Tuesday, October 27, 2015

"The Perfect Pumpkin." Your Favorite Halloween Tale. You're Welcome... :-)

Yeah, it's kind of a tradition now.  An annual treat...
I don't write many tales around holidays, but this is one and it usually gets...interesting responses...ahem. So, without further ado, let's get to "The Perfect Pumpkin," and you can let me know your take on it, too.


The Perfect Pumpkin

by John Claude Smith



     “If it wasn’t a week before Halloween, I’d be scared crazy.  But I know you well enough, Danny, to know that you like to tell stories, and I’ve already heard this one a dozen times over the last two weeks.”

     “But it’s true, Melinda.  Cutter’s farm is where old Dr. Ranier does abortions, or at least did them.  Look, it’s perfect: it’s just far enough out of town as to be kind of anon … anonymous.  He used to be a doctor, a…a baby doctor—”


     “Yeah, yeah, an obstetrician.  And he was disbarred—”

     “That’s for a lawyer.”

     “Well, shit, Brainiac!  He lost his license and moved out here, about ten, maybe twelve-years-ago, and since he’s not really a farmer, he has to have some income, so he—”

     “So he sets up office as a country abortionist—”

     “And the babies are supposed to come back to haunt anybody who trespasses—”

     “Stop!  I’ve heard enough.  He must be doing some farming now, otherwise, where’d all these pumpkins come from?” 

     “I dunno, they must grow wild.  Creepy stuff, eh?”

     “Just nightmares or rumors.  Made-up stories meant to scare teenagers from having sex, and in this case, ‘cause of the abortionist slant, getting pregnant and all that.  Kind of a gruesome safe sex message, don’t you think?  And isn’t that what all horror stories made primarily for teenagers are up to, anyway?  Just like in the movies, if you’re a teenager and you have sex, the boogeyman’s gonna get you—ooooOOOOOoooo, I am  so frightened.”

     With whiplash precision, she shifted her attitude from mockingly scared to salaciously seductive, easily distracting him.  “Danny, oh, Danny, bab-eeeee...” She purred the last syllable, long and languid.  She grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard, whispering something nasty and oh-so-enticing in his ear.  As his penis turned to steel, his brain turned to mush.  

     Having gotten his attention, she let go and backed away.  “You gonna help me get a perfect pumpkin from this patch or not?”

     “What about my—”

     “Later, big boy, when we’re out of range of any sexually oppressed boogeymen disguised as abortionist farmers.”

      Danny Cruise peered out at the fog-mottled field, wispy tendrils like plumes of thickening smoke eerily weaving through the pumpkins, looking like a congregation of ghosts…or a herd of monstrous beasts lashing the pumpkins with writhing tentacles.  His imagination sprang back to life with a potency that unnerved him while coinciding with the deflation of his penis.  Melinda Harner, his girlfriend, folded her arms across her burgeoning bosom, trying to fend off the October chill.  She peered at him, obstinate in her quest to obtain the perfect pumpkin.  Now that she had spotted what she claimed was the most perfect pumpkin for miles around, in which she would carve the winner in the school contest, something that brought a wee bit of fame in a small town like Bloomfield, she was dead set on obtaining this pumpkin, and only this pumpkin.  No other pumpkin would suffice.     

     Danny hopped over the barbed-wire fence, ragged metal tips ripping two fingers.  He winced, put the stinging fingers in his mouth, and sprinted toward the fog-embraced pumpkin patch.

     “Which one did you want?”  His voice seemed not to carry, trapped in the puffy white shroud of fog.   But it did carry, and she responded

     “There,” Melinda harrumphed, pointing to his right at the perfect pumpkin for her to carve a masterpiece.  Her voice hit Danny with the force of a thunderclap; goose bumps tickled his flesh. 

     After having heard about the fat, perfect pumpkins in this patch, as well as the sordid recent history of the farm via whispers in the hallways at Lincoln High, anxiously retold by Danny mere minutes ago, Melinda knew she had to check it out.  Her nature was competitive and she was always looking for that special edge.  If this patch actually had the perfect pumpkin she coveted, she knew the edge would be hers.  No horror stories were going to stand in her way.  

     “Here?” he said, pointing at one of the dozen or so seemingly perfect, unblemished pumpkins in the direction she had pointed.  How could she even tell the difference?   

     “No, there,” she bellowed, the volume almost knocking him over again.  It was cold and he was tired and if he didn’t really love her, he’d already be anywhere but here with a space heater melting his icy flesh and thawing out his freezing blood. 

     Without speaking, he pointed, and she shook her head, yes--thank God!  He pulled out his switchblade and cut the coarse vine, trying to disengage the pumpkin.  After a brief struggle he was victorious, but noticed he’d smeared blood all over the ragged stem.  

     He plucked it from its roost, amazed by its weight.  It was about as big as a slightly super-sized basketball.  Not huge, but its heft made his arms ache.  She better be really appreciative for this, he thought, and ran back to the fence.  He handed the pumpkin to her so he could hop over the fence again.  

     “Careful, it’s heavy,” he said, as he put it in her eager hands.  She grunted and agreed.

     “Damn!  For its size, that’s gotta be the heaviest pumpkin I’ve ever felt.”

     Danny braced himself and leaped, this time with even less grace, catching his foot and plopping down hard on his butt.  Melinda laughed at his awkward predicament.  He frowned at her.

     “What?  I do this favor for you and you laugh at me now, ‘cause I’m cold and tired and…”

     She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead as he brushed the weeds out of his hair and clothes.

     “Carry this, would ya?”  More insistent than requesting, already handing him the pumpkin.

     “I’m just your slave—”

     “Slave to my beguiling charms.”  She put on the act, puppy dog eyes and pouting lips on full display. 

     They started the two-mile trek back into town, their pace brisk, trying to keep warm.

     “It’s probably cursed.  Probably why I tripped up going over the fence.”

     “You’re just clumsy.  There’s no curse for takin’ a pumpkin.  No dead babies gonna haunt you.  I’m just gonna carve a winner out of this one.”

     “That stuff is true.  I mean, all that about Dr. Ranier doing abortions and stuff.”  He put his fingers in his mouth again, balancing the pumpkin against his chest.  Apparently the cuts were deeper than he’d thought, and continued to bleed profusely. 

     They both fell silent for a handful of minutes, purposeful strides taking over as the night grew even colder.  The overcast skies portended rain and they just wanted to make it home before it started. 

     And then Danny stumbled, dropping the pumpkin.  Not hard, catching it before it really hit the ground, but enough to have it land with a leaden thump on the dirt.

     “Damn it, klutz!  Do you need walking lessons or what?”  Melinda was beside herself with anger, squatting to inspect the pumpkin.  All this for naught, she thought; all this for naught.

     “Shit, Melinda.  It’s not like I meant to—”

     “You bleedin’ on it?”

     “Yeah, cut my finger on the fence, bled on the stem.”

     Melinda scooted away from the pumpkin, inexplicably alarmed.  “How can that be?  The pumpkin’s got blood comin’ from inside.”

     They both watched as a thin line of blood trickled from a miniscule crack at the bottom, where it had hit the ground.  The red liquid pooled in the dirt.

     “T-That’s impossible,” she said.  “Can’t be any blood comin’ from inside a pumpkin, only pumpkin, seeds and all.  You must have bled a lot more than you thought.”

     She forced a smile, obviously in denial of what she was witnessing.  More blood seeped from the crack. 

     Danny pulled out his switchblade and approached the pumpkin.  He knelt before it, not really sure what he was going to do, but feeling safer with the knife in his hand. 


     With suddenness, curiosity took over, and he plunged the knife into the thick hide of the pumpkin.  Blood gushed out, mixed with another unknown fluid that diluted the crimson tide, along with stringy pumpkin guts and pumpkin seeds, spattering the dirt and his shoes.  He pried with the knife and his fingers, pulling the pumpkin apart. 

     “Oh, Christ!”  He moaned in revulsion at what he saw. 

     Melinda squealed, “What is it, Danny? What is it?

     The pumpkin had split wide open like a cracked egg.  Danny jumped to his feet, hands dripping wet.  An intolerable stench was belched from within the split pumpkin, forcing him to cover his face with his sleeve, while Melinda openly retched, dry and empty.  She was on her feet as well, fingers digging crescents into Danny’s arms.  He didn’t feel a thing.  They both just stared in horror and disgust.

     Within the womb of the pumpkin, entwined within a network of ripped veins, a ruptured clear sac, and pumpkin guts and seeds, two large yellow eyes, like jaundiced moons devoid of pupils, attempted to blindly seek out the source of intrusion.  It probably did not see them, thought Danny, as his stomach roiled like a fist-sized hurricane, battering his insides. 

     It was a fetus, a mutation of inconceivable ugliness borne of nightmares and rumors and curses made real. 

     “Oh my God, Danny…Danny!  Melinda cringed, teetering on hysterical.

     The obscenity, skin stained with blood but otherwise as orange as a healthy pumpkin, turned itself in the direction of Melinda’s voice, the tiny holes where ears should be steering it in their direction.  Gurgling noises emanated from its throat, wet sounds and orange spittle passing by its lipless slit of a mouth. 

     “We need to go--now! Melinda, beside herself, doing a nervous dance of desperation.  She wanted away from here posthaste…or sooner!       

     “Wait,” Danny said.  “I think it’s trying to…say something.”

     Melinda pulled harder on Danny’s arm, afraid to leave without him, the night and clouds and vast darkened landscape uninviting despite her urgency to run as far away from here as possible.   

     C’mon! Let’s go!

     The sound that rose from the baby’s mouth unhinged the muscles in Danny’s legs.  He slumped to the ground, transfixed by the fetal abomination squirming and convulsing and hideously alive within the pumpkin.  Melinda tumbled with him, but not for long.  He scrambled to his feet and dragged her to hers, his feet pounding the dirt like a chorus of hammers, matching the freight train rhythm of his heart.  His swiftness almost lifted Melinda into the air as one would a kite.   The utterance, repeated again and again, insistent, scarred the night with its cawing message, resonant and haunting, cursing both of their ears forever. 

     One word, only one, but Danny and Melinda would remember it until the day they died. 

     “Daddy,” it screeched, it begged.



There ya go!  Did you like that?  Icky enough for ya?  Heheh...

Shameless Self-Promotion:
There's three books by yours truly ready for your perusal this Halloween.  Check the blurbs and reviews and rock 'n' roll, folks. Buy one, buy all.  Riding the Centipede is my latest, a true wild ride, the best thing I've as yet had published, though The Dark is Light Enough for Me and Autumn in the Abyss bring the weird/horror/or-just-plain-Dark goods, too.  Just click on the titles and check 'em out!  Thank you!

The Dark is Light Enough for Me

Autumn in the Abyss

Riding the Centipede

Anyway, enjoy your Halloween, everybody!

Perhaps this Great Pumpkin creature is a relative of the pumpkin baby in my story, eh?  Well...
Art courtesy of Phill-art. 

Friday, October 9, 2015

Weird & Horror & Weird Horror Recommendations: Collections...and a few Chapbooks.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a few weeks, but with my own writing locked in high gear, I’ve been too busy.  Until now.   (Not that I’m not still busy, oh no, it’s just time.)  This is in no way comprehensive, it’s more an overview of most, but not all, of what I read over my summer here in Rome, Italy.  At least when it comes to collections and chapbooks.

Before I get started, a note: there are a lot of links in this post.  Please go to those links and support these wonderful writers by purchasing the books.  I wouldn’t be writing about them if I didn’t think every one was worth your attention.  In some cases, though, with the sold-out chapbooks, I’ve linked to a writer’s Amazon page, Goodreads page, or something pertinent that relates.  Again, every one of them deserves your attention.  Every one of them inspires me, as a writer.  We live in phenomenal times for speculative fiction of all sorts, and Weird fiction specifically. 

(Really.  I mean, I’m sitting here writing up recs, cobbling together notes and impressions, while my brain is still humming from the absolute brilliance of Kristi DeMeester’s opening salvo from CM Muller’s first volume of Nightscript, “Everything that’s Underneath,” a story I read over a week or two ago!  More about Nightscript in a follow-up blog post, otherwise, this one might overload and erupt all over your computer monitor.  Like I said, we are living in phenomenal times for the lovers of all branches of speculative fiction.)  

Without further ado (as I backtrack to move forward)…

Last year, being a member of the Horror Writers Association, my inbox was inundated with Opt-In requests, meaning: when a writer or publisher has a novel, short story, collection, etc., they want to opt-in to HWA members with a free copy of said novel, short story, etc, for Bram Stoker Award consideration.  At some point, I noticed Taylor Grant opting in with three tales.  I thought, sure, let’s see what Grant is about as a writer, since he seems a cool guy otherwise.  I remember reading those three tales and was blown away by them, the natural voice, and the dread and horror he threaded through each.  One tale, “The Infected,” stands as one of the finest straight-up Horror tales I’ve read over the last few years.  I remember getting in touch with another writer friend (Jason Duke, who, trust me, once he gets his novels out, all bets are off, my friends.  He’s a truly fabulous writers and I can’t wait for you all to read what he can do. One novel, Wolves & Lambs, that one’s going to leave an impact much like a crater left by a nuclear bomb…) (Yeah, excuse that, but I’m just rolling with this, so…roll with me) and telling him, “Hey, Taylor’s damn good.  He knows what he’s doing.”


When Grant asked me to blurb his debut collection out later this year, I was more than happy to comply.  And what a collection it is!  Now, with blurbs, one must say more about the overall impressions and less about specs, it seems, so this is more like that.  Also of note, I don’t actually read a lot of primarily Horror, most of what connects with me is from the Weird branch of Horror, but this collection is pure Horror.  Straight-up and to the grisly point.  In a way, it re-invigorated my love for Horror.  Here’s the blurb I wrote for Grant’s debut collection, The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

Taylor Grant brings the writing chops of a seasoned pro to his debut collection, The Dark at the End of the Tunnel.  His style is crystal clear and scalpel sharp, but his intentions are laced with blood and dread.  There’s no messing around as Grant tosses the reader into the horrific fray from page one.  These beautifully crafted tales culled from the deepest recesses of Grant’s devious imagination feature an array of horrors, including faces shaped by our dark side yearnings, shadows baring sharp teeth (though the origin of these shadows is even more shocking), how a secret hidden away in a footlocker spreads like an infection, and even vampires at the far edge of the universe.  Grant’s obvious glee in depicting these horrors and more makes this collection a joy for the reader into the work of classic horror writers such Richard Matheson and Stephen King, yet it’s his talent as a storyteller dealing with modern themes that lends these tales depth and humanity of which we all can relate.  Highly recommended!”– JohnClaude Smith, author of Riding the Centipede & Autumn in the Abyss.

(Yes, please excuse the shameless promotion of myowndamnself by adding the links, but since linkage is happening…ahem.)

(Grant’s collection is not yet available for pre-order.  I’ve linked to his website.)
(Yes, I thought it amusing as well I would link you to Matheson and King. :-P  )


The Nameless Dark: A Collection—T.E. Grau

“A Collection,” it states.  Grau’s The Nameless Dark is so much more than that!  This collection is a beast, unafraid to wield words in every way imaginable to make its points.  Spitting and snarling, the writing is full-bodied, muscular.  It growls, it roars, and slashes with a mighty talon.  Okay, enough of that, but you get my point.  Grau is fearless.  Description and details, the depth of ideas—nothing here settles for ‘small’ in the scope of the horrors unleashed.  Apocalyptic, often Lovecraftian designs are threaded through many of the tales, though not in a familiar manner.  The best tales?  All of them.  There’s no clunkers here.  “The Screamer” resonates eternally, like the wail in this tale of corporate hell on a global level.  “Clean” is a nasty dollop of perversion made more so by the unexpected place it goes.  When I finished reading “The Truffle Pig,” I actually paused and said aloud, “Goddamn!”  A Jack the Ripper tale that takes a decidedly different turn, this might be my favorite JtR tale Ever.  Just read it and see.  “Mr. Lupus” feels like a Christmas Fairy Tale, but then it gets so much Grimmer.  I think one of the finest tales that showcases exactly what Grau does is one that at first seems quite light (I was thinking this, knowing what was to follow; more on that in a second), “Twinkle, Twinkle.” It seems a simple tale, a contemplation of grief and how a young girl and her father deal with it, yet Grau takes this precious connection…and annihilates it with a discovery made through a telescope. Never small, nothing Grau does is small.  And what follows?  “The Mission,” in which the old West is brought to life with precision (the staging, the details, the language; as throughout this collection, Grau is a master at conveying these elements as if he were there himself) (he may be a time-traveler, he’s that good!)…and what the group of grizzled men on a mission discovers is something to behold.  This one’s a stunner, and brings the collection to a grand finale. 

Impressive is an understatement.  Grau’s The Nameless Dark a beast ready to devour the minds of readers of Weird Horror willing to make the sacrifice.  I can still hear it chewing on mine!  
Highly recommended!

Then there’s Christopher Slatsky.  Oh, Christopher, Christopher…

Alectryomancer and Other Weird Tales by Christopher Slatsky

I‘d never read anything by Christopher Slatsky until Jordan Krall's Dunhams Manor Press branch of Dynatox Ministries published a chapbook by him (they are also the publishers of this collection), “No One is Sleeping in this World.”  That one wormed into my head, intrigued me in curious ways.  The best fiction, as far as I care, does this.  I wasn’t initially sure about the characters, then realized upon re-reading the tale a couple times, how perfectly constructed they were within the constructs of their exploration of the living city/architecture…and those who live within that dark place.  Utterly fascinating.  Then the title story of this collection was published…and I was stunned.  Here was a tale so different from most any other I had read within the realm of Weird fiction…or any fiction.   Slatsky combines Depression-era cockfights, a unusual book, UFOs, a suggestion of time-travel and more, to create, well, excuse me, I’m going to steal from my Goodreads review here: “…it’s all wrapped in a hallucinatory realm that feels, because of some peripheral elements, as though they might have been plucked from a Daliesque nightmare.  There’s a sense of a dream within a dream…and I’m not sure if either thread qualifies as “reality” as we think we know it.”  There’s such a breadth of ideas woven into each of the tales here it’s rather mind-boggling.  Beyond that, the variety of characters and ‘voices’ for each tale are so well defined, even with a tale that had me stumbling at first—“Scarcely Have They Been Planted”—when I found my footing (I needed to find it, no fault of Slatsky’s as he knows exactly what he’s doing), I adjusted to the ‘simple’ voice of the narrator, a voice that rings so true the reader is captivated by the strangeness that unfolds. 

I figure it works like this: Slatsky reads widely and whenever a subject comes up he is intrigued by (and, judging by the scope of these tales, there’s not much that doesn’t intrigue him), he writes it down on a small piece of paper and drops the paper into a hat; a magician’s hat, of course.  The hat is overflowing with ideas.  Slatsky reaches in and picks out two, three…maybe five ideas at a time, and then molds the disparate ideas into a single unique tale, a Slatskyian tale, a polished gem of indescribable beauty and oddness, something only he could do.  The wonder of discovery for the reader is not only in the strange confluence of ideas, but the depth of diverse characters and, ultimately, the presentation, how he stitches it all together.  Because Slatsky is a student of the Weird…and makes it his own.  Every tale brings a dollop of magic, intelligence, and story-telling panache of the highest caliber.  Because these ARE utterly Slatskyian tales, and what he does IS magic.

Either that or he’s from another planet, studying the human race, trying to figure us out while he studies every facet of our world.  I’m going on a bit, wanted to get into more of the 13 thought-provoking tales in this collection (and expect to with the release of the hardcover next year, with two additional tales) but you get my gist, don’t you? 

Yeah, it’s rather obvious: I am in awe.


Briefly, two more collections from before my summer that demand your attention.  These are more mini-reviews or blurbs, but I cannot dismiss them because they were not major parts of the last couple months of reading:

These are emotionally wrenching tales sculpted from the body, digging to the bone, the brain, the essence of what it means to be alive and human and, primarily, female, though any reader with a wee bit of empathy can fully relate to the splendor, dread, and often grim circumstances overcome in many cases.  Rich, enthralling, felt as much as read.  Walters’ tales wipe me out, exhaust me; it’s as if I live in them, an astonishing experience.  She’s one of our best and a writer well worth the attention of everybody into all branches of speculative fiction.

I find it hard to read Pulver’s tales.  Not for any negative reason, but no other writer triggers the creative juices for me than Pulver.  And it’s less about tales and more about paragraphs that sing and soar, screech and howl.  Pulver is a poet first, and it’s obvious.  His mastery of the way words should play together, the way he lets words frolic freely, with no inhibitions, is a revelation I gleefully embrace.  My appreciation of the beauty and horror in this stellar collection is unbounded.  I love to dip in, read a tale (a few paragraphs, a sparkling sentence), and step back, my brain reeling, my imagination on fire.  Joseph S. Pulver is a marvel!  Highly recommended. 

PS. There's separate links for the title and the author for the previous two reviews, click on both.

Oh, Christ, I’m running long.  I will try to be a little more precise with these brief overviews of some Dunhams Manor Press and Dim Shores chapbooks.  (I expect I will fail miserably...) 
PS. I've linked some of the artists below, too.  Both publishers are putting together some eye-catching books.

The Infusorium—Jon Padgett

The Infusorium combines many elements that make the astute reader of Thomas Ligotti smile, yet Padgett breathes humanity into the elements and this strange tale set in a dense, fog-swathed town in which our narrator, Raphaella Castellano, a female homicide detective, makes bizarre discoveries, including elongated skeletons, that leads her to The Brotherhood of the Black Fog.  I enjoyed Castellano’s voice, her perceptions, and the way Padgett keeps adding to the weirdness as the tale goes on.  Good stuff, and Padgett has a collection coming out next year, The Secret of Ventriloquism, I’m eagerly looking forward to reading. 

Cool, creepy cover art courtesy of Dave Felton.     

Joseph Lowe, a man with no allegiance to anybody but himself, makes the mistake of getting the niece of an aristocratic magnate, Gregory Bath,  pregnant, after which a kind of warped symbiotic connection is made between him and the rich, very old—immortal…?—guy.  The events unravel when one of Bath’s sons, Arthur, decides it’s time he got his slice of the family fortune.  I like the way Smith fills this tale to the brim, often overflowing.  And the ending is exquisite!  Of note, Smith’s tale from Nightscript—yeah, it’s what I am reading right now—is excellent as well.    

Gasper Bantam is a man whose sister, Rangel, mysteriously disappeared thirty years ago.  Time alters memories.  Memory often alters itself in need of self-preservation.  We shape our memories so we can move forward.  But for Bantam, those memories won’t let him go as he is driven to head back to the town of his youth, and sister’s disappearance.  The finale takes place at the town’s Halloween celebration, which turns into a beautifully bizarre Boschian nightmare.  After the celebration, the reader is given a glimpse of the truth; a truth not altered by the memories of our protagonist.  Bartlett has a clean, crisp style.  Just enough details, before he pulls the knot out of the ribbon of reality and the unraveling nightmare is all that remains.  This is perhaps my favorite Bartlett tale so far, but I’m happy to report there’s a lot in the pipeline, what with a collection out later this year (Creeping Waves from Muzzleland Press), and another one next year (The Stay-Awake Men from Dunhams Manor Press). 

Art for Rangel by Aeron Alfrey.  When I first saw the cover, I thought, “This is so perfectly Bartlettesque!


How does one deal with a broken, abusive relationship that goes on and on, with no viable means of escape?  For Colleen, ditching responsibility and heading out to inspect a post-Sandy seaside cottage she and her significant (shouldn’t that be detrimental?) other, Derrick, own, the break seems mandatory.  It gives her time to contemplate strategies she’ll never embrace... 

The key to what Nicolay does as a writer is how he willfully gives in to every nuance as dictated by each tale.  With “after,” we are fully immersed (full immersion IS what Nicolay demands of his readers) into the details of…everything—the details are honed to piercing clarity.  But the details aren’t only about what Colleen observes all around her, on the outside, so much as the inner workings of her spiraling through chaos mind: the questions wondered and random thoughts that traipse through the undertow of sour thoughts are the glue that holds “after” together.  Stephen King is a master of this kind of inner dialogue; here, Nicolay is better.  Early on, Colleen decides to stick around, even though supplies (and sanity? Maybe…maybe not; I’ll explore this below) run short.  Colleen decides to break into the houses of her absent neighbors, but while walking along the beach, she is stunned to discover a strange creature.  Does this creature scare her off?  No.  Not exactly.  Any sane person would leave.  Yet, who are we to judge another’s sanity?  Colleen, like many a protagonist in the work of J.G. Ballard, especially the early novels, embraces the situation.  (“Embracing One’s (Personal) Apocalypse: The Desolate Path Toward Psychological Fulfillment in the work of J.G. Ballard and Scott Nicolay’s “after.”  That’s an essay I want to read in Thinking Horror.)  (Another Ballard connection: the repetition of questions within the inner dialogue.  That’s a stand-by for Ballard’s mid-to-late period work.  Crash is built on repetition.)  What does she do?  She sets up a schedule, trying to elude the creature while still sticking around…until the creature’s presence is made unavoidable.   

An aside: I can justify in my mind that the creature in the tale is a purely psychological manifestation of what Colleen needs as much as a statement on personal survival when one is in a relationship that is destroying one’s soul.  Think about it.  No matter her constant evasion of the creature, she doesn’t just leave the abandoned seaside town, as most people would do.  She stays, because leaving, even when life is being balanced on the edge of the razor and any false move might lead to death, is the worse choice.  There’s still discovery to be made by staying and dealing with the creature.  (And really, what’s to say the creature’s intentions are malicious?  Because it’s so different, the reader may think the creature’s intentions are of a negative design, but in reality, or at least the reality of the tale, it might simply be something new and different and curiosity might be its sole purpose in exploring the town as it does, or finding solace in the same house as Colleen.) (You’ll find out for sure when reading the tale in Nicolay’s follow-up collection to my personal favorite book from 2014, Ana Kai Tangata; the new collection should be out in 2016.) In leaving, she knows what she faces.  In a way, dealing with the creature presents a less harrowing existence, the better choice for survival beyond misery and anguish.  

“after” is a breath-taking exploration of the lengths one person will go in order to avoid (what they sadly deem) the unavoidable, as much as it is about a woman secluding herself in a cottage and her dance with a creature that might just be her star-crossed lover…

All kidding aside, I consider “after” a modern classic of the Weird. 

I really dig Michael Bukowski’s art for this tale, too.  Having read the tale as a beta-reader, more or less, many months ago, seeing the cover, well…Bukowski really captured the essence of "after."

The Dim Shores titles come with art prints, too.  I can't wait to hold them in my hands when back in the states soon.

I will be breaking this blog post apart and posting the reviews on Amazon and Goodreads in a few days, probably when back in the states next week.  I am also a member of the HWA and at some point (also next week) I will be recommending every title here as well, along with much more—I’ve made a list and will be checking it twice, er…yeah, whatever… I figure the HWA could use an influx of Weird Horror...

This was fun. I should not take so long between blog posts and posts with reviews.  I hope you enjoyed this. Me...my brain's fried, think I'll drop. 

Whew! Done...for now.  The photo below is how pretty much how it felt putting this blog post together.  Writing here, reading notes there, checking for links, etc.  I needed at least three heads just to keep everything straight.
Art by 25kartinok.


Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Riding The Centipede: The Weirdest Scene & A Conversation...

There's a lot of 'weird' in my debut novel, Riding the Centipede.  A lot of horror and bizarre (not bizarro) and noir, too.  Drug fiction and perhaps quest fiction, as well.  You may think other genres (perhaps even bizarro).  It's all over the place, but in a good way.  In a message from the excellent horror writer, Brian Fatah Steele, he noted as follows:

"The scene between Blake and Solon, man... that was just... that's gonna be in my head forever. That scene ALONE would've got you a 5 Star review from me." [his actual review can be read Here]

This comment brought me much delight.  I purposefully worked the weird into this scene, stronger than anywhere else.  (This is, of course, a personal observation as there are a few other scenes where the weird is heavy as well.)  Even though the centerpiece of the scene--it overlaps two of Blake's chapters in the middle of the book--is a conversation--a strange one, at that--I purposefully amped up the strongest elements of weird fiction as it took shape.  Elements of mood and ambience.  A sense that something is 'off,' yet uncertain as to what that something is.  The magnification of these elements contributed to a sense of disorientation that we experience through private investigator, Terrence Blake.  Even before he made it to Solon's blue ranch house...

"He peered into the deep blue, the sky so vast it swallowed all thought, adding to the monotony that surrounded him. Telephone poles stood crooked, cutting a path through the fields, their hides weathered by the elements. Cables strung out between them sagged and swayed sounding like the flapping wings of Pterodactyls as the hot breeze beat them unmercifully, before simmering down to a hum. The murmur of voices in transit, but never stopping out here. Down where he was, edge of a field that dulled senses and sight, the feral electricity of insects and phantoms and lost souls brought a chill to his soul; the one barely hanging on…"
Then, sighting the blue ranch house, where he hesitates on the porch and observes via the windows to each side of the door...
"To the left stood a wooden frame for a sofa, mismatched pillows piled in disarray upon it. A table that looked like the cousin to the sofa. Everything looked bone naked. Two doors, one opened and one closed. The open door led to darkness the measure of which Blake thought of as complete. As if light, natural or artificial, never had graced the room. That was it, sparse teetering on non-existent. To the right, a large bookshelf dominated the room, books stuffed every which way onto the shelves, tumbling to stacks on the floor. The lone bookshelf unworthy of the onslaught. To the right of the bookshelf, was a tiny desk on thin legs with an old typewriter on it, accompanied by an uncomfortable looking wooden chair. Another room, door open, showed the remnants of a kitchen, no curtains over the window above the sink. Even from outside, Blake could make out dishes piled on a table, a broken mug on the floor.
As he focused, he noticed roaches and moths crawl and flutter about. They drew his eye to the picture frames above the desk, to the right and left of the entrance to the kitchen. All of them empty. Though this could be anybody’s house, something about the contents of this house made his instincts sing. This had to be Peter Solon’s home.
No matter the strong possibility Peter Solon was no longer of this earth, Blake knocked."
It was quite exhilarating to find such a dark and weird setting amidst the sweltering heat of the midday sun.  I like to play against the norm, or at least look at the world from less familiar angles, as often as possible.  These scenes allowed me to shine a light on one of the darkest places on the planet, in the heat-blasted middle of nowhere, USA.
Then, of course, there's the pure madness that is the enigmatic writer, Peter Solon, first here, with Blake at the door, ready to leave, knocking...
"One last time, then out of here: “Mr. Solon. Peter Solon.” Parchment inscribed with invisible ink.
The house moaned and cracked, as if the wood were alive. A sound like nothing Blake had ever heard split through the rumble, like glass being chewed with feverish dedication by teeth made of gravel. Pops and whirrs; amplifier hum after a strummed power chord.

Then: “Who’s asking?”
A voice shaped by these obtuse sounds. The voice of Peter Solon.
Blake stepped past the front door and into the house with a deep breath and a desire to be anywhere but here, in the presence of the man who had created the legend of the green limousine. Solon was the key. He would have to follow through. Even if his courage was on life support."
And then a conversation to make your head spin.  Ambiguous truths, slippery observations, preposterous perceptions and even the most bizarre of revelations...
[okay, a big snippet from Solon, talking about his relationship with William S. Burroughs; less the weird I am noting for this piece, though it is quite weird, and more the pure madness that rules Solon's mind.  Or is it just an understanding of reality we'd rather ignore...?]
“He’s always thought his work superior to mine. Even if he stole from it for elements found in much of his work. The use of the language of insects in the unabridged version of Naked Lunch being his most blatant—”
Solon screamed, or at least let loose with a sound related to a scream. It was a tone that scissored through the air, slicing into Blake’s mind, body, the house itself. Insects froze and tumbled from walls; lizards hung on a few seconds longer before joining them. Blake buckled to his knees.
“—his most obvious example. Yet, he never had the heart to release that version on the world you live in, only down here. Where it sits amid the mid-list titles and well below my masterpieces. You see”—pausing again, a sense of bringing composure to the shadows, as if one was brushing lint off a suit, plucking the finer pieces—“Burroughs is a man who dreamed of being an insect, but did not understand the true sacrifice inherent for success: letting go of one’s humanity. Completely. A harder task than mine.”
“Which would be…?”
“I am an insect who dreamed of being a man, if only to coordinate the uprising of insects to our rightful place in the world. It was easy; humans are easy to assimilate. But it was not worth the effort, as humans do not have the capacity to understand the magnitude of my stories, to embrace the essence of their inherent insect logic. We need the gates of distant, primal cognizance to swing open, in order to take command. At this time, human knowledge is not the equal to the task. So we wait. I wait.”
Dear God. Blake had never heard such madness. Perhaps that’s why Solon lived in isolation, probably writing more of his unsuccessful tales, jealous of a dead man, angry at the world."
Okay, enough of that.  But I will say as the writer of this madness and the weirdness it is wrapped up in, this is one of my personal favorite sequences I have ever written.  A reaction like Brian's up there confirms I might just have gotten it right.   
There's a lot more going on in my novel, Riding the Centipede.  Purchase a copy Here and join along for the wild ride.  Oh, and check out the Fantabulous reviews, too!

This photo by Heath Yonaites of an abandoned house somewhere in Arizona perfectly captures a bit of the weird mood Blake ran into.  Why?  The window...it's set incorrectly.  Crooked.
In a way, this place could be related to Solon's blue ranch house.  Related?  Houses related?  Hmmm...  Houses of the same...mindset?  Alive?  Hmmmm...  [story idea fodder?] 


Monday, July 6, 2015

Riding The Centipede: Private Investigator Terrance Blake

Who's next? What character should I feature this time?  The glue for the mad tale that is Riding the Centipede is private investigator, Terrance Blake. So let's roll with him.

He's a big man, one unafraid to get physical if words fail in any situation. He's also one who knows his darkness well, brooding with every breath...yet deep inside, something of hope keeps him moving forward.  I mention in the novel he's a 'man in black,' and, yes, the Johnny Cash reference works for him.  There's mention of the Nine Inch Nails song, "Hurt," that Cash took and made his own.  I'd say there's an element of that in Terrance Blake as well.  Yet, again, he's tough and perseveres through all the shit the world throws at him. He is the glue, as mentioned.  Where his story starts is not where it ends, as you will see when you read the novel. 

I noticed, at least on this computer--I am switching over to a laptop shortly, as it will work for traveling and with me headed to Rome in a little over a week, well...--that the Amazon Look Inside function was not working properly. Now, this might be part of this computer's break down, but...no matter.  Here's a sample from the first chapter of the book.  Remember, there are three main characters.  Chapters are titled after each character, to keep you aligned, though distinction in tone and what-have-you shouldn't make that necessary, it just seemed to make sense as the chapters don't always follow in a straight line, some leapfrog others, some veer to truly Weird places (the chapters in the middle with Blake and the enigmatic writer Peter Solon really embrace the Weird), but at least they all lead to the same place. 

And what a place that is! 

But for now, how about some Blake, as well as the Hollywood runaway, Marlon Teagarden's sister, Jane.


…as the current pulled the child away, he reached toward her with his damaged right hand. The current pushed back; it wanted its prize. He yelled and water filled his mouth. He tried again, desperate to save the child, his daughter, Claire. The frothing tide pushed against his fingers, intent on bending them all the way back to his wrist, flattened out as a stump sculpted from futility. “Daddy…” He watched his daughter’s shocked expression as she lost her grip on the car seat she should have been strapped into and was sucked out of the splintered halo of glass where the passenger side window should be. Jagged glass sliced into clothing and flesh, but the eyes moments ago filled with joy were now nothing more than dull buttons on the rag doll that remained. He yelled again, a stream of bubbles flowing from the inside roof of the car and out the crack in the driver’s side window. He pushed against the stick-shift with strong legs, his shoulder shattering the window. The sound was a muffled explosion. He watched the rag doll fade to black beyond the car’s beams. He closed his eyes, fighting back tears as he swam up, or somewhere, this watery oblivion, his personal hell…

     Chirping sounds clamored for his attention, a physical force pulling him up from the harsh realm of the dreamlands, grabbing his hand and winning the battle over the cloying mental quicksand that is Morpheus, not that this was a victory for Terrance Blake. The sound was akin to beetles picking at the remains of his dead past or the dregs of his present so-called life…or possibly of a future draped in shadows and secrecy and the same old, same old. Along with pain, the ever present calendar wrought in his bones, his soul, every breath.

     The promises spewed by the world of his hardscrabble youth, counterfeited and further cheapened by the accumulation of years. Endurance—the pin plucked from the grenade, while he waited for the explosion that never came. Endurance, the true meaning of life.

     The squalid five-dollar-a-fuck hotel room smelled of smoke, the cut glass ashtray overflowing with lipstick stained cigarette butts even before he’d lit up his first Marlboro. Remnants of passionless couplings.

     The stale stench of the room was infused with the ghosts of those who had passed through before him: transients and junkies and one night lovers, nomads and madmen and private investigators like him, getting by on somebody else’s dime, dismantling somebody else’s broken dreams.
     The chirping continued; his cell phone the culprit. He reached over in the dark thinking it couldn’t be time to be awake yet as shadows held conference in the room, his eyes. A glance toward the digital clock adjacent to the television confirmed his suspicions: 3:36 a.m. Scooping the phone into his thick, gnarled fingers, the light from the screen corralled motes of dust lifted by his clumsy maneuver. Dust he hadn’t noticed last night when he placed the bottle of whiskey there, the now two-thirds empty bottle.

     He wondered how long he’d been in this room, sleeping like Rip Van Winkle or dying with every stale inhalation, exhalation, and long pause to consider the prospect of terminating this bleak routine before carrying on, carrying on.
     He realized it was not the alarm that has inspired the insect revolution. It was a phone call. The name on the screen registered as familiar but not one he’d used often.

     “Mr. Blake, I’ve found evidence of Marlon’s whereabouts.”

     No matter how many times he had told her nobody called him Mr. Blake, it’s just Blake, she persisted. He let the miscue slide. The voice was unmistakably that of Jane Teagarden, a voice braided with iron and perseverance, something he could relate to.

     Jane Teagarden was the only daughter of successful Hollywood producers, Warren and Stella Teagarden. A production team made rich beyond filthy, producing a slew of action movies starring Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Snipes and Van Damme. All good things must come to an end, though, and with a glut of bombs, the freewheeling excess that had dominated their lives simmered cold and hard until rumors arose of Warren having affairs with some of the help; “affairs” being a polite take on the harsh underbelly of what often happens when the rich are overtaken by failures and/or their eccentricities.

     One of the maids made headlines with allegations of rape.

     One of the mechanics on the premises quit in a huff, suggesting Mr. Teagarden was a sexual deviant. A hush-hush payment altered his initial statements, casually sloughed off as a mistake of perception.

     The tabloids ran with it all, going so far as to suggest Stella Teagarden, fifteen years younger than Warren, subsisted on over-the-counter and extracurricular drugs that induced supportive silence, a sheep in fox’s clothing. The fox wired for the depraved transactions of the flesh of which her husband allegedly catered.
     Rumors, all rumors, erased with the remains of their dwindling bank account, until their only son, Marlon, two years Jane’s junior, ran away when he was fourteen, hitting the streets while hitting the newspapers with torrid accounts of sexual abuse nonpareil.

     The ruination such an incident would suggest disappeared as swiftly as Marlon had when Jane, dressed as one might imagine a modern day fairy tale princess—a formula fa├žade worthy of Disney—made a televised statement to the contrary.

     I think it’s time I spoke up on my parents’ behalf. Over the last few years, rumors created by those seeking financial gain have cast my parents as monsters. She glanced down, considering her words. Her voice grew steady. I’m here to tell you nothing could be further from the truth. Two more loving and generous people one could never know. With the recent developments involving my brother, I must say, I do not know what world he lives in. Our lives are special and we are treated as special. We are shown love in…so many ways. But Marlon has always been a bit aloof. I am saddened by his disappearance and look forward to his return, so we can be the family you all know we are. And we can give him the help and love he needs. She smiled, her slim lips stretched tight, mouth unopened. Please leave us be while we deal with our sorrow and the authorities help us find him. Thank you.

     Blake remembered watching this little scene with curdled curiosity, thinking it an Oscar-worthy performance jammed into a B-movie steeped in melodrama and deception. Because there was nothing in sixteen year-old Jane Teagarden’s tone or expression that rang true. (Claire would have been sixteen, had she lived…) He hedged his bets on hollow and scripted. Yet the public ate it up. Her glassy, tear-stained eyes drew support from the legions whose bible was National Enquirer-style rags and who gave a flying-squirrel-fuck-all like-minded media manipulated television programs such as Entertainment Tonight. A month before her nineteenth birthday, her parents died in a suspicious house fire that turned any evidence within the scrubbed-clean and lie-imbued walls to ash. Blake thought it a perfect obliteration of the crime scene; investigators always missed something. Speculation may be the trigger to the gun his instinct wielded, but he knew deep down he was right.

     Because the false sympathy the search for Marlon elicited lasted less than the usual run for most sub-blockbuster movies, the Teagardens had taken refuge as phantoms in their own lives, their chilly castle. They became non-existent to those they used to call friends. Those not willing to believe in them, perhaps knowledgeable of the accusations prior to Marlon’s leaving. Perhaps protecting their own high-profile asses in attempting to avoid the harsh, accusatory bleat of “accomplice” or “participant.”

     Jane Teagarden inherited what most thought must have been meager financial remains, only to be proven wrong. The latest version of the will contained the updates and restructured profits for the DVD and burgeoning Blu-ray contracts—restructured a mere two months prior to the fire—that set her up for life.

     When Blake heard her voice on the phone, the muffled ringing of the truth he never heard in any of her statements at grief-stricken appearances traipsed into his migraine infused cranium. Nine months after the fire, her voice had gone from Hollywood-practiced and Hollywood-refined grief, to the voice he knew now on the phone. Strength tinged with desperation; iron braided with perseverance. She really wanted to find her brother.
Okay, that's enough for now.  If there's an error anywhere, that's just me transferring a pdf file to word then shaping it to fit here. 

I love this novel. What it does and where it goes. I hope you join Blake for the ride.

Here's the aforementioned Man in Black that I pictured could relate to Blake. Oh, and the cigarette.  Yes, definitely Blake...

Monday, June 22, 2015

Riding The Centipede: The Nuclear Menace, Rudolf Chernobyl: Creating A Monster.

As much as I love all of the characters in my debut novel, Riding the Centipede, I know Rudolf Chernobyl will draw the most attention.  Sure, the hallucinogenic drug ride Hollywood runaway, Marlon Teagarden, takes should reverberate with real intensity, those chapters are purposely vivid and quite mad.  Without private investigator, Terrance Blake, a man barely holding on, the novel is nothing: he is the glue.  Jane Teagarden lends dollops of passion, her love for her lost brother unwavering. Writer Peter Solon, oh, dear, Peter Solon brings the Weird in heavy doses.  Marlon's star-studded 'girlfriends' (Marilyn...and Rita, Jacqueline, Sean, Lena Olin--oh yes--[an aside: in my first novel {unpublished, as you already know, and called, The Corner of His Mind, which you didn't know until right now}, Lena Olin made an appearance as well; hmmmmm...] Rachel...Naomi...).  And William S. Burroughs...well, let's just say, when we meet up with him, all bets are off.  And that's not all of the characters, but you get my drift.  They all matter, but when you write a character who is of nuclear origin and pretty damned insidious, well...

Well!  Let's not mess around.  How about a sample from the first Rudolf Chernobyl chapter?  Turning off my mind, letting the bizarre roam freely, that's how I created this monster draped in the skin of a man.  Another origin--see previous blog post--this one for a character. Really, though, it's just the opening of a door. Once you get to his follow-up chapters, that's when the real fun starts.  But I had to start somewhere. I mean, HE had to start somewhere, so here's a little history.


Oh, one more thing: the book is out on the 29th of this month which, as I type this, is about a week away.  The paperback and Kindle versions are ready for pre-order.  Just click on the highlighted words in the previous sentence and you can set yourself up for this wild ride.

Anyway.  Rudolf awaits...


The only light in the room came from the man’s glowing, mismatched eyes. The left pupil was a black ink stain abyss, a swirling wasteland devoid even of the promise of starlight. The right pupil was gray as ash, the remnants of hope long dashed. Riding the rim of each pupil, flares worthy of the Sun writhed with furious intensity. The veined white of each eye illuminated the room in a blinding brilliance that ebbed into a sickly, jaundiced hue, depending on his focus, until the man closed the lids and the room went dark.

The eyes may be the windows to the soul. These windows were pitted with cracks, as if pebbles had been tossed for attentions never attained. Furthermore, what resonated within the man in no way resembled what paltry beings usually defined as “soul.” His allegiance was to a higher force bereft of humanity. At least in its purest distillation.

He rubbed his thumb, pointer and middle fingers together, an instinctive practice he used when conjuring the past. Sparks crackled at the tips of his callused fingers.

As he concentrated, he pried the memories from the clutches of time, refurbished as if recent. The initial stage of the ritual delved into the few minutes prior to his conception and included details about the participants as if he were jacked into their thoughts and memories. The room smelled of burned plastic and animal musk, of damp, aged ruins and electrical currents that tweaked the mind as well as the nostrils.

The fragmented mind-field was a flurry of clipped imagery: gagged and bound, a thin woman, flesh stretched taut over a blade-like pelvis, the hollow between her tiny breasts. A man carved out of the same tainted material, though a wiry strength accentuated the muscles of his back, his buttocks. Hours of physical exertion defined by semen, sweat, excrement, misery, torture. The genetic material each contributed the product of generations mired in futility and rife with mental deficiencies. The man in particular spawned from a long, corrupted squiggle of a line of nefarious design, his father and the fathers before him: cruel, sadistic, evil. Though they were all infused with deep intelligence, they were all psychologically broken—a Ming vase shattered into thousands of tiny pieces, chips and shards and miniscule slivers, with no desire or means to mend what’s bred in the bone.

The seated man tilted his head back, remembering the annihilation of the ovum, the vile, dissonant echo that accompanied his conception. A reverberant pulse filled his resting body as water fills a balloon. His core stiffened. His penis stiffened. Passions wrought in immorality were at the root of his being.

It was 4:27 a.m., 26 April, 1986.

He salivated as he pictured the man starring in the mad play in his head stuffing a urine saturated rag into the woman’s mouth. He didn’t delight in the thought of the foul taste, but he thrilled at the depth of sadism he assimilated from the man.

The woman was simply a means to an end, a born victim, human refuge, a whore, a junky. The man was a junky as well, but he was a functioning addict. He could fit into society without notice. Nobody ever thought much about him as he worked the swing shift janitorial job at the plant. Though he understood much more about how things worked within the plant, he chose to immerse himself in his insidious lusts rather than the higher aspirations his intellectual gifts would have allowed him to pursue.

He didn’t aspire to be human. He fixated on the black malignancy that corroded his every ideal.

As the seated man with the sparking fingertips continued along the diseased path of his origin, his memories splintered, as they always did.

Loudspeakers filtered into the womb, voices tonally different than the harsh tones of the man, or the muffled grunts of disapproval from the woman. Those voices he felt as much as heard. The other sounds were surging floodwaters and fluttering jackhammers and a flailing salmon pawed by a grizzly bear—the body in revolt—and then silence. Days of silence.

During this time, he sensed something within the speck of fleshy self, the idea of his being: radiation.

Some moments roam outside the realm of possibility, outside the laws of nature—what a comical assumption, nature adhering to any arbitrary laws—and miracles that join those moments as they roam.

A smile illuminated the darkness.

What meager aspirations and understanding humans had when it came to the immeasurable potential that was life. Humans believed they understood it, but they constructed their theories within a limited mindscape. Their egotistical certainty disgusted him. They were rather pathetic.

This much the seated man knew. He was evidence of what a concoction of radiation, region—hence, nature—human potential and unyielding desire could be. He was a hybrid of flesh and foible: radiation infused with radical intent; with whim and impossibility.

He was a miracle.

Behind his sealed lids, the luminosity from his smile creamed the black to orange, a distant fire. He tamped it all back, pulling on the reins. After years of training, it was easy to control that which resided inside him. Easy, yet necessary, for his existence relied on restraining the chaos within, only tapping into it when required.

Radiation with a sentient foundation. Radiation with a nuclear heritage. Radiation acclimating to its birth with a whisper of phantom consciousness and a dream of life as melded with the fertilized egg.

Converging on a moment, crystalline and clear as the immaculate merging of sea and sky into a lush, electric blue horizon.

Not a radiation to destroy, but one to create, to carry on with his and, hence, its creation.

In the now dead womb of the woman, radiation blanketed him with soothing, tingling warmth, and a desire for improbable survival.

For life.

The radiation accelerated his formation. Neurons and electrons bristled impatiently while axons and dendrites jolted into corporeal conspiracies, into a jitterbugging frenzy. Hotwired channels within the sticky web of fresh tissue that was his being prompted a profound topographical transformation fused by revolutionary synaptic hardware, enhanced muscularity and heightened gray matter development.

Yet, within, his roots—demons cackling for attention, strapped with subversive, generational binds—would always play tag with his potential.

Bony, talon-like fingers scratched at the viscera as he took it into his toothless maw and absorbed all he needed from it, and then continued on, until he tore a hole out of the womb, out of the stiffening carcass.

He didn’t cry as the stale, infected air entered his lungs for the first time. He only yearned for more.

It was dark but his vision glowed much as it does now, in the vast art gallery that covered the walls around him, only with less control.

All of the fundamental elements of the third and most prominent participant in his creation had taken hold. The man and woman of flesh were only a means. Radiation from the exploded fourth reactor at the power plant nearby served as the most vital ingredient. The itchy trigger finger squeezed hard, prompting mischief of an inconceivable audacity.

He survived by sheer will, living on the remains of the mother, then gumming insects and rats, suckling them as surrogate breasts in his eager mouth; and sucking on torn wires and cables, draining them of whatever was left to fuel his being.
Okay, enough of that. Can't post the whole chapter.  But there he is, Rudolf Chernobyl, conceived and born the day of the Chernobyl disaster...and within range of the nuclear plant.  See what a warped imagination let loose can...birth.
A monster.
But there's more to Riding the Centipede than Rudolf Chernobyl.
You'll see...