Pseudonymous Me.

 As my girlfriend and I strolled through Rome yesterday, we stopped by a cool bookstore called Libreria Fahrenheit. When you step inside, to the left there's a whole display full of Ray Bradbury Fahrenheit 451 books, as well as posters for the movie scattered throughout the store. But what caught my eye was at the very back of the store, there's an excellent shelf of Horror titles. As I scanned the books, one jumped out at me. "No way," I said, and pulled it down. Inside, among the TOC, was yours truly...though you wouldn't know it if you didn't know I used to write under a pseudonym.

Since my name is John Smith, it almost seemed mandatory to create a pen name, what with the zillion-and-fourteen other John Smiths in the world (I know my estimate might be short, but...). Sketching out possibilities--it's the early 1990's when I did this--I chose an odd one, Kiel Alexander. Kiel, it just sounded right to me--there was a band called Keel in the early 80s that might have been in the back of my mind when I thought of it, since I liked the name--and Alexander, for whatever reason, is a name I have always liked. I rolled with that for a while, but then got into music journalism, writing as J.C. Smith. That interfered with the fiction writing until the early 2000s. When I decided to focus on fiction again, the thought came to me that Kiel, even though I know how it's pronounced, might be dicey for others. Keel or Kyle? I also thought if made send to insert my real first name into the mix, to make it easier for potential readers or...whatever. I lot of oddness goes into thinking about the appeal and function of choosing a pen name.

So, John Kiel Alexander. 

Darkness Rising was published in 2005, a beautiful hardcover collection of horror fiction. I smiled seeing some names on the TOC I knew of then or perhaps more so, now. But there, on page 285, was some bloke named John Kiel Alexander with a tale entitled, "Burning Man in the House of Lies," which, if I remember correctly, I kind of shaped the title in a manner that might have related to a short story collection I was reading at the time by the late, great Tom Piccirilli, me taking his lead and running with it. Or not. The brain remembers as it wants to, whether that's true or not. Right? Right! 

Seeing this book in a small bookstore in Rome brought a smile, as you can imagine. 

I should probably collect that tale in a future collection sooner than later. As a funny aside, I have a whole slew of earlier tales I've yet to insert into a collection. At some point, maybe an early tales' collection will happen. Either that or a few will sneak into collections as they take shape from now on, at least that tales that don't make me cringe. 

At some point, before my first OOP book was published--The Dark is Light Enough for Me--I decided to use my real name. Not just John Smith, that would be ridiculous, but the whole thing, as you can see here. John Claude Smith. (And when I say 'real,' is this true? There is evidence through my mother's, um...interesting history, that my name might not be what you read here. Sure, John and probably John Claude, but the last name...? Uncertainty looms... haha...) Nonetheless, I sometimes think I might publish some work from JKA again, though. Hmmm...

Below is a photo of the book, as well as the TOC page. 

Also: a reminder, I have a massive reissue collection out now you might want to check out. Contains some of my best writing and clocks in at 25 stories! Check it out at the link here: Autumn in the Abyss Redux. 

An Observation About Edits: "The Johnny Depp Thing" 1 & 2

 "The Johnny Depp Thing" is one of my most fully immersive tales. Clocking in at 5600 words, it's a gnarly descent into deeply weird circumstances laced with drugs. Lots of drugs. Sex and violence trim the edges. Anyway, it had slipped my mind that I have two versions of this tale. The tight and taut--well, for 5600 words--version, as well as the original, that stretches out to 6800 words. 

Editing out stuff we love is part of the deal. The shorter version is more on-point, while the longer version is...fun? The details edited out are mostly from the beginning. I'll show you with examples from both. It's a reminder for all the writers to just put down everything in a first draft, then edit appropriately. Mind you, the 6800-word version was what I thought was final, until I remembered a tale I'd sent to a magazine that went defunct before it ever published, and how they loved my tale, "Dandelions," and were going to make it the focus of their debut issue...but they said, "hey, you do know, the tale doesn't start until page four.?"

Page four!

This made me look at what was going on and, yes, I might enjoy everything up to page four, but what is NEEDED to get the story rolling? Right. I edited that opening sequence, even as the magazine folded. 

But it's a thing we all do. Write a lot, whittle down to what we need, what the story needs, more so. 

Here's an amusing example, though, because I like both versions, yet completely understand the shorter one is more what's needed to tell the tale. 

But, again, the extra details in the longer version, they were a lot of fun and perhaps--probably--helped me get to know the two characters better. You'll see. 

First up, the final opening sequence for "The Johnny Depp Thing," short and sharp.  

***

     Erika Jonkers heard the mosquito buzz first, the alphabet stuck at zzzzz, before she watched it land on the back of her boyfriend, Ransom’s, sweaty left hand.  Watched it a beat, two, three, as it punctured his flesh, before he smacked it to smithereens in the palm of his right hand.  He glanced  at the smudge of blood and insect debris and smiled. 

     She turned away, and in the turning, the audio reception shifted from the buzz and smack to something outside her apartment door she couldn’t quite make out.  Something moving around or being dragged.

     Erika looked back up at Ransom, distracted by his throaty expression of satisfaction, and hoped he was done with her.  She slowly raised her thin fingers to her cheek to rub out the sting, only to have him raise his filthy right palm at her.  She finched, set her hand back onto the hardwood floor she’d just landed on, and waited for more violence.

     Ransom only snarled at her, caught in that limbo land of dysfunction where the bliss of the heroin high hindered the possibility of sex.  He stood naked, with half an erection feebly attempting to prop up and point at her, his always circling temper his only line of fire when the habit brought him down, down, down, and Erika’s most persistent efforts couldn’t coax him up, up, up any more than half mast.  He blamed her for his failure.  Blamed her with an open palm and the red imprint that singed her cheek.

     As bad as it was, he’d end up sleeping it off and fucking her later, which she wouldn’t really mind.  Erika once told the guy who worked at the methadone clinic she thought of Ransom’s violent nature as foreplay.  He told her she needed to get out or, at the very least, get to the battered women’s center next door.

     Instead, Erika mulled over escape routes but knew that was useless.  This was her apartment.  This was his dumping ground.  He’d taken much of her stuff already.  If she left he’d claim it all was his and fuck you! 

     She sighed and the passage of air was matched in inflection by the sounds from outside her door.  As if whatever those sounds were, they could hear into her apartment.

     Erika shoved her curiosity aside.  She didn’t know what she wanted anymore.  Forty-five rising up like a cobra about to spit venem and leave her swaggering to a too early grave if she didn’t figure out what she wanted for real, damnit.  She was no spring chicken.

      She thought again about getting up and leaving, but knew he’d find her and, again, this was her apartment.  Didn’t want to lose all her stuff to this fucker.  Her boyfriend, lover, and bane of her existence.   She thought about at the very least getting to the bathroom as she wanted to rinse the salty tang of his dirty cock from her mouth.  At least it didn’t taste like pussy.  Sometimes it did, but he told her it was her imagination, he loved only her.  She figured she was just being paranoid. 

***  

And here's the extended version, one of the few I've actually kept and quite enjoy. 

*** 

     Erika Jonkers heard the mosquito buzz first, the alphabet stuck at zzzzz, before she watched it land on the back of her boyfriend, Ransom’s, sweaty left hand.  Watched it a beat, two, three, as it punctured his flesh, before he smacked it to smithereens in the palm of his right hand.  He glanced  at the smudge of blood and insect debris and smiled. 

     She turned away, and in the turning, the audio reception shifted from the buzz and smack to something outside her apartment door she couldn’t quite make out.  Something moving around or being dragged.

     Erika looked back up at Ransom, distracted by his throaty expression of satisfaction, and hoped he was done with her.  She slowly raised her thin fingers to her cheek to rub out the sting, only to have him raise his filthy right palm at her.  She finched, set her hand back onto the hardwood floor she’d just landed on, and waited for more violence.

     Ransom only snarled at her, caught in that limbo land of dysfunction where the bliss of the heroin high hindered the possibility of sex.  He stood naked, with half an erection feebly attempting to prop up and point at her, his always circling temper his only line of fire when the habit brought him down, down, down, and Erika’s most persistent efforts couldn’t coax him up, up, up any more than half mast.  He blamed her for his failure.  Blamed her with an open palm and the red imprint that singed her cheek.

     As bad as it was, he’d end up sleeping it off and fucking her later, which she wouldn’t really mind.  Erika once told the guy who worked at the methadone clinic she thought of Ransom’s violent nature as foreplay.  He told her she needed to get out or, at the very least, get to the battered women’s center next door.

     “What you lookin’ at?  Evidence of your inadequacy as a whore, whore?”  Ransom laughed, obviously amused by his crude insult.  Erika wondered, as she often did, why she loved him.

     She figured it was because he was right, she was inadequate.  Not feeling too pretty most of the time, either, what with the constant reminders of his love often decorating her skin.  Punching bag tattoos.  She always felt this way around the men she loved.  Strong men, like her father.  Sometimes crazy, too, but she figured that was just a man being a man. 

     Erika had started to contemplate it all a bit deeper than surface level ever since she began taking classes at the adult school six months ago.  Her mindset was to better herself and get a real job so she could afford the drugs and what-not that kept Ransom happy and her sane and able to deal with him.  Hell, she’d already bought him another bass guitar to go along with the one he had when she met him at Blister, the punk club in the city.  Fell in love then and there, more so lust, but whatever it was, it was the way her world worked.  As usual, though, here she was again, crawling away from him as he simmered in confusion over what the fuck she was doing, or perhaps what the fuck she was.  She expected she looked like some kind of freaky animal doing a funky crab-like shuffle from the hardwood floor of the kitchen to the carpeted floor of the adjacent front room. 

     It wasn’t much of a front room, though.  The whole apartment was tiny and tinier still because it was crammed with Ransom’s shit.  Bass guitars and amps, leather and denim in piles.  His CD collection and what he’d already confiscated from her collection, claiming it was his.  “You know I brought all the Fear CDs with me, right?  Right?”  As if she could deny it with his eyes glaring and his fists clenched.  Some vinyl, too, same as the CDs: “This Fang record’s a fave,” and slipping her LP into his ratty cardboard box, one of five, full of similar late 70s to present punk, hardcore, thrash, and anything else aggressive and usually cranked up loud enough to melt brain cells into oatmeal.  Big names and names nobody ever heard of—eBola Milkshake, Blasted Heath, even his own band, Pus Junkies—filled the boxes to bursting while Erika’s collection and wherewithal dwindled with exponential speed.

     Why did she persist to fall in love with capital L Losers like him?

     She always ended up reaching a point where a momentary gob of good sense would hit her square in the forehead like a loogie lobotomy, dismantling her love for another punk rock, hardcore asshole who only showed his love with his scarred knuckles, expecting the world and mostly her to cower at his feet.  Jerks made of testosterone and attitude, scraped off the shoes of those who made careers out of the lifestyle, while all they did was flounder and blame her.    

     Any number of hers, really.

     “What the fuck you doing, baby?”  Ransom almost sounded loving, though barely sounded human.  Where did that come from?  At least he wasn’t slinging whore or bitch at her, again.  Christ, what was she doing with him?  With any of them?

     Erika mulled over escape routes but knew that was useless.  This was her apartment.  This was his dumping ground.  He’d taken much of her stuff already.  If she left he’d claim it all was his and fuck you! 

     For now, her only gameplan was to be as far away from him as she could be, under the circumstances.  So she finished crawling toward the wall next to the front door and pulled her knees up to her chin.  With distance, she could massage the sting from her cheek.  He only watched, dumbfounded or just dumb, as he slumped into the ripped brown recliner her friend, Mike the Spike, had brought to her apartment a year ago, saying he was tired of sleeping on her floor whenever he crashed there, so hey, how about this?

     Mike the Spike didn’t pursue sex or drugs, just drink.  The nickname was not a drug reference, he just molded his hair into greasy spikes like those that rode Godzilla’s spine.  He simply enjoyed the shows in The City By The Bay and made way over the bridge and back to the East Bay afterwards, where he led a normal life with a steady job and a girlfriend, Maxie, he was madly in love with.  He just enjoyed punk, Maxie didn’t.  Late nights with more than reasonable alcohol consumption meant crashing at Erika’s apartment.  They’d known each other going on twenty years.  Only in this capacity, though.

     Erika thought about how that relationship didn’t bring bruises or welts, yet in all their time together, dozens, hundreds of shows, that’s all she had from him.  The shows.  No substance.

     In one way or another, all men failed her.

     She sighed and the passage of air was matched in inflection by the sounds from outside her door.  As if whatever those sounds were, they could hear into her apartment.

     Erika shoved her curiosity aside.  She didn’t know what she wanted anymore.  Forty-five rising up like a cobra about to spit venem and leave her swaggering to a too early grave if she didn’t figure out what she wanted for real, damnit.  She was no spring chicken.

     Ransom groaned, punched the arm of the recliner.  “Fuck you!” he said, as he grabbed the  remote control for the TV that no longer worked from on top of the open box of LPs to his left and tossed it with ferocity toward her.  She ducked as broken plastic and batteries rained on her head.

     “Damnit, Ransom, honey…”

     She immediately brought a hand up to her face, eyes wide with understanding.  She knew what was coming before it slammed into her like a fist, though it wasn’t a fist, not this time.  Just Ransom leaping up from the recliner and hovering over her, his erratic erection becoming more engorged. 

     “You bitch about anything, bitch, and I’ll tear you a new asshole and fuck it to Texas.”

     Erika could barely contain a snort of derision, even under the precarious circumstances.  Over the eight months they’d been together, he’d rage-fucked her to Japan, New Jersey, Barcelona...Bumfuck, Egypt…hell, she’d experienced the world at the tip his angry erection.  But she didn’t snort, laugh, or make any sound.  She kept it under lock and key as she knew that might inspire physical abuse or worse, whatever that might be. 

     It wouldn’t be the first time she’d experienced worse. 

     That would have been Daryl from Psycho Blight.  Yes, another punk boyfriend, ex-punk boyfriend, more so ex-psychobilly madman.  He was incarcerated in Pelican Bay State Prison up north for murder, taking out his drug-induced sexual failure on a homeless man sleeping outside of Erika’s former apartment complex one brisk September morning and beating him to death with his bare hands.  When he came back inside, he had her bandage him up before he beat her in a drug haze.  Erika remembered staring at his blurry figure as he exited, saying he’d be right back, for what, she had no idea.  He’d done enough damage.  Moments later, she heard barking from one alpha-male to a handful of like-minded frothing dogs dressed in blue.  She listened to the tussle, heard the swift crack, crack, crack of a baton, heard Daryl’s bleats of pain and protest.  She figured the cops were checking out his bloody handiwork staining the sidewalk when he stepped outside.   The details didn’t matter to her.  She was glad he was deleted from her life pronto, which wasn’t soon enough. 

     Ransom hung over her, a Leaning Tower of Pissed Off, veins pulsing, arms flexed, while his cock went limp.  He scampered back to the recliner and said, “You leave and you’re dead,” before instantly dropping off to sleep, mouth hanging open and drool coating the four-barred Black Flag tattoo on his chest.

     Erika thought about getting up and leaving.  But she knew he’d find her and, again, this was her apartment.  Didn’t want to lose all her stuff to this fucker.  Her boyfriend, lover, and bane of her existence.   She thought about at the very least getting to the bathroom as she wanted to rinse the salty tang of his dirty cock from her mouth.  At least it didn’t taste like pussy.  Sometimes it did, but he told her it was her imagination, he loved only her.  She figured she was just being paranoid. 

*** 

Ha! If this was a much longer piece, I might have kept it all, what the heck? 

Anyway, the final version of "The Johnny Depp Thing" can be found in my expanded reissue version of Autumn in the Abyss, called Autumn in the Abyss Redux. <<--that's the link, click it and see for yourself, buy a copy for maximum enjoyment! 

And here's some quirky art featuring the many faces of Johnny Depp.