There's A Lot Going On

 Yeah, I know. Haven't posted here in quite a while. Let's rectify that Right Now. 

What's up? 

Omnium Gatherum, the publisher of my books Autumn in the Abyss, Riding the Centipede, and Occasional Beasts: Tales, has gone out of business. A wonderful publisher, I was sad to see this happen. [ETA: my understanding is that by the end of the year, doors officially close.] Ah, but already I am working on getting those books back out to You early next year. I will follow up with details as things develop. 

What else?

I presently am shopping two novels to agents and will probably work them to publishers, too. But I started with agents thinking, Hey, JC, it's about time you got an agent!  

Birdland, though I may change the title to Odd Blue--I'm leaning that way--clocks in at 68k. 

Briefly: Birdland is a melting pot neighborhood that is invaded by a creature (Odd Blue) from another dimension set on annihilating humanity. The core of the novel deals with the interactions of gritty, diverse characters as events unfold leading to a confrontation with the creature. 

Our Savage Anatomies runs lean and mean at 46k. 

OSA includes werewolves and vampires and a mutation creature of a vampire and includes a mind-boggling [redacted; I cannot give away all the surprises] centerpiece and is, as I noted to my girlfriend as I was writing it, completely nuts! Yeah, everything and the kitchen sink AND the pipes and monsters that live in the pipes and, hey, what the hell is that? Yeah, so, it's a wild ride. 

I am wrapping up a novella called The Ouroboros Ballads this week (the file is up as I type this). Just tightening up the last 20-25 pages. It runs 36k and includes lyrics, c'mon! Music is a key, there's a mysterious guitar, and another humanity hating creature utilizing it all for its own apocalyptic designs or...something like that. Anyway, that will be done this week and I already have a publisher lined up who I hope will be interested. 

There's another novel in need of revisions, The Ecstasy of Becoming, more of a bizarre, fantastical tale that comes in around 51k at the moment, and, yes, Another Novel, this one in progress, that will probably be my primary focus for the next few months. More info sooner than later. 

Short fiction for magazines and antho calls will be interspersed throughout the process of writing the larger pieces, as well as poetry. I've been leaning a lot into poetry right now, keeping the writing chops sharp as I work through the fiction. 

So, as you can see, there's a lot going on. Busy is good, as I like to say. Now, time for me to shut up and get to it. 

I will be more regular in posting now that I've swiped away the cobwebs. 

Here's a photo of the Clark Nova I just picked up that I am using for my writing...and no, ha, but gotta love it. It IS the Clark Nova from David Cronenberg's spin on William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch, one of my favorite movies. The 'other' typewriter from the movie is the more familiar insect one with the talking asshole, but I tried to use that one for a while and it just would not shut up! So, trying out the Clark Nova. Or not. 

;-) 

 

I Give You My Heart. Valentine's Day Flash Fiction.

 Why not? I haven't posted a blog post in...too long. But inspired by re-reading a grim flash fiction piece full of heart, I thought, Why not? 

Also, it gives me the opportunity to say, hey, I've been writing a lot. My novel, Birdland, is with agents, we'll see what, if anything, happens with them. I'm doing final revisions on another novel, Our Savage Anatomies. There's two collections in the mix (Winter in the Wasteland and Love in the Key of Suffering are the tentative titles), as well as perhaps a poetry collection (My Scars Recite Poems My Mouth Won't Repeat, another tentative title). There's also a couple of novels being written, waiting for me to wrap up the OSA revisions. So, a lot has been happening, even as my latest book (Occasional Beasts: Tales) was published in 2018. Time...flies, and then a pandemic throws everything out of whack. 

But enough of this! 

A grim flash fiction piece, as promised. It's an old tale, so don't judge too hard, haha... Written after a break-up around 16 1/2+ years ago, pure hell period. It's your Valentine's Day bittersweet treat. And rather bloody. 

Numb

by John Claude Smith

 

     He feels nothing: numb, empty….    

     He resorts to cutting himself as an exercise in sensation, in trying to feel something at a time when he feels nothing. 

     But even that does not break through.

     He still feels nothing.

     Acquiring a scalpel was easy, Tammy works at the clinic. She brought one to him without questions. He took it from her two days ago and closed the door before she had the opportunity to invite herself in or intrude in any other way. 

     He did not care about how rude it came off.

     He does not care about much of anything.

     But her. Alicia. The woman he loves.

     The woman who left him.  

     (How could she leave me? How could she give up on us?  The thoughts roll by in his head like a never-ending freight train, its self-destructive cargo branded in torturous repetition.)

     He places the scalpel against his naked chest, pressing hard. The blade digs deep, blood streaming over his abdomen.

     Nothing.

     He grunts from the effort as he pulls the blade down. The incision is deep, opening his insides to the world. Well, not quite…. It opens him but will require the effort of his bare hands to continue the process.

     Still, he is numb.

     He sets the scalpel down and thrusts his fingers into the fresh wound. Pulling with supreme effort, he pries his chest wide open. Muscles and bones are wrenched from their usual homes, tearing and breaking.

     He stops, sucks in a weary breath, and gazes into the moist red cavity.

     He jostles things, moves them about, rearranging the internal in ways that give him access to his goal.

     The thick muscle’s rhythm is consistent, even though this more extreme exercise would normally render one dead.

     He feels dead inside already, so….

     He reaches in with both hands, scalpel severing arteries, clean cuts that lack precision yet serve their purpose. Within minutes, he holds the beating heart in his hands.

     And still feels nothing.

     Well, what is the point of it all, then?

     (He remembers how she used to put her hand on his chest, palm down, feeling the love, their bond, sensing the rightness of it all, staring intensely into each other’s eyes—enraptured--we are one … and her cherishing it, him as well, so close, so close…. “Let me drown in you,” she would say, and he would plead, “Let’s drown in us, please” … and both of them meaning it, unconditionally, without fear because this is what people live for in the first place!)

     (And drowning now … drowning … flailing … sinking….)

     He walks calmly to the car and starts it up, pulling out of the parking lot. The night is deep and uncaring. Nobody notices because at least other people can sleep. 

     He hasn’t slept in weeks.

     He drives to where she lives. Sitting in the car, he stares at the house where she rents a room. 

     He scribbles a note on a piece of paper and exits the car.

     He places the still beating heart at the foot of the door with the note. 

     No reason to knock or ring the doorbell; let her sleep. Let them all sleep. 

     Maybe someday he will sleep again as well….

     He rereads the note: Since you own my heart, you might as well have it.

     Unhappy and exhausted, he leaves, his head still reeling as the freight train rolls by.  

     Perhaps this gesture will help her to understand. 

     Perhaps she will just scream.

     Numb, he drives alone into the deep and uncaring night….

So, there ya go. I hope you enjoyed my gruesome little tale. 

Here's a link to my Amazon Author page so you can catch up with what's already out there while I load the chambers for some releases sooner than later. 

Don't know who the artist is, but this is damn cool.