Quirky Short Fiction: "He's Got The Whole World In His Hands."

Sometimes, in the process of writing, I like to emphasize something in a story, kind of experiment with seeing if I can do this or that.  One of the things we as writers must do to really bring a story to life is to touch the senses.  About ten or eleven years ago, I got my brain re-wired for fiction writing again, after many years of music journalism.  The music journalism taught me a lot about description; most of what I wrote was reviews, but I approached review writing in a different manner.  Not simply writing about this or that instrument and how it works within the whole, though that was part of many reviews, but because a lot of what I reviewed was experimental music, music of sound and no lyrics, I created worlds out of these sounds.  Alien lands and lands within the unexplored pockets of our own world, along with the strange creatures that roamed there, all inspired by what I heard.  I actually expect to take some of these reviews and strip them to the core, use some of these descriptions in stories, perhaps.  I've done a couple of poems constructed from these reviews, it's a lot of fun.  Reshaping the words, my original words, into something new. 

Anyway, where was I?

With that mindset, I wrote a story called, "He's Got The Whole World In His Hands," a light fantastical piece that put me to the test of touching the senses.  I wanted smells, touch, sight. sound, and even a suggestion of taste, to pop with real resonance.  Not sure if I succeeded, but at least it worked my brain in a good way, got me to think more about this kind of thing.  Recently, I took that story, and, knowing it needed something more, just a wee bit of something to really drive it through the finale, I tweaked it, added a little bit, just enough, to give it what I think is the edge to put it over the top in the proper way. 

Because of my Italian connections--my girlfriend, Alessandra, is Italian, and I know many of the poets/writers as an extension of that--I found a home for the story on the Italian website, Etemenanki/Terranullius, run by Marco Lupo, an excellent poet and now, from what Alessandra has witnessed, a playwright of real potency; I hope to see one of his plays at some point, preferably when I know the language better, of course. 

;-)

Here's the link to the story, just under 2000 words of me working the words in a quirky way, something different from my usual but, then again, what is my usual?  Hmmm...

 http://www.terranullius.it/home/index.php/rubriche/75-etemenanki-no-subtitles/524-hes-got-the-whole-world-in-his-hands-john-claude-smith.html

 

 Enjoy!

And here's a photo of a globe of sorts splitting open, which works well with some of the imagery in the story.

 

A Poem For National Poetry Month: Technology Overload: "Ctrl/Alt/Delete"

No, not just 'a poem,' this is a riff, a mind-bender, words pounding to the rhythm, strap in, not kidding, Do It, let's go for a ride that transcends time or at least deals with losing our humanity amidst technological overload or...well...

Breathe...
(2...  3...  4...)

National Poetry Month.  I don't profess to being a poet, though I dabble and on occasion think, sure, that one works.  My 19 year-old son has taken up writing in the last year, fiction and poetry, he didn't even know it was National Poetry Month and they were pouring out of his brain.  He's sent me something like 80--yes, 80!--this month.  Short, sometimes philosophical, always clever insights, he was locked in.  My girlfriend, Alessandra, she's a poet as well.  When she writes them, my breath is often taken away at her mastery.  I'm not kidding.  GREAT poetry can do that to me.  How about you? 

Anyway...

Anyway, here's one that deals with what I wrote up there in the first paragraph and probably should be read out loud, especially once you latch on to the rhythm, even if the rhythm shifts, stumbles...  It's there, don't be afraid.

So, without further adieu, strap in, really, please--and keep your hands inside the ride but your mind open to my madness--here we go...and Enjoy:


***

Ctrl/Alt/Delete

By

John Claude Smith

 

 

 

born of dust and spit

of gist and folly

molded in His image

                                             (man)

swimming to the surface of the

 primordial

o     o     z     e

gymnastic gene pool pyrotechnics

burning urge and bristling dreams

before dreams even had intent

àFOCUS ß

intelligent design…

sublime?--no--

Spectacular

ride the ocean’s fury

hot oil slick surfing sandman

sun-blasted shiny glass heart--

beat

(2...     3...     4...)   

conch shell ears, seaweed souls

limbic system retrograde

push it to the here--hear and

NOW

listen to the electricity

(la)           (la)

s i n g

(la)           (la)

the body not just electric

blue sparkplug crackle

pistons pumping plasma

via

plugged in pummeling persistence

retinal scans, tympanic membrane mambo

hot-wired   

steel plate cybergasmic carapace

smooth as sin before sin snaked in

~~~~~(slither)~~~~~

polished red, an Apple to the blind

fondled freely upon the legs, the laptop

mouth sucking, teeth and clacking nails

shredding

the pain of reality shuffles crab-like

                       sideways                          perceptions

evolution in overdrive

                                                driven by ego--s

             h     

   i

             f       

   t

                                                --gears

buzzing like mating insects

shimmering metallic antenna 

tuning fork timbres

serenade the heavens

reminding them of times before

The Machines

when flesh burned and kisses aroused

 

NOW--

 

arousal is artificial

;-( emotionless           emoticons )-;

the clank and grind of gears, the years, eons

monkeys climbing the evolutionary ladder

up to the cerebral cortex via the

s

p

i

n

e

of god

singed by soldering irons

and over-stimulated objectives

obsolescence at the edge

 of the sound byte tomorrow

“I    am    iron    man”

the soulless epiphany confirmed and

fueled by what substitutes for dreams nowadays

                                                  d

                                                     o

                                                       w

                                                          n

loads, zip files

computer chips and chipped perspectives

ultra-distracted, overDRIVEN

IPOD, iPAD, iPRAY,

me myself and i

am the center of this avaricious universe

so

Beware: The Future

our current path polluted

blackened, brackish 

greasepaint flood waters 

gone viral

seesaw strategies, teetering

choose to remain human

please

(no masks, no grim facades)

(no avatars)

otherwise

all body shops will include:

                                                 1.) soul tune-ups

2.) mecha-heart replacement

                                                 3.) IV integrity transfusions                                               

SPECIAL BONUS:

essence and       e       t       h       e       r

injections into the illusion of humanity

tie it off and tap the vein

promoting pacifying brain puddle pleasure

 

because

 

WE are the ‘what if ’ gone cataclysmically

Wrong!

 

Ctrl/Alt/Delete

***

Whatever, haha, it was fun to write, I'll say that much.  Rollicking, pseudo stream-of-conscious Fun! 

Back to fiction with the next post, I'm sure. 

;-)

 

For The Night Is Dark Anthology: "This Darkness..."

For The Night Is Dark is the first anthology from Crystal Lake Publishing.  It's a stellar collection, at least what I've read so far.  (Carole Johnstone's "21 Brooklands: Next To Old Western, Opposite The Burnt Out Red Lion" even seems a cousin to my story, "This Darkness," as channeled through a Rob Zombie mindset or...something like that, haha...)  I am waiting for my print copy to show up to continue reading it, because hey, yeah, that's right: print books still remain my fave way to read. 

Here's a lil' guest post I did at Armand Rosamilia's blog, dealing with my story.  He is in the anthology and has been featuring guest blogs by other contributors on his blog.  Really good, amusing, informative stuff.  Check them all out.  http://armandrosamilia.com/2013/04/11/guest-blog-john-claude-smith/

Here's the Amazon link which has an abundance of "Look Inside" samples to whet your horror loving appetite:  http://www.amazon.com/For-Night-Dark-ebook/dp/B00C3OGT06/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1366385015&sr=8-1


But...a bit more of a teaser to sink you into the true darkness that envelops "This Darkness."  Here's Sue Chambers, fed up and had it with her guy, Andy, up on the mountain, their friend, Mitch, in the back seat (as noted in the guest blog above; read that, put it together with this, and away we go), just before all Hell breaks loose; or all dread, more so, dread... No wait, Hell does follow up...

***

     Before Andy spoke, Susie sensed his anxiety bristling in the air.  He sucked in deeply and the inside of the car seemed to contract ever so slightly.

     “Look.  I’m sorry, baby.   I really…”  But he fell silent, his thoughts clustered as one, and, as usual, he was speaking before he’d sorted them out.

     Susie remained silent, ignoring him. 

     “I don’t mean no harm, y’know?  I just…I don’t really know what to do with it all sometimes.  Us and everything, y’know?”

     She turned her head to the window, gazing deep into the black nothing outside.

     “Hey, I’m tryin’ to say somethin’ here.”

     She just wanted it all to stop.  Please, just stop.

     “Goddamnit!” Andy said, jamming his foot on the brakes, cutting off the lights, the engine, everything.

     “Hey,” Mitch said, that Chihuahua yelp again using his throat for expression.

     Susie kicked at the door, hand scrambling for the handle, saying “Fuck you!  Fuck you!  Fuck all of this!” as she did.  Frustration poured over her like an angry waterfall.  She finally got the door open, shoving with force as she did.  The dome light splashed meager luminosity across the interior, which she was hastily exiting.  As the metal joints stretched to the breaking point, the door creaked and popped with firecracker intensity.  She stepped out and the door started its path back to being shut in a hurry.  But just as suddenly, she regretted being outside of the car and in this darkness, though she also did not want to lose any more brain cells by being within hooting distance of Heckle and Jeckle; her exasperation only magnified the situation.  As she twirled back toward the door, everything shifted down a notch, slowing as seconds stretched.  She heard Andy say, “What the hell is that?” while the light weaved ugly, perplexing patterns into the crinkled folds of Mitch’s face, forming a landscape for an undiscovered planet in the process, both of them staring out the windshield, not even caring about her annoyance.  The look in their eyes caused her to shift her gaze from them to whatever might be in front of the car, a seemingly impossible quest because of this darkness--              

     --when she felt its presence…

     Reaching for the swiftly closing door, she was too late.  It clicked shut and the feeble dome light was eaten by the voracious darkness and a scream climbed the broken rungs of her throat, yet as if sound was in cahoots with this darkness, she heard nothing.

     A vacuum of terror pressed against her as she ached for the aural confirmation she knew she had expressed, yet where was it?  More so, she sensed the silence was so very internal, though distinguishing blood currents and heart beats was beyond her capabilities.  She felt adrift, yet she also felt compressed, as if this darkness wasn’t only pressing into her, it was invading pores, seeking organs, essence.  

     She reached for the door handle, anxious to fling herself back into the car and just deal with them, to yell at Andy to get them the hell out of there, not caring about being made fun of or anything but being away.  Real decisions would happen soon enough, but right now she just needed the safety of noise and lights and being so far from this darkness. 

     Her efforts fell flat: there was no door handle.

     She let out a brittle, “Fuck,” that landed on black cotton stuffed ears.  She couldn’t see the handle, only knew the approximate direction, yet her fingers remained unfilled.  Both hands now, her lithe body stepping forward, her hip should be banging into metal, but nothing impeded her movement.

     There was nothing there.  No car.  No Andy and Mitch joking away.  No light, no sound, only this darkness.

***

What the...?   What in the world is going on?   You gotta pick up the anthology to find out.  You will find out the Truth...as well as get more fantastic fiction from a plethora of writers (Gary McMahon, Jeremy Shipp, Tonia Brown, William Meikle, Scott Nicholson, and many more) who really know and understand...the Dark.

;-) 

Here's the eye-catching artwork from Ben Baldwin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Flash Fiction Piece About Poetry.

Been writing A Lot lately, heavy stuff, mostly.  Dark, often grim, dread-filled and more; the usual.  Cheerful stuff for the lover of fiction that does not flinch.  Amidst this, though, little breaks are taken. A couple flash pieces, some poetry.  And something like the following, a flash piece dealing with poetry...and a whole lot more.  Light fantasy, yet with a positive message.  Funny, the last short story I completed, "Where the Light Won't Find You," all 5,800 words of it, also ended up in a positive place; well, for the most part.  After monstrous things happened.  What?  No, not getting mellow, one simply must allow the stories to take their own paths, and if something somewhat positive is the result, well, let it be.  I mean, somebody can die a strange, horrible death in the next story.  Anyway, there's the Vampire-related novel in progress that has a balance of black humor and a Dark Soul that probably demands I step away from it on occasion and write, well, whatever comes up, which might be something with less weight but no less depth.  Especially if you pay attention.  Like with this piece, called, "Wake Up!"  My Love, Alessandra, had mentioned receiving a magnet with poetry on it.  I took that and ran with it.  Sure, it's less than 400 words, but I think it works.

Enjoy!

***

Wake Up!
by John Claude Smith

Every morning for the last two weeks, Carina would wake up and eagerly walk into her kitchen, to read a new poem.  They were posted on her refrigerator, scribbled on however many post-it notes were necessary to include all of the words within the poem.  At first she was surprised; after all, she lived alone.  But after it happened for a few days, it became a reason to get up amid the hardships of a life gone off the rails.  Once she had wanted to be a writer, a poet.  But life dug in its heels and stole that dream.  The days now were long and uninspiring.  But with the inception of the daily poems, a spark of joy had been lit.  That’s why, when she woke up and practically sprinted to the refrigerator this bright, early Saturday morning, a day off from the senseless drudgery and mindless drivel that was work, she was saddened to see no poem posted.  Sorrow washed over her.  She spent the day in a haze, wondering from whence the poems had come, and if they would continue tomorrow.  They had to.  But when she got up Sunday morning and there was again no poem, tears stained her eyes.  This magical event that had touched her life…it seemed now it was gone forever.  Then she thought to herself—no.  It doesn’t have to end this way.  Poetry should be a regular part of her day.  After all, she had once wanted to be a writer, a poet.  She went to her computer desk and grabbed a pen and a pad of paper.  She boiled some water as she paced, making coffee.  She glanced at the pad and pen on her kitchen table, wary but wondering.  The mug warmed her fingers to the task as she sat down and picked up the pen, pressing it firmly to the paper.  Words flowed, life sighed in appreciation.  The spark became a flame, one she promised to stoke every day.  After all, if she didn’t write the poems within her, who else would? 

 ***

There ya go!  Actually, truth be told, that was written in about 2-3 minutes soon after she had mentioned the poetry magnet, tweaked slightly thereafter.  I said, hey, what if somebody woke up every morning and there was a new poem on their refrigerator?  This was after making a reference to Refrigerator Poetry and so forth and so on and ran with it.  Odd how the brain works, what triggers it to create, eh?  

 

More Dark stuff next time, I expect.  Or...talking about the Art of Reading, something close to my heart but in what way?  Hmmm...

Now, though, about ready to dig into something gruesome and surreal.  I think it's called, "The Lumper."  Don't ask...ahem...

;-)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peeling Away The Cobwebs, The Words And Vampires Pour Out...

Okay, yes, well...haven't really been lazy or anything of that nature, but it's been slightly over a month since my last post--actually, upon checking, it's been 40 days and 40 nights, seems I've entered into Noah's time zone--so I figure it's time to peel away the cobwebs and get back to the blog. You ready? What with the holiday and a fair amount of writing, I was busy, but now as I stumbled through some words on a big piece this morning (which, with the delay noted below, was a couple days ago), I figured a break from that with words here would not be a bad thing. Kicking things into gear, getting back to more consistency with the blog again.

What have you been up to?

Me, I've been writing. Finished a story early last month called, "Beautiful," which was an experiment for me. The story required a specificity of language as it dealt with perceptions of what is beautiful from a couple different angles, one being from the main character's take on it, though the main character is...different. Let's leave it at that. Must get it out there, submit it later today since it already has it's first rejection. Yeah, part of the deal, but somebody will love it.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions. I am the kind of person who sets up regular goals, so what's the use? But I did kind of tell myself to Get Writing asap in the new year, not that I don't write most all of the time anyway, but I want more consistency, more words. More Words was actually my offhand resolution, haha... I told myself this as a Big Idea took shape in my head, one I had been mulling over for months, for a long time, actually, yet now as the piece gets rolling, it may move well away form the initial inspiration, yet we will see. Something's happening and it deals with a vampire, which might seem quite out of character for yours truly since I rarely embrace familiar horror tropes, but this is definitely not your average vampire, either. There's philosophy, but perhaps not as much as I thought. And addiction. And Sex. And has a quirky tone I'm still getting wired into. I even allowed myself to sketch out the path, have the chapters aligned, big, fat chapters, for whatever reason. The first one presently clocks in at over 4,000 words; I'm positive at least two of the other chapters will probably double that in length. With this loosely defined path, I keep adding notes to the chapters, ideas for conversations, side avenues to explore, etc. Along with the philosophical side as crossed with something of a warped sense of humor, I, being a firm believer in balance, can't wait for it all to get swallowed whole by the dark dark dark stuff in the latter chapters. Yeah, this is my ramble, no gameplan here, but this is what I am dealing with. But today (but not today--you following this?), well, there are days when the words flow, and days where they keep tripping over each other. Today, yeah...you know...

Along with this, there's some shorter fiction percolating, things that will get finished when I've worn my brain out with the big piece in progress, keeping the flow consistent, new stuff for new anthologies, perhaps, and just, in general. the knowledge that I Love Writing and need to make time for it every day. I am usually good with this, but there are times that real life and such shuffle things around, make it 'seem' harder to deal with words when we have no excuses. I write. What's the probem, John Claude? No problem at all.  Get to it!

That's all it should take for any writer. Set aside a time if you must--I like setting a schedule, but am flexible as needed--and make sure to Be There Completely.

Trust Your Instincts.
Full Immersion.
No Fear.
Just Write.

I see these words to my left, hand-written in the initial hand-written notes for the big piece. Makes sense to me. I like seeing them there, glancing over and nodding, yes, YES!

Makes me want to get back to more words, the stories. Writing!

How about you? These are good catchwords, keywords, whatever you want to call them. Just change the last one to fit your own art, what you do, painting or playing an instrument, etc.

Trust Your Instincts.
Full Immersion.
No Fear.
Just Create!

Now!

Here's one of my favorite pieces of Vampire art, done by Edvard Munch, most well-known for his painting, The Scream, but this one's right up there with that one for me.

Enjoy!

 

No, wait, that's not Munch's Vampire, that's yours truly, annoyed that something's up with Blogger and I cannot seem to upload a photo from my computer sooooo...well, hopefully I can work this out asap, but for now, since this blog has been sitting here close to completed for a couple/few days, let's roll with this photo, from my blog a while ago, me back when I used to wear a professional moustache.  Yeah, many eons ago, when I used to hang out with Dali.  We had competitions, y'know.  Moustache twirling competitions.  It really annoyed him when I could do it with more, um...flair.  Probably why he hasn't talked to me in quite a while.  Oh, sure, he's "dead" as you understand it, but that's only As Most Humans Know It, and since I know differently, having visited him on the AlternaWorld that runs alongside ours in a different dimension, well...

What?

Okay, enough nonsense and rambling.  More writing news and darkness soon.

;-) 

Six Sentence Sunday: "The Occasional Beast That Is Her Soul."

Yes, time for me to catch up a bit.  There's been a couple stories published the last two months, an interview, and I even wrote some ad copy for a music release.  Amongst other stuff.  That other stuff being, lots of writing.  September saw the three week blur to completion of my novelette and probable title story for a collection, "Autumn In The Abyss." 14,000 words of true madness, all in search of whatever happened to poet, Henry Coronado.  It's a psychological funhouse, and unquestionably one of my best, at least by my estimation.  Last month, a shorter piece called, "Louder, Faster..." written after going to a metal concert and taking it all in and letting my brain run with it.  I enjoy writing fiction with a music slant.  Music plays a big part in my life, so why shouldn't it in my creativity, eh?  And just recently, I completed a short story called, "This Darkness..." (yes, the dreaded ellipses make appearances in both the last two titles, haha, though an  editor may rein in the second one, but for now...), another story I would qualify as one of my best.  A real excursion into darkness, but this darkness is sentient, sadistic...and hungry.  This was for the upcoming, For the Night is Dark anthology from a fairly new publisher, Crystal Lake.  On FB they had posted a great cover and asked interested writers to get in touch with them.  I did and joined an excellent TOC already taking shape.  I am really looking forward to this one.  Along with all of this, there's some other pieces in progress, the main one looking to be a short story called, "The Beautiful," which steps away from the tonal quality of the last two pieces that almost seem related, though they're not, they're quite different; I just noticed a similar feel, tonal quality, something...what-have-you.  "The Beautiful" is shaping up to be quite possibly my strangest piece ever, because of some elements I can't even let on about yet, primarily dealing with a main character who is quite...different.

As I say, Busy is Good!

So, now, catching up with a six sentence Sunday snippet from my story, "The Occasional Beast That Is Her Soul."  It's one of two unrelated shapeshifter tales I wrote back to back, the other being "Blood Echo Symphonies," up at the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. The initial idea for "Occasional..." was to put it in a steampunk world.  I wanted to experiment with that, but as I look at it now, those trimmings were barely acknowledged.  It is slightly futuristic, though any steampunk aspirations are slim at best.  At least that's my take.  Perhaps you would have a different take.  Nonetheless, both stories, the other one being in a slightly futuristic world amidst rock 'n' roll and love and sex gone sideways, allowed me to experiment with shapeshifters, something I'd never really done.  I was inspired by something fellow writer Zoe Whitten had written a couple years ago, kind of her guidelines to shapeshifters, something of that nature, and thought, sure, let's see what happens.  I can see experimenting more with the idea, because shapeshifters have so many possibilities, depending on how you come at them in a story.  And you know me, always into the possibilities...

So, here's the brief opening sequence, a bit more than six sentences, but enough to perhaps set the table and pique your interest to buy a copy of White Cat Magazine.

Enjoy!  Oh, and I did not see the edits to the story yet, should be receiving my copy soon, so it might be different than this, but shouldn't be too much.  Perhaps they got rid of my friends the ellipses. 


***

     Tonight she wished for wings.

     Thea at the window, wishing for something more than the wayward enticements of this earth, or the fickle fantasies that roosted glumly in the minds of her potential partners.

     Tonight there will be wings…

     It was not the first time Thea had nurtured this thought.  With the malleable condition of her body as shaped by the emotional resonance within her psyche, wings would be a much better transmutation than what has transpired so far; than what she always has become: a beast of ill intent...

     Talons to tear into the meat of her lover.

     Pincers to pluck out the cooling gray matter from the bowl of the cranium she had cracked as one would an egg, red runny yolk staining the carpet.

     Wings would be her only means of escape this evening, the dizzying height demanding something different.  Always running from something, maybe flight would bring her freedom.  But wings had failed her before, bony stubs along the parchment expanse of flesh so thin the wind tore from them the ability to glide along the invisible ether byways above everything.

     They would have to be strong wings, she thought, then frowned, a shifting of flesh with which she had actual control.

     Because her control was as much driven by shock and panic as by wish-fulfillment.  Shock and panic and the wayward imagination of her lovers, as muddled by that which resided within her.

     She had rarely become something more than the occasional beast that is her soul.  

***

Hmmmm, curious?  I quite like this story.  Where it ends up might just take your breath away; or at least make you go, ohhhhhhhh!  Or something, anything, but you won't know unless you pick up the magazine, so please do.

As for more catching up, next blog, and it won't be as long between them, I'll probably deal with another recently published story, "The Misfits Of Mayhem Meet Their Match."

See ya sooner than later.

;-)

Happy Horror Anniversary: The Dark Is Light Enough For Me...

...is one-year-old!   Time to Celebrate!  Join me as I fill this post with ordering info and review samples and what-nots and who knows what else and... Are you ready?  I am quite proud of this book and hope those of you who have read it have enjoyed it as well.  Working with Ampichellis Books has been a blast and we'll see about more books from them and/or others as they are completed.  I mean, I'm presently putting together another collection, as well as am having my novel, The Wilderness Within, shopped around to publishers.  All part of the deal.  Add to that much writing and more stories you can check out, which I will deal with in a couple of upcoming posts and, well, as I often say and mean it when it comes to writing: Busy is Good. 

But right now, some thoughts from others on The Dark Is Light Enough For Me.

  
***

John Claude Smith's Dark is Light Enough For Me is an anthology of dark fantasy, interspersed with horror, but none of the stories consist of recurring popular motifs - internally or within the genre. Each story is original, and in most cases, very dark indeed - coal black.

Smith's anthology isn't for the sensitive or the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. Smith isn't being quirky, or finding satisfaction in the gory, sexually perverse or the profane. No, he is writing this stuff because it unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens - the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about. And he does it admirably, especially for a debut title.

***

Many of the tales within feature certain horror archetypes - absurdist characters, extreme visceral sensations, madness manifested, etc. However, behind the window-dressings of dark, speculative fiction we find the musings of a philosopher. The concepts of guilt, ennui, ostracism, addiction and rage are examined just as keenly by Smith and his horror as they would have been by the likes of Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche and Kant. The reader is forced to think along with feel, a dark dialogue open straight into your psyche.


***

These stories, horrific and disturbing as they are, transport the reader far beyond the horror genre. Every story here has such depth and feeling, each could easily serve as the subject of an entire novel. The prose is fraught with emotion, the intensity of the writing is enough in itself to leave you breathless. Whether you are into the horror genre or not, you will be mesmerized by these little masterpieces.

***
 

In a market that is pretty much saturated with the tiredest of horror tropes (vampires, zombies, werewolves), along comes this refreshing debut collection by John Claude Smith. And when I say refreshing, I certainly don't mean "lightweight". The darkness itself, in fact, is very much a constant character in these stories of guilt, hubris, paranoia, abuse, vanity, addiction, desire and depravity.

Many of these stories, though modern, have Lovecraftian antecedents in mood and theme, and if I had to name a more contemporary writer with which to make comparisons, I'd have to say Thomas Ligotti--although, again, with a slightly more modern twist. I don't want to say "gothic" exactly, since that would unfairly typecast these unsettling tales, and they deserve a wider audience than that.

Smith's language is often baroque and inventive, occasionally straying into the ambitious realms in which a scrupulous editor is necessary (and perhaps lacking at times), but any risk of overreaching is admirably offset when compared to the largely anodyne nature of so many contemporary horror clichés. Smith manages to unearth and expose more layers of that deceptively simple term "horror" than most: here, existential dread arrives in unexpected places; disgust and dismay, too. Some of these stories are downright distressing, in fact.

Which is all a convoluted way of saying: buy this book, read it, and be prepared for some serious insomniac unease.

***

These are intensely personal pieces . . . that made me feel John more suffered through the stories that wrote them. Letting them wash over me, their was definitely a sweaty nightmarish feel about most of them (especially the title piece) that gave a feeling of inescapable desperation. I was reminded of Ligotti in much of this, but not in a derivative way -- more like Ligotti pointed the way (as all seminal authors do) and then John Claude Smith realized he could explore his own vision of the previously undiscovered country (if that makes any sense at all).

This anthology is definitely worth your time if you are an aficionado of the modern, darker style of horror.

***

A fascinating exploration of the horror that slithers through the shadowy catacombs of the mind, the prose carries a poetic air, the brilliant descriptions almost sing. Indeed, one can hear Ligotti whisper through much of the work. Gladiatrix in particular was disturbing. Strange Trees; indeed, strange, strange. I loved it. I was thankful not to be overrun with vampires and zombies, two clichés that are steadily losing their power due to saturation. Nope, not here; in this diverse collection you'll find that true darkness dwells within. Big things coming from John Claude Smith.

*** 

This is certainly not the average horror short story collection. These tales are imbued with a dark flood of images and written in a beautifully terse prose. They all bear a close relation to life, but their twists and turns are like concentrated dynamite. Get yourself a copy and plunge into darkness!

***

Enough!  Have I piqued your interest if you've yet to purchase my book?  I hope so.  You can find the whole reviews and more on Amazon--if and/or while they are still there, what with Amazon's possible pulling of reviews written by fellow writers which is, as we know, rather ridiculous--as well as a few other reviews on Goodreads.

Here's most of the links for purchasing the book.  Please check them out and choose the site that best works for you, buy the book, get back to me about what you think of it, write a review, and tell your friends.  Yeah, yeah...well, here they are.

Amazon USA   Amazon UK   Amazon Germany    Amazon France

Barnes & Noble   OmniLit   Kobo   Goodreads
 

***

Okay, was off for a month, adjusting to being back in the states and dealing with all I have to deal with when back here, so now, even as I still deal with other stuff, there will again be more consistent blogs.  I will get into current magazines with my stories in them, two upcoming anthologies, a posting of "Photograph," which was up as a Weekly Offering at Phantasmagorium, so if you missed it, you'll get your chance to read it soon and much much more.

After all, I've only just begun with this writing gig.  Even if I have been doing it for years.  ;-)

Here's the Bizarre and Beautiful cover art for my collection.

Enjoy!