Sunday, January 29, 2012

Interview With The Devil...or Yours Truly...

Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of...wealth and taste?  Well, I must admit I have exquisite taste, but that wealth deal?  Let me sell and publish a few novels, or simply sell my soul--

The Devil: Excuse me, Smith.  Did you just offer up your soul for wealth and riches?

Moi [shaking my head, closing my eyes tightly, wishing him away; pinching myself--ouch!--no, not dreaming]: Um, no Mr. Devil...

The Devil: That's just The Devil to you, Smith, er...John Claude. After all, we are friends.

He puts his arm around my shoulders, leans into me, squeezes tight.  His palms leave scorched imprints on my shirt.  The fabrics turns to ash.  My shoulder starts to cook, he realizes his overly affectionate ways, and lifts his red as a well-smacked rump hand off my shoulder.  [yes, that's exactly what came to my head right then: a well-smacked rump!]

Moi: Well, Devil, dude, no, I was just writing this here blog, setting up to post about an interview I had that went up today on a website called Inspiration Forum, which has nothing to do with, um, religious inspiration, more the inspiration of those who create or, um...

He looks at me, furrowed brow sparking like an asteroid hitting the ozone, his eyes roiling as the heart of a volcano about to awaken.

The Devil: Wait a minute,Smith.  You mean to tell me you're just kidding around about the selling of your soul on some damned blog, for the amusement of your readers, all four of them?  [Four?! I'm sure there's at least six or eight...] Here I'm getting all hot and bothered as devouring souls is my most cherished pastime, and you're just being some kind of joker for the amusement of a blog? A blog? 

He folds his arms across his steaming red chest.  The smell is of a revolting nature, dead things cooking, the breath of brain-munching zombies, sulphur, a whisper of beets--NO!  He taps his foot, tail snapping about like a rattlesnake on acid.

Moi:  Well, yeah, that's just about it.

He lets out a big sigh, rolls his already roiling eyes.

The Devil: Well, could you not mess with me like that, Smith?  I mean, I got plenty of Republicans and NY Giants willing to sell their souls--those who still have them--so, really, being side-tracked by the likes of you, for amusement sake... [shakes his head, shakes his finger too, tsk tsk]  It's open season out there.  But here's my card [hands me His card: The Devil, Fulfilling Your Dreams One Soul at a Time].  You change your mind, you know where I am.

He smiles and black smoke billows from his mouth.  I close my eyes, coughing and gagging, only to open them sitting in front of this computer, typing these...words...again...and... 

Anyway, there IS an interview up at the aforementioned Inspiration Forum, fun stuff, here's the link:

Read and enjoy!  Please and thank you!

I discuss my book, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, as well as novels being shopped around, being written, this and that and writing stuff and, yeah, just give it a spin.  Thanks!

Oh, and because it was brought up and I should always tag my blog posts with purchasing info for the book, here's the various links so you can catch the cyber-tram and head over to Amazon or B&N, OmniLit, etc., and check it out, buy it, love it, snuggle up with it, it's such a warm and comfy book!  Okay, so it's not warm and comfy, it's a freak-out collection of dark stuff, but still, Dark Fiction/Horror Books Need Love Too! 


Amazon digital and print:

Amazon Germany:

Amazon France:  
Amazon UK, Baby!

Here's a picture of The Devil by artist Edward Norden.  He looks to be in one of his more nasty moods, playing with his food or, well, messing with blood. Looking to get some signatures at the bottom of contracts, perhaps...


Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Bleak Poetry of Celebrity Lifestyles

I have an aversion to celebrity, faux celebrity, wannabe celebrity, blah blah, brainsplatting blah celebrity.   It all disgusts me.  Worse yet, it baffles me those who get some form of celebrity via Reality Show "fame."  People who aspire to that type of thing, not even faking a talent of some sort, they really repulse me.

Yes, repulse! 

Because whenever I see a snippet of a Reality Show via a commercial, on the rare occasions I am in front of a TV, I cringe to think these whining bipeds have anything to do with the human race I believe I am a part of. Especially when most Reality Show set-ups highlight the lowest characteristics of being human.  Greed and deceipt and the finagling ways of the bottom-feeders dragging knuckles and integrity through the muck they call life.  Anyway, side-tracking but, yeah, celebrity and those who obsess over them, I don't get it.  Why, when I log online, am I inundated with such World Shaking News Events as, well, how about from today: Rhianna's New Tattoo, Justin Bieber's Fashion Flubs, Joan Rivers Without Makeup (!!!), and Snooki...this or that?  Okay, no Snooki today, one of the rare occasions, along with no Kardashian nonsense, but I hate that my brain space even acknowledges knowing a wee bit about these...these...[don't do it, John Claude. Don't stoop to their gold-lined gutter sub-level] [yes, I understand how the tail end of that statement might, just might be construed as stooping, but I'm standing up now and no, I won't go there anymore]...

Do you actually care?  I mean...really?  Why?  And what the F**k is a Snooki?  (I found out, actually, and utilized the info in...oh, wait, don't let me get ahead of myself.) does inspire some of my poetry.  My head-shaking observations of the human race as it skids into a ditch brings out some vitriolic verses or slingshot stanzas or simply Words of Truth!!!  [horns blaring, bows taken, thank you, thank you...]

My poetry deals with many things, from the dark places I enjoy exploring, to love, erotica, sex and World View observations, be it politics or the misuse of technology or the misuse of Mother Nature...or the mind-numbing shenanigans of celebrities I don't give a flying squirrel about. 

Of which, a lot of the latter disgust--ah, there's that word again--hooks into the misuse of money that comes with the celebrity lifestyle, but that's for another time, another poem, but right now, here's an example of my poetry and, yes, I use the word loosely, that relates to this mindset.

Just an excuse to spew and have fun while doing it, hehe...

The poem is called, "Psychologically Corrosive Elements in Mass Media, Adopted by Angelina Jolie, Sponsored by Budweiser, Disney, Oprah and The Food Channel, Circa 2011." Yes, really.  It was published in the ever cool Zouch magazine last year.  The editor made a comment of sensing a Ginsberg vibe in my poetry, probably because of this one; too kind, but made me smile.  And the quote by Snooki at the end, yes, Snooki, for all the Snooki fans reading this blog, is real.  Another reason for me to shake my head.  


Psychologically Corrosive Elements in Mass Media, Adopted by Angelina Jolie, Sponsored by Budweiser, Disney, Oprah and The Food Channel, Circa 2011


John Claude Smith

Born under the watchful eye of

Cathode “Ray” Cyclops--

a Jerry Bruckheimer Production!

in association with ESPN and Apple

digital convenience at your fingertips

(Blackberry; iPOD; iPAD)

God of Image and Narcissism

God of Forgotten Humanity

Wrung like blood-stained clothe

(CSI DNA CBS personalized SKU)

the celluloid ‘stains’ perceptions:

the EGO is the basis for all decisions:

what is good for me is good for me

SO (a Simon Cowell/Nightline Special Report)

Misguided under the watchful eye of

Cathode “Ray” Cyclops--

A Jerry Bruckheimer Production!

society’s jacked-in downloaded voyeuristic screen time

rolls infinitely like the credits to a James Cameron movie

across the monitors within wasted twitterazzi minds

not Sony or Toshiba but Lindsey and Paris

Progenitors to the 21st Century Child®

connections impersonal as the touch of flesh

and the simmer of Self-Love 

“I thought I broke my vagina bone…it was terrible.”--Snooki

So, there ya go!  I hope you enjoyed that.  And, amusingly, I would change the Paris reference now, as she's slipped from the public eye and probably have  Kim (Kardashian) or someone more current filling that who-the-hell-is-that-and-why-am-I-being-inundated-with him/her slot, as well as would change a few other things, too. For example, referencing Angelina Jolie is not done with spite, she just went through a stage where she seemed to be adopting a kid a week, which of course was not a kid a week, just a few over a few years; that's actually a commendable deal.  She just fit into the title nicely.  [waves at Angelina]  Haha, pathetic me, knowing too much about all this ridiculous stuff!   

Next time...we'll see.  There's two interviews and two short fiction publications slated for publication soon, the book, yes, The Book, to promote--The Dark is Light Enough for Me, available via B&N, OmniLit, Amazon UK, Germany, France, and the US, which also includes, oh my! The Print Version!!!--as well as whatever else pops up between now and...then.

See ya soon!

Here's a photo of Angelina Jolie putting me in my place: "That's right, Smith. You better not be messing with me."  And then, pausing for the tag line, the one in all the commercials: "Adopt This!"  Before nailing me in the forehead...



Friday, January 20, 2012

William S. Burroughs and I Talk Tattooed WoodPulp...

Burroughs put the needle to his vein and paused. "You do know the next step after digital skoob is telepathic transference of the word virus, right?  Instant intellectual property crackle. Spontaneous Mind Mines. Pop. Pop. Pop."  He laughed, a monotone rumble fading into a snick-snick-snicker like gunfire.

Yeah, I'm back on the AlternaWorld. 

Which means it's not like all of this will make sense, but enjoy the surreal ride.

[for those of you just catching up, the previous posts, "A Conversation with Salvador Dali...?!," "Jimi Hendrix says "The Dark..." is Groovy, man!," & "Charles Bukowski's Review of The Dark..." took place on an alternative world where my book has gained much infamy and acclaim. Ahem...]

"Print is the only real way a book can be appreciated to the fullest," he said. "Though I am open to digital.  I just don't like the overlap of words from other books an ereader caters to.  I can see them all.  The word virus becomes too much to bear."

Me, I'm just a bit miffed at how anything transpires on the AlternaWorld.  I mean, I ended up here in this filthy side-street alley simply by winking.  Burroughs winked and here I was.  He said he wanted to talk to me about my book and books in general. The kind you can flip through and smell and beat up, wear out, dog-ears flapping in your back pocket. 

I needed to make some sense of this.  I was also uncomfortable with the needle resting so eagerly on his already pot-holed arm.

"So, you're telling me that you love my book--"

"Oh, yeah. You got a wicked, twisted mind, Smith.  You got issues.  I can relate...  It's like the Bible here. You're like a god here."  He laughed again, a train echoing above iron tracks in the middle of the desert.

"I'm not sure if I like those implications, man.  I mean, I don't want to be a god--"

"Who does? The pays not worth the mixed up adulation, though when I released Naked Lunch I was in the same boat.  Up a creek, no paddle, but at least the drugs were good and plentiful."

This was all too weird, but being in the AlternaWorld on occasion, the Weird was expected.

A curious question periscoped to the surface.  "What the heck is digital skoob?"  He'd mentioned it in relation to my book, but it sounded more like some kind of electronic drug.

"Electronic books.  They're ass-backwards, not real, but real enough because they contain the words.  Books = skoob.  Get it?  Words are essential.  But as I said, I can't read on ereaders because, at least here, the tracery memories of other stories remains.  Distorting the true.  And I want the truth.  That's why I wish I could get back to your world.  Which is a useless expenditure of brain space, because I'm dead there." He paused, his eyes went slack, dead fish zoning, then he snapped back. "My agents inform me that the kindles and nooks are okay, don't have the same problem, but I will always choose the Tattooed WoodPulp version first.  At least until I can perfect the physics of telepathic transference with proper page layout."  He grumbled, digging the needle into his vein and pulling back on the plunger.  It filled with a deep black liquid.

So what have I so far learned during this brief trek to the AlternaWorld? Burroughs will always like books, is unhappy with ereaders in here, but at least we have it working in our world.  He likes my book as well, which makes sense to me...and he's doing what with that needle?

"William, what the heck are you...?" Then I could tell exactly what he was doing as I watched the needle morph into a pen and he pressed it firmly against a blank piece of paper.

"Writing, Smith.  Tattooing the WoodPulp with words, now that you've inspired me to get back to it.  Been wasting too much time hanging out with Bukowski talking about writing. Time to get back to what  I do best.  Spreading the virus."  He only smiled now, mischief and neon lights dancing in his eyes...then winked...

And I was immediately thrust back into our world.  In front of a computer.  Reading this blog I don't even remember writing.


But, as Burroughs likes the print version, perhaps you will you, too. At least it's cool to have the options, eh? 

My debut collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, is now available in Tattoed WoodPulp, Hardcopy version!  Below is the link and, yeah, the other links for digital skoob versions, hehe...too!


Amazon (yes, the links for digital and print should be connected, soon, but right now, asI type this, they are separate):


Barnes & Noble:


Amazon Germany:

Amazon France:

A double shot from Burroughs:

Sunday, January 15, 2012

We Incorporate The Gist: Ellison, Lovecraft, Barker, King, Ligotti...Etc.

Curious as to what readers pick up on in my fiction.  Curious as to what other writers they may see in relation to my work.  I mean, as writers, we read and read and read and some writers leave minor stamps, while others leave larger sledgehammer impressions.  For me, I don't see anybody as dominant, or anybody consistent, really.  I see me, my distinct (I hope) take and Dark Fiction that often veers into the well of Dread, the bleak nightmareworld that is Horror.  But even at that, it's not always something I shun.  Often I embrace the unexpected, the different, and welcome it into my trembling arms. 

Wait!  Thinking out loud--okay, typing out loud; typing out loud?--that's perhaps the Clive Barker element.  Hmmm...I always love when he embraces the monsters.  Y'think that might be his influence?  But I can gladly say, yes, there was a time Barker's horror was the horror I most enjoyed. But we grow and evolve, though something there remains: The Gist. 

That which is most important for me when it comes to his work.

"Smith goes elsewhere, a bleak universe that one gets glimpses of in works by Harlan Ellison, H.P. Lovecraft, and occasionally Clive Barker. The intellect powering these nightmares is a staggering, transcendental monster in itself."

This review mentioned, perceptively and quite amazingly, Harlan Ellison.  I have read more Ellison than any other writer.  But what...what of my writing reminds a reader of Ellison?  I have no idea, I don't see it.  I know, though, that The Gist must always be with me, what with mentally ingesting so much of his work.  I actually find a lot more of an Ellison vibe in my novels, particularly the first one I wrote, The Corner of His Mind, which is rather hilarious since he specializes in short fiction.  (Well, after all, he IS the best speculative short fiction writer ever, so...)

H.P. Lovecraft?  Moments sprinkled through some stories, one story ("The Sunglasses Girl") has a solid element that could be derived from that same mindset (at least the ending; then again that may, again, be my take), but there's none of the usual, overwrought trappings.  "Strange Trees" might also have an element...  Another story upcoming in Lovecraft eZine is also, well, yeah (of course, hence, the magazine's name), of a Lovecraftian nature but, again, it's of the mindset, not the world.  It "feels" like Lovecraft, but also walks its own path.  Or stumbles, falls, and the Weird takes over...

"The stories are also very literary reminding me a little of Ligotti but with more dialogue."

Thomas Ligotti?  The title story features a main character derived from a Ligottian mindset, but not Ligotti's writing.  I have succeeded, then, in my task at hand.  Creating a character of that mindset, capturing The Gist, yet taking it to new and unexplored terrain.  Though, again, with the psychological/supernatural elements overlapping, the tale is uniquely its own; or, at least I hope you, attentive reader, see it that way.    

"The way Mr. Smith twists his plot is on the same par with early Steven (sic) King. Amazing darkness here."

Stephen King?  Well, it is a Dark Fiction/Horror collection.  Do I write anything like King?  Probably not, yet in a couple stories, with a more, possibly, traditional foundation ("I Want To Take You Higher," maybe "Gladiatrix") a reader might sense that.  Though, to be honest, "I Want To Take You Higher" is more my riff on Joe Lansdale.  Which, of course, I may be the only one to think this, hehe...

Always curious as to how others perceive my fiction.  Some takes seem spot on, while others make me furrow my brow, yet also make me want to investigate why they think that, what about it reminds them of this or that writer.

But, ultimately, let's get real.  We read and read and read and take it all in.  Those writers become the foundation upon which we build, the Giants Whose Shoulders We Stand On, and if we do it write, I mean, if we do it right, we don't just copy what they've introduced to us, we expand on it, building our own dark wing, perhaps a cloud-swathed penthouse, perhaps a cellar, where all the creepy things might enjoy our company.  At least the best of us do...and that's what I strive to be.  We take The Gist of what really affects us and incorporate it into our own distinct stories.     

You can get a sample of the reviews and even the fiction here (check the Look Inside feature at  Check it out.  And buy the book if you haven't as of yet.  A worthy venture for those into The Dark Stuff.  As another reviewer wrote, it's "not your average horror."  And, if you are waiting for the print version, it is definitely in the works.  I've seen photos of the hardcopy book; the final stages are at hand.

Amazon Germany:

Amazon France:

Barnes & Noble:


Of course, influences come in many shades, from writers (inc. poets, lyricists, etc.), artists, movies, the mad world around me.  Though writers are referenced here, I know there's much more going on than that.  This being a writer is an all-encompassing gig.  One I Love being a part of.

Next time...I have no clue.  I didn't know what this post was going to be until I started writing it. 

Here's a creepy cool photo I found by Jonathan Buffard of the stairs down into a cellar where many a dark fiction/horror writer's mind ends up.  Or...something like that.


Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Art Inspired Words: "The Medusa Syndrome."

I'm a big fan of art.  Give me Surrealism or simply Dark Stuff, the Classics or photo manipulation, etc., on and on, I enjoy how my wicked playground imagination is often triggered to create something of words from a painting, music as well.  Actually, that was my specialty (well, it's what I did; a specialty, who knows?!) when I was heavily into music journalism.  My reviews were usually not simply the average blow by blow bass, guitar, drums, blah blah, going to sleep now, boring reviews.  Often I would listen to the music and create a story from what the sounds inspired; another world.  Of course, considering I primarily reviewed fringe genres--Dark Ambient, Power Electronics, Noise, Experimental, variations of all that and leaning into Goth, Industrial and Metal--it was mandatory as far as I cared, as much of the former catagories came off as mini-soundtracks, sonic documentaries of other worlds and dimensions, or deep within our own, or at least within my riffing mind. 

Wait!  Another aside?  See, that's the fun of these blogs.  I often have a bit of a plan, but does it ever follow suit? Eventually, but with many off ramps and such.  I know where they are going and will end up, but as with my novels, though at times with them the "know where they are going" thing was not something that came up until, oh, perhaps 40,000 words into the first draft, how they get there is a constant surprise to me. 

Often on FB,. I post art and on occasion I will riff and make up a spontaneous story as I am figuring out what to say about a piece.  I've done it many times and have written a couple actual very short flash pieces based on the riffing, and have a longer piece in progress, and will do more, I'm sure.

Anyway, the piece below was one of those blurb stories that I decided to expand on a bit, though not much. I looked at the painting by David Ho and had this off-the-wall riff transpire, liked it so much that, well, here's the mini-expansion of the original, just giving it a slight bit more direction, but not much.  Sometimes, you get it mostly right in the first case.

So, about 300 words here, a piece called, "The Medusa Syndrome."



      "My head’s a snake pit!" Ivan screamed. "I feel them inside me."  Drool streamed on his chin, down his gunmetal gray uniform.

     Nord shook him, looked in his eyes and said, "No! They won't get you! You can’t be a victim of The Medusa Syndrome. I won't..." but then backed off and looked into the sky, where Ivan had been staring, having never looked into his worried friend’s eyes.

     There was nothing there but the scarlet mist.  A mist that was moving of its own volition, as there was no wind to nudge it along.

     And then the sound sliced through it all.  Nord distinctly watched the mist separate as the pitch warbled, almost vocal, not just into his ear, but into view.  The sky rippled, assimilating the slithering chaos of the snake pit.  Invisible snakes, more like vibrations with teeth.

     The mysterious tattoo that had risen up from beneath Ivan’s face, surrounding his features, started to trickle blood.  The blood increased and he had the fleeting instinct to scream, but that was clipped into echo as the circular incision suddenly caused Ivan's face to burst off his head, like a manhole cover shooting skyward from too much pressure from below. The snakes were everywhere, snapping and hungry--vicious. 
     Nord tried to step backward but his legs were frozen in place.  He was paralyzed, a human statue.  He grew immediately pensive, feeling the twitch at his ears, feeling the tickle as they nibbled his brain.

     Feeling the tattoo rise from within, circling around his shocked façade.

     His last thought was about how this strange devolution, something they‘d read about but thought impossible--“somebody must be playing a joke on us”--proved the existence of the reptile brain.  Proved it in a most disturbing way.

     Sucking the gathering mist into his heaving lungs, his eyes went slit and his face shot off, just like Nord's.


Yeah, just a bit of very dark freaky fun, all inspired by a painting. 

BTW, don't forget, I have a collection of dark fiction/horror tales out right now called, The Dark is Light Enough for Me.  Available via Amazon in the USA, UK, Germany and France, as well as B&N and OmniLit.   Only ebook right now, but I have seen a photo of the print version which, after some of this and that, eye of newt, tongue of toad, whatever, it's finally about ready to be unleashed.  I'll give sordid details and links here when that happens.  But for those of you with digital readers, what's keeping you?  Yeah, go out and buy a copy now (please), it's only $3.99, that's 12 stories at about 33 cents a story, well worth it, I think!  hahaha...y'know...this being a salesman all the time is hilarious to me.  I mean, in the old days, writers would send it off and the publisher would take care of promotions and, sure, you might do some signings and such, but nowadays,, I suppose tossing this out there now makes sense.  Interviews. Yeah, I'll talk about the book and horror/dark fiction.  Life.  Italy.  Whatever's good.  Yeah, I'm talking to you, Letterman.  Have your people call my people or, um, email me at least.  Hahaha...  (You think I'm kidding? I have a dream sequence scene in my first novel, The Corner of His Mind, that references a loony interview on Letterman.)  And reviews? Well, if anybody actually reads this blog and is a reviewer or knows real reviewers, let me see your blog/website/magazine, I'm sure I can get you a free pdf or even kindle or nook ready version.
You can contact me via email ( ) but, yes, I know, I know, I must contact them as well...and am, and have, and will and...

"For the words of the prophets were written on the studio wall
Concert hall
And echoes with the sounds of salesmen..."

Yeah, thanks Neil and Alex and Geddy, wailing away.  I needed that.


Here's the piece that inspired, "The Medusa Syndrome."  It's called Leviathan by David Ho.  Brilliant and bizarre work!  Dig it!


Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Really, It's Not A Vampire Tale. "Soul Leech."

I've been writing my whole life.  Haven't all writers?  Creative writing, be it bad lyrics that twisted into some decent lines--some have made it into two of my novels, including one of my faves, "No more rules and regulations/shattered here your destination/chiseled on the Walls of Time/no future here, not yours or mine," spat out amidst the aftermath of the major transitional sequence in my second novel (the one being shopped around by my agent), The Wilderness Within, by a character who may or may not be real, to a character transformed into no no.  You must wait for thos revelations when it's eventually published.   If there's a metal band interested in collaborating, give me an email, haha, what the Hell am I doing?

Rambling as usual, and that whole paragraph kind of fell apart, eh? 

So, everything from bad lyrics, some of which have grown into potent lines; to worse poetry, much of which has grown up into potent lines as well, so different focus-wise than my stories, more driven by the world we live in, the madness of reality, of things out of sync, though I also dip into sporadic horror/sf poetry, some erotica and even some that would pretty much qualify as sex poetry, but at least I have a feel for it now.  Not like before, but when you've been writing your whole life you better be paying attention and learning at all times.  I am not the writer I was twenty years ago.  Hell, I'm not the same writer than I was five years ago.  Actually, let's be real, there's transitional (transitional: the word of the day, or this blog post) stuff within last summer and now, so it's a constant growth thang, baby.  Can you dig it?

So, all that, and stories.  Stories that simply wanted to be Horror Stories, but as I grew as a writer simply being Horror Stories didn't seem to be the path my brain wanted to take.  Anyway, y'know, there was a point to all of this that I'm going to skip to because, as my girlfriend knows, I can go on sometimes.  What, Honey?  What do you mean, 'only sometimes'? 


ANYWAY, my point, which there really was one, but now I think it's crossed over into another point about writing, being a writer, though I will steer it back to this post--that's for another one--is that I have never written a vampire story. 

Yes, really, that's where I was going when I started.  I...I think.

I've dabbled on rare occasion with zombies and have a couple of shape-shifter stories, but vampires? No. 

Now, I'm not totally against them.  I have hinted at them, veered toward them, but always avoided embracing them. That's where, "Soul Leech," comes into play.

See, I was leading somewhere.  I know, I know, I really do know, I often take the scenic route to get there and tonight, what the heck.  I'm just embracing the madness of it all.

Will this post make sense?

So, "Soul Leech," one of my earliest published stories.  About the time I veered into music journalism which took up the core of my writing for too many years, but I had fun, I had sent off "Soul Leech" to a shape-shifter anthology.  They sent back their acceptance...but not for the shape-shifter anthology they were publishing, but for a vampire anthology!

I seem to remember letting them know it's not a vampire story, or at least thinking that much.   I was creating a new "creature of the night."  But all I remember now, it was published in the vampire anthology, In Darkness Eternal, I think that's the name, from, when was that?  The mid-late 90s. 

Around 2003 or so, when I decided to get back into fiction writing, I sent it off as a reprint to an anthology dealing with sex and horror, Raging Horrormones, and they accepted it.  And worked me good.  I lost 500 or more words.  The thing was leaner and meaner.  A learning process, one of many. 

And here's a taste.  BTW, some of you may know Medusa is a fave mythological creature of mine.  The creature in this story has a vague similarity, let me see if I can find the sequence.  Ah, actually, it hooks into the beginning.  And for those of you who need to know, my fiction is very adult and sex often play s a key role, alway swith a purpose, though.  Character development and all.  Hence, this one leads in that direction we go: 


     It was a jungle, or at least a reasonable facsimile of a jungle, but underneath the truth exposed itself: the metallic mask glimmered under the full moon’s radiance, a moon so brilliant as to suggest its validity, its intentions, were in question.  Wind swooped down to rattle the metal façade, initiating an uncompromising assault on the senses.  Sound swirled around him, encouraged by the wind into a jangling, unnerving tantrum.

     And there was the woman.  She danced for him, a reckless frenzy that flowed with confidence and sensuality.  A celebration of abandoned inhibitions.  He immersed himself in the erotic intensity she exuded as the forest fell silent, receding into the background as she took center stage.  The moon’s spotlight showcased her as she danced.

     She thrust her fingers into a mass of sassy curls; her eyes, green and luminous, summoned him, their detached cunning enhancing her undulating fleshscape.  She slithered closer, every step an exercise in cruelty.  She opened to him, an invitation to bathe in her, to drown in the fleshy tides where dreams and reality clash; dreams and reality and phantoms intent on rituals of deception.

     His legs wobbled; he slumped to the yielding jungle floor.  Not dirt, just dark and soft.  She pushed him gently, yet firmly, to his back, so comfortable, so comfortable…

     Straddling his hips, she slowly lowered herself onto his erection; an erection held at unwavering attention.  He tried to divert his thoughts from their impending coupling, wary of such intense yearnings.  But try as he may, the closer she got, the more he wanted to see her moistness, to watch her as he had so attentively watched her all along, engulf him.  He saw something silvery drip onto his cock, but it was too late.  She took him--

     Down came the jungle, a shower of shimmering slivers—disintegrating.  The moon’s leering eye shifted, eclipsed by a snarl of dazzling white teeth and the cackle that accompanied them, spewing a sardonic chorus of laughter.

     She groaned and squealed like grinding gears.  The slivers shredded her illusion of flesh, revealing the hideous verity that was her nakedness.  Her body mutated.  Large wounds blistered and burst, glistening scarlet craters that oozed charcoal pus.  The wounds split, vaguely impersonating many aroused vaginas, except for the serrated edges which puckered and blew him venomous kisses.  And the moon laughed, persistent in its appraisal of the situation: relentless with glee.


The unholy thing howled, resonant and powerful.  Its lips peeled away, unveiling a mouth teeming with needle-like teeth, hundreds of them protruding at vicious angles.  Its hair was thick, wiry, mimicking Medusa’s heinous pets.  Its unrelenting gaze captivated him just as it had when it danced for him.  The forgotten dancer, the mirage…

Had to tag on the actual Medusa reference there, a bit later amidst their coupling, though the sassy curls reference weaved that way too. 

Again, as with all of the older pieces, I can see much I would tweak and actually tweaked a few things here, but hey, they are what they are and we learn from them and grow.

As for the story, the other "creature of the night"--not a vampire, but the hideous monster above--ends up transforming Nicholas, our main character, into one of them, honing in on one of the essential aspects of being human for all of us: sex.  Sex is utilized with a purpose, as a means of survival for this other being, a way to perhaps re-establish its kind in the world as well.

So, stepping away from this bit o' fun, have you bought my collection yet?  If you haven't, what's keeping you?  If you have, let me know what you think.  I'll even post my email address here.  We'll see if anybody is paying attention. 
It's available via B&N, OmniLit, Amazon in the UK, Germany and France, and here, I'll post the link for you to at least take a gander at the reviews, the book, check the Look Inside function, read "Black Wings" and part of the title story...and buy it!  I mean, y'know, there may be a future post on reviews and what exactly hooks somebody into buying a book, if they decide because of a review.  I am curious. I mean, there's stuff in some of the reviews that grabs me as a writer and reader that would make me want to check out the book but, yeah, a future post. I gotta dig deeper.  For amusement sake or simply the sake of it all.

Man, I am chatty tonight.  No, don't, just don't go there...

Next time, oh, who knows? I make plans to meet some more famous dead folks in the AlternaWorld, and will, but then posts like this one pop up, I rip through it, have fun, hope you are amused, and move on. 

Just drop in and see, it'll be a surprise, it'll be a surprise for both of us.  Here's the creepycool cover art for Raging Horrormones.