NEW SHORT STORY PUBLISHED - THE WAR TOURISTS BY NEIL RANDALL

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his latest short story The War Tourists has been accepted for publication by the good people at Blood + Honey Literary Magazine.

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

    What is a war tourist, you (and every human being worthy of the name) might rightly ask? If the stories are to be believed those under investigation hunkered down in decimated buildings and took potshots at the displaced, desperate, war-torn civilians as they scattered under heavy enemy shelling, killing and wounding innocent men, women, and children.

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

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

 

Here are the opening scenes of the story:

 

The War Tourists

One ferry crossing in the dead of night.

      Many furtive, darting eyes scrutinised them in the dark, cramped confines of a cargo hold. Alien bodies pressed tightly together, potent sweat, stale urine, fresh human waste. Whispered words, slow yet perceptible movement. Threatening, ever nearer. He held her close to his chest, and told her not to worry.

      “Don’t worry.”

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

     Ten hours later.

     They were herded off the boat. Pushing and shoving, the captain barked at them in different languages. A sliver of light from a half-moon glinted off the barrel of a machine-gun. She gasped. Again, he held 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 water from plastic bottles. Hard, stale bread. Sporadic sleep. Juddering awakenings. Raised voices. The van slowed to a stop. Broken English. The side door flew open. 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-covered ground. Eyes blinked and slowly adjusted to the startling daylight, the wintry scene, vast barren fields blanketed brilliant-white, far-off snow-dusted mountain ranges. Behind them, a long queue of vehicles. Exhaust fumes drifted on a light yet chilly breeze.

     “Passports.”

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

     A case of vodka. A brown envelope bulging with American dollars.

    Other guards strolled over. Opened a bottle. Passed it around. Tangled breath cast cobwebby patterns in the air. Laughter. Long, hard. Cigarettes lighted. Impatient car horns honked. Guards cursed 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 vehicle this time around. The jingle of bottles clinking against each other. More words, conversational, convivial. Peals of laughter. Footsteps. The driver’s side door opened and slammed shut. The engine rumbled back into life.

    A much shorter drive.

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

    The van rattled to a stop. The doors up front clicked open and slammed shut. Padding footsteps. The side door eased open.

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

     One overnight stay in a forest.

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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NEW SHORT STORY PUBLISHED - MIRROR, MIRROR

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his new short story Mirror, Mirror has just been published by God’s Cruel Joke literary magazine.

     A self-confessed technophobe and long-time loather of the impertinent invasiveness associated with the telephone – from the ‘ring, ring, ring’ of the old-style landline device to the even more irritating ‘bleep, bleep, bleep’ of instant messages and texts – Randall plans to start a campaign to eradicate the scourge of the mobile phone from modern life altogether.

    Starting with his latest short story release.

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

    Mirror, Mirror is more than a reactionary rant from an incredibly bitter man in short fiction form, it is a chilling warning from history. Read a book. Run a marathon. Make love. Just please put your phones down.

 

Here are the opening pages 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 XL Genius Photo Matic Duo Enhanced handset. It’s the most modern, up-to-date phone on the market.”

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

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

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

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

      While in his late fifties and a self-confessed technophobe, Kazmi had two grown-up daughters and knew how to scroll through photographs on a mobile device. What he wasn’t prepared for was the truly bizarre nature of the pictures themselves. The distortion of Casandra’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 had edited them to play a cruel practical joke on her.

      He looked up from the phone. “How odd. It must be some kind of malfunction with the device itself. Have you contacted customer support?”

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

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

      Kazmi saw three other clients before the end of the day – a recovering sex addict, an unrepentant bulimic, and an octogenarian kleptomaniac with a mild personality disorder – and although each session was productive, he felt distant and preoccupied throughout. He couldn’t seem to get the images captured on Casandra Gossett-Maxwell’s phone out of his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

     He reluctantly gave in and handed her the phone.

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

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

     “No, no, it can’t be that. This is the new 3.5 XL. It’s supposed to have the most advanced camera feature ever. The sensors should compensate for any sudden movements. This looks more like a photoshop job. Like the pictures have been put through some app or filter to make us look as battered up as possible.”

    This struck Kazmi as almost suspiciously coincidental. Not just because two people were questioning the quality and integrity of photos taken with the same model of phone as Casandra Gossett-Maxwell, but that they’d come to the same conclusion he had in his office earlier.

     Kazmi tried to dismiss the coincidence from his mind. But as he looked around the carriage, he couldn’t help but notice that each and every commuter was staring into their phones, all furtive and 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 their session.

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

 

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BIG ANNOUCEMENT: MESTIZA BOOKS TO PUBLISH 'THE GIRL LEFT BEHIND' BY NEIL RANDALL

 

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

      Written in the aftermath of the coronavirus lockdown, the book is a study of identity, belonging, and the ever-shifting nature of reality during such a perplexing period. For the first time in history, the very foundation of society was challenged in ways it had never been challenged before. Prior to the outbreak, citizens were led (perhaps even brainwashed) to believe that if they didn’t get up each morning and go to their respective places of employ, the bottom would fall out of the world and everything we had up until that moment in time known would grind to a disastrous halt.

     Only that didn’t happen.

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

     Some thrived, others faltered (in some extreme cases, with tragic consequences). Domestic violence. Suicide. An alarming rise in the rate alcohol consumption, alcohol-related incidents, and alcohol-related illnesses.

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

     Distrust of authority. Disillusionment with the illusory social structure that had kept people imprisoned, mentally and 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 when people 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 concrete resolution.

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

 

Here are the opening pages of the novel:

 

Day Two of the Trial

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

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

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

 

…AND EVERYTHING WAS going to plan. I made my way to the market place, 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 the voice 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 around me and gave me a great big hug, that I realised I’d just bumped into someone I hadn’t seen for over twenty years: my one-time best friend Nicola Peterson.

      “What are you doing here?” She took a step back and looked me up and down. “I knew it was you right away. You haven’t changed a bit since college. So spill. What brings you back to our old stomping ground?”

      “Well, I broke up with my partner in London and had to find somewhere else to stay. My sister Yvonne, who I’m sure you 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 feed for updates, but you’ve been quiet as a mouse for ages. Didn’t you see any of my messages?”

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

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

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

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

     Her face dropped. She lowered her eyes and shifted uncomfortably.

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

 

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

 

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NEW SHORT STORY PUBLISHED - THE PROPOSAL BY NEIL RANDALL

 Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his new short story The Proposal has just been published by literary journal Literary Yard. The tale of a twisted relationship between a mother and son, it has echoes of Kafka's Amerika and the way in which people will go to extreme lengths to avoid any change or upheaval in their lives.

    The Proposal is included in Randall's latest short story collection A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum. 

Here's the opening scene:

Over the last few weeks Luka had been having the strangest dreams about Arthur, his mother Darjia’s fiancé. In one dream, Arthur had gone off to fight in the war in Ukraine. In another, he was killed in a car accident. Then there was the dream where Arthur was an evil character in one of Luka’s computer games.

      When Darija mentioned this to her therapist, she didn’t seem particularly alarmed.

     “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s just symbolic of the changes that’ve taken place ever since you introduced Arthur into Luka’s life.”

    “I understand that. I’m just a bit concerned that Arthur always dies or gets hurt in these dreams. I’d hate for Luka to be unconsciously wishing that he was no longer around.”

     “Dreams can mean a lot of different things – often not what you’d readily interpret. From what you’ve told me, Luka has accepted the situation in a mature and responsive way. I wouldn’t be looking for problems where there aren’t any.”

     Regardless, Darija wanted to find out if something was troubling her son.

     “Why don’t you take him to that new aqua park for the weekend?” Arthur suggested. “In a more relaxed environment, it might be easier to talk about things.”

     “Yeah. Great idea. He’ll absolutely love it there.”

      When they arrived on the Friday evening, they dropped their bags off at the hotel and decided to go and have a meal at a nearby restaurant. Darija had googled the small town and found a nice-looking Italian place that served excellent food at reasonable prices.

      Having not booked in advance, they were lucky to get a small table tucked away in a corner at the back of the packed establishment, right next to a swarthy-looking foreigner, a tanned, handsome man with hair greying at the sides, who was savouring an espresso and smoking a cigarette.

      “Good evening, signora and signore,” he said to them in English. “Do not worry. I will be leaving soon. You can spread out your things and not be crammed in like sardines, no.”

     He smiled good-naturedly, pulled a funny face, and hunched his shoulders, imitating the small fish encased in a tin. All of which reduced Luka to a fit of laughter.

      “Thank you,” said Darija. “That’s very kind.”

      “Not at all.” He scrunched out his cigarette into the ashtray and signalled to the waiter. “Enjoy your meal. If you want one tip. The cannelloni and crème brûlée are to die for here. And that is coming from an Italian.”

     Once the kindly stranger had gone, Luka insisted that they take his advice.

     “After all, it’s not every day that you get tips from a genuine Italian about food in an Italian restaurant.”

     “Why not,” said Darija. “You can have whatever you want.”

      Next day at the aqua park, they rented two loungers right in front of the main pool, changed into their bathing suits, and went off to explore the complex. Luka was in his element, so excited he literally hopped from one foot to the other as he saw the different slides on offer. Grabbing giant inflatables, they waited patiently in line (or not so patiently in Luka’s case), before jettisoning themselves down one slide after another, Luka at the front and Darija hanging on for dear life at the rear. It was so much fun, being spun around and pitched and tossed into a pool of water at the end. Luka couldn’t stop giggling and clapping his hands. It’d been years since she’d seen him so happy and carefree.

      “No more for me,” panted Darija. “I must rest for a little while now. Why don’t you go and have a swim? We can get a bite to eat in an hour or so. Okay?”

     “Yes, but rest well,” he said over his shoulder as he dashed off into the water. “We have many more slides to try later.”

     Darija went back to their sun-loungers, stretched out and relaxed. It felt good to be out of the city for a change, away from the bad air, constant traffic, and daily work grind. More importantly, she knew this was likely to be the last time she and Luka would go away on their own ever again. And she told herself to enjoy every moment. In a few months, after she married Arthur, they’d take holidays together, the three of them, and everything would be different.

     As she mulled this over in her mind, she was aware of a presence blocking out the light. Opening her eyes, she saw the same man they’d met at the restaurant last night, the Italian, looking down at her with a disarmingly effusive smile on his face. His lean, tanned body was dripping with water, he wore a pair of brilliant-white trunks, and a had a towel wedged under his arm.

      “We meet again.”

If you want to read on, the story can be read in full by clicking this link.

If you'd like to purchase A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum, follow this link.

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OUT TODAY - I KILL DOGS (THEREFORE I AM...) BY NEIL RANDALL

 Neil Randall is delighted to announce the release of his latest novel I Kill Dogs (Therefore I am...). The story is about a seriously disturbed young boy called Niall Campbell, traumatised by how a new dog usurps his place in his family's affections. This triggers a lifelong aversion to the canine and many acts of violence against both animals and humans that take Niall from the Norfolk coast to New York and, ultimately, the length and breadth of Australia.

Increasingly, he is appalled at the way people in modern life treat their animals better than they do their own family and friends. As he puts it in his eventual political manifesto:

I have taken this dog’s life to highlight how atrociously we as a collective race of people treat each other in society today. I have taken this dog’s life to highlight the lack of warmth, love, understanding, compassion, and kindness that defines our everyday lives. I have taken this dog’s life to appeal to every man, woman, and child – not just in New York City but around the world. Be kinder to your fellow citizens. No longer be driven by greed and self-interest. Offer a helping hand when it is needed. If you treat a human being with the same love, respect, and devotion you bestow upon you domestic animals, this world would be a far better place.

Here's a spoken word taste of the novel read by the author herself:

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

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THE MIRIJEVSKI VENAC AFFAIR - LIVE ON WATTPAD

 

To celebrate the release of his new short story collection, A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum, Neil Randall has made one of the stand-out stories - The Mirijevksi Venac Affair - available to read for free of writing website Wattpad. 

     An absurdist tale of three secret agents deployed to a Belgrade suburb without any operational instructions, the story draws heavily from Paul Auster and will be of interest to any fans of the late, great author of The New York Trilogy. 

      Here are the opening pages of the story:

Due to the unpredictable situation on the ground, Gray faced a long wait before receiving full operational instructions. Until that time, he was told to keep a low profile, and only leave the apartment to exercise and purchase basic provisions. Not in any circumstances should he do or say anything that might bring unwanted attention to himself.

      As instructed, he bought a SIM card at one of the many kiosks situated on different street corners, and made brief contact with his superiors.

      “Nothing to report. I await your orders.”

     Nobody responded; a brief silence ensued before the call was terminated. After that, he only turned the untraceable disposal cell phone on at prearranged times of the day to check his inbox, and had no further contact with the outside world.

       Every morning just before first light, Gray performed a set routine of vigorous stretching exercises, meditation, and yoga, before embarking on a ten-kilometre run along the city streets. During the run, he familiarised himself with the local area. Traffic was always heavy at this time of day. If he had to suddenly vacate the apartment during a rush-hour period, it would pay to know his way around the back streets and rat runs which might enable him to disappear as quickly and stealthily as possible.

      On the main bulevar, he encountered a dull parade of faces, the poor and destitute, gypsies, beggars, and drunks sprawled on benches surrounded by mangy street dogs. The people had a beaten, weary quality about them. On occasion he was harassed for money by dirty-faced street urchins. But he didn’t lose his composure and curse in his own language; he simply moved on without saying a word.

      After returning to the apartment, he showered, dressed, ate a light breakfast, made some coffee, and then sat on the small terrace overlooking a children’s play area. With no television, literature, or portable devices, boredom set in quickly and was hard to overcome. The only concession had been a basic book of grammar to help him pick up the language faster. But after completing a few exercises, the difficulty level increased significantly, and he found it almost impossible to assimilate the necessary information to proceed to the next module. Rather than waste time, he jotted down words from the glossary and married them up to different objects and pieces of furniture in the apartment: window, chair, table, cup, cooker, and so on. But despite repeating those words many times over, it only diverted his attention for a further hour or so before he lost interest.

    To break up the day, he performed sets of one hundred press-ups and one hundred sit-ups at regular intervals.

     As he’d been instructed to remain observant at all times, he returned to the terrace and surveilled the main street, locally known as the Mirijevski Venac, studying the patrons who occupied the outside seating section of a nearby café, and those who walked or exercised their dogs in the adjoining park. With a notebook and pencil meant solely for his language assimilation endeavours, he made detailed records of all potentially suspicious persons. Undoubtedly, other nations hostile to their geopolitical goals would’ve deployed operatives with similar mission objectives.

     One man in particular soon caught his attention. Early to mid-thirties, with a tanned, muscular physique, he used the exercise equipment situated next to the play area at the same time every morning – a time which corresponded with Gray sitting down on the terrace and drinking his morning coffee. Like Gray himself, he performed a set routine of stretching exercises, sat cross-legged on the grass in a classic meditative pose, and then clambered upon the cross-trainers for a vigorous high-octane cardio session. After a brief rest period and a few sips of water from a nearby fountain, he approached a high metal bar and did fifty impressive chin-ups, slow and methodical. He then mounted an exercise bike, and pedalled at a steady rate for forty-five minutes. Tellingly, he listened to no music nor interrogated the rucksack he brought along with him for a phone or portable device – something considered almost compulsory in today’s technological world, and something which heightened Gray’s suspicions. Was he an enemy operative hiding in plain sight? Was the fact he exercised in front of Gray’s apartment significant? Neither of which Gray could answer with any certainty at this early stage of the operation. All he could do was continue to monitor the subject’s activities.

     For the time being, he became more interested in the snippets of conversation that he overheard through the paper-thin apartment walls. These ranged from blazing arguments, young mothers’ comforting babies, the odd drunken gathering complete with boozy, bawdy singing into the early hours of the morning, to a gravelly voiced old man conducting long meandering telephone calls from the terrace directly above Gray’s own.

    In this manner, he slipped into a dull, repetitive routine. At the supermarket each day, he made only standard purchases: bread, milk, eggs – and prepared basic meals which left him satiated for the rest of the evening. He ran every morning, tried to assimilate as many new words from the language book as he possibly could, before settling down on the terrace, and observing the now familiar comings and goings on the Mirijevski Venac.

If you've liked what you've read so far, you can read the whole story here.

And if you'd like to get your hands on the full short story collection click here.

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BONUS SUMMER RELEASES

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce the release of two very special titles. Firstly, a new version of his acclaimed debut short story collection 'Tales of Ordinary Sadness' or, as it is known in some circles 'the unluckiest book in literary history'. 

      Why?

     Randall's debut collection went out of print before it was officially released. The publisher, who will remain unnamed, went out of business before the book's release date. Even though Randall held a number of events - signings and readings - 'Tales...' was never properly unleashed on an unsuspecting reading public.

    Here are a few of the early reviews/ratings:

*****  – David Willis, Beatdom Magazine

 

Randall '…is an intriguing writer who kept me entranced from start to finish. His writing style is bold, intense, disturbing, thought provoking, and very descriptive, with strong imagery.’                                                                                    

                                                                                                                - Cindy Taylor, AllBooks Review

 

'Tales of Ordinary Sadness' is a fantastic collection of stories that will shock, challenge and delight. The writing is so perceptive it's almost unnerving. 5 out of 5 stars from me

                                - Rowena Wiseman, Author of The Replacement Wife, Harper Collins

Secondly, 'A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum'. Some of these stories were written during the COVID lockdown, others when the author moved to Belgrade. A wild mix of themes and emotional territory covered, the collection contains some of Randall's most memorable characters and very finest writing.

Both title feature the author's original artwork. 

To try and beat amazon at their own game, Randall has published the books through books.by, a new initiative to help writers get a bigger percentage of their royalties. As such, both books are available for just $9.99.

Click on this link to pick up your copy today. 

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THE VERDICT SO FAR - THE PROFESSIONAL MOURNER EARLY REVIEWS

 

Click on this link to buy the book today!

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SNEAK PREVIEW - THE BELGRADE SCHOOL SHOOTINGS

 

To give readers an exclusive sneak preview of Neil Randall's latest novel The Belgrade School Shootings, Alien Buddha Press have made the opening chapters available on their blog. 

    Here's the opening scene, to whet your appetite:

ON THE THIRD of May 2024, my former partner Issak Lazarevic, an award-winning novelist and lecturer, shot dead ten of his students. Why, no one who knew him on a personal or professional level had any idea whatsoever. Issak was a popular and well-respected figure in Serbian society. His short- and long-form fictional works were considered the finest in the country’s contemporary literary cannon. His students absolutely idolised him – there was a four-year waiting list for his creative writing programme. Colleagues who spoke to Issak earlier that morning detected nothing out of the ordinary, in either his general demeanour or outward behaviour. In the staff room, not half an hour before he opened fire on a group of defenceless teenagers, he acted perfectly normally – or as normally as anyone so intense and preoccupied with his own thoughts typically acted. He exchanged good morning greetings with everyone he encountered, and even went so far as to confirm his attendance at a colleague’s retirement party. ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ he told Ivana Lubic, one of the secretaries. ‘Radovan is a fine man. I’ve always had the greatest respect for him. I’ll be sure to pop out at lunchtime and grab him a bottle of something special. Forty years in the profession is a huge achievement’.

     Hardly the words or sentiments of somebody carrying CZ-75 Shadow 2 and Ruger .22 LR variant pistols in his briefcase.

      In CCTV footage that would feature on news bulletins not just in Serbia but all across the world, Issak can clearly be seen walking across the faculty car park, with the same briefcase in his hand. If you didn’t know him personally, or weren’t aware of his literary pedigree, he would’ve appeared completely unassuming – medium height, middle-aged, unremarkably dressed (the same corduroy blazer, striped button-down shirt, and slacks combination he’d been wearing to lectures for years) – a face worthy of any crowd. In the immediate aftermath of the shootings, I remember replaying that footage time and again on my laptop, what were the last moments of the old Issak Lazarevic – a man I once genuinely loved with all my heart – before he became someone and -thing I would never have recognised: a maniac and monster rolled into one.

      And it’s curious how we can piece together a person’s movements like this – from the security camera images to the eyewitness accounts, to the moment armed police burst into the classroom and found him sat at his desk calmly reading from a well-thumbed copy of The Professional Mourner, what many consider his masterpiece, while surrounded by ten fresh corpses. But we can never tell what’s going on in their heads, or why they acted in the way they did, what motivated them to do something so despicable and so out of character.

       As for the actual murders, the crime scene specialists were able to ascertain a concrete and chilling chain of events. From the entry point of each bullet, the blood spatter, to the way the young bodies had crumpled to the classroom floor and the desks and chairs been upturned, it was evident that Issak had opened fire on the children without much, if any warning. This was corroborated to a certain extent by the lecturers and students in adjoining classrooms, as they heard no raised voices or anything out of the ordinary before the first shot rang out. Each student had been targeted twice, with the first bullet either killing them outright or incapacitating them. The second bullet, a headshot, was uncanny in its accuracy: direct through the middle of the forehead. When questioned following the attack, one of the ballistics experts made the following comments: ‘It was the kind of thing you’d see an experienced hunter do after they’d clipped their prey. What you’d probably call a “humane gesture”, putting the beast out of its misery as quickly and expediently as possible. That, or a mafiosi-style contract killing’.

      And it’s here that the case presented its first serious anomaly – of what would be many in the coming weeks, months, and beyond.

      Only a skilled, experienced marksman could’ve discharged shots of that accuracy in what was an incredibly short space of time. By all reckoning, barely a minute passed between the first reported gunshot and the last. But to the best of anybody’s knowledge – certainly mine, or any of Issak’s close friends, fellow writers, or colleagues at the institute – he’d never fired a gun before in his life. 

To read on, click on this link.

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OUT TODAY - THE BELGRADE SCHOOL SHOOTINGS BY NEIL RANDALL

 

Grab your credit card, borrow money from a friend, or steal from a casual acquaintance – but please don’t mug any old ladies in the street. Well...

    Neil Randall’s latest novel The Belgrade School Shootings is released today!

    The first part of The Belgrade Trilogy, written in a frenzy of literary activity in the dark depths of everyone’s least favourite year 2024, is a hard book to define. Some early reviewers have called it ‘a razor-sharp literary thriller’, others ‘a book about obsession, and the perilous intersection between fiction and reality’. Whereas the author himself always saw the novel as a ‘love letter to the act of reading’. But stopped short of aligning himself with the protagonist’s chilling warning: ‘If the younger generation isn’t prepared to read and arrest the alarming intellectual decline, then they should be put against a wall and shot.’

     The plot?

    Serbia’s most acclaimed novelist Issak Lazarevic guns down 10 of his students in a seeming act of madness. But as veteran journalist (and Lazarevic’s former fiancée) soon discovers – there is so much about the killings that don’t aid up – the way the children were shot in an execution-style manner (Lazarevic had never fired a gun in his life), uncanny Lazarevic lookalikes popping up all over the city, and most bizarre of all, the emergence of a novel written months before the school shootings, clearly written by Lazarevic, which predict events that hadn’t even happened yet.

    Lazarevic’s most acclaimed piece of work? – The Professional Mourner.

      Here is a short sample from the novel to whet your appetite. At this point in the story, Lazarevic has just been arrested for the shootings, and the police investigation is just getting underway.

 

When police raided Issak’s apartment in Dedinje, they made some curious, if not disturbing discoveries. Most peculiar of all, it looked as if the same two people were living in the one same space. And I articulate that in somewhat obscure terms knowingly and intentionally. In the only bedroom, there were two identical futon-style beds. The two wardrobes that stood facing each other on either side of the room contained the exact same clothes. And not just in style – the blazers, shirts, and slacks I’ve already mentioned – but in the exact same number: seven blazers, seven shirts, seven pairs of slacks. They made a similar discovery in the two underwear drawers: seven pairs of boxer shorts and seven pairs of socks in each one.

      In the bathroom: two toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, two bottles of mouthwash, two cans of deodorant, two razors, two cans of shaving foam, two shampoos, two shower gels, and two towels hanging from the back of the door (both black and both still slightly damp). Even more freakishly and bizarre, when the officers examined the toiletries in question, either visually or by giving each individual receptacle a shake, the exact same amount of toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, shaving foam, even the number of cotton buds in their respective plastic containers appeared to be inside.

     All of which suggested that two people were choreographing and copycatting their everyday existence down to their oral hygiene and facial grooming routine. And the only way that that would’ve been possible (and I thought about this so much over the days immediately following the shootings, it made my head hurt) was for one person to have painstakingly and with a degree of precision you’d associate with a highly advanced form of artificial intelligence, to, not so much perform each individual ablution twice, but, for example, pour out two exact measures of mouthwash, use one, throw the other away, or spray deodorant under each arm, then discharge two phantom sprays into the air, and so on.

    None of which made any sense. To be that precise about everything that was discovered in the apartment would’ve taken a disproportionally huge amount of time out of Issak’s day. And this was a man who valued every single second, who knew how precious his time was, and who wanted to do nothing but channel that time into his artistic and educational activities. The Issak I knew could never have wasted even one valuable second on such everyday inconsequentialities. It would’ve been far too painful for him; it would’ve made his artistic soul squirm.

    In the kitchen cupboards and drawers, where you’d expect to find many plates, bowls, cups, knives, forks, spoons, et cetera – there were only two of each. And two places set at the table.

      In the front room, two identical leather armchairs with retractable footrests had been turned around to face the wall, rather than the rest of the space (as if all the occupants of those chairs ever did was stare at that wall from absurdly close proximity). But the room contained nothing else. No TV. No coffee table. Not even any bookcases – which seemed wildly amiss to me, a former resident of the same apartment, as Issak had one of the most extensive personal libraries of anyone I’d ever known. Cherished volumes, signed first editions, rare, collector item tomes we’d discovered in book fairs on our travels. But when police made inquiries, they never found out where these books had gone (and to have removed hundreds, if not thousands of books from an apartment would’ve taken hours and a whole removal team. Activities that would most certainly have come to the attention of near-neighbours and the building superintendent).

      On the terrace, two wicker chairs were placed at corresponding angles with the best views out over the city.

       But none of the residents in neighbouring apartments or any of Issak’s close inner circle had seen, heard, or knew of anyone else living at the apartment. As far as they were aware, Issak resided alone and considered his apartment his own personal writing den, the place he sat and wrote stories which had touched people all over the world and been translated into fifty-plus languages.

      All of which segues into the most glaring anomaly of all: Issak’s work. His laptop. Memory sticks. The printouts of his early drafts. Copies of his works-in-progress. Folders and files. Notebooks. Where were they? Nothing was found at the apartment, nor his office at the institute. What had he done with his entire life’s work, the new short story he’d been discussing with a fellow writer in the days before the shootings, the big, sprawling novel he’d often referenced in interviews and on which he’d been working solidly for the last two years?

      Then there were his three main email accounts – one for everything writing-related, one for his teaching activities, and a personal account he used to keep in touch with friends and family. Not only were all the inboxes empty, but a little digging around in the cyberworld revealed a mass deletion the night before the shootings and, even more confusingly, a whole swathe of cancelled services and subscriptions, ranging from his internet provider, to the utilities for the apartment, and memberships to around half a dozen literary organisations he’d been affiliated with for over twenty years. ‘It’s the kind of behaviour you’d expect from someone who’s had a fatal prognosis from their doctor,’ said one of the more senior officers who examined the scene, ‘someone who wants to tie up any loose ends before they pass away’.

     It was a similar story with his phone records. On the night before the shootings, Issak had a series of lengthy telephone conversations – all to the same number, and all lasting over ninety minutes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible for the authorities to follow up on this information as the number in question was government-affiliated.

     “What’s a ‘government-affiliated’ number?” I asked Vladimir’s source.

     “It belongs to the highest office in the Serbian government.”

     “The Prime Minister? Bukic, you mean?”

     “I didn’t say that – I said the highest office in the Serbian government.”

 

If you like what you’ve read so far, you can buy the book here.

And if you’d like to learn more about the author’s other published work, take a look at his amazon page.

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