Neil Randall's Blog

 

Following the publication of The Wisdom of Empty Roads in The Leafline Magazine last month, Neil Randall is delighted to announce that the story is now available for free download in Vol. 1 Issue 2 of the magazine's official electronic publication. 

Here's another sample of the story to whet your literary appetites:

The following month, the heavyequipment, the diggers, bulldozers, vans, and trucks descended on the town.Surveyors had already sectioned off great swathes of woodland to be cleared andlevelled to accommodate the main part of the new highway. Working in rolling twenty-fourshifts, all we could hear through the day and much of the night was the howl ofchainsaws and rumble of engines.

      Each step of the way, Berk Beckingham supervisedtheir progress. To all intents and purposes, he became part of the crewhimself. At first light, he’d be seen with his clipboard and tape measure, overseeingevery part of the project, scribbling down notes, recording measurements, askingincessant questions of the workers and the men in charge of them. But ratherthan express disgruntlement, the men looked upon Berk as an amusingdistraction. His manner was so earnest, they couldn’t help but furnish him withall the information he required, even listened intently when he offered advice oncompacting both the naturally occurring and processed soil that wouldeffectively provide the foundations of the new road surface.

       “I don’t believe that the section to theright there has been compacted sufficiently, sir. By my calculations, there’s aquarter of a millimetre discrepancy.”

     “Why, I believe you’re correct, son,” saidthe foreman, after confirming the measurements himself. “Say, if you hadn’tthought about it before, you’d make a fine land surveyor one day.”

      “But, sir, I already have a full-timeposition here, taking care of the new road which will ensure my home town’sfuture prosperity.”

     Once the soil had been compacted, a layerof aggregate, fine and course particles obtained from rocks, was added on topalong with binders comprising a mix of further aggregate, bitumen, and sand.Having been provided with a hard-hat and hi-vis jerkin by this point, Berk walkedalongside the foremen and inspected every section of the new road as it wasprepped for concreting. Bar one query with the drainage provisions for anaturally low-lying area, Berk happily signed off this part of the constructionprocess as complete.

     “You’re free to proceed now, sir.”

     In the final days of the project, theentire stretch of road was concreted and covered with a layer of asphalt, thenlevelled and steamrolled. Even today, the townsfolk speak with special fondnesswhen recalling the sight of Berk Beckingham sitting alongside the driver of oneof those steamroller contraptions, levelling off the last section of road. Hehad such a huge smile on his face, it would’ve been enough to melt the heart ofthe even meanest of surly souls.

     Two days later, once the tar dried out andthe crew had performed a few final checks, some dignitaries visited the townfor the official opening ceremony. It was quite the occasion, with bunting andbanners, tables and benches outside every home, crammed with the finesthomecooked foods and locally distilled wines and spirits. Having heard of BerkBeckingham’s interest and, in complete fairness, active participation in theconstruction of the road, the mayor went out of his way to call the young manup in front of the townsfolk, and pinned a red rosette to the hi-vis jerkinwhich he wore at all times now, to acknowledge his contribution.

     “Thank you for all your hard work, youngMr Beckingham. I now pronounce this new road open.”

If you would like to download the magazine and read the story in full, click on this link.

And if you'd like to learn more about Neil Randall's published work, why not head over to his amazon page.

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his new short story The Replicant has beenpublished by Roi Fainéant online literary journal. A tale of endurance, thestory was originally written seven years ago, and lay languishing on theauthor’s hard drive in desperate need of resuscitation and bringing back to theland of the living. On a spurious impulse Randall is reluctant to discuss atany length, he was drawn back to the story (a much longer version than itsfinal incarnation), cut two grotesquely overinflated and hugely superfluousscenes, and the whole story miraculously fell into place around them, likeTetris in reverse.

     Shining a light on the future perilsassociated with AI and synthetic human technologies, The Replicant is acautionary tale to be heeded.

      Here are the opening scenes of the story:

 

One morning, beforehis shift started, a curious thing happened to Niles Campbell. As he stored hisbelongings away in his locker, he saw, in the adjoining corridor, walkingalongside a group of high-ranking officials, his exact double, a man of similarage (forty-four), height (approximately five-foot-eight), build (resoundinglyaverage), possessed of the same physical attributes: short, neat hair greyingat the sides, a rounded not unattractive face and slightly prominent nose (allthe more visible, as this man, Campbell’s seeming doppelganger, was thenwalking side-on to the staff changing rooms). Thinking it no more than acoincidence, a vision trick, the play of light as much as the relative distanceinvolved, Campbell closed his locker and commenced with his daily work dutieson the factory floor. 

      Onlythis wasn’t the sole sighting of the man in question. 

     Periodically,over the next few days, Campbell could’ve sworn that he saw his lookalike onhalf a dozen or more occasions: in the staff canteen, entering the physicalaptitude testing unit, exercising in the communal recreation area, on thefactory floor itself, even passing in the back of the Chief Directorate’sofficial car. And whilst these were only fleeting glimpses, the more Campbellsaw of this man, the more he was convinced of their similarity, that he waslooking at the very same face he saw in the bathroom mirror each morning. 

      Thisbecame so disconcerting, he couldn’t help but bring the matter to the attentionof a colleague, fellow G-Sector manual operative Shaun Rivera.

      “Idon’t want to worry you unduly,” said Rivera, in the kind of grave tones thatcould only ever unnerve, “but there have been some worrying noises coming outof HR recently regarding the corporation’s new recruitment policy. In a word,I’ve heard talk of them trialling new advanced forms of artificialintelligence.”

      “Artificialintelligence?”

      “That’sright. In the next twelve to eighteen months, those bastards are looking tocompletely phase out human operatives from all manual tasks. Any worker notreaching their designated work targets will be the first to go. And again, notto worry you unduly, but you almost certainly fall into that category, and youare almost certainly at risk of being dismissed from your post. Orworse.” 

      Rivera’srevelations troubled Campbell for the rest of the day, proving so distractingthat he assembled two circuit boards in error, one after the other,causing a significant delay on the production line, and was told to report tothe Chief Directorate’s office immediately.

      “Yourworkstation has been temporarily closed,” said the computer-generatedvoice in his implanted earpiece. “You will not be able to recommence yourofficial duties until full authorisation has been received from your directsuperiors.”

***

“Now, Campbell,” saidthe Chief Directorate, “we both know why you’ve been summoned here today, don’twe? For some time now, your substandard work performance has come to myattention. As you are well aware, we live in a highly competitive age, wheremarket forces dictate. If we don’t operate at optimum capacity in everydepartment, we will fall behind our competitors.”

      Whilstof slight build and advancing years, Peterson was still an incrediblyintimidating figure; a stern, unflinching monolith who perfectly representedthe corporation’s motto: Aggressive Innovation Through Consistent Excellence. 

      Hecontinued, “More to the point, new labour laws have recently been enactedallowing the more sizable conglomerates, those with a leading role to play inthe development, production, and sustainability of food and energy resources todevelop a more productive and sustainable workforce. For that reason, youshould consider yourself lucky. If, a few months ago, I had been handed aproductivity chart like yours, you would have faced immediate decommissioning,perhaps even liquidation. But now, due to the incredible advances our researchfacility has made in the development of synthetic human technologies, you havebeen granted a reprieve, an opportunity to wrestle your fate back into your ownhands.”

    “Idon’t quite understand, Chief Directorate, sir, I –”

     Themuch older man raised a hand, gesturing for quiet. “Oh, but you will, Campbell,believe me.”

    Througha side door, two white-coated laboratory technicians entered the room. 

    “Youwould like us to commence with the demonstration now, Chief Directorate?” oneasked, casting a quick, uncertain glance over his shoulder, as if somethingfearful and unwelcome was pursuing him.

     “Ofcourse, gentlemen. We must debrief our subject here. Full implementation of ourprogramme starts this very day.”

      Bowingrespectfully, the two technicians ushered what initially appeared, and was soonverified as a perfect representation of Campbell himself, the kind of synthetichuman the Chief Directorate had described a few minutes ago, dressed in thesame official corporation coveralls, replete with logo and nametag affixed tocorresponding breast pockets. 

      “Behold.”The Chief Directorate got to his feet. “Amazing, isn’t it? A state-of-the-artreplicant, identical down to the last physical, emotional, and intellectualdetail.”

 

If you would like toread the story in its entirety, head over to the publication’s website.

 

And if you’d like tolearn more about Neil Randall’s published work, why not take a look at hisamazon page.

 

Or check out his bookrecommendations on his YouTube Channel Randall Reads.

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his new short story The Wisdom of Empty Roadshas been published by The Leafline Literary Magazine.

      Written last year, it’s story of a youngman’s struggle to process his grief following the death of his mother, and his monomaniacalobsession with a new road that is built through his hometown.

 

Here are the openingscenes from the story:

 

Berk Beckingham was apeculiar infant, curious little boy, oddball teenager, and even stranger youngman. Every time a motorist passed through our town, they’d ask one of the localfolks what that scruffy transient-type in the fluorescent yellow waterproofswas doing sitting at the side of the road with a clipboard in his hand,scribbling out notes.

      “Oh, that’s just Berk Beckingham. Eversince his mother died, he’s taken a keen interest in the general upkeep of themain road here.”

     And that he most certainly had.

     Way before first light, whether in theheight of summer or depths of winter, rain, shine, blizzard, typhoon, oranything in between, Berk would take a fold-up canvas chair down to what westill call the ‘new road’, attach a fresh sheet of paper to his clipboard, andsit and observe and make note of everything and anything that happened to passhim by.

      “Why, though?”

     That question was a little more difficultto answer.

     Some of the townsfolk closer acquaintedwith the Beckingham family, to whom Berk was the only child, reckoned it was onaccount of something he overheard Dr Titman say to his father not an hourbefore his mother breathed her last.

       “Why can’t you do nothing to save her,Tobias?” sobbed Seymour Beckingham. “You’ve got a bag full of those fancymedicines, pills, potions, and what have you. And a head full of knowledge,years of schooling. Why can’t you make her better?”

      “It’s not as simple as that, Seymour. Ifa physician wanted to cure every patient of whatever ailed them, they’d have toknow everything about ’em, from birth onward. Family history, hereditaryillnesses, mental afflictions, their diets and lifestyles, whether they took todrinking or smoking in later life, their professions, living and workingenvironments, what kind of air they be breathing. Don’t you see? It’s animpossible task, ’specially where serious diseases are concerned. They foundtumours in the dinosaurs, don’t you know?”

      At a local meeting a week after thefuneral, to debate the advantages of having a new main road constructed throughthe centre of town, Berk witnessed his father, a quiet, mild-mannered man whousually kept his opinions private, express himself in an impassioned way nobodyhad ever seen him express himself before.

      “But roads can be more trouble thanthey’re worth,” said retired counsellor Gayton Blackmore. “First off, theproposed route would tear up acres of the finest woodland in the county, anarea of outstanding natural beauty. Think of all the wildlife. Then you’ll havethe endless upheaval and disturbances, gangs of workers coming and going, heavymachinery.

      “And there’s no guarantee that a new roadwould bring prosperity. Look at that shiny big motorway they constructed out inRunt County. All they got was a gas station and a flooding problem that don’tlook like it’s ever going to go away. Talk of new houses and stores andrecreation areas and public swimming baths was pie in the sky. It simply neverhappened.”

      “Horse crap!” Seymour Beckingham, muchchanged since his wife’s tragic passing, shot to his feet. “If we don’t getthat new road none of us will have the chance to better our lot in life. Weneed to be connected to the bigger towns and cities. We need passing trade tobreathe life into this dusty old pile of nothing. If we grab this opportunity,I can see the town being a thriving metropolis in ten, fifteen years’ time. Youhear ’bout it all over the country. New housing developments, twenty-fivethousand units. Factories, jobs, schools. Business attracts business. Moneylikewise.”

     It was a tight run thing in the end, themotion passing by eighty-two votes to seventy-seven, with three abstentions.

 

If you like what you’veread so far, you can read the full story on the Leafline website.

 

And if you’d like toknow more about Neil Randall’s published works, why not head over to his amazonpage.

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his new short story Open Mic has beenpublished by literary magazine Literary Garage.

     Having become a midweek institution almost,an open mic night presents a veritable cornucopia of auditory and visualsensations to any given audience. A place where the supremely talented andcriminally overlooked singer/songwriter rubs musical shoulders with thetuneless meander and routine murderer of many a fine tune, it’s often hard tosupress a plethora of extreme emotions. Should I dance, sing along, plug myears, drink my drink and leave, or wait for one more performer on the offchance that I might be dazzled all over again?

    The choice is yours…but is it, really?

 

Here are the openingpages of the story:

 

From the first bumnote – a plinkety-plonk-like strum of a woefully out-of-tune acoustic guitar –and the strangled cat vocal that followed, Kathy’s face contorted, like astroke-sufferer, mid-seismic-seizure.

     “My God,” she whispered to Niall, “he’sliterally making my ears hurt this week.”

    “It really is awful,” he whisperedback.  “Somebody should tell him. Put himout of his misery.”

     Their eyes met; wicked smirks broke outacross their faces; schadenfreude at its most playfully malicious.

     Every Thursday, they called into the BlackSwan for open-mic night. Why this had become a regular thing, neither would’vereadily admitted, certainly not to each other. One mid-summer evening, a fewmonths back, they were walking home after a disastrous (and hugely overpriced)curry, conducting one of those petty, pointless, yet hugely spiteful argumentsmoderately unhappy couples of long-standing often conduct. Caustic jibes hadquicky turned to blanket silence. Neither could bear the frictional formalitiesthat awaited them if they returned home right away.

      “Hey, look.” Niall pointed across thestreet. “There’s live music on in the pub. Do you fancy a nightcap? Who knows?It might be interesting.”

      As they walked through to the stillsun-drenched beer garden, an old man in his late sixties – balding, paunchy,red-faced, more retired plumber than former rock god – was halfway through arousing rendition of Bob Dylan’s Man in the Long Black Coat.

     “You were right,” said Kathy. “That oldguy is brilliant. It’s like having a full-blown live gig right on yourdoorstep.”

      “Who needs Glastonbury, eh? Why don’t yougrab those seats over there? I’ll get us some drinks.”

     There was a short break after the old manhad finished his sterling Dylan cover, which gave Niall plenty of time to getthe drinks before the next act started.

      “I wonder who that guy is?” He placed twopints of golden, frothy-topped IPA onto the table. “The one over there with thecamera.”

     Discreetly, he nodded to a young mandressed like a sixties’ beatnik – long straggly hair poking out from the sidesof a fedora-style hat, goatee beard, John Lennon glasses, leather jacket,frilly purple shirt, bell-bottom cords, and a pair of Cuban-heeled boots thatmust’ve elevated his height by a good seven to eight inches. With a vintagevideo Sony camera in his hand he was ducking in between tables, intentlyfilming the next musicians as they set up, moving in a hugely stylised, almostchoreographed, affected manner, as if he was the one being filmed, not the onedoing the filming.

      “Maybe there’s someone quite well knownplaying tonight?” Kathy speculated.

      “Yeah, maybe there is.”

     The next act – a young hippie-type girl onvocals and a long-haired forty-something playing soft acoustic guitar –performed a mesmerising version of Fade into You by Mazzy Star. Then anAmerican guy with a frothy cappuccino perm sang one of his own compositions, ahusky, involving ballad about never being able to get over his first love

      “He was the best yet,” Kathy enthused,still clapping long after the applause from everyone else had petered out.“Absolutely brilliant. Joe Cocker meets Harry Nilsson.”

      “On par with the first act, the olderguy, no doubt,” Niall grudgingly conceded, not liking the way his wife wasstill staring at the singer. “It’s incredible how much talent we’ve seentonight. Most of these acts could be professional musicians, maybe they are.There’s such a fine line between making it big and playing to a half-empty pubon a Thursday night.”

      “So true.” Kathy drained the last of herbeer. “I mean, who decides these things?”

     “Simon Cowell, I guess. Then again, why dosomething you don’t get paid for?”

     “Such a shame.” She picked up their emptyglasses. “Same again?”

    By the time Kathy returned, the guy withthe camera from earlier was tuning up a guitar on the makeshift stage at thebottom end of the garden.

     Maybe if he hadn’t performed, theywouldn’t have given a second thought to ever returning again, regardless of howmuch they’d enjoyed the music, and how effectively it had distracted theirminds from a disappointing meal and the same old arguments that had beendogging their increasingly fractious relationship of late.

     “Oh, look,” said Kathy. “Stanley Kubrickin flares is about to sing a song.”

     Sitting down on a stool, he strummed theacoustic guitar with a peace sign on the front and thanked everyone for coming,with all the casual assurance of a seasoned headline performer.

      “Right, people, this is a little numberI’ve been working on for a few weeks. Earlier in the summer, I was walkingbarefoot on the banks of the river at dawn, just as the sun was rising and awispy mist hung over the water, and I had a kind of epiphany about life, love,and poetry. All the good stuff that nourishes the soul. This is called MelancholyMan, Man. Dig it.”

 

If you want to read onto the end, you can do so on the Literary Garage website.

 

And if you’d like tolearn more about Neil Randall’s published work, why not visit his amazon page?

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his latest novel A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY has finally landed. 

Here is the blurb from the back of the book:

A man with nothing left to lose.

Orlovi is one of the most feared men in Belgrade. In a fractured city, he hunts for a mysterious item; stolen by the woman who once meant everything to him.

Wherever he goes, death follows. The murders are ritualistic and deliberate, drawing detectives Kostic and Ristic into an investigation that makes Orlovi the obvious suspect. But things are not quite what they seem.

Soon, Orlovi’s obsession will lead him to a confrontation that will reveal long-buried secrets from his past.

A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY is the first book in the Balkan Trilogy series of mystery novels by Neil Randall.

If you'd like to buy the book, click on this link.

 

Keep November 2027 free in your diary. Why? Dark WinterPress will be publishing The Dead Crows of Velika Plana by Neil Randall.The sequel to 2025’s acclaimed The Professional Mourner and the secondpart of The Yugoslav Trilogy; it takes up the story of a much-changed MilicaStanković. Disillusioned by everything she has witnessed during the Balkanconflict, she no longer sees anything good or worthy in mankind anymore. Whentragedy strikes her hometown of Velika Plana, it triggers a bizarre and deadlychain of events that threatens not only the lives and well-being of everyone wholives there but the whole Balkan region – and beyond.

    Here is theopening chapter to whet your literary appetites:

 

Tragedy in the Park

The people of Velika Plana had got out of the habit ofpromenading on fine summer days. Whether the dire economic situation was toblame, the harsh sanctions following the war, mass unemployment, low wages, andrising prices, they tended to stay indoors in front of their televisions now.The tatty, litter-strewn streets and derelict buildings, the once thrivingbusinesses, now no more than boarded-up shells, were the exclusive province ofgangs of snarling street dogs. The near-empty cafes and bars on the mainstreet, home to morose drunks who did little more than puff on cheap cigarettesand stare into their empty glasses, willing them to miraculously replenishthemselves. The rundown bus station, a graveyard to rattling coaches thatspewed out black diesel fumes into the already tainted air of a town no oneever wanted to visit anymore.

     Why on such aswelteringly hot July day, when temperatures had touched forty degrees forthree consecutive weeks, some of the town’s more prominent families decided toput on their best clothes and take a stroll through the park could never besatisfactorily explained. There was certainly no special occasion, atraditional celebration, that would have justified such a rare foray outsidetheir homes. Still, the younger children raced around the designated play area,clambered upon the swings, slides, and roundabouts, their voices and laughtershrill and excited. Dogs barked. Crows cawed. The younger couples, the husbandsand wives or those soon to be married, walked hand in hand or with armsinterlinked. Some wafted fans to escape the desperate humidity, others hadtreated themselves to ice-creams. While the older people stopped in the shadeof the towering linden trees which dominated the leafy space and talkedcasually amongst themselves, just like they had in far happier times, when notjust Velika Plana but the whole nation was flourishing. Back then, small townfolk liked nothing better than to chat, gossip, put the world to rights withtheir own people, those who had known them all their lives. The passage oftime, the course of history, however, had not only eroded the fabric of thecommunity, but embittered people against each other. When you don’t have muchto look forward to, it’s easy, almost natural, to blame somebody else for yourpredicament.

      That’s what madethis July scene all the more intriguing.

     Those who didn’thold each other in particularly high esteem, warring in-laws who may not haveexchanged a word in anger for years, were amongst those who had decided to takea stroll through the park. Families like the Darkovićs and Mijatovićs, theBobans and Brozovićs occupied the same space for the first time in months. Butrather than show any outward antipathy towards each other, they exchangedpleasant greetings, shook hands, even embraced. If first-hand accounts are tobe believed (and they were corroborated by many sources), even the surly,tyrannical Lazar Darković, one of the town’s most respected figures, a man whohad built up a thriving auto repair business, was seen deep in conversationwith both Uroš Mijatović and Robert Boban, estranged best friends, men who hadbadly wronged each other in the past, men who had openly brawled in the street,and uttered the most hideous curses acted with the utmost cordiality, as ifnone of those poisonous, ugly scenes had ever taken place.

     “How’s business?”Uroš asked Lazar. “Every morning, I see you toiling away in your workshop.”

     “Never beenbetter. Much as it pains me, I’m having to turn custom away. Still, I work fromsix in the morning until seven in the evening. Barely time for a decent lunchand a cup of tea.”

     “You should easeup, Lazar,” said Robert. “You’ve worked hard all your life. You shouldn’t pushyourself so hard.”

     “Bah!” Hesmoothed his thick handlebar moustache down with one hand and waved the wordsaway with the other. “I’m as fit now at fifty-five as I was at seventeen.Besides, ever since Bojana’s passing, I like to keep myself busy.”

      On a nearbybench, in the shade of the trees, Uroš’ wife Tatijana was deep in conversationwith Ivana Brozović.

      “I just don’tknow what to do with him anymore,” said Ivana, with eyes downcast. “Ever sincehe returned from the war, he’s been like a ticking timebomb. We’ve triedeverything. We sent him to the best psychologists in Belgrade. We had him puton a course of pills to control his temper. We refused to let him drink alcoholunder our roof – but he can easily get hold of the stuff anywhere in town.Nothing has helped. Ten years and he’s still the same mixed-up ball ofconfusion he was when the army returned him to us. I know it’s shameful toadmit, and I hope God will forgive me, but I’m scared of my own son.”

    “You mustn’t giveup on Vladan.” Tatijana took hold of both of Ivana’s hands. “He served hiscountry like an honourable young man. He saw some truly horrendous things andit left a mark on him. True, he’s a troubled soul. It pains us all to see himso at odds with himself. Time will heal. God will see to that, don’t youworry.”

     The youngermembers of the families, the teenage boys and girls who used to play togetherat birthday celebrations and religious festivals and who were now forbiddenfrom spending much (or any) time in each other’s company, seized theopportunity to catch up. In particular, Jovana Darković and Ivan Brozović.Secret sweethearts since not long after they were out of swaddling clothes,everybody in Velika Plana knew of the extreme lengths they went to to see each otherwithout the express knowledge or permission of their parents. Common was thesight of the handsome, athletic, seventeen-year-old boy sneaking out of hisbedroom window and racing across town to be with his betrothed. Hiding behind aderelict kiosk abutting the park, the couple held hands and pressed theirforeheads close together.

      “Don’t worryabout a thing,” said Ivan. “In six months, I officially come of age. Already,Igor from the tennis club has promised me a coaching position. And not just forthe summer season, but all-year-round. Once I start earning a regular wage, wecan declare our intentions to our families.”

      “Declare outintentions!” Jovana spluttered, but not in a harsh or dismissive manner, evenif that was how Ivan initially took it. But because she was as scared as shewas excited by the prospect.

      “Why do youlaugh?” He was hurt and offended. “Everything I just told you is so close, wecan almost reach out and touch it.”

      Jovana lookedaway from him. There was a brief yet heavy silence.

      “You know whatour parents are like. They’ll never allow it. It’s pointless to try and foolourselves into believing anything else.”

      “Then we’ll runaway. I’ll get hold of some money. We’ll be together. I promise.”

     As for the moregrown-up of the younger people, the husbands and wives who had been enjoyingthe fine weather and the refreshments on offer, they all began to gravitate inone direction. A few weeks ago, Dusan and Sladana Mijatović, son of Uroš andTatijana, daughter of Nemanja and Ivana respectively, welcomed their firstchild into the world, a fine, healthy boy they had named Mihajlo, in honour ofa paternal grandfather who had distinguished himself in the Great War.Naturally, relatives and neighbours who hadn’t seen the child before crowdedaround the pram.

      “What abeautiful child!”

      “He has hisfather’s eyes.”

      “And hismother’s cute button nose.”

     Like all proudparents, the couple wanted nothing more than to talk about the new arrival, howhe was such a good baby, how he slept through the night, how he hardly evercried, and how he drank the last drop of his milk during every feeding time.

      “I know everynew mother says the same thing,” beamed Sladana, “but this gift from God hastruly made our lives complete. It was no secret that we’d been trying for ababy for a number years. Why we couldn’t conceive was as big a mystery to thespecialists in the city as it was to us. But despite all the painfuldisappointments we endured, I now know that we were fated to have our firstchild in just the way we had him. We’re so lucky and have got so much to lookforward to.”

      “You’re notwrong there, girl,” said the grandfather, Nemanja Brozović, “every seed knowsits time. We’ve truly been blessed as a family. I couldn’t be happier for thetwo of you. It’s about time we had some good news round these here parts.”     

     At this point inthe afternoon, the sun was hotter still. Even more local people, perhapsencouraged by the sight of the town’s notable families outside enjoying boththe fine weather and each other’s company, came and sat on benches, crackedopen a cold beer or dribbled a little rakija into a plastic cup, and chattedand reminisced with their neighbours or former school friends. Some set upchess boards on the picnic tables and dividing out some cheese and hunks ofbread, started to move the pieces across the board with as much deliberation ascontentment.

     A more pleasantor convivial scene, the most skilful artist in Serbia couldn’t have captured.

     But all of thatwas only moments away from being shattered forever more.

     As Dusan andSladana thanked Nevena Boban for a bag of baby clothes the kindly middle-agedwoman had just rushed home to fetch, the most savage, extraordinary, and tragicevent that had ever taken place in the history of Velika Plana destroyed boththe peacefulness of the summer’s day and the lives of so many of its residents.Without warning, one of the crows that nested in the trees high above, swoopeddown and began to attack the baby in its pram. Before the parents or anyone inclose proximity could react, before the first anguished howl of pain hadregistered from the infant himself, the bird had pecked away at the baby’sface, gouging both eyes from their sockets, stabbed deep into the child’s heartwith its beak, piercing both clothing and skin, reducing the innocent soul tono more than a bloody, barely recognisable pulp.

      “No!” Dusanrushed over and tried to grab the bird amidst this violent frenzy, only it wasfar too quick and simply flew up and away, back to its nest in the trees.

     Like a delayedreaction, a little girl and a hunched-over old pensioner nearby started toscream. Duly alerted, every man, woman, and child rushed over to see a pramawash with blood.

     “Whatever isgoing on?” Lazar Darković pushed his way to front of the crowd. “In God’sname,” he cried. “How did this happen?”

 

If you liked what you read so far, why not take a closerlook at the first book in the series – The Professional Mourner?

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that he has just signed a three-book deal with Next Chapter Books. The first novel from The Balkan Trilogy - A Dark Day in the White City - will be released later this year. Set in Belgrade during the recent protests and social unrest, the author goes on to predict the current geopolitical situation and the outbreak of wars all across the globe with chillingly accuracy.

Here is the back cover blurb:

A man with nothing left to lose.

Orlovi is one of the most feared men in Belgrade. In a fractured city, he huntsfor a mysterious item; stolen by the woman who once meant everything to him,

Wherever he goes, death follows. The murders are ritualistic and deliberate,drawing detectives Kostic and Ristic into an investigation that makes Orlovithe obvious suspect. But things are not quite what they seem.

Soon, Orlovi’s obsession will lead him to a confrontation that will reveallong-buried secrets from his past.

A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY is the first book in the Balkan Trilogy series ofmystery novels by Neil Randall.

Watch this space for more details. 

If you'd like to learn more about Next Chapter Books, you can visit their website.

And if you'd like to learn more about Neil Randall's published work, head over to his amazon page.

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his latest short story The War Tourists hasbeen accepted for publication by the good people at Blood + Honey LiteraryMagazine.

     The story was inspired by a disturbingnews story that circulated a few months ago. According to reports, an inquiryis currently underway in Italy to ascertain if Italian nationals travelled toBosnia during the height of the Balkan conflict as war tourists.

    What is a war tourist, you (and every humanbeing worthy of the name) might rightly ask? If the stories are to be believedthose under investigation hunkered down in decimated buildings and tookpotshots at the displaced, desperate, war-torn civilians as they scatteredunder heavy enemy shelling, killing and wounding innocent men, women, andchildren.

     Sadistic thrill-seekers who should bedealt with by the courts accordingly.

     You need only to look at the devastationin Gaza and Ukraine to recognise that war is the very worst of this oftenterrible and cruel world has to offer – never a spectator sport or a playgroundfor sick bastards who place no value on human life.

 

Here are the openingscenes of the story:

 

The War Tourists

One ferry crossing inthe dead of night.

      Many furtive, darting eyes scrutinisedthem in the dark, cramped confines of a cargo hold. Alien bodies pressedtightly together, potent sweat, stale urine, fresh human waste. Whisperedwords, slow yet perceptible movement. Threatening, ever nearer. He held herclose to his chest, and told her not to worry.

      “Don’t worry.”

      Choppy waters. A raging storm. Thunderrumbled overhead. The flimsy vessel buffeted by high winds and powerful waves.The illegals struggled to keep their balance. Groping, clasping, filthy handsfell all over them, with despairing not malicious intent – or so they hoped.

     Ten hours later.

     They were herded off the boat. Pushing andshoving, the captain barked at them in different languages. A sliver of lightfrom a half-moon glinted off the barrel of a machine-gun. She gasped. Again, heheld her close, and told her not to worry.

     Their connection met them on the beach.

     “This way. The van is waiting for you.”

     Two border crossings in twelve hours.

     A bumpy, uncomfortable ride over rutted,uneven roads. Cold, shivering, huddled close together for warmth. Tepid waterfrom plastic bottles. Hard, stale bread. Sporadic sleep. Juddering awakenings.Raised voices. The van slowed to a stop. Broken English. The side door flewopen. Bright light from the morning sun dazzled their eyes.

     “Get out, get out,” demanded a tall,imposing border guard with a machine-gun hanging from his shoulder.

     They did as instructed.

     Feet scrunched against snow-coveredground. Eyes blinked and slowly adjusted to the startling daylight, the wintryscene, vast barren fields blanketed brilliant-white, far-off snow-dustedmountain ranges. Behind them, a long queue of vehicles. Exhaust fumes driftedon a light yet chilly breeze.

     “Passports.”

     The driver interceded, stepped forward.“No, no, these travellers do not need to show any documentation. Come, myfriend. I have something for you. A gift. From one brother to another.”

     A case of vodka. A brown envelope bulgingwith American dollars.

    Other guards strolled over. Opened abottle. Passed it around. Tangled breath cast cobwebby patterns in the air.Laughter. Long, hard. Cigarettes lighted. Impatient car horns honked. Guardscursed and flashed obscene gestures. Continued to drink, smoke, laugh, joke.

     Another long drive.

     Colder still. Sleep wouldn’t come easy.Drifting in and out of consciousness. Holding each other tight all over again.Flaky lips, dry mouths, rumbling stomachs.

     Another stop.

    More voices. No demands to exit the vehiclethis time around. The jingle of bottles clinking against each other. Morewords, conversational, convivial. Peals of laughter. Footsteps. The driver’sside door opened and slammed shut. The engine rumbled back into life.

    A much shorter drive.

    Twenty or thirty minutes, only over farrougher ground, even than before. Undulating. Steep ascents. The enginestruggled. Tubercular rasp followed by a clunking change of gear.

    The van rattled to a stop. The doors upfront clicked open and slammed shut. Padding footsteps. The side door easedopen.

     “Come, come,” said the driver, smiling andbeckoning them to disembark. “We arrive. We at camp now.”

     One overnight stay in a forest.

     Flickering flames from a campfire. Big potof food, simmering away. Delicious, meaty aromas. Other men patrolled theclearing on all sides. Armed. Statuesque. Off in the distance, the rumble andpounding of artillery shells. Every now and then, a massive explosion lit upthe night sky.

     “Ah, friends. You arrive at last.” A bigman approached them, bushy beard, open arms, dressed in military fatigues. “Itis, I, Tomaz, your tour guide. In a moment we will serve you some wholesomefood. I expect you are fatigued and ready for a good meal. Alas, the journeywas never going to be a pleasant one. You are, after all, embarking on a farfrom standard vacation.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Please, sit down,relax.”

 

If you would like toread the rest of the story, you can do so on the Blood + Honey website.

 

And if you would liketo learn more about Neil Randall’s published work, why not visit his amazonpage.

 

 

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his new short story Mirror, Mirror has justbeen published by God’s Cruel Joke literary magazine.

     A self-confessed technophobe and long-timeloather of the impertinent invasiveness associated with the telephone – fromthe ‘ring, ring, ring’ of the old-style landline device to the even moreirritating ‘bleep, bleep, bleep’ of instant messages and texts – Randall plansto start a campaign to eradicate the scourge of the mobile phone from modernlife altogether.

    Starting with his latest short storyrelease.

    On bus, train, tram, walking in the street,sitting in a kafana, either smoking the local hashish or devouring a litre ortwo of premium-strength rakija before breakfast, the barely feted author becameincreasingly repulsed by the ugly constipated way phone users gawped at theirscreens, scrunched up their faces or pouted trout-like when taking theubiquitous and truly reprehensible selfie. The oceans of wasted time scrollingthemselves to a slow, meaningless death.

    Mirror, Mirror is more than a reactionaryrant from an incredibly bitter man in short fiction form, it is a chilling warningfrom history. Read a book. Run a marathon. Make love. Just please put yourphones down.

 

Here are the openingpages of the story:

 

“Please, calm down,Casandra,” said Dr Kazmi. “And explain things to me one more time.”

      “Yesterday, I got the new ePhone 3.5 XLGenius Photo Matic Duo Enhanced handset. It’s the most modern, up-to-date phoneon the market.”

      “Yes, yes, I understood that partperfectly well. It’s the issues that you’ve been experiencing with the camerafunction that’s left me a little confused.”

     “That makes two of us. It’s been anabsolute nightmare. Whenever I take a selfie, the results are utterly horrible.I look completely deformed.”

      “But that’s probably no more than atechincal matter, due to the angle or lighting, or whether you were striking aparticularly good pose or not. I don’t think it’s anything to get upset about.”

      “But I’ve taken literally hundreds ofselfies, and all of them have made me look like a creature from the deep. Takea look if you don’t believe me.” She took the phone out of her Dolce andGabbana handbag and handed it to Kazmi. “You just need to swipe right.”

      While in his late fifties and aself-confessed technophobe, Kazmi had two grown-up daughters and knew how toscroll through photographs on a mobile device. What he wasn’t prepared for wasthe truly bizarre nature of the pictures themselves. The distortion ofCasandra’s facial features, the way her eyes appeared squinty, misaligned,almost demonic, her skin discoloured, her lips twisted into an ugly grimace,made it look as if the photographs had been tampered with, as if someone hadedited them to play a cruel practical joke on her.

      He looked up from the phone. “How odd. Itmust be some kind of malfunction with the device itself. Have you contactedcustomer support?”

      “Of course. I took the phone straightback to the store. They ran some checks. There’s absolutely nothing wrong withit. I made such a fuss, though, they gave me a replacement handset. But theresults are exactly the same.”

     “I – I see. Well, I don’t really know whatto say. Maybe it’s a case of trial and error. And you’ll just have to get usedto the new camera function.”

      Kazmi saw three other clients before theend of the day – a recovering sex addict, an unrepentant bulimic, and anoctogenarian kleptomaniac with a mild personality disorder – and although eachsession was productive, he felt distant and preoccupied throughout. He couldn’tseem to get the images captured on Casandra Gossett-Maxwell’s phone out of hismind.

     On the train home that evening, he took aseat in a busy carriage and began to discreetly people-watch. Observation hadalways been key to his methodology as a therapist. He paid close attention to aclient’s body language and mannerisms, regardless of whether it was thatall-important first session, or twenty or more sessions down the line, and italways provided certain indicators – not always red flags or causes for concern– but specific nuances nonetheless, which gave him a better insight into howtheir minds worked more than any in-depth questioning or standard psychologicalprobing.

      Almost immediately, he was drawn to ananimated conversation between a young couple sitting directly opposite him.

    “Let me see,” said the woman, trying towrest a mobile phone from, presumably, her boyfriend’s hand.

      “No, no, they’re terrible. Believe me. Welook hideous.”

     “What? They can’t be that bad. Let mesee.”

     He reluctantly gave in and handed her thephone.

      “Oh-my-God!” She chuckled as she scrolledthrough the images. “You weren’t kidding. How on earth did the pictures comeout like this? My eyes look evil. I’ve got loads of lines and wrinkles on myface. And – and your skin is green.”

     “Beats me.” The boyfriend shrugged. “Mustbe the light or something. Or maybe the camera don’t work so good if you jerkit around.”

     “No, no, it can’t be that. This is the new3.5 XL. It’s supposed to have the most advanced camera feature ever. Thesensors should compensate for any sudden movements. This looks more like aphotoshop job. Like the pictures have been put through some app or filter tomake us look as battered up as possible.”

    This struck Kazmi as almost suspiciouslycoincidental. Not just because two people were questioning the quality andintegrity of photos taken with the same model of phone as CasandraGossett-Maxwell, but that they’d come to the same conclusion he had in hisoffice earlier.

     Kazmi tried to dismiss the coincidencefrom his mind. But as he looked around the carriage, he couldn’t help butnotice that each and every commuter was staring into their phones, all furtiveand fidgety, with a vacant, gormless expression on their faces – eyes wide,tongues poking out of side of their mouths, brows furrowed, features twisted,almost pained – just like the pictures Casandra had showed him during theirsession.

If you would like toread the story in full, click on this link.

 

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his latest novel The Girl Left Behind will bepublished by Mestiza Books in the spring/summer of 2026.

      Written in the aftermath of thecoronavirus lockdown, the book is a study of identity, belonging, and theever-shifting nature of reality during such a perplexing period. For the firsttime in history, the very foundation of society was challenged in ways it hadnever been challenged before. Prior to the outbreak, citizens were led (perhapseven brainwashed) to believe that if they didn’t get up each morning and go totheir respective places of employ, the bottom would fall out of the world andeverything we had up until that moment in time known would grind to a disastroushalt.

     Only that didn’t happen.

     Working from home, furloughs,redundancies. Great swathes of the population remaining in their pyjamas all-daylong. Minimal if not zero interaction with other people. Social distancing.Grocery deliveries. Time to think, breathe, reflect.

     Some thrived, others faltered (in someextreme cases, with tragic consequences). Domestic violence. Suicide. Analarming rise in the rate alcohol consumption, alcohol-related incidents, andalcohol-related illnesses.

    Yet somehow that long year passed, and wecame out of the other side, only we’ve never really been the same since, orwill ever be again.

     Distrust of authority. Disillusionmentwith the illusory social structure that had kept people imprisoned, mentallyand physically, for their whole adult lives.

     As Leonard Cohen famously once wrote:“Everything is cracked, that’s how the light gets in.” But what happens whenpeople can’t bear to see what that crack of light reveals?

      The Girl Left Bhind answers that,and many more questions, without, ironically, arriving at any concreteresolution.

     To quote another peerless Americanwordsmith (if of a very different ilk): “When the going gets weird, the weirdturn pro.”

 

Here are the openingpages of the novel:

 

Day Two of theTrial

“BUT, MISS NEALE,” said the Chief Prosecutor, “when your rentalproperty in Norfolk was searched by the police, some hugely incriminatingevidence was found in a wardrobe. Namely, clothing belonging to the deceased,along with a wig that closely resembled the victim’s hairstyle in the lastknown photograph ever taken of her.

      “Now, the seriousness of the situationcannot be understated. We have three unexplained deaths, missing persons, afatal house fire that looks to have been started deliberately, and a whole hostof bizarre coincidences that simply don’t make any sense whatsoever. The onlycommon denominator, I’m afraid to say, is you. So, please, can you start fromthe beginning and tell the court exactly how you reconnected with Mrs NicolaPeterson after such a long time?”

     “Yes, yes, of course.” I took a series ofshort, shallow breaths to compose myself. “It was the first weekend after thelockdown ended. The first weekend non-essential shops could open andnon-essential travel was permitted. I took the train into King’s Lynn. I wantedto get out of the house, do a bit of shopping, nothing ground-breaking or tooadventurous, just something normal for a change…”

 

…AND EVERYTHING WAS going to plan. I made my way to the marketplace, where all the food stalls were set up, and took out my shopping list.That’s when I heard someone shout my name.

      “Zoe! Zoe! Is that you?”

      I didn’t immediately recognise either thevoice or the stylishly dressed woman zigzagging her way through the crowds,waving a hand high above her head. It wasn’t until she wrapped her arms aroundme and gave me a great big hug, that I realised I’d just bumped into someone Ihadn’t seen for over twenty years: my one-time best friend Nicola Peterson.

      “What are you doing here?” She took astep back and looked me up and down. “I knew it was you right away. You haven’tchanged a bit since college. So spill. What brings you back to our old stompingground?”

      “Well, I broke up with my partner inLondon and had to find somewhere else to stay. My sister Yvonne, who I’m sureyou remember, put me on to a short-term rental in a village a few miles away.I’ve lived back here for over a year now.”

      “But why on earth didn’t you look us up?Why didn’t you post something on Facebook? Every now and then I check your feedfor updates, but you’ve been quiet as a mouse for ages. Didn’t you see any ofmy messages?”

      I struggled to find an answer, certainlynot one that wouldn’t hurt her feelings – that I simply hadn’t wanted toreconnect with her and a part of my life that I didn’t feel any particularattachment to, a time, place, and people that I’d left behind long ago.

     “No, sorry. I don’t really pay that muchattention to social media. I’ve been a bit down in the dumps, a bit all overthe place since the end of my relationship. Then the virus broke out andeverything went completely crazy.”

      All of which sounded reasonable enough,and seemed to satisfy Nicola’s curiosity. She offered words of consolation andasked me all kinds of questions about the break-up itself – how long we’d beentogether, who ended things, how I’d been coping.

     “But I don’t want to bore you with all thedetails.,” I said, completely disingenuously – I’d just stood in the middle ofthe market place and described the whole anatomy of the break-up, and howhard-done-by I’d felt ever since. “What about you and Simon? You are stilltogether, right? How long’s it been now – twenty-five years or something?”

     Her face dropped. She lowered her eyes andshifted uncomfortably.

     “You haven’t heard? Si…Si’s dead.”

 

If you like whatyou’ve read so far, why not visit Neil Randall’s Amazon page and take a look athis published works to date.