The Mahe Mailshot – RAIN


map of seychelles

In March 2003 My wife and I went to live on a small island in the Indian Ocean. We stayed there for a year of tropical delights and frustrations.

As a break from fiction – and to help maintain my sanity in the midst of a strange culture – I wrote a series of emails to folks at home…



—– Original Message —–
From: JD’L
To: Undisclosed Recipients
Sent: Monday, March 31, 2003 3:46 PM
Subject: don’t worry, it rains here too…
Continue reading

Cheap Roadkill – get it while you can!


Clearly it’s bargain season on the Horror Freeway.

Right now until September 20th This Is Horror have reduced my chapbook ROADKILL to 99p or 99c – whether you’re in the States or the UK, this is ridiculously good value.

Want a white-knuckle ride? This one’s for you.

“Do you see Post Apocalyptic fiction as a great way to explore Horror elements in a setting more associated with the Science Fiction branch of the Speculative Fiction tree?”

I was originally asked this by Rob Bedford and answered it on SFF World  in February, 2014…

I danced around this hulk of a question for ages trying to find its weak spot. It was like boxing a Decepticon.

After a couple of weeks, dodging and feinting without landing a single blow, I was tired, thirsty and needed a hug. There was no one around so, in desperation, I embraced the gargantuan, titanium-hulled battle-conundrum’s ankle. He turned out to be a real sweetie.

He said:

“You know, Joseph, this question just relates to genre and how you feel about it.”
“It does?”
“Sure. Relax and enjoy yourself. You don’t even have to answer it.”
“Not even a ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“Erm…just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ might not go down too well…”
“What should I say then?”
“Anything. Whatever you want.” He leaned down. “But make me look mean, OK? Ferocious. Know what I’m saying?” Continue reading

The Kill Crew, now popping heads in Spain

I love translation deals.

They’re a wonderful confirmation of your work’s appeal and, from a financial point of view, they mean you get paid again without having to do more work. Bonus!

This one came out of the blue. When my agent told me about it, I was quietly but delightedly stunned.

The new publisher is Alianza Editorial, their SF/F/H imprint being Lee Runas. There’s a buzz on Twitter and Spanish book blog sites and I hope the novella will be well-received – especially as there’s already a sequel!

Anyway, just for fun, here are the old and new covers.

The Kill CrewLa Brigada de la MuerteAll that remains for me to say is:

“Mucha Suerte a La Brigada de la Muerte!”

Spawning The Black Dawn

This article first appeared at Upcoming4me

blackfeathersPersonally speaking, it’s very rare that a single idea will be strong enough to withstand being written as a novel. It’s far more common that a number of separate incidents, notions and musings will, over time, begin to add up to something more. This is absolutely true in the case of The Black Dawn. Where the series differs in this respect is how long that process took; almost thirty years.

The thread began in school:

When I was fourteen I made a batik in art class. I couldn’t think of a subject so I looked for inspiration in a picture book. I found a photo of three crows silhouetted in a dead tree at sunset and that became the design. The batik was stolen soon after completion. That, and the fact that I received a ‘merit’ for it, makes me suspect it was quite an attractive object. Whatever the case, the iconic design stayed with me and caused me to notice corvids whenever they were around.

crowman, worzel gummidgeIn my early twenties, long before I began to write fiction, I met a performance artist who used to dress in a long black coat and black top hat with feathers in its band. He would paint his face white and ‘entertain’ people at festivals. What’s far more likely, I suspect, is that his character unsettled people; especially children. He called his creation the Crowman. As a child, I’d heard the same name in a TV show called Worzel Gummidge, but I never gave it a second thought – I didn’t like the programme at all, quite honestly – until it was spoken in real life. It sparked the idea of a trickster spirit or shaman. My own imagining of the Crowman began to take shape.Vodou priest

A few years later, I began to take more of an interest in shamanism and the way in which people, usually from less techno-centric cultures, interact with nature. It slowly dawned on me that everything on our planet exists in relationship. Whilst we might have the illusion of being separate from the natural world – say, because we live in a city or have no interest in the outdoors – the reality is that our food and the clothes we wear and all the things we use day to day, even our highest achievements in science, are all dependent on what we find around us in nature or underneath us in the ground. I began to wonder how it was that we could have become so apparently unaware of this. Once I started wondering, I couldn’t stop. And I think it’s likely that this questioning has influenced the majority of my fiction.

Here’s a quaint superstition: some people say that if you find a white feather, it’s because you’ve been visited by an angel. What a lovely idea. I wondered, conversely, what it might mean if you found a black feather. Would that mean you’d been visited by a demon? An angel of darkness?

Whilst I’m not religious, I’m completely fascinated by spirituality and how it manifests in human cultures. Messiah stories are particularly interesting. If you look at them as metaphors for the unfolding of the soul in an individual, these holy works become very much like a hero’s journey. It struck me that I could turn that around just a little; taking an ordinary person’s life and chronicling it as though it were the life of a messiah.

These notions, events and wonderings gathered mass over the years, colliding and amalgamating in my subconscious and occasionally leaping into conscious view. That’s the way things usually happen for me but it’s the ridiculous length of that process that was different in creating Black Feathers and The Book of The Crowman.

If it ever takes that long again, I expect I’ll be looking for a new line of work.TheBookOfTheCrowman-300dpi

A Christmas Donkey

This article first appeared at during last year’s festive season…

At fifteen, I had spots, a permanent erection and couldn’t do anything with my hair. Every attempt at self-discovery resulted in humiliation. But resembling a stick insect with a toilet brush for a head never stopped me from trying to look cool.

That Christmas, I wanted the latest style: a donkey jacket. Did I say wanted? What I mean is, my life depended on it. For those not au fait with catwalk minutiae, a donkey jacket is an item of navy blue felt work-wear with a leather panel sewn across the upper back and shoulders.

What did I need this labourer’s coat for, you may ask. Was I, perhaps, involved in construction work or highway maintenance?

You ignorant heathen.

I needed it for skiing; a non-waterproof jacket with no zip, no hood and no elastication at the waist is essential for downhill descents from 8,500 feet. And, of course, I knew I’d be the only lad on the slopes in such daring couture…

Christmas day, 1984: Wham!

Also, I got the donkey jacket.

I put it on. Touched the leather. Caressed the buttons. Pouted in front of the mirror. Did it again with my shades on. Whatever the word for awesome was back then, I was it.

Cut to:

The Weisshorn; a forbidding, windswept peak looming over a quaint ski resort in Switzerland. Ripped, skin-tight jeans? Check. Raybans? Check. Pack of Camels? Check. Hair like copper turnings? Check. But that was no problem because I had a hat.

Most importantly, I had the donkey jacket.

It was snowing and a layer of powder already clung to me. I took the chair-lift up to the main slopes, smoking ostentatiously and generally owning the entire world. By the time I’d skied down to the first drag-lift the wind had knifed through the donkey jacket and my snow-dampened jeans had set like a thin layer of concrete. I couldn’t feel my face or hands.

I waddled into the queue, trying to suppress the chill-shudders arising from the very core of me.
The T-bar is a bit like a snow escalator; a series of inverted T-shaped frames drag skiers to the top of the slope. The bars are spaced at intervals of about ten metres on a giant spool of cable. To get on, all you have to do is ski-waddle into position before the next T-bar swings into place, catch the shaft and slip one half of the T under your bum. The drag line plays out and the ascent begins.

It’s all very simple.

In theory.

But if there was ever a venue where a shy youth would feel paranoid and awkward, the queue for the T-bar is such a place. Crucially, would I be able to avoid sharing the ride? If not, would I get a loud, opinionated German or a scathing, dismissive Parisian? Worse, a vivacious Italian girl I’d be too terrified to speak to? Most unthinkable of all, would I miss the T-bar as it came round and keep everyone waiting?

The queue narrowed. My stomach fluttered. I approached the front.

My turn and I slid into place without a single wobble. Even better, no one wanted to get on with me – I had the T-bar to myself! Slight problem, though; the T had only partially engaged my skinny buttocks, hovering around that dubious territory where some gentlemen choose to wear their trousers these days. But that was okay. At least I hadn’t buggered myself with the tip and fallen over in front of everyone.

The drag line payed out, yanked when it reached its limit and I was away up the mountain. I had the gear. I had the look. I was a man, at one with the piste. I transferred my ski poles to one hand and fumbled for a cigarette. I even managed to light it.

The T-bar slipped.

Just an inch. Maybe not even that much but suddenly I wasn’t sitting on it any more; it was beginning to slide up my back. Once you’re out of sight of the hut at the start of the lift, the controllers can’t see you if you have a problem.

I was out of sight by then. And I had a problem:

I was wearing a donkey jacket.

If I’d been in ski gear, the T-bar would simply have slipped off me. I’d have abandoned the ride and started again. Instead, the ‘T’ – perfectly curved to accommodate arses – slid up the back of my outer layer like a hook. I was a human trout.

Falling off would have been embarrassing enough but I could feel the amused gaze of the people on the T-bar behind mine and the one behind them and of everyone else joining the lift every few seconds.

While I struggled to stay upright and keep my skies in the well-worn grooves, I poked myself in the chin with the lit end of my cigarette. Slapping it away with gloved fingers made my body jiggle and the hook slid further up inside my jacket.

I was now bent almost double with ski poles in one hand and the other flapping at the bar behind me. Trouble was, the force of the lift was too great to overcome and I couldn’t get a hold on the frame. A penguin would have had more luck trying to scratch its back with a flipper.

I considered deliberately falling over. That would have been fine if I detached myself in the process but what if the hook didn’t come out and I was then dragged up the mountain on my backside? What if I lost my skis?

This is not happening, I thought. Not to me. Not in front of all these people.

I began to fight.

Imagine a snagged Marlin resisting the reel of a deep-sea fisherman. Then take away the grace and magnificence of such a creature. Replace that with a skinny, spotty, ungainly ginger adolescent who, despite the subzero temperatures, is anything but cool.

I managed to get a hand to the base of the bar and push. It was like putting myself in a half-Neslon and hurt like hell. By now, the morning’s snow had soaked into the donkey. It had the texture of Kevlar that’s just taken several rounds from an AK-47. In the end, that worked in my favour, as I gradually worked the hook back down and out of the frozen material.

Despite that minor success, however, I was too exhausted to push the bar back under my bum. All I could do was hang on to the lift like a water-skier. People glided downhill on either side and, in some places, crossed the T-bar’s tracks. Some of them looked at me long enough to almost have their own accidents. Others, like a passing caterpillar of ski-schoolers doing snow-plough, just pointed and laughed.

My entire body ached with exertion but I managed to cling on, staggering and wobbling all the while until the hut at the top of the slope came into view. I almost cried with relief as I made it to the exit and skied away, knowing that everyone who’d seen me would recognise me for the rest of the holiday – that idiot in jeans and a coat designed for a building site.

As I accelerated away from the lift, hoping that next year my family might decide on a staycation, I heard shouts. Cringing, I slowed down and looked back up the hill. It was only then that I noticed I was missing a ski pole. The other one was still attached to the T-bar and was now making its way back down the mountain.

What did they do? They stopped the lift.

The controller came out of his hut with a long stick and spent excruciating minutes unhooking my ski pole whilst a line of disgruntled skiers that stretched all the way back to the bottom of the mountain looked on in impatient disgust. He finally handed it to me with a few loud, staccato words of Swiss, the gist of which was hard to misinterpret.

The following year’s ski wardrobe was already taking shape in my mind by then, though. With anonymity as my new fashion buzzword, all I’d need to add to the outfit was a balaclava.