tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62942167812563771952024-03-13T09:45:57.243-07:00The Wilderness Withindark fiction, music, movies, and more...with writer John Claude SmithJohn Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-16485158285170551332023-11-29T07:04:00.000-08:002023-11-29T07:06:32.245-08:00Ring Finger: A Horror Tale of Survival. <p>Winter's Bone. I'd seen the movie and really liked the atmosphere. Followed up by purchasing the book and while I was reading the book, I knew I'd have to touch base with a character and similar atmosphere, but from a weird, horror-infused point of view. </p><p>Hence, "Ring Finger." </p><p>Looks like this was originally published at least a decade ago. I think it holds up quite well. </p><p>Here's a taste of the opening sequence. The whole tale is less than 2000 words, so give yourself a break and spend some time with Cammie and what she needs to do to survive. There's the link to the SQ Mag page where it was originally published <a href="https://sqmag.com/2014/04/19/edition-3-ring-finger-by-john-claude-smith/" target="_blank">HERE</a>! </p><p>But first, your teaser: </p><p>***</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cammie sucked hard on the rolled cigarette, the smoke threatening to
warm her frigid innards, but failing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sky was bright and white and vast—infinite—though charcoal curled
the distant edges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Winter came and owned their souls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Took root in the marrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Froze
their dreams like Arctic lakes that never thawed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ragged threads scratched spider-like at her fingertips, the home-made fingerless
gloves meant to deter calluses on the palms, but the grip of flesh, of strong
fingers, was deemed necessary to swing the axe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>White smoke plumed past chapped lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Blood filled the creases, polished her cheeks, threatening to warm her
again but, as always, failing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Warmth was an illusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An empty
belly grown walnut-tight made that clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Life here was all about survival, nothing more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happiness, hope…all part of another’s
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not those who existed here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Claiming they were alive was an insult to the
word. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cammie sucked until the bead grew brilliant red, then dead black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She flicked the corpse to the snow. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had work to do.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Setting her hand on the axe handle, it vibrated at the intrusion as the
man in the colorful skins made of strange materiel—Cammie could not imagine the
animal that had once worn them--made a noise akin to a punctured tire or, more
so, a tire trying to re-inflate itself. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">***</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">That's all you get here, just click on the link <a href="https://sqmag.com/2014/04/19/edition-3-ring-finger-by-john-claude-smith/" target="_blank">HERE</a><a href="https://sqmag.com/2014/06/30/edition-15-its-only-going-to-end-badly-by-john-claude-smith/" target="_blank"> </a>to continue.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">BONUS: at the bottom of the page, after the story, I noticed the link for the other tale I had published in that magazine, "It's Only Going To End Badly." Fun stuff, completely different. Rather psychologically messed up, when you get to the end. Here's the <a href="https://sqmag.com/2014/06/30/edition-15-its-only-going-to-end-badly-by-john-claude-smith/" target="_blank">LINK</a> for that one. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And remember, you can purchase my Weird Horror Collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith/dp/1637896271/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1VO2I9ZDH1L6A&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1700513009&sprefix=%2Caps%2C187&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Autumn in the Abyss Redux</a> by clicking on the highlighted title. It is a massive reissue collection, 25 tales, 135,000 words, give or take a few. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Aaaaand here's a photo to kind of go with the mood of "Ring Finger." Yes, an ax, blood, pertinent stuff within the tale. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NhFUQZM7eJRAtKzsL8mVMaCUH448R1ySY3HQGKxpyuZF5vyX3Vy-652kxsJzDHV6bJL5B2lOZUWc3Y7GJeqsxBu-sTP9NBbRonNfuNVEV0ea4IuTgPBCJxA1etGTuzbvMdH9JGrdiIp91sdru9jinYgTho_NOofTmmBUyBlPP8oRUsCT8KT57jG-nJ4/s393/halloween-theme-bloody-hand-holding-260nw-243976537.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="393" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NhFUQZM7eJRAtKzsL8mVMaCUH448R1ySY3HQGKxpyuZF5vyX3Vy-652kxsJzDHV6bJL5B2lOZUWc3Y7GJeqsxBu-sTP9NBbRonNfuNVEV0ea4IuTgPBCJxA1etGTuzbvMdH9JGrdiIp91sdru9jinYgTho_NOofTmmBUyBlPP8oRUsCT8KT57jG-nJ4/s320/halloween-theme-bloody-hand-holding-260nw-243976537.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><br /><p></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-64987404634418573882023-10-02T04:45:00.000-07:002023-10-02T04:45:19.551-07:00"American Ghost": Jim Morrison, the John Dee's Necronomicon, and Poetry...<p> It starts with a window in Messenger popping up, and it's the late, great writer, Joseph S. Pulver Sr. It's late August or early September of 2014 or 2015. I'm in Rome, where I spend my summers with my girlfriend, Alessandra (it's where she lives). He gives me the info about an anthology he's going to edit dealing with the origins and history of the John Dee's version of the Necronomicon, H.P. Lovecraft's diabolical tome. He asks me if I want in. </p><p>It's Joe Pulver in the editing chair--damn straight I want in! </p><p>[from this point onward, everything highlighted in yellow leads to a link, just click on them.]</p><p>As we go back and forth, he details how the anthology--<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Leaves-Necronomicon-Call-Cthulhu-Fiction/dp/1568824084/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=leaves+of+a+necronomicon&qid=1696003676&sr=8-1" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">The Leaves of a Necronomicon</a> (the TOC is stellar, and the book deserves your attention!) --is to be staged by decades. The 1970's are still available, so I nab it. He mentions something about poetry (this was around the time of my book, Autumn in the Abyss, the title story of which deals with one man's obsessive search for a missing poet whose words wield apocalyptic power via a poem of which the title is the title of the book; you can read it in the expanded reissue of the collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith/dp/1637896271/ref=sr_1_1?crid=JBQ2CTAKZDSZ&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1696005119&sprefix=%2Caps%2C1693&sr=8-1" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">Autumn in the Abyss Redux</a>), asks if I could maybe add "Soul Francisco" to the tale. I laugh to myself and respond, Sure, though I am uncertain of where it will fit. Yet. We end our chat and I mention the details to Alessandra. She immediately responds, you should add Jim Morrison to the tale. </p><p>What? </p><p>I think she's crazy. </p><p>Twenty minutes later, I've got it all mapped out. </p><p>In order to get the tale right, to get a special something within the tale right, I buy Morrison's books of poetry. Why, pray tell, did you buy his books of poetry? Because within the tale there would be a poem, one used as the title of the story: <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/american-ghost.html?fbclid=IwAR3ZBv9TRsnxQVgRzP6-EYX3XNXV9efMt3MAhngm1j89AbTtgs-E62pQuMk" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">"American Ghost."</a> I had to study his lines, get the tone right, the use of specific words, think of him reciting the words as I wrote the poem at the heart of the tale. </p><p>The original version ended with a snippet from "Break on Through to the Other Side" by The Doors, of course, though during the editing process, it was decided rights might be an issue--even as I barely used anything, but I understood completely--so I whipped together the final stanza for the poem, which made for a more appropriate, stronger finale. After too many years--seven or eight--the anthology was finally published and as noted above, is a worthy venture. </p><p>Anyway, it's all here as presented by the intriguing <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction</a>, a site that includes a lot of compelling fiction as well as authors such as John Shirley (!!!), Vince Daemon, and the work of the person running the show over there, Shaun Lawton, and many more! </p><p>(I've had a few other tales published there: <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2010/06/not-breathing.html" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">"Not Breathing"</a> a blending of drug addiction and a living dead aesthetic; <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2011/07/blood-echo-symphonies.html" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">"Blood Echo Symphonies,"</a> a slightly futuristic SF story that features shape shifting, music--yes, music is a favorite playground for me--and love...kind of; and <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-perfect-pumpkin.html" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">"The Perfect Pumpkin,"</a> for all the Halloween Horror enthusiasts. Check them out, too!) </p><p>For your pleasure, I present for you <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/american-ghost.html?fbclid=IwAR3ZBv9TRsnxQVgRzP6-EYX3XNXV9efMt3MAhngm1j89AbTtgs-E62pQuMk" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">"American Ghost,"</a> one of my personal favorite short stories I've ever written. </p><p>Here's the art Shaun put together for the piece. </p><p>Dig it! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiizXkvrh-bxyT4Al7N7LoVdm85GU22MqF5d6MRhQClNCGKMauCkmaBBveK6hC5fn7_eqbDdTQORXUVi1tns7-FOnpNtd0Kh7r9UzQl5xzz6xn4Y_f8xk2tsjgr0oUEsm9TZEUl8yeykcOgEN_zx1f_zBpbLuTmIIbX9wj9GREcdqEPfDbocLtlcYSkGs/s640/AmericanGhost1000.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="640" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiizXkvrh-bxyT4Al7N7LoVdm85GU22MqF5d6MRhQClNCGKMauCkmaBBveK6hC5fn7_eqbDdTQORXUVi1tns7-FOnpNtd0Kh7r9UzQl5xzz6xn4Y_f8xk2tsjgr0oUEsm9TZEUl8yeykcOgEN_zx1f_zBpbLuTmIIbX9wj9GREcdqEPfDbocLtlcYSkGs/s320/AmericanGhost1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-70122424511502386182023-09-25T05:16:00.001-07:002023-09-25T05:16:26.069-07:00Pseudonymous Me.<p> 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.</p><p>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.</p><p>So, John Kiel Alexander. </p><p>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! </p><p>Seeing this book in a small bookstore in Rome brought a smile, as you can imagine. </p><p>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. </p><p>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...</p><p>Below is a photo of the book, as well as the TOC page. </p><p>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: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith/dp/1637896271/ref=sr_1_1?crid=EM8HXZ636Z7M&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1695629040&sprefix=%2Caps%2C247&sr=8-1" style="background-color: red;" target="_blank">Autumn in the Abyss Redux. </a></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oJUbuZArRO0qFu5wv1p8xMum4sDefhbI-Stf6plKx38q_NwhQ-RaCQMbd29gHygKbefPuPRd3Kx1ENmr_Ty_vgB7UkhdEmWbpsmmsG0OZ3s27Ym5Quzx3SAS_Dpb-JmwyoWpMipQAqDi2ocfkoFs8fF6xwrGq5FSD6OBBXwybIJDMznx1lpmbYttZwE/s640/IMG_7916.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oJUbuZArRO0qFu5wv1p8xMum4sDefhbI-Stf6plKx38q_NwhQ-RaCQMbd29gHygKbefPuPRd3Kx1ENmr_Ty_vgB7UkhdEmWbpsmmsG0OZ3s27Ym5Quzx3SAS_Dpb-JmwyoWpMipQAqDi2ocfkoFs8fF6xwrGq5FSD6OBBXwybIJDMznx1lpmbYttZwE/s320/IMG_7916.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOy7bWRNT38yln9ZE5xBtRWcoQOHLbasnOe0WT7bSlMwZV1DBuVz94uT-wmz4lZtZ3XHxTiwxFCX2sC5FwE4RhqpO9NuN45DehgC_OAAwwn4VT-VjlAeXY821N2OAC5yC1Y0RwtAEYpX0OXq5hubii04FqkUsHUM55jtPQcrTSYszMas8cHuWLo6ocjI/s640/IMG_7917.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOy7bWRNT38yln9ZE5xBtRWcoQOHLbasnOe0WT7bSlMwZV1DBuVz94uT-wmz4lZtZ3XHxTiwxFCX2sC5FwE4RhqpO9NuN45DehgC_OAAwwn4VT-VjlAeXY821N2OAC5yC1Y0RwtAEYpX0OXq5hubii04FqkUsHUM55jtPQcrTSYszMas8cHuWLo6ocjI/s320/IMG_7917.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-74712950845174138152023-09-14T04:30:00.000-07:002023-09-14T04:30:11.295-07:00An Observation About Edits: "The Johnny Depp Thing" 1 & 2<p> "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. </p><p>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.?"</p><p>Page four!</p><p>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. </p><p>But it's a thing we all do. Write a lot, whittle down to what we need, what the story needs, more so. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><br /></p><p>First up, the final opening sequence for "The Johnny Depp Thing," short and sharp. </p><p>***</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watched it a beat, two, three, as it punctured his flesh, before he
smacked it to smithereens in the palm of his right hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He glanced<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>at the smudge of blood and insect debris and smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something moving around or being dragged.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika looked back up at Ransom, distracted
by his throaty expression of satisfaction, and hoped he was done with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She finched, set her hand back onto
the hardwood floor she’d just landed on, and waited for more violence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom only snarled at her, caught in that
limbo land of dysfunction where the bliss of the heroin high hindered the
possibility of sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He blamed her for his
failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blamed her with an open palm
and the red imprint that singed her cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As bad as it was, he’d end up sleeping it
off and fucking her later, which she wouldn’t really mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika once told the guy who worked at the
methadone clinic she thought of Ransom’s violent nature as foreplay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told her she needed to get out or, at the
very least, get to the battered women’s center next door. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, Erika mulled over escape routes
but knew that was useless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was her
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was his dumping ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d taken much of her stuff already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she left he’d claim it all was his and <u>fuck
you!</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sighed and the passage of air was
matched in inflection by the sounds from outside her door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if whatever those sounds were, they could
hear into her apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika shoved her curiosity aside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t know what she wanted anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was no spring chicken. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought again about getting up and
leaving, but knew he’d find her and, again, this was her apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t want to lose all her stuff to this
fucker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her boyfriend, lover, and bane
of her existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least
it didn’t taste like pussy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it
did, but he told her it was her imagination, he loved only her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She figured she was just being paranoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>*** <p></p><p><br /></p><p>And here's the extended version, one of the few I've actually kept and quite enjoy. </p><p>*** </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watched it a beat, two, three, as it punctured his flesh, before he
smacked it to smithereens in the palm of his right hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He glanced <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at the smudge of blood and insect debris and
smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something moving around or being dragged.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika looked back up at Ransom, distracted
by his throaty expression of satisfaction, and hoped he was done with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She finched, set her hand back onto
the hardwood floor she’d just landed on, and waited for more violence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom only snarled at her, caught in that
limbo land of dysfunction where the bliss of the heroin high hindered the
possibility of sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He blamed her for his
failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blamed her with an open palm
and the red imprint that singed her cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As bad as it was, he’d end up sleeping it
off and fucking her later, which she wouldn’t really mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika once told the guy who worked at the
methadone clinic she thought of Ransom’s violent nature as foreplay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told her she needed to get out or, at the
very least, get to the battered women’s center next door. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What you lookin’ at?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evidence of your inadequacy as a whore,
whore?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom laughed, obviously amused
by his crude insult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika wondered, as
she often did, why she loved him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She figured it was because he was right,
she was inadequate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not feeling too
pretty most of the time, either, what with the constant reminders of his love
often decorating her skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Punching bag
tattoos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She always felt this way around
the men she loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strong men, like her
father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes crazy, too, but she
figured that was just a man being a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fell in love then and
there, more so lust, but whatever it was, it was the way her world worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t much of a front room,
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole apartment was tiny and
tinier still because it was crammed with Ransom’s shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bass guitars and amps, leather and denim in
piles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His CD collection and what he’d
already confiscated from her collection, claiming it was his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You know I brought all the Fear CDs with me,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if she could deny it with his eyes glaring
and his fists clenched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
did she persist to fall in love with capital L Losers like him? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any number of hers, really.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the fuck you doing, baby?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom almost sounded loving, though barely
sounded human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where did that come from?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least he wasn’t slinging whore or
bitch at her, again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christ, what was
she doing with him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With any of them?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika mulled over escape routes but knew
that was useless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was her
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was his dumping
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d taken much of her stuff
already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she left he’d claim it all
was his and <u>fuck you!</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, her only gameplan was to be as far
away from him as she could be, under the circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she finished crawling toward the wall next
to the front door and pulled her knees up to her chin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With distance, she could massage the sting
from her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike the Spike didn’t pursue sex or drugs,
just drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nickname was not a drug
reference, he just molded his hair into greasy spikes like those that rode
Godzilla’s spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
just enjoyed punk, Maxie didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Late
nights with more than reasonable alcohol consumption meant crashing at Erika’s
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d known each other going
on twenty years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only in this capacity,
though. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
shows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No substance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one way or another, all men failed her.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sighed and the passage of air was matched
in inflection by the sounds from outside her door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if whatever those sounds were, they could
hear into her apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika shoved her curiosity aside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t know what she wanted anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was no spring chicken. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom groaned, punched the arm of the
recliner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fuck you!” he said, as he grabbed
the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She ducked as broken
plastic and batteries rained on her head. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Damnit, Ransom, honey…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She immediately brought a hand up to her
face, eyes wide with understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
knew what was coming before it slammed into her like a fist, though it wasn’t a
fist, not this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just Ransom leaping
up from the recliner and hovering over her, his erratic erection becoming more
engorged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You bitch about anything, bitch, and I’ll
tear you a new asshole and fuck it to Texas.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika
could barely contain a snort of derision, even under the precarious
circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she didn’t snort, laugh, or make any
sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kept it under lock and key as
she knew that might inspire physical abuse or worse, whatever that might
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wouldn’t be the first time she’d
experienced worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would have been Daryl from Psycho
Blight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, another punk boyfriend,
ex-punk boyfriend, more so ex-psychobilly madman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was incarcerated in Pelican Bay State
Prison up north for murder, taking out <u>his</u> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he came back inside, he had her bandage
him up before he beat her in a drug haze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Erika remembered staring at his blurry figure as he exited, saying he’d
be right back, for what, she had no idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’d done enough damage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moments
later, she heard barking from one alpha-male to a handful of like-minded frothing
dogs dressed in blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She listened to
the tussle, heard the swift crack, crack, crack of a baton, heard Daryl’s
bleats of pain and protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She figured
the cops were checking out his bloody handiwork staining the sidewalk when he stepped
outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The details didn’t matter to
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was glad he was deleted from
her life pronto, which wasn’t soon enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ransom hung over her, a Leaning Tower of
Pissed Off, veins pulsing, arms flexed, while his cock went limp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erika thought about getting up and
leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she knew he’d find her and,
again, this was her apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t
want to lose all her stuff to this fucker. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her boyfriend, lover, and bane of her
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least it
didn’t taste like pussy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it
did, but he told her it was her imagination, he loved only her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She figured she was just being paranoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>*** <p></p><p><br /></p><p>Ha! If this was a much longer piece, I might have kept it all, what the heck? </p><p>Anyway, the final version of "The Johnny Depp Thing" can be found in my expanded reissue version of Autumn in the Abyss, called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1637896271/ref=ox_sc_act_title_1?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&psc=1" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Autumn in the Abyss Redux.</span> </a><<--that's the link, click it and see for yourself, buy a copy for maximum enjoyment! </p><p><br /></p><p>And here's some quirky art featuring the many faces of Johnny Depp. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHdME7KdHPD1pT25lqgrII_jf6iGeAP3_sF6dq_JWME8ScwyAqCiBRoFe0XsqoT4Inj2um33yiF7U34ty8lvxProX2XeaPzuo41Z45jy73PBAzESrB_fu2hOvjKKXmcrECfRhr-ZOWzGCA5Zf7CxvsR2EEmN3cHNH3Sm4RGBzrPMegnCyccRgf-LLmQ4/s667/teresaestherc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHdME7KdHPD1pT25lqgrII_jf6iGeAP3_sF6dq_JWME8ScwyAqCiBRoFe0XsqoT4Inj2um33yiF7U34ty8lvxProX2XeaPzuo41Z45jy73PBAzESrB_fu2hOvjKKXmcrECfRhr-ZOWzGCA5Zf7CxvsR2EEmN3cHNH3Sm4RGBzrPMegnCyccRgf-LLmQ4/s320/teresaestherc.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-84754525639172608192023-08-24T01:49:00.005-07:002023-08-24T01:49:39.324-07:00The Blurb-apocalypse. <p> What? </p><p>Well, with the publication of Autumn in the Abyss Redux, which collects all of Autumn in the Abyss, all of Occasional Beasts: Tales, and six stories from The Dark is Light Enough for Me, and looking to get some new reviews or at least having anybody who has read any of those books and reading this willing to dump the old reviews on Amazon or Goodreads for the new, expanded collection, thought I might drop some of the original blurbs in a blog post to drum up some interest. </p><p>When we released the new book, it was done on the fly, without any pre-order period because I was dealing with Life stuff and when it was ready, I was just happy to get it out. That said, most of the time--and especially for a new book--the plan will be to have an ample period beforehand to contact reviewers and even set up interviews and/or podcasts to discuss the books; again, this is the mindset for new material, though I would gladly get into any- and every- thing promotion-wise with this book and the forthcoming re-issue of Riding the Centipede, my Stoker-finalist debut novel.</p><p>So, that's where I am with this post. Blurbs galore. The Blurb-apocalypse, as noted in the title. </p><p>Here goes: </p><p>A few of the original Autumn in the Abyss blurbs: </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These five emotionally
complex tales ask, above all, what it means to be human in a tempestuous
universe. What part of ourselves do we owe to the pursuit of goodness,
especially if there's no apparent advantage to being good? How can we define
ourselves in the absence of moral authority? Blurred lines of identity, the
role of the artist, and the nature of temptation are explored in these stories
of sacrifice and self-destruction. Autumn in the Abyss is another dark and
captivating collection from a writer who isn't afraid to plumb the depths of
our greatest and most dangerous desires. --S.P. Miskowski Shirley Jackson Award
nominated author of The Skillute Cycle</span><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The stories in John Claude Smith's new collection
take their characters to the limits of human experience, the places where our
bodies come asunder in the face of the abyss. Positioning his stories in the
seams of our cultural history, Smith chronicles the efforts of artists of all
stripes--poets, musicians, sculptors, filmmakers--to break through our common
experience to another, more essential one that is painted in blood. It's a
quest that draws these artists into proximity with the serial-killer in the
book's single and singular tale of a police detective's obsessive manhunt.
Whether with pen or carving knife, Smith's characters will not stop until they
have gone too far, into a space where revelation and terror are part of the
same, vast thing. --John Langan, author of The Wide, Carnivorous Sky and Other
Monstrous Geographies</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The Rhythmic flow of John's words instantly
absorbs you into his world, bringing not only his words to life, but the story
as well. --Joe Mynhardt, Crystal Lake Publishing</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p>...and a few of the original Occasional Beasts: Tales blurbs: </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">"John Claude
Smith's collection</span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> Occasional Beasts</span></i></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">is a dark mosaic of the weird, the surreal, and the bizarre. These stories
willdig into your brain-meat and take up permanent residence there. Highly
recommended!" -- Tim Waggoner, author of </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The Mouth of the Dark</span></i></span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">"Smith has mastered the delicate art of dread,
transcending genre to put his stamp on weird horror. Provocative and
terrifying, he groundsOccasional Beasts in the human condition while warping
the walls of reality in fourteen tales that are not for the faint of
heart." -John Foster, author of </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Mister White and Dead Men</span></i></span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">"Occasional Beasts is yet another dazzling collection of
dark imaginings from the mind of John Claude Smith. His evocative prose,mastery
of atmosphere, and wildly original concepts manage to cast a spell on the
reader that is as alluring as it is unsettling. There is a certain glorious
madness that permeates this collection, as well as a fearless, visceral writing
style that demands your attention. Smith's beautifully rendered and complex
characters show us the uncomfortable truth about the occasional beastlinessthat
dwells within us all." -- Taylor Grant, Two-time Bram Stoker AwardNominee, </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The Dark at the End of theTunnel</span></i></span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">"A tumble down a dark slide with stories extremely dark,
poetic and metaphysical, </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Occasional Beasts</span></i></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> feels like holding hands witha demon while an angel whispers in your
ear. Not to be missed for those predisposed." -- John Palisano, Bram
Stoker Award-winning author of </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Nerves </span></i></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">and</span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">All That Withers </span></i></span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />
</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">"John Claude Smith's </span><span class="a-text-italic"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Occasional Beasts</span></i></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> lurks in the subconscious long after the last page. Despair becomes
peace, and the soul is left a scream in the darkness as these tales churn
through your psyche. As if traversing into an unknown forest refusing to give
way to sanity, each story creeps deeper and deeper into nightmare and terror.
Occasional Beasts: Tales is a must-read, but do so with the lights on."
--Alex Scully, editor Firbolg Publishing</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: red;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith/dp/1637896271/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Here's the link for Autumn in the Abyss Redux</a>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">And here's a fantstic photo of My Love, Alessandra...and Joe Landsdale, back when Occasional Beasts: Tales, was just out and she went to one of his readings in Rome, Italy. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVTES0WHV5B1IBPlis7mGFQnPZH3k3CsThalveuyj7lc1OCnp-61R-sr5DUmdTrEDlw6CHILunt5CDo3FO6O3OCEZ4n7sG1OjJioCxiCdwy0r9H_YE7sqRMsZm_HMtemKDcRHxcohXsBEUlpkEEJ2q0Hwwmxui30D83P6lf-FfnnWsM-2kWmfIIYmY6A/s777/47579715_204724397118476_7629703054211678208_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVTES0WHV5B1IBPlis7mGFQnPZH3k3CsThalveuyj7lc1OCnp-61R-sr5DUmdTrEDlw6CHILunt5CDo3FO6O3OCEZ4n7sG1OjJioCxiCdwy0r9H_YE7sqRMsZm_HMtemKDcRHxcohXsBEUlpkEEJ2q0Hwwmxui30D83P6lf-FfnnWsM-2kWmfIIYmY6A/s320/47579715_204724397118476_7629703054211678208_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></p><br /><p></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-22235037508640700932023-07-20T04:36:00.000-07:002023-07-20T04:36:38.019-07:00The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead<p> Scott Dwyer of <a href="http://www.theplutonian.com/">Plutonian Press</a> has published some stellar anthologies (<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Phantasm-Chimera-Anthology-Strange-Troubling/dp/0692915753/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=FaK9U&content-id=amzn1.sym.ed85217c-14c9-4aa0-b248-e47393e2ce12&pf_rd_p=ed85217c-14c9-4aa0-b248-e47393e2ce12&pf_rd_r=134-9402051-6499253&pd_rd_wg=yxWOV&pd_rd_r=ce01b438-d351-48a3-91a5-b104df3da2c3&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk">Phantasm/Chimera: An Anthology of Strange and Troubling Dreams</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pluto-Furs-Diseased-Desires-Seductive/dp/107461173X/ref=pd_bxgy_img_sccl_1/134-9402051-6499253?pd_rd_w=oJQTf&content-id=amzn1.sym.26a5c67f-1a30-486b-bb90-b523ad38d5a0&pf_rd_p=26a5c67f-1a30-486b-bb90-b523ad38d5a0&pf_rd_r=QPX0DS3TDRN2N0R4CKXP&pd_rd_wg=sai32&pd_rd_r=3cada5a5-79be-41c1-96d8-ddd796c5d84e&pd_rd_i=107461173X&psc=1">Pluto in Furs: Tales of Diseased Dreams and Seductive Horrors</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pluto-Furs-2-Scott-Dwyer/dp/B09QJ7JZZC/ref=sr_1_5?qid=1689846942&refinements=p_27%3AScott+Dwyer&s=books&sr=1-5&text=Scott+Dwyer">Pluto in Furs 2</a>, and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pinworm-Factory-Tribute-Eraserhead/dp/B0C6C73HKW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=S4PV4RJ7Y0X0&keywords=the+pinworm+factory&qid=1688013897&sprefix=the+pinworm+%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-1&asin=B0C6C73HKW&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1">The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead</a>), as well as a fantastic collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Carrion-Men-Jeffrey-Thomas/dp/B08RRCRWJ6/ref=sr_1_1?crid=EPYJBVB6BF82&keywords=carrion+men&qid=1689847162&s=books&sprefix=carrion+men+%2Cstripbooks%2C265&sr=1-1">Carrion Men by Jeffrey Thomas</a>. I've been lucky to have tales in some of the collections. I look forward to every publication from this amazing small press because of the distinct, unique vision Dwyer brings to the table with what he wants, which is definitely not familiar horrors. He likes to dig deeper into places one might rather avoid, which has also been one of my primary goals as a writer of weird horror fiction. </p><p>I enjoy working with Scott because he brings honest, unflinching perspectives to the tales I've brought him. He's made suggestions that have pushed me to explore a different avenue within a tale that made the tale stronger, as I did with the ending of "Chrysalis," from Phantasm/Chimera was completely rewritten, while a suggestion in shifting the ending of another moved us back to the original. He's not set in the mindset that his suggestion will be the right one, though it comes with a lot of thought, he just wants to see something within the tale from a different angle, trying to find the true strength in what it can be. I always like working with editors who do this, the give and take of the process being inspiring for me.</p><p>Anyway, beside the point and moving forward, here's the ad copy for his latest venture, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pinworm-Factory-Tribute-Eraserhead/dp/B0C6C73HKW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=S4PV4RJ7Y0X0&keywords=the+pinworm+factory&qid=1688013897&sprefix=the+pinworm+%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-1&asin=B0C6C73HKW&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1">The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead</a>.</p><p><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px;"><b>Smoke-stained skies. Abhorrent bodies hidden in shadow. Squirming fetuses under your blankets. Dark wet abysmal holes. Welcome to the world of Eraserhead. David Lynch's filmic dream of strange and troubling things. Now with The Pinworm Factory, we plunge deeper into that world. The Pinworm Factory is a literary homage to Eraserhead, seeking to further explore its themes and ideas. Inside this factory, you will find nightmares and body horror crafted just for you. This short story collection features works inspired by Eraserhead by such amazing authors as Michael Cisco, Mike Allen, LC Von Hessen, Adam Golaski, Roland Blackburn, and Kurt Fawver among others.</b></span></p><p>Included 'among others' is yours truly with a psycho-sexual nightmare called, "Emma Unbound." It is one of my personal favorite tales I've written, but with the TOC of top-notch writers, there's much to devour here for those into uncommon horrors. </p><p>(Excuse me. I went to Dwyer's FB page to snag the full list of contributors as well as credit for the fabulous cover art. Here ya go: "Cover art by the amazing Don Noble. Featuring stories by Michael Cisco, Sara Century, Adam Golaski, Sam Richard, K. H. Vaughan, John Claude Smith, Rhys Hughes, Kurt Fawver, LC Von Hessen, Brendan Vidito, Mike Allen, Maria Barnes, Liliana Carstea, and Roland Blackburn." That's a killer list, I must say!) </p><p>It all sounds like too much grim fun to me, so why don't you pick up a copy today?! One more time, as I've put a bunch of hyperlinks in this post for all of the Plutonian Press titles, as well as the label's blog, that will lead you to hours of excellent weird/body/erotic horror for your reading pleasure. Buy your copy of The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pinworm-Factory-Tribute-Eraserhead/dp/B0C6C73HKW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=S4PV4RJ7Y0X0&keywords=the+pinworm+factory&qid=1688013897&sprefix=the+pinworm+%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-1">Here</a>. </p><p><br /></p><p>***</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Welcome home, sweetie,” a voice said. A
voice without definition or gender. A voice threaded with something artificial,
as if it were a machine, yet not a machine, an organic quality caressed the
edges. A voice seething with menace. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>***</p><p>And here's the captivating cover. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKBkqglqSOSsaAexB3wU5IK40_qQlK00HHHW3uqATB7d0XNbjJ_E9GfaneP1veOkj3E63RCzridJYrKWbbzamPccoS4UlEyuP63il3BKtJ7IKe-truAaWkkd-SnHCTEKM0WXZmGmVBrUuRLk9QyRkQI-792RvWI4_aG9g2rEhP_0uAAkKDrSfBk8BKUw/s425/71iFCU1oIJL._SY425_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="279" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKBkqglqSOSsaAexB3wU5IK40_qQlK00HHHW3uqATB7d0XNbjJ_E9GfaneP1veOkj3E63RCzridJYrKWbbzamPccoS4UlEyuP63il3BKtJ7IKe-truAaWkkd-SnHCTEKM0WXZmGmVBrUuRLk9QyRkQI-792RvWI4_aG9g2rEhP_0uAAkKDrSfBk8BKUw/s320/71iFCU1oIJL._SY425_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-81770151361624967182023-07-12T05:11:00.001-07:002023-07-12T05:11:30.759-07:00Waffle House: I May Be A Horror Writer But...<p>...I also write poetry that is all over the place when it comes to focus. Sure, a lot of it is dark, the themes veer from obsessions to addictions to many other off-ramps leaning into darkness. Dread is a favorite subject. Horror creeps into some, of course. And weirdness is threaded through many of them. </p><p>Occasionally, I need a break or assume, as I am putting together a poetry collection, the reader might need a break from the heaviness, while still keeping it weird and/or amusing. </p><p>Which brings me to Waffle House, a poem based on a true experience. Really, c'mon, for somebody just passing through the Southwest--Louisiana, to be precise--one has to eat at a Waffle House at least once, to see what it's all about. </p><p>This, my friends, is the truth about what it is all about. Vague as it may be. </p><p>Enjoy!</p><p><br /></p><p>***</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Waffle House <o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have no idea what she said<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Menu
options spoken in an <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alien
language<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stared
dumbfounded as her lips moved<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Its
lips moved<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
could not have been of this earth<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
nodded and said “sure” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
knowing what I was agreeing to<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Anal
probes or a side of grits<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
woman sitting across from me<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
transient partner just passing through<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Shrugged
as we laughed<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
outcome of our vague decisions<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Still
up in the air<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps
with The Mothership<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or
the Starship Enterprise.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Waffle
House, man<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Good
for a hearty breakfast<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the Twilight Zone…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>***</p><p>I kid you not. That was one weird experience. </p><p><br /></p><p>While I am here, I will remind you I have a new, expanded reissue of my second collection that is looking for your eyes to read and perhaps your pen or keyboard to type up a review. Here's the link. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B0C8RZLR3L/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2RRKQU3IOOFC8&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1689163360&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C986&sr=1-1">Autumn in the Abyss Redux - Kindle edition by Smith, John Claude. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.</a></p><p><br /></p><p>And here's Waffle House!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmCeKeaVl_RF_aUjEZOFcNUKh_LOV1rKuoo-KctzvduwrbMVz4PFge6bT9LnmQKpa_YXgwcYpsIJzyNvoTwexLIw6WVHbuTH5zVm77RNpWbv-4-xQapM_ofr9xtK2kKo13qb99_DP6VY5ZRb3L0CdTsZ55z526dluswWFfKlW3cjkYV6Va7G3gIyGNJ0/s2500/220928-waffle-house-al-1223-a96515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1667" data-original-width="2500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmCeKeaVl_RF_aUjEZOFcNUKh_LOV1rKuoo-KctzvduwrbMVz4PFge6bT9LnmQKpa_YXgwcYpsIJzyNvoTwexLIw6WVHbuTH5zVm77RNpWbv-4-xQapM_ofr9xtK2kKo13qb99_DP6VY5ZRb3L0CdTsZ55z526dluswWFfKlW3cjkYV6Va7G3gIyGNJ0/s320/220928-waffle-house-al-1223-a96515.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-58189020307104242002023-07-01T08:43:00.002-07:002023-07-01T08:43:51.208-07:00Something's Happening: Reissues and More!Somebody's laughing. God? The Universe? I made plans...and then the world tipped off its axis. <div><br /></div><div>After I'd published Occasional Beasts: Tales, what I felt it was my best collection and contained some of my best tales. I thought, yes, this will generate sales. </div><div>It did not generate much of anything, sadly. </div><div>This was 2018. I had been consistent in getting out a book or chapbook for a few years running, so decided to pull back on the reins, give myself and the readers, however few they may be, a break. I decided not to publish a book in 2019. 2020 would have to do.</div><div>Yeah, right. </div><div>We all know what 2020 threw at us. Top that off with two of the three publishers for my books going out of business between then and Right Now, and nothing I had planned in my head was even in the realm of possibility. </div><div>But, even amid the chaos of Covid, I kept writing. Sometimes sporadically, sometimes locked in. Strange times, but I tried to lean on writing as a way to keep myself sane, which is often what I lean on it for. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward to late 2022. I hooked up with Crossroad Press for reissues of three of the books...which became three and a half. Up first is Autumn in the Abyss Redux, which will contain the five tales from that mini-collection, all of Occasional Beasts: Tales, and six tales from The Dark is Light Enough For Me. Twenty-Five in all, this is a burly beast of a collection, a recap of the first part of my so-called writing journey (though, TBH, a true summing up would include many of my earliest tales in a collection, which I might actually look into putting together at some point). Along with a re-issue of Riding the Centipede, my Stoker nominated debut collection, this seems a succinct way to re-introduce myself to the world today. Something like that, c'mon. </div><div>But it's all with a purpose but not set plans. Not teasing out more laughter from any unknown, unseen forces, but I like getting these earlier titles re-issued with what should follow. </div><div>What, exactly, should follow, JCS? </div><div><br /></div><div>Out in submission land, there's a lot going on. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have two completed novels (Odd Blue, originally called Birdland, as well as Our Savage Anatomies), along with a novella that needs me to shove it out of the nest, The Ouroboros Ballads, and, soon after that, another novel, The Ecstasy of Becoming. More details on all of these sooner than later.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's a lot in the pipeline, a lot for a publisher and/or an agent to love. </div><div><br /></div><div>Add to that at least one compilation, tentatively titled, It's Hard To Be Me & Other Confessions...or something like that, haha...and even a poetry collection. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, plans falter, but I kept my nose to the grindstone and wrote a fair amount--this doesn't even include short stories and a long novelette/short novella, etc. Busy is good, as I often say. </div><div><br /></div><div>But for now, with more details to come, Autumn in the Abyss is up first. You know that from the previous blog post. This was supposed to be the lead in post for that one, but as noted already about how things go: plans? hahahaha... </div><div><br /></div><div>Are you ready for this? </div><div><br /></div><div>I certainly am!</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a link to the book: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B0C8RZLR3L/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ND3OD8NVJBSM&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1688225571&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C250&sr=1-1">Autumn in the Abyss Redux - Kindle edition by Smith, John Claude. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>And, for the sake of amusement and because this is how it often feels when writing, here's J.G. Ballard's edits for the first page of Crash, one of my, if not my, favorite novels. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IUiyBiSPi75VF3p5QRX11vXV4fRAVFdgx09b8GKi4E5IKg6dxsaFkx8h7N4_UfQSKgnVvcmIQoqg-rhAFRmggvjCwKBvl2Gl1NLtPOHDHJ-Ta5lbmsh3gLjor30sMsX6492s4-fZ2xEaWV9h0cwmP5xzO1Q-Y2BYRI9onanWPQS2MeK2Gu6_cxcxZtM/s1498/jgballard-crash-tl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1498" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IUiyBiSPi75VF3p5QRX11vXV4fRAVFdgx09b8GKi4E5IKg6dxsaFkx8h7N4_UfQSKgnVvcmIQoqg-rhAFRmggvjCwKBvl2Gl1NLtPOHDHJ-Ta5lbmsh3gLjor30sMsX6492s4-fZ2xEaWV9h0cwmP5xzO1Q-Y2BYRI9onanWPQS2MeK2Gu6_cxcxZtM/s320/jgballard-crash-tl.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-67451029259673095242023-06-26T07:53:00.000-07:002023-06-26T07:53:34.352-07:00Autumn in the Abyss Redux!!! <p> Autumn in the Abyss Redux, a massive collection, kind of an overview of the first stage of my so-called writing career, is Out In The Wild Now! </p><p>Thanks so much to Crossroad Press for working with me to bring this to You! </p><p>So, what exactly is in the updated and expanded version of my second collection? Twenty-five tales, 479 pages, that's what? Over 160k words. Details? Here's the TOC: </p><p><br /></p><p>Autumn in the Abyss </p><p>Black Wings</p><p>The Dark is Light Enough for Me</p><p>I Wish I Was a Pretty Little Girl </p><p>Not Breathing </p><p>Strange Trees </p><p>Plastic </p><p>Broken Teacup </p><p>la mia immortalita </p><p>Where the Light Won't Find You</p><p>Becoming Human</p><p>The Glove </p><p>The Wounded Table </p><p>A Declaration of Intent</p><p>Dandelions </p><p>The Cooing </p><p>The Occasional Beast That Is Her Soul</p><p>This Darkness </p><p>Personal Jesus </p><p>I Am... </p><p>Beautiful </p><p>Chrysalis </p><p>Vox Terrae </p><p>The Johnny Depp Thing </p><p>The Land Lord</p><p><br /></p><p>1 + 8-11 are the complete Autumn in the Abyss mini-collection. 2-7 are six of my favorite tales from my debut collection, The Dark is Light Enough For Me. 11-25 is ALL of Occasional Beast: Tales, my third collection. </p><p>Here's the link so you can pick up your copy today: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-Redux-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B0C8RZLR3L/ref=sr_1_1?crid=27BBUB9A3YBSM&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss+redux&qid=1687791078&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C233&sr=1-1">Autumn in the Abyss Redux - Kindle edition by Smith, John Claude. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.</a></p><p>I have digital copies for reviewers, just get in touch. Also, if you reviewed any of the collections and would like to drop that review for the updated and expanded collection here, by all means, please do. Amazon and Goodreads, anywhere, everywhere. Thank you! </p><p>Here's a low res but looks fine to me picture of the cover. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg527jvryz0kXLs7vxUALLPNxhFoqepztxVTuUP_0pAqqT21Zr9sE-LDGceAvqlUQDkb4PHS62pkI1JKqcxGgTyKbSnivstbD0caAOMvHGIKm1rGlkz2icXSX52CWHSJWO6nmBwaxodfJ28-s_ScEQ2M2FEx582R9-pVQWLi9E7ie0PeeGtasyo7oESNzI/s2341/Autumn%20in%20the%20Abyss%20Redux%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2341" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg527jvryz0kXLs7vxUALLPNxhFoqepztxVTuUP_0pAqqT21Zr9sE-LDGceAvqlUQDkb4PHS62pkI1JKqcxGgTyKbSnivstbD0caAOMvHGIKm1rGlkz2icXSX52CWHSJWO6nmBwaxodfJ28-s_ScEQ2M2FEx582R9-pVQWLi9E7ie0PeeGtasyo7oESNzI/s320/Autumn%20in%20the%20Abyss%20Redux%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="205" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-32507611617821925182022-11-07T09:39:00.003-08:002022-11-08T19:04:07.591-08:00There's A Lot Going On<p> Yeah, I know. Haven't posted here in quite a while. Let's rectify that Right Now. </p><p>What's up? </p><p>Omnium Gatherum, the publisher of my books <b>Autumn in the Abyss</b>, <b>Riding the Centipede</b>, and <b>Occasional Beasts: Tales</b>, 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. </p><p>What else?</p><p>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! </p><p><b>Birdland</b>, though I may change the title to <b>Odd Blue</b>--I'm leaning that way--clocks in at 68k. </p><p>Briefly: B<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">irdland 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Our Savage Anatomies</b> runs lean and mean at 46k. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I am wrapping up a novella called <b>The Ouroboros Ballads</b> 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There's another novel in need of revisions, <b>The Ecstasy of Becoming</b>, 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I will be more regular in posting now that I've swiped away the cobwebs. </span></p><p>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. </p><p>;-) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I2qGUwla38Hawernu60phwFOeV1NSogkkTDNXGZtwfaVFR7xNxs8Q7Md2ObFAKHoh3PHjencmcMNMjSvIvQRjJB5gYZxJFtMy7FFpW9BIUPDXVwzb35VVqryaTSGDCq55OdDtCU2LZTCrS1BCzEZ3sogiaHeA_HZg5E58yKE0gOPCiyIZPUabo-a/s600/Naked-Lunch-Clark-Nova-Bugwriter-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I2qGUwla38Hawernu60phwFOeV1NSogkkTDNXGZtwfaVFR7xNxs8Q7Md2ObFAKHoh3PHjencmcMNMjSvIvQRjJB5gYZxJFtMy7FFpW9BIUPDXVwzb35VVqryaTSGDCq55OdDtCU2LZTCrS1BCzEZ3sogiaHeA_HZg5E58yKE0gOPCiyIZPUabo-a/s320/Naked-Lunch-Clark-Nova-Bugwriter-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-13541432891618349472022-02-14T17:00:00.001-08:002022-02-14T17:00:48.792-08:00I Give You My Heart. Valentine's Day Flash Fiction.<p> 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? </p><p>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. </p><p>But enough of this! </p><p>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. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Numb<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">by </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">John Claude Smith</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>He feels
nothing: numb, empty</i>….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He resorts to
cutting himself as an exercise in sensation, in trying to feel something at a
time when he feels nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even that does
not break through. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He still feels
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did not care
about how rude it came off. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does not care
about much of anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But her. Alicia. The
woman he loves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman who left
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(How could she
leave me? How could she give up on us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The thoughts roll by in his head like a never-ending freight train, its
self-destructive cargo branded in torturous repetition.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He places the
scalpel against his naked chest, pressing hard. The blade digs deep, blood
streaming over his abdomen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, he is numb.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stops, sucks in
a weary breath, and gazes into the moist red cavity. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He jostles things,
moves them about, rearranging the internal in ways that give him access to his
goal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thick muscle’s
rhythm is consistent, even though this more extreme exercise would normally
render one dead. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels dead
inside already, so….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And still feels
nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, what is the
point of it all, then?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<i>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!</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And drowning now …
drowning … flailing … sinking….)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hasn’t slept in
weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drives to where
she lives. Sitting in the car, he stares at the house where she rents a
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He scribbles a
note on a piece of paper and exits the car. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He places the
still beating heart at the foot of the door with the note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No reason to knock
or ring the doorbell; let her sleep. Let them all sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe someday he
will sleep again as well….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rereads the
note: Since you own my heart, you might as well have it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unhappy and
exhausted, he leaves, his head still reeling as the freight train rolls by. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps this
gesture will help her to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps she will
just scream.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Numb, he drives
alone into the deep and uncaring night….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So, there ya go. I hope you enjoyed my gruesome little tale. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Here's a link to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B0065PB94K?_encoding=UTF8&node=283155&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=review-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader">my Amazon Author page</a> so you can catch up with what's already out there while I load the chambers for some releases sooner than later. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Don't know who the artist is, but this is damn cool. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGv6wBLDvZWk2YWi9iu_s2ReVDAxekit-RmIR3oJeu3LzZuipJmADmPSOksEG1t9ooZNj0QEy2rZZDlV2gk0ca13Ev4PxPgf7Ve0tew3rZTrxekiNOvzdEuszKw7w8SWLnqNe1GJBXt2ysY_Ce5WDH9vvWsHtMqlKaGzq4cjeBhqaKUORaOhoSMg44=s3000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2318" data-original-width="3000" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGv6wBLDvZWk2YWi9iu_s2ReVDAxekit-RmIR3oJeu3LzZuipJmADmPSOksEG1t9ooZNj0QEy2rZZDlV2gk0ca13Ev4PxPgf7Ve0tew3rZTrxekiNOvzdEuszKw7w8SWLnqNe1GJBXt2ysY_Ce5WDH9vvWsHtMqlKaGzq4cjeBhqaKUORaOhoSMg44=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><br /><p></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-20734008847631135112020-10-30T11:00:00.001-07:002020-10-30T11:00:56.757-07:00Halloween Horror #2: "The New Kid" <p> As promised, here's a second Halloween Horror for your reading pleasure...displeasure...disgust...er, whatever works. I wrote this flash piece a couple years ago for an anthology call for, if I remember correctly, PG-related or less tales, and I vaguely remember a campfire mindset as being part of the deal as well. Either way, it did not get accepted for the anthology, has been sitting on my laptop since then, and since I think at the very least it works, why not share it? Now, mind you, I write Very Adult fiction, so this was me tamping back some of my natural writer's instincts, haha, but it was fun and is rather creepy, fits the Halloween bill, so here ya go. The tale is called, "The New Kid." </p><p>Enjoy!</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
New Kid<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By
John Claude Smith<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When you’re eleven-years-old,
moving to a new house the day before Halloween is a big deal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spent that day and much of Halloween day unpacking
boxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grumbled about not being able
to celebrate with all the rest of the ghosts and demons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother, ever aware of her son’s love of all
things scary, decided at the very least to purchase a few bags of candy and let
me be in charge of handing it out to all of the trick or treaters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It wasn’t the same, but
it would have to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After a slew of five-year-old
princesses, mini-vampires and various superheroes, some kids with really grisly
make-up showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had peeled skin
hanging from their faces, bones jutting out, eyes wide open with no lids, so
they couldn’t blink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was just for
starters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s really icky,
looks real,” I said, always one to like gross stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thanks!” a kid with his
jaw split in half said, more so, slurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“My name’s Todd Richmond.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
extended his bony hand toward me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he did that, made the bones look so
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shook his hand and said, “I’m
Rick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rick Myers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The new kid.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I laughed, kind of nervous, but not really. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was outgoing, had to be, what with all the
times my family had moved because of my dad’s job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Todd stepped aside, and
his band of gruesome friends gathered on the porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m Sandy Weathers,” a
girl said, her left eye dangling by the tendrils on her bloodied cheek. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mick Johnson,” said a
tall boy whose torso was splayed open and spilling glistening guts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Juan Lopez,” said
another boy, the left side of his face…gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each one, as they stepped on the porch, said his or her name and reached
out to shake my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like I would
fit in here just fine.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Finally, the last kid
came up, a girl with long dark hair matted with blood and a stomach-churning
chunk of brain hanging out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her face was
all scraped up, like it had been used as a tire burning rubber to screech to a
stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She even smelled bad, really
bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled and cringed at the same
time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m Regina Prine,” she
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Welcome back.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held out her hand like all the
others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two fingers were missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I took it I said, “I’ve never been here
before.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said, “I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re the new kid.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That was odd, but before
I could say anything else, they traipsed off to the house next door. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After the weekend, I made
way to school for my first day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent
the first week getting to know the teachers and classes, but realized I’d heard
none of the kid’s names from Halloween during any of the rollcalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured perhaps they were a year older or a
year younger…or just had different classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">During lunch on Friday, I
decided to explore the school, see what it was about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made way past lockers and down a narrow
corridor by the administrative offices toward what looked to be a collection of
medals or awards for sports and what-have-you.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After inspecting them, I
moved toward the end of the corridor, where there was a large plaque behind
glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered what award this would
be for…when my blood turned to ice. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I immediately noted the
names listed on the plaque: Todd Richmond, Sandy Weathers, Mick Johnson, Juan
Lopez, Regina Prine, and more, but the first five names caught my eye as they
were the names of the kids who had shown up at my door Halloween night.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And they were all dead.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But they couldn’t be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids who came to my door were dressed up
as the victims of a bus accident from a few years previous, as indicated by the
plaque.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wonder I hadn’t heard any of
the names during rollcall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those kids <i>were</i>
dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These kids were just cruel.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As I turned in disgust
from the plaque, I saw a really messed up girl at the end of the corridor by
the exit doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Regina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked toward me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why are you still
wearing your make-up?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She only shook her head.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I stood there like a
statue, feeling uncomfortable and not really wanting to deal with Regina Prine
if she was into such mean tricks.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As she neared, she said,
“You know where this is going, don’t you?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you talking
about?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fidgeted, tried to stand tall,
but felt my legs wobble.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“We’re not cruel kids or
mean kids,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gulped,
wondering how the heck she could know what I had thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re just dead.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Excuse me, I need to
go.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a step to scoot by her, when
two sets of hands grabbed my arms from behind.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You just need a reminder.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Somebody behind me laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it was Todd Richmond, as it had a
slurry sound.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Let me go,” I said, but
my protests were useless as I followed her finger as it moved toward the
plaque. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I knew where this was
going. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always knew were this was
going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But ignoring it seemed a better
option than confirming the obvious.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Her thin finger landed
just below a name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My name, of
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rick Myers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a part of that tragedy.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“This bus ride was your
first and last with us.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I knew this as I saw my
reflection in the glass covering the plaque.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had no nose, and the top of my head was sheared off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hands holding me released me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t going anywhere because you can’t run
away from the truth</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’ll always be the new
kid,” Regina said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“For ever and ever and
ever…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fun, eh? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">O.o </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Anyway, if you'd like to read some of my more adult fiction, wellll...here's the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B0065PB94K?_encoding=UTF8&node=2656022011&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Amazon Author page link</span></a>. Go! Buy some! Make me rich! Or at least get something to give you the creeps this Halloween...or year-round. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This art comes courtesy of John Kenn. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cqJL-WXcPA/X5xT31cKO_I/AAAAAAAAA-4/uEds2VJJDNo2Pj9h74U8CyDR9CESYA1tACLcBGAsYHQ/s550/john%2Bkenn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="550" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cqJL-WXcPA/X5xT31cKO_I/AAAAAAAAA-4/uEds2VJJDNo2Pj9h74U8CyDR9CESYA1tACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/john%2Bkenn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><br /><p></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-12802089820507121532020-10-26T04:27:00.003-07:002020-10-26T04:27:51.013-07:00Halloween Horror #1: "The Perfect Pumpkin"<p> As I run my fingers through the cobwebs here, thought it might be an amusing way to kickstart this blog thing again, or at least for a while. We'll see. </p><p>First up, an oldie but a goodie, or at least a creepy damn thing: "The Perfect Pumpkin." It's been published a few times, probably my most reprinted piece, actually. I mean in anthologies and not just on my blog, of course.</p><p>In a few days, I'll post another Halloween horror tale, a flash piece. But for now, here we go. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The Perfect Pumpkin<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">by John Claude Smith<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“If it wasn’t a week before Halloween, I’d be scared
crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But it’s true, Melinda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cutter’s farm is where old Dr. Ranier does abortions, or at least did
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look, it’s perfect: it’s just far
enough out of town as to be kind of anon … anonymous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He used to be a doctor, a…a baby doctor—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Obstetrician.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, yeah, an obstetrician.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he was disbarred—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That’s for a lawyer.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, shit, Brainiac!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“So he sets up office as a country abortionist.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And the babies are supposed to come back to haunt anybody
who trespasses—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Stop!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard
enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must be doing some farming
now, otherwise, where’d all these pumpkins come from?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I dunno, they must grow wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Creepy stuff, eh?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Just nightmares or rumors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Made-up stories meant to scare teenagers from having sex, and in this
case, ‘cause of the abortionist slant, getting pregnant and all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kind of a gruesome safe sex message, don’t
you think?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And isn’t that what all
horror stories made primarily for teenagers are up to, anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like in the movies, if you’re a teenager
and you have sex, the boogyman’s gonna get you—ooooOOOOOoooo, I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> frightened.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With whiplash precision, she shifted her attitude from
mockingly scared to salaciously seductive, easily distracting him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Danny, oh, Danny, bab-eeeee...” She purred
the last syllable, long and languid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard, whispering something nasty and oh-so-enticing
in his ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As his penis turned to
steel, his brain turned to mush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Having gotten his attention, she let go and backed
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You gonna help me get a perfect
pumpkin from this patch or not?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What about my—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Later, big boy, when we’re out of range of any sexually
oppressed boogymen disguised as abortionist farmers.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His imagination sprang back to life with a
potency that unnerved him while coinciding with the deflation of his
penis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melinda Harner, his girlfriend,
folded her arms across her burgeoning bosom, trying to fend off the October
chill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She peered at him, obstinate in
her quest to obtain the perfect pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now that she had spotted what she claimed was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perfect</i> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No other pumpkin would suffice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Danny hopped over the barbed-wire fence, ragged metal tips
ripping two fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He winced, put the
stinging fingers in his mouth, and sprinted toward the fog-embraced pumpkin
patch. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Which one did you want?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His voice seemed not to carry, trapped in the puffy white shroud of fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it did carry, and she responded<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“There,” Melinda harrumphed, pointing to his right at the
perfect pumpkin for her to carve a masterpiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her voice hit Danny with the force of a thunderclap; goosebumps tickled
his flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her nature
was competitive, and she was always looking for that special edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If this patch had the perfect pumpkin she
coveted, she knew the edge would be hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No horror stories were going to stand in her way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Here?” he said, pointing at one of the dozen or so
seemingly perfect, unblemished pumpkins in the direction she had pointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could she even tell the difference?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i>,” she
bellowed, the volume almost knocking him over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Without speaking, he pointed, and she nodded her head, yes--<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thank God!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pulled out his switchblade and cut the
coarse vine, trying to disengage the pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a brief struggle he was victorious, but noticed he’d smeared blood
from his sliced-up fingers all over the ragged stem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He plucked it from its roost, amazed by its weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was about as big as a slightly super-sized
basketball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not huge, but its heft made
his arms ache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She better be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> appreciative for this, he
thought, and ran back to the fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
handed the pumpkin to her, so he could hop over the fence again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Careful, it’s heavy,” he said, as he put it in her eager
hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She grunted and agreed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Damn!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For its size,
that’s gotta be the heaviest pumpkin I’ve ever felt.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Danny braced himself and leaped, this time with even less
grace, catching his foot and plopping down hard on his butt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melinda laughed at his awkward
predicament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He frowned at her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do this
favor for you and you laugh at me now, ‘cause I’m cold and tired and…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead as he brushed
the weeds out of his hair and clothes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Carry this, would ya?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More insistent than requesting, already handing him the pumpkin. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m just your slave—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Slave to my beguiling charms.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She put on the act, puppy dog eyes and
pouting lips on full display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They started the two-mile trek back into town, their pace
brisk, trying to keep warm. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s probably cursed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Probably why I tripped up going over the fence.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’re just clumsy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s no curse for takin’ a pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No dead babies gonna haunt you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m just gonna carve a winner out of this one.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That stuff is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I mean, all that about Dr. Ranier doing abortions and stuff.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He put his fingers in his mouth again,
balancing the pumpkin against his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apparently, the cuts were deeper than he’d thought, and continued to
bleed profusely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They both fell silent for a handful of minutes, purposeful
strides taking over as the night grew even colder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The overcast skies portended rain and they
just wanted to make it home before it started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then Danny stumbled, dropping the pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not hard, catching it before it really hit
the ground, but enough to have it land with a leaden thump on the dirt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Damn it, klutz!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do
you need walking lessons or what?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Melinda was beside herself with anger, squatting to inspect the
pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this for naught, she
thought; all this for naught. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Shit, Melinda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
not like I meant to—”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You bleedin’ on it?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, cut my fingers on the fence, bled on the stem.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Melinda scooted away from the pumpkin, inexplicably
alarmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How can that be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pumpkin’s got blood comin’ from inside.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They both watched as a thin line of blood trickled from a
miniscule crack at the bottom, where it had hit the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The red liquid pooled in the dirt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“T-That’s impossible,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can’t be any blood comin’ from inside a
pumpkin, only pumpkin, seeds and all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You must have bled a lot more than you thought.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She forced a smile, obviously in denial of what she was
witnessing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More blood seeped from the
crack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Danny pulled out his switchblade and approached the
pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knelt before it, not sure
what he was going to do, but feeling safer with the knife in his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Danny?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With suddenness, curiosity took over, and he plunged the
knife into the thick hide of the pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pried with the knife
and his fingers, pulling the pumpkin apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, Christ!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
moaned in revulsion at what he saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Melinda squealed, “What is it, Danny? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What is it?</i>”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The pumpkin had split wide open like a cracked egg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Danny jumped to his feet, hands dripping
wet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was on her feet as well, fingers digging crescents into Danny’s
arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t feel a thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both just stared in horror and disgust.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">womb</i> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It probably did not see them, thought Danny,
as his stomach roiled like a fist-sized hurricane, battering his insides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a fetus, a mutation of inconceivable ugliness borne
of nightmares and rumors and curses made real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh my God, Danny…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Danny!</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melinda cringed, teetering on hysterical.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gurgling noises emanated from its throat, wet
sounds and orange spittle passing by its lipless slit of a mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We need to go--<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now!</i>”
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Melinda,
beside herself, doing a nervous dance of desperation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted away from here posthaste…or
sooner!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Wait,” Danny said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I think it’s trying to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">say</i>
something.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C’mon! Let’s go!</i>”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sound that rose from the baby’s mouth unhinged the
muscles in Danny’s legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slumped to
the ground, transfixed by the fetal abomination squirming and convulsing and
hideously <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">alive</i> within the
pumpkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melinda tumbled with him, but
not for long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His swiftness almost lifted Melinda into the air as one would a
kite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The utterance repeated again and
again--<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">insistent</i>--scarred the night
with its cawing message, resonant and haunting, cursing both of their ears
forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One word, only one, but Danny and Melinda would remember it
until the day they died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Daddy,” it screeched, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it
begged</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Daddy!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p><p>I hope that creeped you out in a good way. I'll hit you with another trick or treat flash piece in a couple days. </p><p>It would be remiss of me not to link you to my books. Here's the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B0065PB94K?_encoding=UTF8&node=2656022011&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Amazon Author page link</span></a>, so you can check out Occasional Beasts: Tales, The Wilderness Within, Riding the Centipede, Autumn in the Abyss, The Dark is Light Enough For Me, and some anthologies in which my tales appear. </p><p>As I check before publishing, not sure if the link is working, so here ya go: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B0065PB94K?_encoding=UTF8&node=2656022011&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xKuzjlj566U/X5YSFQ4pj1I/AAAAAAAAA-k/BIGPrOCK9-oVjZyK-mWF5TyAIzxuVTcxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s750/vintage-horror-pumpkin-head-jorgo-photography-wall-art-gallery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xKuzjlj566U/X5YSFQ4pj1I/AAAAAAAAA-k/BIGPrOCK9-oVjZyK-mWF5TyAIzxuVTcxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/vintage-horror-pumpkin-head-jorgo-photography-wall-art-gallery.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-59257758549797633242019-09-17T06:08:00.000-07:002019-09-17T06:08:28.627-07:00Happy First Birthday, Occasional Beasts: Tales!!!Yes, it's been one year since my fifth book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a>, was released into the wild by my wonderful publisher, Omnium Gatherum. I believe it contains a lot of my best fiction, including personal faves, "The Glove," "The Wounded Table," "The Land Lord," "The Johnny Depp Thing," "Beautiful"--okay, you get the gist. 14 tales, 4 published here for the first time.<br />
<br />
Have you read it? Have you reviewed it? I<br />
<br />
Here's links and snippets to a few reviews to whet your appetite, just in case you haven't read the collection.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">"For a few years now, I have been a big fan of John Claude Smith's twisted view of the world. This collection of tales only serves to remind me how skilled, (and twisted!), he really is."</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
Read the whole review at <a href="http://charlene.booklikes.com/post/1785425/occasional-beasts-tales-by-john-claude-smith"><span style="color: red;">Char's Horror Corner</span></a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">"John Claude Smith’s new collection </span><em style="-ms-text-size-adjust: 100%; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: 0px 0px; border-image: none; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><strong style="-ms-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position-x: 0px; background-position-y: 0px; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto; border-bottom-color: currentColor; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-image-outset: 0; border-image-repeat: stretch; border-image-slice: 100%; border-image-source: none; border-image-width: 1; border-left-color: currentColor; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: currentColor; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: currentColor; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 100%; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: invert; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</strong></em><span style="background-color: white; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> fearlessly explores themes of transformation and transcendence through a menagerie of monsters that are supernatural, human, or often something in-between. Like peering into a darkened aquarium or down a misty alleyway, dark things lurk behind the grit and ragged edges of Smith’s physical and psychic environments. When those beasts pounce, however, Smith’s creation of indelibly horrific images is second to none and the result is satisfying horror with hidden depths."</span></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
Read the whole review at <a href="https://hellnotes.com/occasional-beasts-tales-book-review/"><span style="color: red;">Hellnotes</span></a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 180%; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">"Occasional Beasts is a relentless collection with wonderful proses and horrifying images sprinkled throughout. John Claude Smith is in such command of his craft, with each of the fourteen stories proving this."</span></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<br />
Read the whole review at <a href="https://thehorrorclubblog.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/review-occasional-beasts/"><span style="color: red;">The Horror Club</span></a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Just a few, but again, if you've not picked up your copy, by all means, please do.<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Here's the Amazon link for Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a>.<br />
<br />
My Beasts look forward to spending time with you...<br />
<br />
Here's a Fabulous photo of my girlfriend, Alessandra, with some fella named Lansdale. With the book, of course! In Rome as well!<br />
<br />
;-)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HDGTUfopFU/XYCtYjqOfiI/AAAAAAAAA68/iJmf2R9ubF8k-aTnLsBz6USD_-lyVF6dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DtxI84rVsAAAf99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HDGTUfopFU/XYCtYjqOfiI/AAAAAAAAA68/iJmf2R9ubF8k-aTnLsBz6USD_-lyVF6dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DtxI84rVsAAAf99.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-86581697405764237842018-11-07T17:50:00.000-08:002018-11-07T17:50:12.722-08:00The Shape of Things to Come Lives in a Tunnel Beneath the Town: Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes # 14: "The Land Lord." Delayed a bit. Dealing with real life. And politics.<br />
Anyway...<br />
<br />
After I went through a break-up in 2005, and after a year in-between, I rented an apartment in Hayward, California. I would often take walks to a Starbucks (which is something I do rarely nowadays) or for food, which was about a mile away. Along the way, I would pass over a small bridge...which inundated me with the worst smells.<br />
<br />
Where do writers get their ideas? Every-damn-where.<br />
<br />
The seed was planted, that bridge is the opening sequence in my 15,500 word tale, "The Land Lord," that wraps up my collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a>. We--my publisher and I--decided to bookend the collection with the two longest tales.<br />
<br />
That bridge, those smells--I wrote them down way back when, started to build a story, but wasn't sure about the characters. I felt it needed something more, or needed to be told in a different way. I shuffled the two characters out--Regina and Jeff--and worked with a gay goth couple for a bit. That didn't do it, though I liked those characters enough to save that version and might drop them into another tale. I went back to Regina and Jeff and found their true paths, their voices, and finally could lock in and go for the ride.<br />
<br />
But I needed something more between that opening and where it all ended up.<br />
<br />
That's when the town itself, Hayward, helped out. Everything described in "The Land Lord"--the homeless, the hookers, the grimy feel of things--was inspired by that place. The broken down auto shops. The closed down businesses, everything became a part of the body...as well as one curious addition: an element from the movie <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099871/">Jacob's Ladder</a>.<br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
Jacob's Ladder is a subtle, hallucinogenic mind-trip, those subtleties consistently nibbling at the edges; okay, it's not always subtle, there's some pretty heavy-duty nightmarish stuff, too. Scenes in the movie where something moves, quivers off to the peripheral--or perhaps even right in front of the main character, like with the homeless man on the metro (bus, well, I don't remember; haven't seen the movie in too long and need to rectify that), when a strange appendage slips out from beneath his coat, before slipping back under. Did Tim Robbins' character see that...or was it just a trick of his tired eyes and mind? THAT was the stuff I wanted. So I threaded in scenes where that kind of feel, that undercurrent of something not right--a twitch beneath an eye, for example; other physical oddities that might seem like nothing, but within the fabric of the tale, they help layer the overall odd tone--holds more weight because it only adds to the blurring of what's real and what's actually going on. That weight of something weird always nibbling at the edges was key for me in getting through the escalating dread and on to the resigned, bleak finale. <br />
<br />
All of the pieces in place so that our narrator, Jeff, could meet the land lord. Not a landlord. The Land Lord. That thing that lives beneath the town...<br />
<br />
Here's a sequence where Jeff has stopped one of the people who wanders the streets. Homeless? Well, you'll see. It's late at night as this conversation takes place...<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
I stared at him as he searched for the words, his cadences crisp, his focus narrowing; no repetition driving him now.<br />
<br />
“In reality, one just needs to adjust, I guess. To let go. To give in,” he said, amused, as if this epiphany meant the world to him.<br />
<br />
Despite the more tranquil impressions he exuded, I felt my anger rise. “Christ, I should have known not to expect any real answers from a man in league with the vagrants, the homeless—<br />
<br />
“Homeless? You think these people are homeless? They all live in the town. They’re all essential parts of the town. Like organs, or maybe blood. They flow through the town and the town thrives.” He glared up at me, eyes steely, features rigid.<br />
<br />
“I own a shop like this one down the road, auto repair.” His focus altered, he continued: “I bought it a year ago, the rent was good and cheap. I had employees, the whole deal. But I was only open for about six months, lost my employees, lost myself as well.”<br />
<br />
I looked deep into his eyes. He was here with me right now, not mentally somewhere else. He’d even stopped his pacing. I knew he was telling the truth. His take on the truth, at least.<br />
<br />
“What do you mean you lost yourself?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve been living in the building since my business closed down. Couldn’t afford two rents so I kept the business place, hoping to reopen but…it doesn’t care.”<br />
<br />
“It?”<br />
<br />
“I slipped, heard about it, checked it out, and now… I need it but don’t want to give in to it, can you understand?”<br />
<br />
“It?”<br />
<br />
He instantly switched into paranoia overload, looking everywhere, over his shoulder, over mine, a long trespass to the tunnel. <i>Somebody’s listening</i>…<br />
<br />
“The land lord,” he whispered.<br />
<br />
“A landlord?” The landlord again?<br />
<br />
“No. Not a landlord, but the land lord. A different entity than a landlord.” He split my one word into two, an ax to the trunk of a tree. I was at a loss. “Completely different.”<br />
<br />
His whisper circled, then, swooped down as an owl snatching its prey. His tone changed—mutated—the chilled serenity of the whisper ground to gruel and devoured by his Mad Hatter alternate-ego. “Fucking stupid, trying to resist it now that I’ve had a taste. You’re feelin’ it, too, I can sense it in you. You should join us.” His smile grew wide, then crumbled under the weight of something I could not imagine. “No, you should leave, now… Leave now!”<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Which, of course, brings me back to one of my favorite themes: addiction. There's a sense that drugs are behind everything in this tale, but look deeper. Look into that tunnel, to get to the truth.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a> is available to purchase now! Check the hyperlink by clicking on the title or right <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
I've enjoyed this overview, slim as it may be, of the tales in my collection. Looking back on them brought some memories I enjoyed, and that only could have happened while digging into these story notes.<br />
<br />
Ah, but what's next? There's some anthologies out or out soon, with tales by yours truly in them. I'll give you some details about them soon! <br />
<br />
Here is a photo of...The Gates of Hell, in New Jersey. It's a tunnel. Not unlike the tunnel "The Land Lord" lives in, perhaps...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-19DvXAnqTzw/W-OUPifJzMI/AAAAAAAAA4M/2FhAv5su7FgWNkEjQxvJv2m3KCoo0eaygCLcBGAs/s1600/scariest-places-on-earth15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="620" height="170" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-19DvXAnqTzw/W-OUPifJzMI/AAAAAAAAA4M/2FhAv5su7FgWNkEjQxvJv2m3KCoo0eaygCLcBGAs/s320/scariest-places-on-earth15.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-14202801018581233112018-10-29T17:45:00.000-07:002018-10-29T17:45:49.766-07:00Sex and Drugs and Weirdness abounds with "The Johnny Depp Thing." Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes # 13One of the keys to writing is to pay attention to the world around you. And to the people you know, because they might tell you something that will trigger your imagination and lead you down the darkest paths. "The Johnny Depp Thing" was born out of a tale my friend, Michelle, told me about. The tale was pretty much a drug-addled bit o' weirdness highlighted by what she said was "these dragging sounds outside of the door." If I remember correctly, she'd gone somewhere south, perhaps even Mexico, and was hanging out with a bunch of bad folks into drugs, and there was a point in the evening when she was sitting on the floor against the door to an apartment and...those sounds happened. (I'm banking some of my recollection is off, but you get the gist.)<br />
<br />
This thought came to me, set the words loose, and the weirdness took a truly bizarre turn, what with the added element of <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000136/"><span style="color: red;">Johnny Depp</span></a>, the actor, as the focal point, an escape route, in a way, for a woman in a bad relationship. But not only is it a bad relationship, her tendency is to latch on to whatever her present boyfriend is into. So, if he's into heavy-duty drugs, well, she's along for the ride. Not strong enough to stand on her own two feet, she hitches a ride into the darkest avenues of the lost soul. Or something like that.<br />
<br />
Drugs have played a big role in a few of my tales, as well as my Bram Stoker Award nominated novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ZXRWF12/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i7"><span style="color: red;">Riding the Centipede</span></a>. I don't exactly know why, as I've done minimal drugs in my life...but as noted above, I pay attention to people, listen to their tales, and since a couple of my best friends have had considerable drug experiences, welllllll…<br />
<br />
Why Johnny Depp? Partly Michelle's fault--well, a strong element of her character insinuates the character of Erika Jonkers, our narrator of the tale. She likes Depp. She likes her bad boys--she being Michelle--so since I sculpted Erika from Michelle, he became her fantasy. Partly I just needed a male sex symbol, one who could sway her into giving all of herself...even if it means giving into something that's not quite what it seems. When you've been in abusive relationships, the illusion of something better will suffice. At least that's my thinking here.<br />
<br />
Depp, soon after I completed the tale, went off and had an [alleged or not, I don't remember specs] abusive finale to his marriage, so it kind of fit, in a weird way, with the type of man Erika goes for, though he's not even "him"--the real Johnny Depp--to be honest, haha... I mean, it's all fiction and warped out of true. She may pick bad boys, but he's not even a he, he's an it.<br />
<br />
(And did I mention Clark Gable makes an appearance, too?! You'll see...)<br />
<br />
There was a point, though, with the Depp controversy going on, that I contemplated changing the sex symbol from him to some other actor. <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000160/?ref_=nv_sr_1"><span style="color: red;">Ethan Hawke</span></a> was a momentary stand-in, but I decided to stick with Depp, baggage and all.<br />
<br />
While I was writing this tale, I was reading Scott Nicolay's excellent debut collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ana-Kai-Tangata-Damned-Doomed-ebook/dp/B00T57AEKK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1540728231&sr=1-1&keywords=ana+kai+tangata"><span style="color: red;">Ana Kai Tangata: Tales of the Outer the Other the Damned and the Doomed</span></a>. Something of his style infected the original version of this tale. As in, details abounded! The original version clocks in at 6800 words; the version in the collection ends up around 5600 words. If there's ever a Scott Nicolay tribute anthology, this tale needs to be included! Perhaps the extended version, haha...<br />
<br />
Names: Also at that time, I had discovered, via my girlfriend, a south African poet named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ingrid_Jonker"><span style="color: red;">Ingrid Jonker</span></a>. Erika's last name is almost hers, adding an "s," as you can see. A nod to a great poet...kind of...<br />
<br />
The tale is tonally the blackest of black humor, yet totally a weird tale as well. You'll see in the snippet here, as Erika leans against that door, her boyfriend, Ransom, asleep in a recliner, while the dragging sounds have stopped and something calling itself Johnny Depp expresses its desire to be her new boyfriend.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
“So you really do look like Johnny Depp?” Erika asked one more time, for triple, hell, quadruple no lie confirmation.<br />
<br />
“Spittin’ image. And Johnny wants to be your new boyfriend. Johnny wants a kiss.”<br />
<br />
“You want to be my—Oh. Oh! What the…”<br />
<br />
Erika quickly turned to Ransom, noted she hadn’t awakened him with her squeals, then turned back to the door.<br />
<br />
Glistening moistly and sliding up from the slit at the bottom of the door was what looked like a tongue. She gathered it was about as thick as her skinny wrists, but considering what it was, that was pretty damn impressive. And freaky. It stopped about twelve inches from the floor, the tip tapping the wood left and right.<br />
<br />
“I want a kiss,” the voice said from the other side of the door. Johnny Depp’s voice. Johnny Depp.<br />
<br />
Erika had never read in any gossip rags or read on the Hollywood Sleaze Underground site she frequented online about Johnny Depp’s super long tongue. She even wondered how he could talk if his tongue was hanging out like that.<br />
<br />
“I can’t… I mean…”<br />
<br />
She didn’t know what to say as she watched the tongue tap, tap, tapping, as if looking for that kiss she wasn’t sure she was up to. She couldn’t even picture putting that thing in her mouth.<br />
<br />
Erika remembered way back when she was a teenager and digging KISS before she got good taste and moved on to punk and hardcore, fantasizing about Gene Simmons’ flicking tongue while she masturbated.<br />
<br />
Christ, imagine what Johnny Depp’s super long tongue would feel like? Especially since it’s attached to him!<br />
<br />
Erika also remembered reading on the Hollywood Sleaze Underground site that Simmons had had a cow’s tongue or donkey’s tongue sewn on to the end of his, like an extension. Like she sometimes added to her short black Betty Boop do. Hair Extensions. She figured Johnny Depp had to have done this, too. No way this was real.<br />
<br />
“All real, dude,” the voice said. <br />
<br />
Again with the cool mental connection. As if their thoughts were already making love. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Also of note: In researching heroin and making up my own form of heroin-based drug for the tale, for months afterward I got spam in my email from rehab or related places, wanting to help me with my, um...issue...<br />
<br />
"The Johnny Depp Thing" is one of the four original tales included in my new collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a>, hyper-linked right there, so click on the title and go buy your copy now!<br />
Please and thank you!<br />
<br />
Here's a photo of Mr. Depp reading some <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hunter-S.-Thompson/e/B000AQ4U5U/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1540728398&sr=1-1"><span style="color: red;">Hunter S. Thompson</span></a>, before he gets into Occasional Beasts: Tales.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bz-tSiLJEJc/W9WkCZEzK6I/AAAAAAAAA34/ZV6BpUHMdj0VzFJbBSFDs0hEpoPk3GrYgCLcBGAs/s1600/famous%2Bpeople%2Breading%2B13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bz-tSiLJEJc/W9WkCZEzK6I/AAAAAAAAA34/ZV6BpUHMdj0VzFJbBSFDs0hEpoPk3GrYgCLcBGAs/s320/famous%2Bpeople%2Breading%2B13.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The final entry in my Story Notes is next. You'll meet "The Land Lord," and a whole town under his ominous influence.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-40897580086572260222018-10-22T18:08:00.000-07:002018-10-22T18:08:40.152-07:00The Sinister Power of the Alternative Translation of "Vox Terrae." Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #12<br />
The original title of this tale was "The Alternative Translation." My girlfriend is a translator, so I'm sure I was influenced by that as I wrote the tale. I'm also a fan of words being something more than words. You know this already if you've been paying attention. My novella, the title story of my mini-collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-John-Claude-Smith/dp/061597273X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1540254210&sr=8-1"><span style="color: red;">Autumn in the Abyss</span></a>, is the best example of this. Another would be my story from the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=joseph+s.+pulver&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Ajoseph+s.+pulver"><span style="color: red;">Joseph S. Pulver Sr.</span></a> edited <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36189443-walk-on-the-weird-side"><span style="color: red;">Walk on the Weird Side</span> </a>anthology, 'Eouem Chumkpaa." Yeah, say that three times fast. So, words, living things, or something else, yes, I dig that idea.<br />
<br />
Here's a snippet from the tale that leads you along that line of thinking...<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The necessity of this journey wore me down, whittled the bark off the thin branch, though not with the goal of sharpening my perceptions. No, attrition was the goal, shedding the outer shell, shedding to reveal that which lived beneath until all that remained was nothing more than memory; then dust.<br />
<br />
At the doorway, I stopped. Candles everywhere, colors richer than ever imagined—pure white heart wrapped in melting blue glass that rippled in the hemorrhaging crimson sun that devoured the room. Blackthorne stood front and center, a dark blemish, details left to my imagination. Not a good thing under the circumstances.<br />
<br />
“Language is not simply spoken.” A buzzing—flies hovering over a carcass. “You think your race dictates the rules of this world, of everything? You think you are even the dominant species of this planet? There are many layers. You don’t even know how to cross between them, as my race does, and we are low on the totem pole of this planet’s residents. Language is not simply spoken as you understand it. It is experienced in many different ways.<br />
<br />
“Would you like me to show you the alternative translation that Alicia knows so intimately, Kenneth?”<br />
<br />
I nodded weakly, the words beyond my tongue, defeated. But I needed to know.<br />
<br />
The searing light flickered, then darkness…<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
This tale might perhaps be perceived as OTT description-wise, but man, it was so much fun to write. Even as some of the sequence that follows the above sample was written years ago. I mentioned "Dandelions" was the oldest tale in the collection, but this tale contains the oldest handful of paragraphs, manipulated into shape to fit the parameters of what this tale needed. <br />
<br />
That's how writers sometimes do it, y'know? I had an old tale called, "Unveiling the Hell Machine," in which, not unlike a man opening <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Clive-Barker/e/B000APZZ00/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1540256638&sr=8-1"><span style="color: red;">Barker's</span></a> Lament Configuration, the narrator ends up in a place where torments beyond his imagination are undertaken. He ends up being devoured then shat out and remolded into something almost human. Aaaand, you're gonna love this--I should find the paper manuscript, because the version I have in a file is incomplete; the typed up version has dates and makes me wonder (wonder what, JC? Well...)--well, in the original, after the person put through hell is shat out, he eventually becomes...President of the United States!!! An evil, malignant president, with designs on annihilation of the world<br />
<br />
Prescient, eh?<br />
<br />
Fucking hell, I just remembered that was where it all ended up. I really need to pull the box out of the closet and see about the timeline. For all I know, I predicted the current abhorrent and quite dismal state of affairs, to put it mildly.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in "Vox Terrae," we hook up with Kenneth as he searches for the alternative translation of the occult tome upon which the story was eventually named (as suggested by publisher <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jordan-Krall/e/B002BMBTXW/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_3?qid=1540256773&sr=1-3"><span style="color: red;">Jordan Krall</span></a> of <a href="https://dunhamsmanor.com/"><span style="color: red;">Dunhams Manor Press</span></a>, who published the standalone chapbook in which it was featured), with his sights set on finding out the meaning as it pertains to the death by suicide of his girlfriend, who suggested the alternative translation was her modus operandi for killing herself. <br />
<br />
Oh, what a dark and sticky web of supernatural oddness I weave. <br />
<br />
It gets even weirder as he collects his old friend, who's also into exploring books and ideas that tend toward obtaining forbidden knowledge, Ivan Sangkor--a character based on a person I met while looking over the occult section in a book store...just as I wrote in the story, haha...--and they head to Northern California to speak to Lorraine Blackthorne, the woman responsible for the alternative translation.<br />
<br />
All kinds of surreal fun follows, especially within the old house she lives in. A house that never seems settled. A house that also makes a completely different appearance in a tale in final edits I'm presently writing, "Winter in the Wasteland." I don't think that will be the last time I deal with that monstrous house, either.<br />
<br />
I've said enough. There's a lot going on here and it's all rather grim when you get down to it, but an entertaining kind of grim, I hope.<br />
<br />
"Vox Terrae" can be found in my latest collection, the reason I'm even writing these Story Notes.<br />
You can buy <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a> by clicking on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a><span style="color: red;"> </span>because that will take you to the link. So do that and enjoy this tale...and the rest.<br />
<br />
Here's a picture of an old grimoire, perhaps a cousin to Vox Terrae...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RzmPgvYQiw/W85vYkSXgtI/AAAAAAAAA3k/XMWtAocceosmpu6Uz31l4kL0Tzr0IsOcgCLcBGAs/s1600/Magic-spells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="1067" height="206" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RzmPgvYQiw/W85vYkSXgtI/AAAAAAAAA3k/XMWtAocceosmpu6Uz31l4kL0Tzr0IsOcgCLcBGAs/s320/Magic-spells.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Next up, the penultimate tale in the collection, which features a guest appearance by...Johnny Depp. Kind of... </span>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-37441352416775816032018-10-11T07:17:00.001-07:002018-10-11T07:17:19.127-07:00Don't Shoot The Messenger--"Chrysalis." Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #11It starts with the bird...<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
“What in the…?”<br />
<br />
The black bird plunked down on the kitchen tiles and skidded along the floor to Regina’s feet. She turned and immediately took to standing on her tip-toes before her balance wavered and she set her heels back down on each side of the trembling creature. She shuffled to one side, the shock of the intrusion one to shake her out of the doldrums of her dreary existence.<br />
<br />
While listlessly washing the dishes, she’d once again been daydreaming about suicide as a legitimate goal in life. A goal she knew she was too weak to attain. She used to write bleak, depressive poetry, which might seem a cliché many maudlin young girls on the cusp of womanhood undertake, but her aspirations and talent were obvious. A few years later, as Regina had begun to make a name for herself, the weight of her dead whale marriage crushed her Muse. She allowed real misery to derail her burgeoning writing career before it truly got off the ground. It sank without a struggle, an anchor tied to the ankle of promise.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
...and immediately puts you in Regina's misery-laden world. But it didn't always end up at Regina's feet. She may have been the original focal point, but I went through stages, attempting to find another protag (who knows why, I don't; before I knew who she was, she was perhaps too "normal") and a reason for this bird to come crashing through a window. Another version had a junkie living in an abandoned building, but I ended up coming back to Regina.<br />
<br />
Regina? Even though I like her here, I took the name from the girlfriend of one of my best friend's when I was 8-9 years old who told him he couldn't hang out with me and another of my friends because we weren't cool. Here name was Regina, and that stuck with me. She may have been right, we may not have been cool, but when you're an awkward, shy kid, being cool doesn't matter. Survival without embarrassing yourself in front of the other kids did.<br />
<br />
Anyway, with this tale, the bird crashing through the window was the key in unlocking part of a quirky poem Regina is meant to know. Other messengers, some inanimate, come along to give her other pieces of the poem. She learns in the process, the poem is something more than simply words, it's a means to an end.<br />
<br />
As my friend Marco Cinque, Italian poet extraordinaire once said, "Words are living things." I believe this, in my own writerly way. I also used this as the opening epigraph for the title story to my collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Abyss-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B00IQKD9TU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1539266962&sr=8-1&keywords=autumn+in+the+abyss"><span style="color: red;">Autumn in the Abyss</span></a>. <br />
<br />
The words as living things in this tale inspire transformation which, if you've been paying attention, is one of my favorite subjects. You can read more about it and other worthy writing stuff, as well as more about the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">new collection</span></a> in my <a href="http://hellnotes.com/interview-with-john-claude-smith-author-of-occasional-beasts-tales/"><span style="color: red;">Hellnotes interview</span></a>.<br />
<br />
Another amusing tidbit. As the story unfolded--and often, as I am writing tales--some of what's going on around me made it into the tale. In this case, my girlfriend had either submitted a poem to, or mentioned, an online magazine called, Menacing Hedge. I mentioned liking that title, so decided to...borrow it, as you can read here.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
She could make out the outline of the menacing hedge that rimmed the lower portion of the window; menacing because it seemed more a moat around a castle, filled with sleek, razer-fanged serpents that did not allow her to step any further than the front porch. Excursions beyond were always accompanied by Derek, except for grocery shopping, which he hated. He timed those brief outings, limiting her freedom, which she knew was only an illusion. She was never free. The sinister king, the sadistic ruler of this dismal empire, made sure of this.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
It may all seem bleak, hell, those samples confirm it is, but it ends up in a place of absolute bliss. This was not totally of my doing. Sure, what I had originally set down was a positive outcome for Regina, but it was more subtle. When I submitted the story to Scott Dwyer for the excellent <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Phantasm-Chimera-Anthology-Strange-Troubling/dp/0692915753/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1539266274&sr=8-1&keywords=phantasm%2Fchimera"><span style="color: red;">Phantasm/Chimera: An Anthology of Strange and Troubling Dreams</span></a>, he said he wanted something more. Something to really sink one's teeth into. I gave him what he wanted and what I should have known from the beginning, because it really gave the story the proper finale. You'll just have to read it to see for yourself.<br />
<br />
Where can you read it? In <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">Occasional Beasts: Tales</span></a>, my new collection. Please do! Let me know what you think of it. Order your copy at the link above or right <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a>. Mwah!<br />
<br />
Here's a piece of cool bird art. I bet those birds have many messages to spread around the world, eh? All except who the artist for the piece is, though it looks as though it was the cover for an album by a band called The Gloaming. Anyway, I like it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-czmD8XTEFKs/W79WaBPoVCI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/9Yvr3qiWJQAlujMnAmX7CsWKAIYuqKPcgCLcBGAs/s1600/art-bird-black-and-white-cage-Favim.com-683770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="437" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-czmD8XTEFKs/W79WaBPoVCI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/9Yvr3qiWJQAlujMnAmX7CsWKAIYuqKPcgCLcBGAs/s320/art-bird-black-and-white-cage-Favim.com-683770.jpg" width="279" /></a></div>
<br />
Up next: the alternative translation of a rare book leads a man to a strange house, to find his lost love, who may or may not be dead. What the...? You'll find out in "Vox Terrae."John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-70088445001837396272018-10-04T07:53:00.000-07:002018-10-04T07:53:26.935-07:00Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder--"Beautiful." Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #10"We are beautiful.<br />
<br />
We of nine limbs and three pleasant smiles. We, with we one great silver eye and many large breasts. We, one of a kind and special because of it.<br />
<br />
We are beautiful."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Sometimes, a sentence teases you into taking a writing trip that's so bizarre, you STILL don't know what to make of it. So goes "Beautiful," whose lines above came to me out of nowhere, the writer just scribbling whatever comes up, but along with those lines, the voice was clear. Crystal clear, though the voice itself, of our narrator, Belladonna, is anything but "clear." What I mean is, there's a distinct rough edge, one shaped by defiance and gargled stones and an understanding about one's self that's outside of the norm, because the norm has never been a part of Belladonna's life, that somehow came along with the sentences.<br />
<br />
But what to do with it. Really, what could I do with that opening?<br />
<br />
Embrace it. So I did. Here's what follows, the distinction of voice in full force:<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
They, male they and female they, sit across from we, ugly in they gray and navy-blue fabric, ashamed of they naked flesh. We understand they shame, though. Two arms, two legs, two eyes, two of they, everything so uniform. Just like all the rest of they.<br />
<br />
Not special like we.<br />
<br />
Granmama made we clothing before we born, sewed shirts and pants, but we did not fit those clothes. We are different. Special. Granmama still made clothing, for hobby, in Granmama’s sewing room. But we always naked to show off we beautiful we.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The tale was work. Keeping that tone, that voice in line, was not an easy task. Especially as Microsoft Word Office was screaming at me with red squiggly lines throughout the text. Didn't matter. I had to lock in and do the work, especially in keeping the regular pronouns at bay, and keeping it all consistent. I enjoy pushing myself, forcing myself to stretch, and experimenting as well. "Beautiful" was not easy in any way, but it was worth it. I learned a lot about writing in creating this one.<br />
<br />
Also: if you've been paying attention, you will have realized a lot of the tales in Occasional Beasts: Tales are from the female perspective and/or the perspective one would qualify as "other." (9 of 14, to be precise.) Though I am a middle-aged white male, I would be bored if all the characters in my tales originated from within that already battered box, or were related to it in some way. Hence, a love of slipping into the skin of diverse characters and hopefully doing them justice.<br />
<br />
Also of note: toward the end, the Frankenstein element (perhaps), a kind of inverted, self-mutilation into self-revelation into true self, was something I don't remember seeing until I got there. Part of the fun of writing, as noted before, is not knowing where it's all going to end, and being pleasantly surprised by the results.<br />
<br />
Another also: Transformation. I recently did an in-depth --> <a href="http://hellnotes.com/interview-with-john-claude-smith-author-of-occasional-beasts-tales/">Interview</a> <-- over at Hellnotes, and we touched on transformation, and how transformation is a key element within a lot of my stories. Transformation is here...and as usual, it's not from a well-worn perspective that transformation takes hold. Read the interview for more about that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Beautiful" is my most reprinted tale to date. I remember when it first sold, Fossil Lake anthology editor <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Christine-Morgan/e/B001K8FJ0C/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1538658196&sr=8-2">Christine Morgan's</a> reaction was (and I paraphrase): "I can't believe somebody sent this tale to me, something this good." Well, that's close, the specs, I don't think I saved them, haha... Then, in a reprint form, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/T.E.-Grau/e/B00DQDZV34/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1538658336&sr=1-1">Ted E. Grau</a>, editing Strange Eons, initially noted how striking the tale was, but didn't accept it for reprint because he needed more words. About a year later, for a special all-fiction issue of Strange Eons, I got the email from Grau, the tale having stuck with him, so he asked me if I would let him publish it in that issue. I, of course, said of course! It has appeared most recently in the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strange-Behaviors-Anthology-Absolute-Luridity/dp/1983985287/ref=sr_1_14?ie=UTF8&qid=1538658852&sr=8-14&keywords=strange+behaviours">Strange Behaviors: An Anthology of Absolute Luridity</a> from NihilismRevisited.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a> is out in the wild and romping around, awaiting your perusal. P<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">urchase your copy today</a>. Read it, review it, rank it, love it, be disturbed my it, but go...<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Buy. Now</a>! It loves you. Love it back.<br />
;-)<br />
<br />
Here's a photo from the popular Twilight Zone episode, Eye of the Beholder. I expect these folks understand a lot about how Belladonna feels.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mYI--2Di3to/W7YXxAZi_HI/AAAAAAAAA28/zB1EF9CGjxMVZaEwFOSr44-lKXr_yPmCgCLcBGAs/s1600/31035966131_1c3b3d7d88_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="1024" height="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mYI--2Di3to/W7YXxAZi_HI/AAAAAAAAA28/zB1EF9CGjxMVZaEwFOSr44-lKXr_yPmCgCLcBGAs/s320/31035966131_1c3b3d7d88_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Next up, strange messages from even stranger messengers: "Chrysalis."<br />
<br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-90245600340047952332018-09-26T12:23:00.001-07:002018-09-27T06:20:02.716-07:00Bluebeard & Lovecraft = "I Am..." Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #9First of all, took a slight break to get <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales </a>out into the wild.<br />
Yes, you can order <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">your copy</a> Now!<br />
<br />
Now, let's get back to the story notes blog posts.<br />
<br />
I'd gotten an invitation to write a tale for an anthology dealing with a Lovecraftian spin on fairy tales called, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mythos-Grimmly-Morgan-Griffith-ebook/dp/B015NOFF0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1537968334&sr=8-1&keywords=a+mythos+grimmly">A Mythos Grimmly</a>. The fantastic weird fiction writer, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Joseph-S.-Pulver-Sr./e/B002U41JRC/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1537968565&sr=1-2-ent">Joseph S. Pulver Sr.</a>, had suggested me to the editor/publisher, opening the door.<br />
<br />
With the invite at hand, I had to pick a fairy tale to mesh with something Lovecraftian. Since they didn't want overlapping fairy tales, and the list was already getting filled up, I mentioned this to my girlfriend, Alessandra, and she immediately said, "Bluebeard." I was like--what? She explained the plot, I researched it further, and knew that, yes, "Bluebeard" would be the fairy tale I would use to construct my tale. I knew I would modernize it, but the foundation would be derived from that fairy tale.<br />
<br />
The only problem was, I could not figure out how exactly to weave these elements together. I mulled over if for a while. I had received the invite while in Rome; I didn't get to it until later in the year. The idea for how to shape the tale came to me on one of my walks from the house in which I rent a room to the Quik Stop, as I am wont to do, a little fresh air, perhaps pick up a bite next door at the pizza place on one side or the donut shop on the other. I remember walking away from there, back to my room...when an image hit me like a sledgehammer.<br />
<br />
The image was so harrowing I, a horror writer, pushed it away. It was too harsh, too grotesque, too cruel an image. What was it? It was a graphic depiction of somebody pouring gasoline on a woman's face...and setting it on fire. I tried to push this horrific image away, but it persisted...until I got toward the house and the room...and something was taking shape.<br />
<br />
Yes, out of the ashes of something that made me truly uncomfortable, the tale rose up like a Phoenix, forcing me to look at it, forcing me to use it. Why? Because it was a gift, in a way, charred and skin-curling and all, and it was the trigger that sent the tale along its path.<br />
<br />
Here's that opening sequence, the aftermath of the attack:<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
I am…<br />
<br />
Waking in fire.<br />
<br />
I feel eternally in flame.<br />
<br />
My breath rises from singed lungs, climbing my esophagus, exiting in clipped bleats from a throat scarred by smoke. I feel I am gagging just to breathe. I feel I am drowning in fire.<br />
<br />
I am drowning in fire.<br />
<br />
Somebody says, “Calm down, Miss. Calm down. I’ll get the doctor.”<br />
<br />
I am in a hospital. As my eyelids flutter open, my vision is blurred, though the room is dark. Perhaps my perception is skewed by the darkness; a cloying, pervasive darkness. Yet, I sense I’ve not used my eyes in a while.<br />
<br />
How long? I do not know.<br />
<br />
The skin of my face and neck sings a song of severe distress. My brain takes the flood of input and swerves toward shutting down, but I stall it. I hold my breath and stall everything. Though my nerve endings attempt to scatter, seek refuge in the internal sanctuary of blood, viscera, and possibly soul, it is to no avail. This song must be endured. This pain. This experience.<br />
<br />
Even with the chorus rising up in chattering, masticating timbres, gleefully gnawing on the chaos-filled realm of gray matter that is my brain, my mind—these spiraling, absurd thoughts—I am able to raise my left hand to my face, to feel the soft, coarse texture. Gauze, not skin.<br />
<br />
Then, I remember:<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Well, whatever she remembers, you'll have to read the tale to find out. You'll also have to read the tale to see how something Lovecraftian fits into the mix.<br />
<br />
Here's a hint, but it doesn't tell you nearly enough. Yes, that's one take on the Necronomicon. I've got another one for you. But for now, yes, this one's pretty cool. I believe it was created by Richard A Poppe.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uvp1cw2dpVU/W6vboYWcw9I/AAAAAAAAA2k/ln7RswCdEl8DgTegDb8LAAhLHmuuubegwCLcBGAs/s1600/necronomicon-by-richard-a-poppe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uvp1cw2dpVU/W6vboYWcw9I/AAAAAAAAA2k/ln7RswCdEl8DgTegDb8LAAhLHmuuubegwCLcBGAs/s320/necronomicon-by-richard-a-poppe.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Remember: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a> is out now and I consider it perhaps my finest book to date. A variety of weird horrors await. Don't keep them waiting, they'll get agitated, and then, hell, they may show up at your door when you least expect them and...<br />
<br />
It won't be pretty.<br />
<br />
Invite them in.<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"> Purchase your copy now!</a><br />
Thanks!<br />
<br />
Up next, beauty is in the eye of the beholder in one of the strangest tales you'll ever read, "Beautiful."John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-39089889994238564662018-09-15T10:13:00.000-07:002018-09-17T23:00:41.467-07:00Depeche Mode, Joe R. Lansdale, A Stroll in Rome = Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #8: "Personal Jesus"That's quite a mouthful, eh? And it's all here!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Where do you get your ideas? Stories come together in the
strangest ways. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alessandra and I were walking along the trail to view the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.gardenvisit.com/gardens/ninfeo_di_egeria">Ninfeo di Egeria</a></i> here in Rome, which I described
in my tale, “Slorp” as follows: “At the end of the path, after a long trek, we
walk on an iron grate and view the ruins of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninfeo di Egeria</i>, our destination.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>There’s not a lot to the place, though the pond blanketed with dense
green algae that spreads to the stones and plant life at its rim draws our
attention.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>We stand at a distance, as
the swamp ground is not a Welcome mat allowing further exploration.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Yes, that means two tales have been inspired by our walks to
those ruins. The second one is the subject of this blog post, “Personal Jesus.”
You already knew that, though. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">During the summer of 2017, we were again taking a stroll along
that path when we noticed a surreal farmyard scene playing out to our left. A
menagerie of animals were present, full of every farm animal you could imagine,
and many of them were odd, some seeming oversized, but odd no matter what. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And there was a sound coming from behind the closed doors of
a large building. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As we stood there, it came to me what the sound was: music.
It was loud, distorted to the point of eye-crossing if one was to stand to
close to it, but we were on the other side of the fence, standing at a distance, when I realized what the song was: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1xrNaTO1bI">Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus.”</a> Yes, standing on a trail in Rome, emanating from within a large building,
Depeche Mode were cranked to ear-bleeding…and a tall, curious looking fella who
looked as though the last thing in the world he’d listen to was Depeche Mode was
tending to the animals. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Perhaps the music wasn’t for him. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A story started to stir, but I wasn’t sure how this would
come together yet. I mentioned my burgeoning story idea to Alessandra, as I often
do, and she said to me something out of left field, about my Joe R. Lansdale story. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Why did she mention this, I have no idea; she has no
idea.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But that was all I needed to give
the situation direction; the situation being the tale spinning crazily, yes,
crazily(!!!!) In my head. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Joe R. Lansdale story is not one I wrote, it’s one I
experienced. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">During February of 2002, I had reached critical mass for my
flailing sanity and needed a break from everything. My personal life was a
disaster. I’d decided I needed to get away from everything—probably me just
wanting to run away, y’know, instead of dealing with the mess; no, this was not
my best moment, but there wasn’t a whole lot I could do, anyway, or so it
seemed at the time. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I went on a three-week road trip through the southwest with
the intent of salvaging my mind and getting my focus back. I needed to breathe
again. I started in early February with my girlfriend at the time in tow. As we made it to east Texas
and approached Nacogdoches, I remembered <a href="http://www.joerlansdale.com/">Joe R. Lansdale</a> lived there, and
thought we should say Hi, in a way. We went to a phone booth and, um…borrowed
the page with his address on it and headed out to drop a letter in his mailbox,
letting him know how much we loved his writing. Lansdale’s always been one of
my faves! We did this, found his house, set back from the road, and
there it was. A mailbox awaited out trespass or, well, at least it was there so
we could drop the note in it and be on our way. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">(Other
elements of this road trip have made it into my fiction: There’s a sequence in
my novel, </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ZXRWF12/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i10" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #0066cc; font-family: &quot; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Riding the Centipede</a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">, that takes place in Roswell, New Mexico, that
was derived from my time passing through there.)</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A funny connective aside: I’d told Alessandra this story at
some point and she remembered it when Lansdale did a reading in Rome. She
bought one of his books and told him the story. He told her he remembered the
note and that we should have walked up and knocked on the door and said Hello. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Damn!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Just damn, haha…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Annnnyway, so there you have the pieces being tossed in the
mental mixer that eventually took shape in “Personal Jesus.” Also added to the
mix was the title of one of the characters--la dea maiale, swino divino. More on her in a second.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Where do we as writers get out stories? In the case of out
lead characters, Harmon and Cliff, who decided to divert their road trip to
drop by and do as I had done on my road trip and visit a famous horror writer
by the name of, ahem, “Joseph G. for Gore, motherfucker, Brakeland,” they found
out more than they could have imagined. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s a bit from their predicament that hints at what la
dea maiale, swino divino, is…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">*** </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>He wasn’t sure
this was a possibility, what with a madman who both he and Cliff praised to
friends and each other for years as a writer of the grittiest, goriest horror,
holding them hostage, while the answer to a question he did not care to know
hung like a guillotine about to drop and completely sever Cliff and him from
reality.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where do you get your stories, Mr.
Brakeland?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>What had his
response been in the interview with an Italian horror magazine he’d watched on
You Tube?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>What had he said?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Something absurd…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“La dea
maiale.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Swino divino,” he answered to
the Italian interviewer.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“The pig
goddess. The divine swine.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She shits out
the stories, I mold the shit into shape.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Write stories about those creatures.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Simple as that.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The interviewer,
bouncing between Brakeland’s limited Italian and the English translated into
Italian, guffawed after the interpreter had completed the translation.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“Where do I get
my stories?”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Brakeland asked.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But Harmon
already knew, as the back half of the huge building lit up, and Cliff
screamed.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">*** </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There are also fictional story titles in the tale as Harmon and Cliff recall some of Brakeland's best tales. I’ve
contemplated writing the stories to go with them, as they have teasers about
what they would be about, as a Joseph G. Brakeland collection, though perhaps
an anthology with contributions from other writers would be cool, too. What? Either
way, it's fun speculation, and that's what we writers do. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hope you’ve enjoyed this installment, it was a lot of fun
for me, too. Where do our stories come from? Our twisted minds!<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a> is out Monday. Yes, Monday, September 17. The
link here for digital should include the print version at that time as well.
Though you can order the print directly from my fabuloous exc publisher, <a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/">OmniumGatherum</a>, if you want. Just…do it! <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/new-page-3"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Print </span><span style="font-family: "wingdings"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">ß</span></span></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Digital </span><span style="font-family: "wingdings"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">ß</span></span></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith/dp/1949054004/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1537250266&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Print again</a> (On Amazon)</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s Depeche Mode looking at lot like they should be
working at the ranch house in the tale. SEE HOW IT ALL MAKES SENSE!!<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span> </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cylkm1hVbzY/W503r6eWV3I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/1e8bKtc4QIonT02jJmC18rDj9UTtNFEigCLcBGAs/s1600/tumblr_lyipdaH7d91qb0vb5o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="500" height="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cylkm1hVbzY/W503r6eWV3I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/1e8bKtc4QIonT02jJmC18rDj9UTtNFEigCLcBGAs/s320/tumblr_lyipdaH7d91qb0vb5o1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next up, a three-pack, perhaps one at a time or separately,
not sure yet, but hey, the lead tale will be “I Am…” </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-6945773103564284672018-09-10T06:56:00.001-07:002018-09-10T06:56:24.196-07:00Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #7: "This Darkness..."<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Based On A Real…Incident…?!! </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Well, yes, the idea stems from a midnight jaunt up a
mountain outside of Portland, Oregon. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Let me step back and set you up properly. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I lived in Portland, Oregon from mid-2002 to October of
2005. Life had gone completely off the rails beforehand. I only ended up there
because my ex-wife—though we may not have officially been divorced at the time
(long story, don’t ask, haha; for all I know it may end up in a story at some
point, so you can find out then)—had moved with my son up to a small town in southern
Washington, to live near her sister. Portland was across the Columbia Gorge
from where they lived, and no matter our losing our way, I needed to be near my
son, to be a part of his life…through all the madness that led us all to this
point. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Things settled down, I made Portland my home. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">One evening, my girlfriend and best friend up there and
myself decided to drive up to the top of one of the mountains east of Portland;
can’t remember which one, I want to say Larch mountain, but think that’s
probably not correct. We drove up late one night to the top, where the asphalt
ended in a parking lot which we could barely see the lines to distinguish
parking places…as if it mattered. We were alone, and it was dark. Places where only
the lights of nature intrude—the stars, the moon, the red eyes of demons—change
the way one sees and feels things. It’s a different world. It’s almost
oppressive, suffocating in a way. We hung out briefly, wandered around, feeling
instantly lost once we exited the car, as we could barely see a foot in front
of us once we moved away from it; I honestly don’t remember if I turned the
lights off while stopped, but no matter with what followed... </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Just as we left the parking lot, heading on our way down, I
turned the lights off. We hung there for a few moments in a darkness that felt
as though it might crush the car, and us within it. A truly harrowing sensation.
The real surprise, though, was when I turned on the lights…and a bear was
running in the road in front of us, caught in the lights and leaping off the
road and into the forest. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We freaked out. It amped the harrowing sensation brought on by
the darkness to a point where, I’m sure, each one of us had adrenaline pumping in
overdrive through our bodies. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remembered the incident and knew it would somehow take
shape in a tale. I think it surprised me that the bear, or at least a bear-like
creature, also made it into the tale. This one’s subtly cosmic when it gets to
the creature. The darkness, “This Darkness…” insists Susie, our main character,
walk on by the beast, if she has any ideas on surviving the ordeal she’s
already witnessed so far. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Shall we walk along with her?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">***</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Susie expected
animal musk, the gamey scent of the wild, the stink of nature’s bloody
victory.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>What she got was beyond
comprehension.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>What she saw was a
silhouette, a misplaced shadow--something undefined—perhaps just a black <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shape</i> from which freezing waves from the
wasteland of its being emanated.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>With a
slight twitch of her head she glanced closer at the beast, into an immeasurable
cosmic gulf littered with shards of bone and constellations cognizant of her
trespass as the beast, this thing, an emissary from this darkness, wailed into
the starless sky.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was the roar of
planets being birthed; it was the keen of suns going supernova; it was the
alpha and omega of eternity; it was infinite yet steeped in the here and now. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">*** </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There’s a lot going on in this tale about the choices we
make in life. There’s also the darkness, “This Darkness…” which is given a
voice. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"This Darkness..." originally appeared in the Crystal Lake Publishing anthology, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Night-Dark-Jeremy-C-Shipp-ebook/dp/B00C3OGT06/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1536566712&sr=8-1&keywords=for+the+night+is+dark">For the Night is Dark</a>. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I type this, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Occasional Beasts: Tales</a> is one week away
from being published! </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s time you pre-ordered a copy, don’tchathink? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "segoe ui emoji" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">😉</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/new-page-3">Print </a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Digital</a> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s some cool art that works for the tale, in a way.
Because, y’know, the creature in the tale is not a bear, it’s something more…cosmic
and horrific, but it relates to a bear. This art is from a game called Shadow
of the Colossus. I do not know who made the art, but I like it. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--JQKNB-o1hE/W5Z3glHlYcI/AAAAAAAAA18/vhWpLni-pr4Y419rSee3Rkvf6QTBNjhPwCLcBGAs/s1600/Godlike-Monster-Art-Bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--JQKNB-o1hE/W5Z3glHlYcI/AAAAAAAAA18/vhWpLni-pr4Y419rSee3Rkvf6QTBNjhPwCLcBGAs/s320/Godlike-Monster-Art-Bear.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next up, the age-old question of where writers get their
ideas gets answered in a grim and quite unexpected manner, as we meet our “Personal
Jesus.” </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-50260598108698566682018-09-07T06:44:00.000-07:002018-09-07T06:51:20.298-07:00Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #6: "The Occasional Beast That Is Her Soul"<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I was trying to figure out what to call the new
collection, there were many variations of [something] Monster and [something]
Beasts, and some related creatures, finally realizing I had a tale with a good
name for the collection but didn’t want a tale to be designated that way. So, I
simply took the part I needed…and there you go. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But that tells you nothing of the tale. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It originated as response to a blog post by writer Zoe
Whitten dealing with shapeshifters. She detailed all aspects of her spin on
shapeshifters, which I found utterly fascinating, and made a lot of sense to me.
As I dwelled on her observations, I also realized I wanted to dip my quill into
a tale dealing with shapeshifters, perhaps not in as an intense a manner, but
still… <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Shapeshifters fascinated me already—transformation being a
major theme in my work, even if not directly stated as a shapeshifter—so I
thought it a good idea to explore deeper. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This inspired not one, but two tales as a response. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The first tale I wrote with this element is called, <a href="http://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2011/07/blood-echo-symphonies.html">“Blood Echo Symphonies,”</a> written as a nod to a writer whose work I’ve enjoyed, yet
only I know this, and you probably cannot tell by reading the tale who the
writer is. The tale is kind of word-heavy, full of poetic nips and tucks, and works as
a curious, futuristic exploration of eternal love. This might not be evident
until the end of the tale, as the core deals with a band, a club, and the
all-around ambience of that world just around the corner, but love, yes love, is what drove the tale. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The second tale, written right after it, was “The Occasional
Beast that is Her Soul.” Also set in a future world, this was to be my attempt
at something steampunk, believe it or not. I used only the trimmings, as I did
not want to lose the gist of what was the tale’s heart, which was more about
love (again)</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, yet from the angle of one not understanding what happens to
herself in situations of love, how her body turns on her. By the end of the
tale, she realizes perhaps what she needs from love has nothing to do with one-on-one intimacy, but something much larger and profound. Have I said too much? Well, you
can see for yourself when you read the tale. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ellen Datlow does an honorary mentions listing online for
tales she finds worthy each year, in accordance with her Best Horror of the
Year anthologies. “The Occasional Beast that is Her Soul” was my first mention
on the list. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s the opening sequence: </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">***</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Tonight she
wished for wings.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Thea at the
window, wishing for something more than the wayward enticements of this earth,
or the fickle fantasies that roosted glumly in the minds of her potential
partners.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Tonight there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> be wings…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was not the
first time Thea had nurtured this thought.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>With the malleable condition of her body as shaped by the emotional
resonance within her psyche, wings would be a much better transmutation than
what has transpired so far; than what she always has become: a beast of ill
intent...</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Talons to tear into the meat of her lover</i>.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Pincers to pluck out the cooling gray
matter from the bowl of the cranium she had cracked as one would an egg, red
runny yolk staining the carpet</i>.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Wings would be
her only means of escape this evening, the dizzying height demanding something
different.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Always running from
something, maybe flight would bring her freedom.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But wings had failed her before, bony stubs
along the parchment expanse of flesh so thin the wind tore from them the
ability to glide along the invisible ether byways above everything.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>They would have
to be strong wings, she thought, then frowned, a shifting of flesh with which
she had actual control. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Because her
control was as much driven by shock and panic as by wish-fulfillment.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Shock and panic and the wayward imagination
of her lovers, as muddled by that which resided within her... </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She had rarely
become something more than the occasional beast that is her soul.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">***</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Occasional Beasts: Tales, will be published in less than two
weeks! Pre-order your copy now! </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/new-page-3">Print</a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Digital</a></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">(The Print will be available on Amazon and elsewhere soon; the book will be published on the 17th of this month, so by then, for sure!) </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The Occasional Beast That Is Her Soul” was initially
published in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/White-Cat-Magazine-Issue-6-ebook/dp/B00AFEOF5W/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1536316631&sr=1-2&keywords=white+cat+magazine">White Cat</a> magazine, and reprinted in the anthology, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N20NV6Q/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1">Street Magick:Tales of Urban Fantasy</a>.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s the cover art for the latter.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lxJeYB6c2bA/W5JbjIEROKI/AAAAAAAAA1o/gnNrNd6RQictMtMUs80wpkCssWyMstDNwCLcBGAs/s1600/51UbLX2F0lL._SX340_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="342" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lxJeYB6c2bA/W5JbjIEROKI/AAAAAAAAA1o/gnNrNd6RQictMtMUs80wpkCssWyMstDNwCLcBGAs/s320/51UbLX2F0lL._SX340_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The next Story Notes blog post will reveal what I really found in “This
Darkness.”</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-66018767546884617612018-08-31T08:05:00.000-07:002018-08-31T08:06:16.140-07:00Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #5: "The Cooing"You're going to like this one. Well, I hope you've enjoyed the previous Story Notes posts, of course...but I'm giving you something extra with this one. Something special! ;-)<br />
<br />
"The Cooing" is the shortest tale in the collection. The idea came to me...while Alessandra and I were on vacation a few years ago, somewhere in the middle of Italy. We were wandering around, as we do, and I heard a bird. A bird that did not sound well. I mentioned this out loud. I heard it again. It was a strange, uneasy sound.<br />
<br />
As you know, sometimes, that's all it takes.<br />
<br />
A couple, Magdalene and Sam (Samantha), end up in the middle of nowhere, investigating an abandoned house. Sam is a photographer and finds the desolation fits her mindset, while all Magdalene wants is to get away from the place. Weird bird sounds commence. Things turn ugly. Oddly enough, as I wrote this one, perhaps swayed by the title, I thought of it as a very British horror tale...yet it takes place in the southwest of America.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Also of note: the Alberto Savinio quote you'll find in the sample(s) below was something Alessandra pointed in my direction when I was writing the tale. It fit perfectly with both the tale and Magdalene's mental state, so I had to use it somehow. I love how it snuck into the finale. </span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
When the tale was accepted for publication by CM Muller for the debut issue of his excellent anthology series, <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Nightscript-1-Kristi-DeMeester-ebook/dp/B015BP04BI/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1535720205&sr=8-3&keywords=nightscript">Nightscript</a>, he wanted me to tone down the ending a bit, give it more subtlety; pretty much, to lose a paragraph that went further than he liked. I took his suggestion and made the change, which I really liked. That said, I held onto the file with the original, extended and more gruesome ending, which I will present to you here.<br />
<br />
I will post the published version first, and the original second, for comparison.<br />
<br />
The published ending:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Sam gasped, breath released, surrender at hand.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Her legs gave out as she stumbled backwards,
landing hard on the wooden chair at the head of the table.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Magdalene started to whimper as a passage from one of her favorite
books, Alberto Savinio’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lives of the
Gods</i>, flashed within the dimming light of her thoughts: “Don’t judge me by
what you see now; I don’t take care of myself, my sufferings have sharpened my
beak, and I do nothing but laugh.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She
pulled her legs even closer, a taut, trembling ball, and tried to make herself
smaller.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Tried to disappear.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>“Coo, coo,” it said, a throaty, ugly sound--wrong as Magdalene had
suggested; as she had known--as it stepped into the room…</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
And the extended, more gruesome version:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Sam gasped, breath released, surrender at hand.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Her legs gave out as she stumbled backwards,
landing hard on the wooden chair at the head of the table.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Magdalene started to whimper as a passage from one of her favorite
books, Alberto Savinio’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lives of the
Gods</i>, flashed within the dimming light of her thoughts: “Don’t judge me by
what you see now; I don’t take care of myself, my sufferings have sharpened my
beak, and I do nothing but laugh.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She
pulled her legs even closer, a taut, trembling ball, and tried to make herself
smaller.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Tried to disappear.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>As shocking as the figure was, though, the matter of appearance took the
back seat to what it held in its peeled flesh, bony fingers made to look like
talons.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In its right hand, hair clumped
in the fist as three recently severed heads dangled limply.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In its left hand it gripped the severing
weapon, a huge knife still dripping blood to the wooden floor.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>“Coo, coo,” it said, a throaty, ugly sound--wrong as Magdalene had
suggested; as she had known--as it stepped into the room, raising the left
hand, intent on adding to its collection.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
Y'know, I could go either way with which one works best, haha...<br />
<br />
Occasional Beasts: Tales will be published in less than three weeks. Here's the pre-order info. Order up. Please and thank you!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/new-page-3">Print</a> <--via Omnium Gatherum<br />
&<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">Digital <-- <span style="color: black;">via Amazon</span></a><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
PS. Yes, the print version will eventually make it to Amazon.<br />
<br />
Here's a surreal piece of strange bird art courtesy of Savinio…<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--2p_6_fIK5k/W4lXYpl9HHI/AAAAAAAAA1U/n9iMn1li9msdIQHHGKSYHQBVWwrkHG7aQCLcBGAs/s1600/Alberto-Savinio-En-visite-detail-1930-555x312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="555" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--2p_6_fIK5k/W4lXYpl9HHI/AAAAAAAAA1U/n9iMn1li9msdIQHHGKSYHQBVWwrkHG7aQCLcBGAs/s320/Alberto-Savinio-En-visite-detail-1930-555x312.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Next, we have a tale of transformation, "The Occasional Beast that is Her Soul." Actually, many of these tales contain an element of transformation... Hmmm...<br />
<br />
<br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6294216781256377195.post-88400886530425015232018-08-25T09:56:00.000-07:002018-08-25T09:56:30.131-07:00Occasional Beasts: Tales, Story Notes #4: "Dandelions""Dandelions," at least in its original version, is the oldest tale in this collection. Of course, as with most tales, that original version resides in the rearview mirror and is long forgotten.<br />
<br />
I remember a writer with whom I had a regular email correspondence with in the early 2000s, before he passed away--we'd exchange tales, give feedback; I remember perhaps eighty percent of his tales ended with him having his penis bit off by some evil woman/monster, so he had some damn streamlined focus with the subject, ahem--noted after reading the original version of "Dandelions" around, say, 2004-5, he thought the ending was the most poetic and bleak thing he'd ever read. Of course, when coming from a fella obsessed with penis-eating female monsters, one might question the validity of such a statement. But I had similar responses from most all beta readers--the few over the years--so I knew there was, perhaps, something that worked there. At least I held on to that with all the revisions this one went through.<br />
<br />
Anyway and whatever.<br />
<br />
Around 2009-10, the story was accepted for a new, pro-paying magazine, they were going to build their debut issue around it! This was wonderful news...while it lasted. The magazine never made it off the ground, but in their comments upon acceptance, they said, "You do know, the tale starts on page 4." It wasn't a question, it was a fact, something I immediately took to heart and revised to move the story forward in a quicker manner. (Seems "moving forward" in one form or another is the theme of this blog post...)<br />
<br />
More revisions followed as I was put in touch with Jordan Krall, who publishes books and, in this case, chapbooks, as <a href="http://dynatox.storenvy.com/">Dynatox Ministries/Dunhams Manor</a>. "Dandelions" was published by Dunhams Manor a few years ago, after even more tweaks, of course. <br />
<br />
Though I can be quite graphic/loud/extreme with my fiction at times, "Dandelions" was purposefully subtle and strongly Weird.<br />
<br />
The tale involves two couples taking a coastal drive, destination unknown, as a break from the technology-cluttered world they lived in. They end up at a curious hotel just off the beach, near a mysterious field of dandelions. The folks running the hotel radiate oddness in indescribable ways. The whole ambience of the hotel seems steeped in some liminal space, as if...well, you'll have to see.<br />
<br />
Here's a snippet from one of the early reviews of Occasional Beasts: Tales, courtesy of Char's Horror Corner:<br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">DANDELIONS: There was something about this story that put me in mind of Shirley Jackson. Maybe it was the feeling of the characters that something was wrong with the geometry in the hotel in which they stopped for the night? Other than that portion though, I doubt Ms. Jackson would have recognized the warped reality to which Mr. Smith delivered us, kicking and screaming. Bravo!</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
A cool reference, a great <a href="http://charlene.booklikes.com/post/1785425/occasional-beasts-tales-by-john-claude-smith">review</a>!<br />
<br />
Pre-order the digital version of Occasional Beasts: Tales <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Occasional-Beasts-John-Claude-Smith-ebook/dp/B07DZ6X8C5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529925838&sr=8-1&keywords=occasional+beasts%3A+tales">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
Or the print version <a href="http://www.omniumgatherumbooks.com/new-page-3">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
But please, do pre-order it! The book will be published in less than a month!<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's the cover art done by Krall for the out-of-print chapbook. Dig it. I do!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CJQxn8Oj2zU/W4GHo7aRSgI/AAAAAAAAA1A/F4VAKN3KpEUQy6kqRDVRJvFmNttqEYemgCLcBGAs/s1600/24549531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="302" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CJQxn8Oj2zU/W4GHo7aRSgI/AAAAAAAAA1A/F4VAKN3KpEUQy6kqRDVRJvFmNttqEYemgCLcBGAs/s320/24549531.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
What's that sound? Must be "The Cooing," up next!<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />John Claude Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842546931524427280noreply@blogger.com0