Subway was still pumping when I left the back room a few minutes later. Nobody seemed to have heard a thing. Or maybe nobody cared.

I found Stevie at the bar, with a collection of red McEwans cans keeping him company. He handed me one. I gulped it down, but it could have been battery acid. I couldn’t taste a thing.

“We really should go,” he rumbled. “Someone’s bound to open that door at some point, and I have places to be.”

I lifted another can from the bar and slipped it into an inside pocket. One for the road.

“The Horsemen?” I queried.

“Left with Morag. Seems they’re looking to redeem themselves. She’ll be safe enough with them around.”

I nodded. It was an automatic reaction. The DJ picked that moment to play Ministry. The familiar intro snapped me out of my daze enough to start me moving towards the exit. As we ding a ding danged our dang a long ling longs around one side of the dance floor, we saw Uncle Venom trudging around the other side, pizza boxes piled high on his outstretched arms, beard resting on the top box to keep them steady. He must have reached the back room just as we set foot on the stairs leading up to the street. The scream that followed us up into the night air was much more intense than the ones he tried to deliver on stage.

I wanted to swing past Julie’s place and check on her and the kid, but we had no way of getting there. Shank’s pony would only take us so far. I’d never owned a car. Or even a bike. At least I never had to deal with road rage. Although I often suffered from pavement rage. And grass rage. And standing on a street corner rage. Same cause. Same symptoms. Same cure.

Instead, we headed back to the GB to pick up my shirt. When we got there, Gina was wearing it, claiming that this was the best way to get it completely dry. She made me peel it off her, to the applause and catcalls of the crowded bar. This process took longer than it should have, but not as long as it might have. I wasn’t really in the mood. And contrary to popular belief, in those days I didn’t sleep with every single woman I met. I’m reasonably certain I missed one or two here and there. You know who you are. I’m sorry. It was nothing personal.

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.

Catch me selling paperbacks at the Railways Cafe in Centurion on Saturday the 13th. R150 each. R250 for both Burning Roses and Dancing in Valhalla.

Till next time.

Cheers.