Catch me at Jozi’s Showbar on Sunday the 2nd of February, from 9am-ish.
I’ll be selling my own books as well as a lifetime’s worth of old second-hand paperbacks, going from R10 to R20 each.
Science fiction, horror, fantasy, The Executioner, who knows what else is hidden in these boxes cluttering my spare room? Come have a look before I donate them to a library somewhere.
Cheers.
It started a couple of days ago. I was taking a break from processing cashbooks and reconciling stock balances. Poking around on Facebook during lunch. That’s when I saw it.
My ex-wife moved to the UK a couple of years ago. We don’t talk much. Not since she hooked up with the new guy. He’s a nasty piece of work. At least, he was. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
She’d just posted something about letting people go, they’d come back if they were really yours, the usual corny internet gumph. Pictures of butterflies, or kittens, or whatever mood she was in. I forget the details. They’re not important.
The important part was her new profile picture. There she was, trying to look brave while going through their latest drama. With a black eye. And a chipped tooth.
I missed the desk and my coffee mug bounced off the carpet, the last few drops blending anonymously into the dirty brown squares.
What the hell? This was a new low, even for Garth. Sure, they’d had arguments before. She’d kicked him out. He’d kicked her out. She’d keyed his Kawasaki. There was that time he threw their new Samsung 58” through the living-room window because she wanted to watch Geordie Shore instead of Chelsea vs Arsenal. To be honest, I’d sided with him on that one.
But raising his hands to a woman? That was crossing the line.
So I did what any concerned ex would do.
I used both index fingers to hammer the laptop keys, venting my frustration and telling the world exactly what I would do to Garth if he ever touched Louise again.
*
After a day like that, I needed a drink. And where else would I go, except Valhalla? The Johannesburg nightclub, not the mythological Viking hall.
There I was, standing quietly at the bar, enjoying an ice-cold Soweto Gold, when the guy walked up and stood next to me. He ordered himself a drink. Some exotic thing in a jar.
He stood there silently for a few minutes. Then he leaned in close and said the words.
“We can take care of Garth for you.”
First in a series of emails sent to me by an old Valhalla drinking buddy. He couldn’t post them himself, for reasons that will become obvious over time. I’m publishing them here at his request, as I received them.
Dancing in Valhalla is now available from Walmart, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, 24 Symbols, and other friendly retailers. Also still available on Amazon.
Till next time.
Cheers.
Some say for the better.
But they only say it in private. Behind closed doors. Usually in the dark. With no cellphones nearby.
It took a long time for people to accept that. The cellphone connection. I mean, it was obvious from the start. Take offence, let something trigger you, and before your friends had a chance to dislike your comment you’d be bleeding out into your milky latte.
Emotions attracted them, you see. Particularly outrage. And indignation.
When the news broke, it went viral. In the farthest corners of the internet, people took offence to having their faces ripped off by invisible inter-dimensional predators.
Ouch.
The sharks launched a feeding frenzy that left most under-thirties unidentifiable and no longer capable of expressing outrage, digitally or otherwise.
Second part of a new short story I knocked out over the festive season. Not yet published. Could form part of a new collection of short stories later in the year, if I knock out a few more.
My old published stuff is still available on Amazon. Dancing in Valhalla is free today and tomorrow (Amazon time), before I take it off Kindle Unlimited and open it up to all other booksellers.
All books also available in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Alternative Geek in Hartebeespoort.
Or in paperback from Loot, (Dancing in Valhalla – currently selling for R28 off the listed price, for some reason – here; Burning Roses here; and Hard Money here).
Till next time.
Cheers.
It started when Neil took offence at yet another inane Facebook post. Something about the gender politics of midget mudwrestling. The instant he expressed his digital outrage, the shark took his face from eyebrows to chin.
That’s what we called them. Sharks. Not at first. At first, we stood wide-eyed and open-jawed, wondering where our friends’ faces had gone.
I believe Neil was the first. As his faceless body collapsed onto Delta Park’s disc golf course, bloodying the manicured green, I remember checking my watch and noting the time. Twenty-nine minutes past two. Of course, this was on the twenty-ninth of February, when the world changed.
Opening lines from a new short story I knocked out over the festive season. Not yet published. Could form part of a new collection of short stories later in the year, if I knock out a few more.
My old published stuff is still available on Amazon. Dancing in Valhalla is free next Monday and Tuesday (Amazon time), before I take it off Kindle Unlimited and open it up to all other booksellers.
All books also available in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.
Or in paperback from Loot, (Dancing in Valhalla – currently selling for R28 off the listed price, for some reason – here; Burning Roses here; and Hard Money here).
Till next time.
Cheers.
PRETTY: He’s got it in for you, you know. Word is, he and Theresa were sleeping together. Wendy from HR nearly walked in on them one time, in the boardroom.
JANINE: I trust him to act professionally. He’s been doing things by the book since he started here. And we’re practically neighbours, since he moved into my street. I walk past his house all the time. Besides, I’ve got nothing to worry about. (SARCASTIC) I’ll have you as a witness…
PRETTY: (PAUSE) Janine…
JANINE: (SIGHS) Yes, Pretty?
PRETTY: You know I’m your friend, right?
JANINE: I used to think so.
PRETTY: And that I’ve got your back, right?
JANINE: (DRAWN OUT – WARY) Yes.
PRETTY: And I’d never do or say anything to hurt you, right?
JANINE: (EXASPERATED) Pretty! Where are you going with this? Spit it out.
PRETTY: It’s just… well… maybe you do have some anger management issues to work out. You know?
JANINE: (SNAPS AT HER) What?
PRETTY: See what I mean?
JANINE: Sorry. (TAKES A DEEP BREATH) But really? Do you think I’m generally an angry person?
PRETTY: You and Theresa used to fight a lot, during the few months that she was here.
JANINE: Well, yes. But do you blame me? You saw the way she used to lounge around all day. She had no sense of urgency. Jobs weren’t going through the system on time. Customers were always complaining, about late deliveries, and about her attitude. And the last couple of weeks, she wasn’t even handling their queries. She kept putting all their calls through to production, instead of following up herself. That’s what started last week’s argument.
PRETTY: I understand all of that. But do you always have to swear? At the top of your voice? The whole office used to come to a standstill. Little Maria in reception would sometimes hide under her desk, she was so scared.
JANINE: Well, I – Pretty, I – That’s just who I am, I suppose. It’s how I react to stress. What would you have done?
PRETTY: I would have followed the company’s procedures. Lodged a written complaint with the office manager.
JANINE: I did that. Every time. But Vincent never lifted a finger, he just acknowledged my emails then ignored them.
PRETTY: Don’t get me wrong. I’m not defending Theresa. I think she should have been fired just for her atrocious taste in perfume. I mean, the whole office used to stink of sandalwood every time she walked past.
JANINE: (LAUGHING) Right?
PRETTY: And those piercings… Did she really have to wear all those eyebrow rings to work?
JANINE: They didn’t bother anyone. Unless she was sitting there playing with them, instead of doing her job. Then I had to drag her back to reality and tell her to get on with her work. That usually resulted in another argument.
PRETTY: But I think you were just upsetting yourself unnecessarily. You shouldn’t have let her get to you like that. Maybe try to control your anger. Not swear as much. Just breathe.
JANINE: I am breathing. I breathe all day.
PRETTY: No, Janine. Breathe properly. In… out… in… out… centre yourself…
JANINE: (SARCASTIC) Gee, thanks for those words of wisdom. I’d love to hear some more, but I have to shoot. Got a meeting.
FX: SOUNDS OF DRAWERS BEING SLAMMED AS JANINE HURRIEDLY PREPARES TO LEAVE.
PRETTY: Just try it. Please. You’ll thank me later. Oh, and take this with you.
FX: RUSTLE OF A PIECE OF PAPER.
JANINE: What is it?
PRETTY: It’s a list I printed off the internet. Alternative words to use when you feel the need to swear.
JANINE: (SIGH) Bye, Pretty.
FX: RADIO MUSIC SWELLS TO INDICATE THE END OF THE SCENE.
Something different to kick off the new year. Extract from Fiddlesticks, the radio play included in Tales from the Crying Room. Available on Amazon. Don’t worry. The rest of the stories AREN’T plays.
Also available in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.
And till the 12th of January, you’ll find my books at Chameleon Village in Hartebeespoort, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.
Till next time.
Cheers.
